The Legacy of Tirlannon: The Freedom Fighter

by Daniel Gelinske

  “I thank you for raising and caring for me. As esteemed as my father was, I will forever remember you as my father. I will do my best,” Daecrynn resigned.

  * * *

  That night, Daecrynn made camp atop a hill situated between four smaller redwoods. He wrapped himself in his bedroll and cape, and pulled it over his head. Restlessly, his mind fought its way to sleep, as the images of the day's events repeated in his thoughts.

  Morning came too quickly. He awakened to the chorus of hundreds of birds chirping in the forest canopy above him. His first thought was identical to his last when he slipped out of consciousness the night before. He was certain he would die; lost in the mountains trying to find a fabled sword that probably found its way into a dragon's hoard—if it existed in the first place. The chorus of the songbirds prompted Daecrynn's internal song to take to a marching rhythm. It felt like a good rhythm to travel by. He hummed as he ate his morning mush.

  “Kethral's finally gone mad,” Daecrynn uttered as he hastily shoved his bedroll into his rucksack.

  Weaving between high reaching redwood and icania trees, he played a merry march on his flute as he strode down a southern trail. Around the Taisladi Hills, a rolling forested land at the southern edge of the Tuitari Everwood, he made his passage, avoiding the old Nali River Highway and its annoyingly frequent Madrocean Imperial patrols. At the northern edge of the plains beyond the hill, he traveled far. He hoped to reach sight of the Tarngor Mountains, whose windswept northernmost slopes included the dreaded mountain called Witches Peak. He skirted the southern edge of the forest, avoiding the heavily populated Namakiera region, as that territory was firmly under the control of the Madrocean Empire.

  At a circle of oak trees on the plain, he stopped to rest. The midday sun was beginning to waver, moving west. He sipped water from his flask, and glared bitterly toward the south. A butterfly landed on his nose, breaking his resentful focus. He sneezed, and looked around. In the corner of his eyes, but never in direct sight, he saw blurred light forms around him.

  “Whatever it was that made Kethral go mad is hitting me now,” Daecrynn chuckled. “Lya must have put the wrong kind of mushrooms in the kri'ayolas last night.”

  “You're not mad yet,” a playful voice declared from behind.

  “What in the?” Daecrynn turned around, swiftly drawing both of his blades.

  “Seek and you will not see,” the voice sung, before breaking into melodious laughter.

  “Mozay faerie!” Daecrynn exclaimed in astonishment.

  In a tone mocking the style of a twisted carnival hawker, the invisible faerie declared, “And for this insightful approximation of the nature of my being, friend—you win a prize!”

  Daecrynn awakened, tilting his head toward the sun that tracked farther west. He had no memory of falling asleep.

  “She put the wrong mushrooms in the kri'ayolas,” Daecrynn deduced. “This is crazy.”

  Daecrynn hoisted himself back onto his feet. He lifted his pack, and slung it over his shoulder with his bow and quiver. The blades he had drawn were laid on the ground, gleaming in the sunbeams that passed through the leaves of oak. The swords were pointed oddly, clearly toward a white stone just outside of the circle of trees. He snatched his blades from the ground, and sheathed them. He gazed suspiciously toward the stone outside the circle. Carefully he walked toward and spied an inscription, freshly etched into the stone.

  'And your prize is a magic sword! To collect your prize, seek out the eagle and follow his flight. You will be near when you meet an old man who is not a man.'

  In the distance, an eagle’s shrill call pierced the gentle wind. Daecrynn’s eyes widened as he looked to the sky. Overhead, an eagle circled above the ring of trees. The eagle called again as it altered its course, soaring to the southwest. He paused, questioning the reality of the situation. Resigned to the idea that he had lost his mind and might as well run with it, he trudged down the plains to follow the raptor’s flight path. Without ceasing, he followed the eagle into the early evening as the half-moon had risen. A gentle mist obscured the distant hills west to Fidralinia. A peachy glow over the far clouds in the southeast betrayed the bright lights of the distant Namakiera. Overhead, the stars gently jittered against the fixed void behind it. Following the occasional cry of the eagle, he passed the dusty old Caeoldei Road. It branched off from the Nali Road in the east, and was once a well-traveled trade route between the hierarchy capital of Andriel, and the city of Namakiera.

  As the moon obscured itself behind the east hills, the eagle’s cry was heard no more. Not wanting to get lost as fatigue was setting in, Daecrynn chose to rest here. He dropped his satchel and opened it. He looked in every direction, searching for any signs of lantern or torchlight. He tugged his bedroll out of his rucksack and laid it out.

  This is the longest, strangest dream I can remember. Perhaps tomorrow, I will awaken in camp. Perhaps it will again be time to run.

  Morning came suddenly, as an eagle’s shrill cry woke him. Daecrynn rolled in from his side and onto his back, and looked up to the circling bird of prey.

  “Right, the sword,” Daecrynn muttered between yawns.

  The eagle cried again.

  “So it’s not a dream,” Daecrynn whispered.

  Swiftly, he took some dried salmon out of his satchel. He stuffed his bedroll into the sack, eating the cured fish. He washed it down with mead from his water flask. Looking up, he spied the eagle coasting to the south. He hiked up the ridge of a rolling hill.

  In less than an hour, Daecrynn was able to see the peaks of the Tarngor Mountains poking through the daylight haze. His pace picked up, as the mountains grew clearer. By midday, he found a battered old dwarven road that had not seen maintenance for centuries. The brick was dusty, cracked and broken.

  As he approached the foothills leading into the Tarngor range, he stopped and rested beneath a Terestel tree.

  Terestels were a blue citrus fruit, almost like a sweet blue grapefruit. When peeled, a red pulpy fruit was revealed beneath its glossy blue shell and spongy skin layer beneath it.

  Daecrynn climbed up the tree, and tossed seven terestels to the ground. He then jumped out of the tree, landing on his feet. As he began to peel the fruit, he heard a voice.

  “There you are, lad. I’ve been trying to find you,” a tired old man’s voice said. Daecrynn looked up, and spied an elderly man in a white gown, standing on the grass by the roadside.

  “Find me?” Daecrynn repeated.

  “You’re the son of Meldehan, correct?” the old man asked.

  “My father was Meldehan the Brave,” Daecrynn said hesitantly. “You’re not a bounty hunter are you?”

  “No, no, no,” the man affirmed. “What you are looking for is very close. You see that mountain in the southwest?” the old man asked, as he raised his staff to point at a mountain with twin peaks situated like horns. “No trail goes up there. You will have to hike very carefully. It will take you until mid-afternoon to reach it.”

  “How would you know what I am looking for?” Daecrynn asked. “And who are you anyways?”

  “I am called Isendriel. I have been called Trufan, Zendreili, or mmm—many other names that have either lost all meaning or have yet gained none,” Isendriel uttered, trailing off. He pulled his long, stringy, gray hair behind his ears to reveal the clearly pointed ears of an elf. “You would be surprised what an elf my age might know. Then again, you might not actually be surprised if you knew my age. I will stay out of your way now.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Go on, find your sword.”

  Daecrynn looked toward Witches Peak thoughtfully, then turned back toward Isendriel. The old man had vanished.

  “Isendriel come back!”

  He looked in all directions. Still surrounded by the terestel fruits he had tossed from the tree moments before, he looked up the tree. He sought the eagle, but it was nowhere to be found. He looked to the mountain. There were two peaks, called the Horns of the Witch, and two deep
caves with wide entrances visible even as far down into the foothills as where he stood.

  The eyes of the witch.

  He was far from any of his homes and all alone in the desolate borderlands. He was famished. He focused on the terestel fruit, and peeled it. Greedily he ate the wedges of the fruit that he had peeled from its bulk, staring toward the mountain that held the key to his rite of passage. He stuffed the rest of his fruit into his rucksack.

  “Mid-afternoon eh?” Daecrynn said to himself lowly. “That’s assuming I actually sleep tonight.”

  He hoisted his pack over his shoulder, and trudged to the mountains up and over the foothills. Night fell fast, but the moon rose quickly, and cast enough silver light to guide his way over the hills.

  Vast constellations blanketed the night sky, with a silvery trail of distant stars tearing across the heavens. The egg-shaped moon was one day closer to full. He gazed at the moon as he walked up the ridge, the incline growing steeper as he hiked. He could see the mountains, valleys, craters and plains on the moon, as it was much closer to the Earth in that age. He peered forward as he hummed the words to a drinking song from the camp that he had called home. As the shadow of the moon fell from behind the mountain, the face of the peak shifted from nebulously ominous to downright sinister. He spied a dim light emanating from one of the caves as he approached. It was almost like a fire, but without the flicker. Over-fatigued and wary, he stopped at the base of a willow tree. He tore his bedroll out of his sack, and tossed it onto the ground. The moment he was snug beneath the cover, he fell asleep.

  When he finally awakened, it was high noon. Daecrynn’s head crept out of his woolen sleeping-sack. The bright midday sun struck his face, pulling him from the fringes of sleep to complete wakefulness. Still beneath the blanket, he tilted his head to the side and looked directly at Witches’ Peak.

  “Time grows short, and the guardian weary,” a whispering voice said.

  Quickly, he kicked the woolen blanket off and jammed it into his satchel without rolling or folding it. He slung the bag over his back, and marched intently toward the mountain.

  He walked along a ravine, as a creek below him cut through the Tarngor Mountains. He remembered seeing the light from the cave beneath the left peak the night before, and observed a passable ridge that led upward to it. With the daylight covering the land, he could see as far northwest as Fidralinia and as far east as Namakiera. The air was still. The grasses of the hills below gave way to barren rock and dust. After a brisk and dusty hike across the barren slope, he climbed onto some rocks, and hoisted himself onto a ledge. He carefully treaded along the ledge, barely wide enough for one elf to cross.

  By mid-afternoon, he reached the cave entrance.

  Daecrynn unsheathed one of his blades, and wielded it in a stabbing stance. He crept into the cave. Walking gently as to not make a sound, he snuck along the shadow of the cave’s wall. He tiptoed toward a light coming from within the cave, around a curve. At the edge of the bend, he looked carefully toward the source of light. A glass case containing a sword rested upon a green velvet pillow with a white and golden fringe. The weapon had a long, lustrous moonsilver blade. Its blue steel hilt contained a shimmering deep-blue crystal. The strange jewel sat the heart of the sword’s guard. The pommel was silvery-gold, and shaped like a teardrop; separated from the black leather-bound grip by a silvery band.

  A peculiar figure holding a shiny onyx-black rod was leaning against the wall beside the case. The creature was not quite human, with dark charcoal gray wings, long silky jet-black hair, and eyes that glowed eldritch green. Daecrynn slid toward the prize. He noted the eight-pointed star etched into the glass, as the jewel of the sword shimmered in the ambient light. He recognized the symbol as the Ki’ronyx—the crest of the nation of Tarligean past. He unlatched the chest and opened it just enough to ease the sword from its pillow and out of the case. He grasped his own blade when he saw the creature turn and glare at him.

  “Put that back…now, little one!” the winged creature snarled lowly.

  Daecrynn ducked swiftly as the creature aimed its rod and fired a strange beam of green light toward him. The emerald ray struck the cave wall behind him. The elf rolled out of the room, stood, and swiftly ran around a curve and out the cave entrance, stopping abruptly at the ledge. From behind, a blast of green light singed his long blonde hair. Looking down the ledge, he imagined that he might survive a slide down to the foothill below. The sword’s strange guardian would be far less merciful.

  Daecrynn stepped off the edge, and slid down the incline. His cape, trousers, and shirt were torn and scuffed on the loose jagged rock. His elbows and arms were heavily scraped, cut and bruised. He ploughed into a thorny savra’nei bush atop the foothill at the base of the mountain. His quiver was torn, arrows strewn about the face of the precipice. Above him, the winged creature looked down, shrugged and turned away. Casually, the creature strode back into the cave.

  Daecrynn waited shortly, staring up at the cave entrance while hidden in the bushes. There was no sign of the guardian. Carefully, he slid between the two closely situated savra’nei bushes where his fall from the ledge had ended.

  Quickly, he gathered the few of his belongings that made it to the mountain’s base, and placed them into his tattered canvas rucksack. His bow was situated against a rock uphill by a few feet. Daecrynn was unable to strap it to his back, as his bow-strap had broken in the fall. After regaining his bearing and wiping off some of the more profound scrapes and gashes with the remnant of his cape, his attention focused on the sword Oro’quiel that he had clutched tightly in the descent. His eyes fixated on the light reflected from the Kri’isen jewel embedded in its hilt. All of Daecrynn’s fear left him, as his spirit was imbued with purpose. He had a sense of calm like he had never known before. He had found what he was looking for.

  II.

  Flight into Fidralinia

  ‘The enigma of the Kri’isen shall never be forgotten, but haunt the children of Anduon to the ends of the Age of Madness, yea unto the End of Time,’

  –Cilaera, song of Stars 7:44-45

  Daecrynn ran without ceasing. He rushed westward for some time, skirting the northern edge of the Sylshee Forest. He ran into the woodland, though it took him widely off-course. With his newfound weapon, he hacked his way through thick underbrush into the heart of the woodland. Reaching a small river, he paused at a small ford. The Taisladi River ran into the valley of Fidralu further downstream and finally contributed to the Nali River in the east. He walked into the stream, trudging through the shallows.

  The valley of Fidralu was situated in the narrow band of the western Namakiera Plain between the forests of Tuitari and the Sylshee Wood, a branch of the same forest that met the northern band at the western edge of Tarligean, in the distant Mindule Valley. Daecrynn waded through the water, knowing it would hide his trail.

  Below Daecrynn, moss grew underwater in a polka-dot pattern on smooth blue and white river-stones. Six legged water-dancers, a bug that skittered on the surface tension of reasonably still waters were able to navigate the slowly moving shallow waters of this crossing, beneath the evergreen canopies of Sylshee. Above him, he heard the waukwauk of the elganni, a gray jay-bird common to the highland forests south of Fidralu. Along a roadside, a wanted poster with a poorly drawn caricature of a Taergeni elf named “Alrain” written in Madrocean was plastered on a broad tree-side.

  Wanted for Crimes against the Empire

  Known Instigator of a band of Hoodlums in Namakiera named the Merry Jackals.

  37,550 Bounty Offered, dead or alive.

  12,450 bonus if captured alive for questioning.

  Evening approached as Daecrynn reached the northern edge of the forest. As the stars revealed themselves in the waning dusk-light, he walked across the rolling grassland, cold and hungry. As night fell, his boots finally dried out. The moon was bright; nearly full, casting a wan light over the tall blades of tarven grass. The broken howl-calls of a wol
f pack echoed in the distance. Other than the sounds of the native fauna, the plains surrounding him were quiet.

  Daecrynn approached an oak tree, and gathered twigs and broken branches beneath it. He picked out a clear patch of earth and attempted to build a fire. He toiled with some sticks and grass, rubbing them together fiercely. After rubbing some of the dried branches into splinters, he finally produced flame. The shredded pieces of kindling that initially failed to ignite were set aside. Daecrynn threw the rest of the kindling into the fire, which grew as he introduced the additional fuel. He huddled close to the fire. His eyes locked onto the strange sword as its polished blade reflected the fire’s flicker. Carefully, he placed the sword into his bowstrap. Breaking his bow into pieces, he converted it into firewood, as his quiver was strewn along the cliff-side of Witches’ Peak, rendering his bow useless.

  By the time Daecrynn was thoroughly dried, the stars had already faded into the twilight preceding dawn. Alyaea, the morning star hung over the golden bands in the east, as the dawn’s light erased the night.