The Legacy of Tirlannon: The Freedom Fighter

by Daniel Gelinske

  Troupes of bards played on lyre, pipes, and flute. Nadali held Daecrynn by the arm, as an escort, and sat to the right of him toward the head of the table where King Threis was seated. Kalrys was seated to his left. Directly across the table and to the left was Chenylde, seated next to the King of Andule.

  * * *

  The morning sun climbed over past the alpine bulwark of the Destriel Mountains, far to the east. Under the direction of a man in Tanathiel, Cail Dynn was sent to eliminate any evidence of the High Prince’s passing. His curly red locks of hair dusted his freckled cheek as he rode out south, over the hills near the vale of Taisladi. At a lone willow tree, Cail stepped off his ruddy brown steed, and climbed. As he hoisted himself up a sturdy high branch, he peered north toward the horizon where the dark wood towers of Fidralinia stood in front of the high everwoods of deep Andule behind it. In his mind, he considered the other landmarks of Daecrynn’s journey north. Here was where the trail went cold. Carefully he gazed south, toward the mountains of Tarngor, looking for any changes, no matter how subtle, that would betray another landmark in Daecrynn’s passing. A waft of smoke passed his eyesight, catching his attention. Focusing now to his right, at the edge of the Sylshee forest, he spied some men to his south, wearing black banded armor, led by a man on horseback. They appeared to be a team of Madrocean soldiers, carrying the banner of the Duchy of Kanaid, a province of the Empire to the south. Behind them, trees fell and burned, as more forces passed through the forest.

  “Invaders. You have hidden your path long enough to survive this, milord. Fidralinia must be warned. War is coming,” he said quietly. He gently leaped out of the tree and hopped up onto his horse. With a gentle tap, the horse responded, running north.

  * * *

  “The future of Tarligean is among us,” Threis declared, as he held a carved blue crystal goblet up high. “A special guest, who wishes to remain anonymous. He is you. He is me. He is the future of Andule and every realm of Tarligean. This festival we are urged to vigilance, for our destiny is at hand. The end of a Seven Year Slumber is upon us, for a long awaited hope has been revealed to us. We shall remember this day, for now we know—Lord Ariandi did not fall in vain; nay! A gathering is coming, but a storm will be its herald.” Solemnly, Threis looked to Daecrynn. “This feast is to our future. The chains of Cardalia are broken. This toast is to Andriel!”

  Daecrynn bit his lip, and looked downwards, feeling the eyes of a few in the know locked upon him. The aristocrats of Andule stood and cheered, ‘To Andriel!”

  * * *

  “It is believed that Governor Threis Murana’s army is thrice the size it appears to be,” the silver-bearded general clad in polished platemail said, turning to a balding man with sweaty face. “Even with thunderstones, there will be some casualties.”

  “The Asat Takran and the Emperor’s commands are in agreement, Lord General. This must be done. If any son of the vile Meldehan lives, he must be destroyed. At the very least, he must be flushed out—so harder measures against these savages can be justified,” the balding man said. With a sideways grin, he added, “With further conscription, your armies will be doubled.”

  “The Asat Takran are none of my concern, Governor Mogran,” the Lord General spat. “You cling to your Cirethian friends far too easily. The Emperor commands, I obey. Any resistance will be crushed; any treason shall be avenged.”

  “Metka Kinatos,” Vintaeus agreed, from the other side of Governor Mogran. “Lord General Mortuusa is right. We serve the Empire. On the other hand, we are also allowed the spoils of war. I assure you that Daecrynn Tuvitor is alive and well. I knew the face of his father, and it is the same.”

  “If they harbor the Son of Meldehan, my orders are to burn the city to the ground,” Mortuusa said coldly. “If they turn him over to us, they will be rewarded and you will receive no spoils. Business as usual.”

  * * *

  Cail approached the south gate to Fidralinia swiftly, and halted.

  “Soldier!” he addressed the guardsman.

  “Citizen,” the soldier asked. “What is your concern?”

  “Sound the horn and seal the gates, Madrocean soldiers are coming from the south!”

  “We are required to allow them passage,” the soldier at the gate protested.

  “Then the blood of this city is on your hands, coward!” Cail shouted, “They don’t dispatch the Seventh Infantry of Kanaid for routine inspections.”

  “Sound the alarm,” the soldier cried as he tugged the chain that opened and closed the gate.

  * * *

  “This is foolish,” Daecrynn whispered sharply in Nadali’s ear. “I can name at least ten people in this room that served in the court of my brother. I need to get back to my camp.”

  “To the future!” silken shirted aristocrats cheered as they raised their goblets high. Nadali elbowed Daecrynn sharply, motioning him to cheer with them.

  “My father’s boisterous cheers at festival are a favorite tradition of ours,” Nadali explained, smiling broadly. “And it is good to see the fires alight in his eyes again.”

  Daecrynn shrugged, and smiled sheepishly. “I cannot argue with that.”

  As he tore into his first bite of roast, he stopped as the flavor of the well-prepared meal struck his taste buds. His eyes widened, and he ate with vigor, washing down the roast with frothy red ale. After the first meal, a troupe of bards from Tanathiel called the Nar Tienen Five struck a merry chord. A red haired elf girl from the House Taersaran led her dark haired suitor into a dance with the minstrels. As the second song played, others joined them. As the chorus of the second song approached an elvish tri-flute solo, Nadali invited Daecrynn to join her in a dance. As they clenched their hands to jump into the rhythm, the ringing of chimes erupted loudly in the distance, just barely sounding over the music.

  “Do you hear that?” Daecrynn asked, stopping Nadali.

  Still holding one of Daecrynn’s hands, she twirled and replied worriedly, “They’re not supposed to sound the bells until the second feast starts.”

  A soft, wailing tone erupted from the hilt of Oro’quiel. A few of the aristocrats checked their belts to see if their weapons were ready, and among them some sought blades from swords mounted on the walls.

  * * *

  Cail rushed through the hallway, commanding every able-bodied elf he saw to take arms to protect the city.

  “To arms!” he shouted at a group of six chainmail-clad Taergeni soldiers guarding the festivities.

  “What’s this?” a second sergeant asked.

  “Orders from the elders of the Everwood are to take arms, and protect everybody inside this room. Especially any new visitors who arrived last night,” Cail commanded. “Open the door.”

  As the guards complied, Cail shouted into the feast hall, “Stop the music, and stop the celebration— a Madrocean legion is moving to strike us from the southwest.”

  The bards dropped their instruments in synchronized cacophony, and nobles fled in every direction. Nadali and Daecrynn stepped back to the thick redwood-lined wall of the chamber. Two men grabbed Daecrynn by the arms, with Nadali following closely to the side. With a forced nudge, she opened a secret exit of the chamber carrying him into a hidden corridor.

  * * *

  As Karn Telesiar peered through a spyglass at the amassing of troops at the hilltop, his heart sank. He knew the militia of Threis would not stand against the coming legion. He reached for his cyvnar blade, a Taergeni greatsword of tempered steel. Along the walls, Taergeni and men alike donned hardened leather helmets and bowmen readied their weapons. A front line of soldiers formed behind the gate, dressed in tarnished moonsilver chainmail. Behind them, an amassing of Fidralinia’s able-bodied artisans, woodworkers, and merchants brandished blades, pikes and scimitars.

  “Fidralinia will fall, but we shall hurt them for this treachery,” Karn promised, as he gripped the hilt of his heavy blade.

  A red robed messenger on a white horse, with long black ha
ir—an elf of Alvanea raced to the front gate, representing the Empire. As he reached the closed gate, he sharply barked up to the watchtower. “Where is this scion of Asutel the Great, this son of Meldehan the Brave? I wish to see him so we can take him to Cardalia and coronate him Emperor!”

  “I know nothing of the elf you seek,” the watchman replied, his fingers running along the leather weaved into the cyvnar’s handle.

  “Emperor’s orders,” the messenger demanded. “We have located the son of Meldehan in this city. We know he’s here. We know exactly in which chair he is seated in the feast hall. You will turn him over to us at once, or this city will be reduced to ash.”

  “We were warned of your arrival,” Karn replied, his nostrils flaring as his teeth clenched. “If the son of Meldehan passed through this city, he is already gone.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” the Alvanean countered. “Do you wish to see the mighty Everwoods burn?”

  “I will never see such a thing, for today I die,” Karn swore. “But I will kill many Madroceans first. Tell your gah’raen masters there is no Son of Meldehan for them in this city.”

  The Alvanean messenger snorted, as he steered his horse back toward the Legion of Kanaid atop the hill. The blue and black banners of Madrocean Fidralinia were pulled from their poles, and replaced with a curious flag—green and white, with an octogram symbol painted on it with silver paint. He gulped with dread, as he approached Lord General Avos Mortuusa with the news.

  “They have made their decision, General,” the messenger sighed.

  Vintaeus grinned, “Any of those regal girls of the House Murana are mine. I will accept that as a just bounty for Daecrynn Tuvitor.”

  “It’s acceptable. The imperial coffers shall remain untouched,” Mortuusa agreed, furrowing his brow. Turning to an armored captain of the guard, he gave an order. “Launch the thunderstones. Destroy the south wall!”

  * * *

  Daecrynn and Nadali charged through a long hallway beneath the city, with armaments mounted on stone. They raced up a staircase. As they approached the top, Daecrynn’s footing was compromised by a sudden deep rumbling. From behind, Nadali pushed him back into balance. A constant chord sounded from Oro’quiel, overshadowing the rumbling crashes of black powder at the distant southern wall of the city. At the top of the stairs, they entered the cellar of a nondescript wooden building near the northern gate. Daecrynn pushed the outside door, and rushed into the stable across the street. Nadali followed closely behind.

  “We require two sturdy horses for flight,” Nadali commanded.

  “I am on orders to hold these for the Cavalry on the event of a counterattack,” the stable-master said, looking over a wooden fence. When his eyes caught the inverted teardrop as he spoke, he stopped and changed his tone. “Oh! Milady I didn’t recognize you, forgive me!”

  “Beyond this exception, maintain your previous orders,” Nadali directed. “You did not see us pass through here.”

  “My silence is assured,” the stable-master vowed.

  As a gesture of thanks, Daecrynn bowed in his direction.

  He picked out a chestnut brown horse, and mounted him bareback, tapping his hindquarters gently to carry him into the Andule Everwood to the north.

  * * *

  The black towers were but slender poles, with a metallic mesh pocket at their tips. Burly men, dirty and grizzled veterans of Madrocea’s army turned an iron crank, and the black tower was pulled back. Two husky soldiers carried what appeared to be a cast iron egg, and hoisted it into the mesh pocket. A lever was released, and the cast iron sphere hurtled through the air, striking the sealed south gate of the redwood city with much speed. A loud explosion filled the air, pummeling the front gate to splinters. A line of nine Knights of Andule were thrown back by the blast, their armor shredded with the force of the shrapnel. Three more blasts followed, and the south wall of Fidralinia was reduced to shavings and torn reinforcement beams.

  At the sound of a bugle, the Legion charged into the city. Without mercy, they ran through the stunned front line of Threis’ forces. With a sling, they launched small pouch-grenades, which ignited as they struck their targets, setting walls behind them ablaze. The fires spread like liquid, sticking to their targets as the flames soaked beneath the layers.

  From the remnant of a high wall, Karn Telesiar leapt into the marching lines of invading soldiers. With a broad swinging thrust, he struck two combatants, rending one’s armor and knocking the second one back. Enraged, he gritted his teeth as he dropped his cyvnar blade, and raised the j’haene at his belt. He stabbed a third soldier in the gut, beneath the solar plexus and with much force, wrenched upward, cutting into his ribcage at the center. A khion steel pike was thrust into his back, skewering him. With a lunge, his body was thrown to the side of the center street. His body lay lifeless; blood dribbled over the cobblestones.

  In threadbare padded armor fashioned of cloth and strips of leather, the Taergeni men of Fidralinia charged out of alleyways and from the side roads toward the heart of the city. Some of them carried shields fashioned of wide cast iron leaf-shovels, and heirloom shields of older wars. With j’haene, dagger, scimitar and scythe, they rushed the Imperial Legion with right vehemence. From structures still standing, arrows and bolts struck at the marching Madrocean force, thinning their numbers.

  The bugle whistled three times. As their fathers and husbands entered the fray, the women and children escaped by way of the North Gate, fleeing into the great forests of Andule. In brown and gray, the able-bodied men of Fidralinia pushed to repel the overpowered invaders. They formed broken lines, wielding heirloom spears and swords, splitting mauls, hatchets, scythes and scimitars. From the rooftop, the hunter tradesmen of Fidralinia volleyed quivers full of arrows in rapid succession, taking many from the front lines on horse and foot. From outside the city, the siege tower slung spongy firebombs that covered the rooftops with liquid fire. The men in the streets were run through.

  Within minutes, the high wooden wall of Fidralinia’s Palace Quarter fell. A firebomb incinerated the great manor of Kalrys Kretali. With the strike of a powerful explosive projectile from one of the siege engines, the front gate of the palace shattered.

  As the smoke dissipated, three armored legionnaire captains sounded a horn. They were met in force with armored knights of Andule, dancing in a fierce melee of blade and bludgeon. As the Madroceans stormed past the Palace façade, they were met with stalwart opposition. Gently rolling past the Taergeni knights at the entrance, a shockwave of blurred energy struck the advancing legion. As many on the front line fell to their hands and knees, a chevalier in ornate armor swung his greatsword at the advancing Madroceans.

  “Iach jalli!” Cail shouted from behind a visor, as he decapitated an advancing soldier. He groaned as an energy field crackled into being between him and the legionnaires.

  The Madroceans scowled as they lunged into the energy field, being gently halted by the arcane force.

  * * *

  “What is holding them?” Mogran demanded.

  “Elfin magic,” Mortuusa stated. He turned to an armored battle-captain. “Summon the Alvanean.”

  * * *

  From a high tree outside of the city, Kalrys Kretali kept a silent watch. It had been almost a decade since he last applied his rudimentary magical knowledge to a battlefield circumstance such as this. Even then, combat magic was not his field of expertise. And besides—his orders were to watch Daecrynn’s path of escape, and make certain he was not followed. Still, he had to at least try to use what he knew to stall the Madroceans; perhaps long enough for Threis and Chenylde to get out.

  Kalrys focused his attention on the currents of mental energy within the battle, pushing all his psychic energy into creating a barrier between the legionnaires at the entrance, and the overpowered Taergeni defenders. In the ether, two eyes fixated on him. A burst of focused pain-energy blasted Kalrys between the eyes. He felt the attention of this other sorcerer focus onto him. Kalrys
may have not been the best mage in the land, but he knew how to hide himself on the astral plane. He fired a prismatic storm of illusionary mirror-energy back to the other sorcerer, and pulled all his focus back to the material plane.

  “Greh,” Kalrys swore. “I cannot fight this battle, I must follow my orders.” He rappelled down from the high tree, and ran toward the clearing Chenylde had commanded him to find. He was to accompany the High Prince and the daughter of Threis.

  * * *

  The white robed elf of Alvanea focused intently. Instead of simply dispelling the shield, he found it more efficient to neutralize the castor. In a trance, his mind pushed out of body into the Etheric plane, seeking the nearest active force of power. A colorful aura dazzled him in the trees just north of Fidralinia.

  Is this Daecrynn Tuvitor? No, it is a protector of his though—I think I’m close…

  He called upon the elements of fire and shadow to strike this stranger’s mind with the purest pain. This magic was an abomination to the Eloquandi, but they had no place in Alvanea. Nothing made sense afterward—the trees became strange men, and his sense of direction was inverted.

  “Blast!” he shouted. “I almost had him, but he was a damned illusionist!”