The Legacy of Tirlannon: The Freedom Fighter

by Daniel Gelinske

  ‘An taelde deyn croyande. Viede cel thaetis,’ the inscription read.

  “I live as shadow. Gone is the light,” Nadali uttered solemnly.

  Daecrynn looked to his scabbard, where Oro’quiel rested, and to its twin, sitting in the tree stump. “Xendros. The sword of my elder brother,” he revealed lowly.

  Nadali drew it from the tree stump, slowly sliding it out of the wood. The sword was in pristine condition, with a razor sharp moonsilver blade. She felt a strange energy pass into her hand, and a gentle sense of safety pervade her being.

  XXXV.

  The Page of Swords

  Cold drizzle filled the air over the white city of Cardalia. The marble panels and white stone of the street glistened with the gentle chill moisture that drifted to the ground. The bustle of traffic that filled the city streets in regularity had calmed to a trickle as the evening approached.

  A farmer approached the Citadel Gate, in a wagon drawn by a donkey. In the wagon, a man size bundle, surrounded by hay was nestled gently, its head covered with a cured leather tarp to protect it from the elements.

  At the gate, two Madrocean Imperial soldiers in black banded armor, armed with hooked spear greeted him.

  “These gates are closed, stranger. What is your business in the Imperial Quarter?” the shorter of the two guardsmen asked.

  “I rescued a man who was abandoned, hanging by the foot on the branch of a tree. He is in terrible shape. He claims to be Prince Andron,” the farmer reported.

  The two guardsmen shared a started glance, before the taller of the two spoke.

  “Step out of the wagon, peasant. I will have a look,” the taller guardsman stated.

  “As you wish,” the farmer complied.

  The guardsman carefully approached the cart, peering into its bed. With the tip of his spear, he pushed the tarp off of Andron’s face. The face was cut along the cheeks and jaw line, and the jaw was broken. The eyes were completely removed, with caked blood in the eye sockets and small gashes surrounding both eyes.”

  “Holy Athena!” the guardsman gasped. “We need a physician at once!”

  “Then it is him?” the other guardsman inquired.

  “By Hades it is!” the taller cried. “Get him a physician at once!”

  * * *

  Sacchaeus Medaccae sat in his throne, clutching his chest tightly. His eyes squinted as he agonized over an ebon box covered with the hooked ankh, the seal of Cireth’s power. Tears slowly drifted down his wrinkled cheeks, as he looked toward the approaching sound of running feet.

  “Your Imperial Highness,” an Imperial page began.

  “The sun is to set on Cardalia. Our alliance,” Sacchaeus rambled as his body shuddered in his throne. “My pain, my heart—it—it is over!”

  “Your son Andron has been rescued in the Sumai wilderness,” the page reported. “He has been taken in—“

  Sacchaeus held up a finger, interrupting the page.

  “That is the last piece of news I require,” Sacchaeus commanded. “Andron has made it home. At last it is finished. Let me sleep with that.”

  As the page opened his mouth in response, Sacchaeus fell limp in his throne. The Scepter of Cardalia slipped from his hand and fell to the floor.

  XXXVI.

  The Emrishari Passage

  Daecrynn’s camp was nestled deep in the heart of the Everwood along the Tuitari peninsula. Ciartha was but a half a day to the north. In his bedroll, Daecrynn sought sleep restlessly, his eyes opening often, dancing in the thoughts of the discovery of the lost heirloom of the House Tuvitor, the mystical sword Xendros, and speculating the possibility that Ariandi was still alive, having left it behind.

  As the early hours of the morning approached, Daecrynn finally drifted off to a state of near-sleep, a dialogue of thoughts still audible in the back of his mind. As he approached the threshold of true sleep, a distant rumbling sound filled his head, steadily growing louder. Daecrynn’s thoughts collected themselves, and he stood up in his bedroll, eyes wide. The rumbling turned into a constant roar.

  “The sounds are coming from the direction of Ciartha’s gates,” a Jea Daldani outside the tent noted.

  “Horsemen,” Daecrynn guessed.

  “Likely, milord,” the voice responded.

  Nadali rummaged through her pack, gathering her raiment. She swiftly slipped into her trousers, and buttoned her shirt, flinging her cape around her neck.

  “Get moving,” she nudged Daecrynn.

  Daecrynn dressed swiftly, and attached his scabbard to his belt, throwing a cloak over him. The sound of this sea of galloping hooves surrounded them. Daecrynn and Nadali left the tent, pulling a leather tie loose to make the tent collapse to be stuffed into a satchel. The Jea Daldani were nowhere to be seen.

  A whistle from an overhanging tree branch revealed the position of one. “They’re coming from Ciartha, and they’re coming fast!”

  “We will wait here then,” Daecrynn stated.

  The Jea Daldani dropped from the tree, and bowed to Daecrynn.

  “My liege, the sound is a veritable horde of Tuitari cavalry. As the forests thicken south of here, far too dense for cavalry to pass with speed, my guess is that they plan to use the Emrishari passage in the mountains to the southeast. A captain of the cavalry should arrive here in less than a half hour. Let him see Oro’quiel to identify yourself, but it is my suggestion that you hide Xendros.”

  “Understood,” Daecrynn agreed.

  The Jea Daldani bowed his head and turned away. He swung a rope with a hooked end toward a branch, pulling himself quickly back up into the canopy. Nadali concealed Xendros in the larger of her two satchels.

  After just less than a half hour passed, Daecrynn observed an elf with very long black hair, braided along both sides of his face, wearing fine moonsilver plate male and the feathered headdress of a Tuitari warrior, riding upon a paint mare.

  Daecrynn and Nadali stood in the center of the trail, facing them as they approached.

  The captain stopped on his horse, whistling to the troops behind him to stop. Behind him, a narrow trail two horses wide led far beyond sight.

  “I am Daecrynn Tuvitor, High Prince of Tarligean,” Daecrynn declared as he drew Oro’quiel, pointing it toward the ground in a stance of presentation with his left hand raised.

  “I am Keledan Kienah, a captain of the Ninth Cavalry of Tuitari. We are riding for swift passage, as it has been decided that the time to return Namakiera to the Ki’ronyx is upon us. The King of Tanathiel sent a message to us saying you would arrive shortly. He requests that you let us pass, and continue on to the keep at Ciartha Tuitari where you will be safe, and welcomed as guests of the highest honor,” the Captain reported.

  Daecrynn and Nadali exchanged glances. “The Queen of Andule and I require a mount. We will assist you in this battle,” Daecrynn directed, his eyes betraying excitement.

  Keledan squinted, and grinned vaguely. “The son of Meldehan the Brave commands a mount for himself and his escort at once!” the captain commanded.

  A pair of horses accompanied the army back down the trail some thousand yards. They were reined in and taken up to the head of the trail, where Daecrynn and Nadali waited as the movement of troops down the narrow trail corridor passed them by. In moments, they were hoisted up, and the unrelenting movement of troops continued. Daecrynn and Nadali held their heads low, as many overhanging branches created a hazard to those traveling at their speed. Behind them and before them, an unbroken line of Tuitari elves on horseback squeezed the down the trail two by two.

  The forests thinned, and the trail became a road. The foothills of the Destriel Mountains were sparse in all vegetation but dried grasses and an occasional copse of silver oak. From many trail openings, the army grew more massive, as the network of deep forest trails came to a head here.

  In great formations, the armies of Tuitari gathered at the hillsides. To the head and center of the gathering the General Tiardan Kaewaya sat upon his mighty ar
mored stallion Graghanoth. Nadali and Daecrynn rode to rendezvous with the General and his seven captains.

  Behind them, the tallest mountains in all of Tirlannon—the Alps of Destriel climbed into the sky; white peaks glistened silver in the dusk, glowing into the early evening. Formations of strange cirro-cumulus clouds gathered at the tops of the peaks, like the bodies of celestial sailing ships from another world. Three silver oak stood behind the meeting place, over the hill, facing the eastern end of the Everwood.

  Tiardan saluted as Daecrynn and Nadali arrived, before turning to climb a moss covered stone which would serve as his pedestal, visible to all of the armies of Tuitari. He stood at the top, glanced toward the High Prince, and turned back to the soldiers as they gathered.

  “My men, my legions,” He addressed the crowd. “Not since the Siege of Kith have we seen a campaign on this scale. Our freedom has been in peril, ever since the late Kestiel Ariandi Tuvitor fell on the fields of Cassadina.

  “A new dawn is upon us, as the scion of Asutel Thetali’s line stands with us today, a symbol from which all the tribes and nations of the great Tarligean can stand united. Today we no longer ride under the banner of the Tuitari; we ride under the Ki’ronyx! The beloved banner in which all free peoples were welcomed under over a thousand years ago as Asutel Thetali made his stand against the darkness of his age. In the name of Rhia’li, and in the name of our pride. In the name of the Sword of Kings, Oro’quiel and in the name of the blood of Tu’fayator, we shall forever remember who we are! No longer will we be a lost and scattered people loyal only to ourselves or to the lords of our vicinity, no! We will stand as one! We will fight as one! And we will win as one! Or we will fall as one!”

  The whole countryside shuddered in cheering as Tiardan glazed toward the dim dusk light, toward Alyaea the evening star that shone in the west as a herald of liberty, as thousands of torches were being lit below. Tiardan leaped from the rock onto a soft patch of grass near the gathering of captains, Daecrynn and Nadali.

  He bowed, and spoke.

  “The Emrishari channel is a vast underground network, in which we stand at one of ten known entrances. The largest two entrances are here in the mountains, and the sealed exits six leagues east of Namakiera. The tunnels nearest to Namakiera meet with the tunnels beneath the city. The underground entrance to the city itself is small, however. It is only feasible for one legion to take that route. The rest of us will challenge Madrocea’s infantry and cavalry on the field to the north and to the east of the city. From the west, Mindule and Tanathiel’s forces will try to break the west gate. Tanathiel’s archers will cover all the forces on the west side for air support, as their longbow units have experience with ornithopters should the Cirethians get involved.

  “My captains, let it be understood to all the legions that should the Son of Meldehan or Queen of Fidralinia give command, that both of them outrank me,” Tiardan reported.

  “What of the legends of the lost kingdom of Emrishar? Should the Unseelie interfere, what should we do?” a captain wondered.

  “The Emrishari are all but extinct; no kindred of elvish-kind could survive that deep in the Earth. Furthermore, none have been seen in written record since even before Alende Linean was crowned Kestiel. Any survivors would be far too weak to interfere, even if they did exist,” Tiardan speculated.

  “The memory of my father has driven me to this day. We shall win this battle,” Nadali swore. “We shall drive Madrocea all the way down to Cardalia if that is what is needed for them to never dream of murdering our people again.”

  XXXVII.

  The Messengers

  The silver finish on the hull of the Caerthe Kethel had long since given way to the blackening of age. The ocean rocked and buckled gently as the sailing ship of the almost forgotten High Navy of Tarligean kept a silent vigil over the seas of the fallen empire.

  At the front of the ship, peering over the expanse of the waters through wizard’s spectacles stood a slender, athletic elf whose dreadlocked hair was tied behind his head with a string. His High Navy uniform was worn, and a myriad of patches and threads held it together. The silver buttons were shaped like the eight-pointed star of the Ki’ronyx, the tattered banner that flew over the center mast ocf the vessel, whipping in the morning breeze.

  Without Andriel, the navy had been in disrepair or dry-dock, many leagues north in the icy land of Lepitua, the only safe harbor for Tarligean’s forgotten fleets. They were crippled without Destriel, whose shipwrights had once kept the navy’s numbers high in manpower and vessels.

  Daende Linean, acting Commodore of the Destriel Strait Fleet kept his hopes high. Though he knew there was no High King in Andriel, though the last Taergeni port sat amidst a penal colony that clamored for more than the status of a lost prison colony of a forgotten empire, he had faith that his people would not forever dwindle under the oppression of human rulers, under conquest.

  Not long ago, he had seen the sign that something new was stirring in Andriel. A great cloud of birds that had climbed into the clouds of white before flying over him and his vessel, blotting out the sky for nearly a day indicated disturbance in the lost capital.

  “Captain, captain!” a voice from behind him shouted. One of his crew pointed over a crest in the waters to the east. He walked up behind the commodore, and pointed into the sky. Two V-shaped aircraft swiftly closed in on their position.

  “Ornithopters,” he said quietly. “Fereth, I need you to prepare the aerial harpoons. This is going to be a skirmish.”

  The crewman saluted, and ran down the deck of the Caerthe Kethel with haste.

  * * *

  The Cirethian Air Legion’s fighter craft were manned by war-drones, humans genetically engineered to be docile and never question orders. Their fingers were poised on the controls of the aircraft, as they changed their altitude, lowering to avert distance attacks from the Kethel’s aerial harpoons. They parted, one moving to take the aft section of the elven ship, the other moving to take the forward section.

  Huge gears turned, as the springs that propelled the aerial lance had to be tightened back as far as possible for the greatest impact. Twenty elves at each wheel, pushing with all their strength in a circle to wind a massive iron gear readied the mighty harpoon. An aerial archer, as they were called was given the task of aiming each gun and timing the firing of the weapons.

  They were not quite ready when the first strike hit.

  The two gwyulni climbed in altitude to fly barely eight yards over the ship’s deck. Their wings skimmed the sails, causing them to detach from their masts. They dropped firebombs onto the deck, spilling liquid flame across the vessel. The aerial lances on deck swiveled as they followed the aircraft beyond the port side. A loud click indicated to the gunmen that the harpoon cannons were fully loaded.

  “Three, two, one—“ one of the gunners counted.

  With the sound of a metallic thunderbolt, the harpoons were launched. They arched over the sky beyond the port side of the ship, catching up to the aircraft. The pilots pulled up in unison, and the harpoons pierced them completely. The two ornithopters hurtled through the air before skimming off the crest of an ocean wave. They climbed upward, fighting the damage. Their engines failed, and they plummeted into the sea.

  The forward sail was on fire; as the volatile fluid inside the firebomb had splashed onto hit when it struck the deck. Elves scurried, fighting the fire with water stored in large flasks. Climbing up the pole, and spraying upward from the ground, they scrambled to fight the fire that fought back.

  Daende dropped to his knees, and closed his eyes.

  Nobody noticed their captain as he uttered a few words silently to himself on his knees, but the wind picked up from the south. He sang in a low key, with a melodic tone, in a forgotten language.

  “Sheha thendadi dendelo drene

  Tarvail den desent tacira tiente”

  The wind splashed across the rising sea crests, showering the burning sail with the sea’s mist
s. Another wall of mist struck the sails, followed by another, until the fire was completely quenched.

  The captain fell face-forward in exhaustion. In his hand, a small red jewel broke, disintegrating into gray dust.

  XXXVIII.

  On Order of the Emperor

  As Andron’s consciousness thrust into awakening, the reality had set in. His sight was not coming back. His other senses seemed to grow in acuity as he was confined in his bed, recovering from the brutality of Calwain at the edge of Sumai. He had hung for what seemed like an eternity, and in those three long days, the birds pecked out his eyes. He was barely able to walk, after the best care Madrocean medicine had to offer.