CHAPTER 3
TAREDHEL
The air shimmered.
As heat rose off the warming rocks on the hillside, a light breeze blew across the valley as larks flew overhead. The afternoon sun bathed the grasses in a warm blanket as spring arrived in Novindus, chasing away the night’s chill. A fox sunning herself raised her head in concern, for she smelled something unexpected. She sprang to her feet and turned her head first one way then another, seeking the source. Nothing could be seen. Curiosity gave way to caution and the vixen darted off, fleeing deep within shadowed woods in two bounds.
The cause of her fright, a solitary figure, made his way carefully through the thinning trees. At this altitude, the heavy woods below were giving way to alpine meadows and open reaches, providing easier transit.
Any observer would think him a man barely worth notice, a large floppy hat masking his features. His body appeared neither overly stout nor slender, and his garb was a simple traveler’s robes, grey homespun or poor linen. He carried a sack around one shoulder, resting on the opposite hip, and used a gnarled black-oak stave for aid in difficult footing.
He paused and looked at the peaks to the north and south, noticing the bald crowns above the timberline. He put aside any possible appreciation of the majesty of those mounts, known by those who lived nearby as the Grey Towers, and rather considered them as a constituent element in a very complex evaluation of this valley’s defensibility.
Once, a people lived here. Once, invaders came and drove those people out. Then the invaders departed, but the original inhabitants of this valley never returned. There were signs of their settlements scattered throughout this region, from a deep pass to the north, beyond which a large village of dwarves resided, all the way to the south, where the high ridges gave way to sloping hills that led to bluffs commanding the straits between two vast seas.
Like all those of his race, the traveler knew little of the dwarves to the north, or the seemingly numberless humans. Of those who had lived in this valley before, he knew much, but it was lore and legend. What little he had gleaned from those he had spoken with, what he had been able to piece together, provided him with many more questions than answers.
He had traveled this continent for three months, barely noticed by most he passed by, and even when seen or spoken to, barely remembered after; he was an unremarkable being, one who may have been tall, or perhaps not; a man of some circumstance, or perhaps of modest means. The color of the hair? Perhaps brown, then maybe sand, or black. It was part of the guile created by the arts that the traveler employed that made him difficult to notice or remember.
Looking around, to finalize his sense of the place as much as to ensure he was unwatched, the traveler reached within a belt pouch and withdrew a crystal, something of no intrinsic value to anyone else but to him it was the most precious possession imaginable; it was his only means of returning to his people. He held tightly to the crystal and let his glamour slip, revealing his true appearance before his return. Had he created the portal and stepped through in his current guise, his death would be immediate. The traveler considered it odd, but while he knew there was no physical change—merely the cessation of an illusion so powerful only the most puissant of magicians might see through it—he felt as if he were casting off clothing that was too small. Without conscious thought, he took a moment to stretch his long arms before incanting the brief spell that activated the crystal.
Suddenly a sizzling sound, like a burst of lightning, followed a moment later by a rip in the air, looking like a tall curtain of heat shimmer, then, where the air rippled a moment before, a portal hung above the ground. Twelve feet in height, nine feet across, a grey oval of nothingness formed. An instant later the traveler stepped through it and vanished.
Up in the trees, a motionless figure observed the departure. It was by only the most strained of coincidence he was in this valley at all, for it was unoccupied by any being since the Riftwar with the Tsurani. But the game trails and pathways along the northern side of the south ridges gave faster access to his destination than the more frequently used routes along the roads through the Green Heart Forest to the south. And, like most of his kind, the notion of solitude or anticipation of danger didn’t bother him, but an appreciation of swift passage was keen in the messenger. Of all the mortal races, only the elves had better woodcraft skills than the Rangers of Natal.
He was a tall man, rangy and burned dark by the sun, though his brown hair showed streaks of red and blond from that same sun. His eyes were dark and hooded, his high cheekbones and narrow, straight nose giving him an almost hawk-like stare. It was only when he smiled he lost his grim visage, something that rarely occurred outside the comfort of his home, in the company of family.
Alystan of the Rangers of Natal was undertaking a service for a consortium of traders in the Free Cities, in negotiation with the Earl of Carse, carrying a bundle of documents considered vital. His sun-darkened features were set in an expression of concentration, his dark eyes narrowed as if he was willing himself to see every detail. His dark hair was still free of grey, but he was no youth, having spent his life from boyhood serving his people with stealth, speed, and sword.
He had chanced upon the newcomer’s trail an hour earlier, seeing fresh tracks in the spring damp soil. He had followed and at first thought little of a solitary man, perhaps a magician, from the look of him and his heavy staff. But his usually limited curiosity over a solitary man—even should he prove a magician—wandering the wilds of the Grey Towers, was piqued when he first glimpsed the traveler, or rather from the first moment he took his eyes off the man.
A trained tracker his entire life, Alystan could not recall the man’s appearance from one moment to the next. Was his cloak grey or blue? Was he short or tall? He followed the man and three times took his eyes off him and could not recall the details of his look. That made it certain he was a magic-user, and moreover he was using some glamour to hide his true appearance. To his consternation, Alystan found it easier to follow the man’s tracks than simply watch him. Something made him wish to turn his attention away, to be about other business, so he forced himself to stalk this mysterious figure.
Then he saw the change. At that instant, every detail of the creature’s appearance was etched into the tracker’s memory. The glamour had fled and now the Ranger of Natal knew the traveler’s true look. And, upon witnessing the newcomer’s departure, he knew this was now the more important task. The last time strangers appeared and disappeared through a rift in this valley, that arrival heralded the coming of a twelve-year-long, bloody war. And from the creature’s appearance, it might be history was repeating itself.
To Alystan, it looked as if an unremarkable man had transformed himself into the tallest elf ever encountered. He wished he had been able to move closer, see more detail, but didn’t want to risk revealing himself, and the traveler was too quickly gone from this world.
From what Alystan could see, he judged the creature stood nearly seven feet in height, with massive shoulders but a surprisingly narrow waist, giving his chest physique a startling V shape. The proportions of his legs were more like those of an elf, though powerfully muscled. His grey-shot red hair had been tied high atop his head in a decorative band, falling to spread down below his shoulders. But it was the color red that had startled him, for it wasn’t the reddish-brown or even orange-tinged red seen among both humans and elves, it was as vivid a scarlet color as he had ever seen. And had the light not been playing tricks, Alystan would vow it was a true color, not the product of some dye, such as women in the Free Cities used to suit a whim or rid themselves of grey. The brows were the same vivid hue, and had been treated with a wax or other substance so they swept out and up, mimicking a butterfly’s antennae as much as anything the Ranger could envision.
Alystan moved cautiously, against the possibility others of this creature’s kind might be close by, though he doubted it. This valley had remained unoccupied in the century sin
ce the Riftwar, the dark elves who had once abided here being content to remain far to the north. And Alystan had only seen trail sign of one man. Or elf, he amended.
Alystan continued to review what he had seen as he made his way back up to the higher game trails. Like the other elves Alystan knew, the newcomer had shown an almost effortless movement, as he had stepped through the magic portal. But unlike those elves known to the Ranger, this one had trod with a heavy foot, as if lacking wood-lore or simply not caring. No elf of even modest experience would have left tracks so easily followed.
There was another thing about that creature. Alystan had only caught but the briefest glimpse of its face, as it peered upward, but it had been enough to note the eyes. They were deep-set and pale, blue so light it was almost a cloud color as the creature had stood regarding the landscape around. And there was something malevolent in that face. Alystan couldn’t express how he knew, but he was certain this was no mere elf from another part of this world, unknown to the Rangers, but something else. Something intelligent enough to pass as human through magic arts, no mean feat for even the most powerful of magic-using creatures, the great dragons. Not only was this elf a magician of some fashion, but a very powerful one, Alystan judged.
And, for some reason, Alystan was most troubled by the creature’s attire. Upon his brow, he wore a delicate circle of gold, with a heavy polished ruby set in the middle. Elves occasionally wore what passed for jewelry, but only at festivals, being content with the beauty of flower garlands or other natural adornments the rest of the time. And there was the manner of his clothing.
This elf wore finely made garb, and the circlet upon his head was of equally exceptional craftsmanship. While striking in countenance and massive in body, still the elf did not have the look of a warrior or hunter; given his guise as a human traveler, the creature apparently was intent upon stealth, not conflict. Alystan knew for certain this elf was some manner of magician, but his garb and magic illusion marked him nothing remotely like the Spellweavers of Elvandar, or the Loremasters of the Eldar. Their magic was as much a thing of nature as mind and will, and what served the elves of Elvandar, as well as the black arts used by the Moredhel, was all of a piece, as much as elven clothing or song. This conjuration of illusion, worn around the shoulders like a cloak, this was too much like dark human arts.
And this elf hailed from a people who enjoyed beautiful things as much as humans did, for his robes were of shimmering weave, pearl-white satin or silk perhaps, and the hems were decorated with threads of ruby and azure color. And the staff of oak, which before had seemed a simple walking stave, in the brief instant Alystan saw it, showed itself as obviously a thing of magic, adorned at the top by a large glass orb that glowed from within, even in the bright sunlight. Alystan was certain no human—certainly no Ranger—had encountered this elf’s kin before.
As he picked up speed, Alystan wondered less what manner of elf was this and more why was he here. He knew that once he had finished in Carse, rather than return to Bordon, he must hie himself to the dwarves of the Grey Towers, in the village of Caldara, and take counsel with them. They knew more of elf lore than any others this side of Elvandar, and it was upon their borders this elf trod. Perhaps the dwarves would know why such a being was obviously scouting this region. And every experience he had over thirty years of running these mountains and the forests on both sides of the peaks caused him to know in the pit of his stomach that no one in the Free Cities or the Kingdom of the Isles would like the answer.
Demons howled in rage and pain as they assaulted the barricade. A shower of arrows rained down on them, striking dozens as they sought to climb the obstacle using the bodies of their fallen comrades as means to crest the defenses.
Undalyn, Regent Lord of the Clans of the Seven Stars pointed to a wave on the right, nearly able to reach the top of the barricade, and shouted, “There! Pitch!”
Two conjurers waited nearby, far enough behind the battlefront to be relatively safe, flanked by a dozen archers detailed to bring down any fliers who might target the magic-users. A massive cauldron of burning pitch waited atop a blazing mound of logs, and the two magicians acted in concert. Well practiced in their arts, they closed their eyes, needing no sight to manage their task.
The massive cauldron, placed atop the huge pyre by a dozen men and two draft animals, rose into the air, as if an invisible giant hand gently lifted it. It floated safely over the heads of the defenders and upended over the demons below.
Flaming death rained down on those nearest the top of the barricade, while the defenders below hung back a moment, as waves of heat washed over them, singeing hair and eyebrows. The usual demon stench was made even more noxious by the odor of burning hair and flesh. The demons on the right fell back, but without looking, the Regent Lord knew they were still hard pressed in the center and on the left.
He turned away from the sight of the massive pile of writhing, flaming demons and assessed his position. His warriors fought valiantly, as had their fathers and grandfathers before them. For a hundred years the Clans of the Seven Stars had struggled against the Demon Legion and for a hundred years they had made them pay a dear price for every inch of ground gained, for every village sacked, and for every life sacrificed.
Still, he knew that his resources were dwindling and theirs seemed without limit. In the distance he saw a dark cloud on the horizon, yet he knew there was no rain in the air. Before he could speak, one of the lookouts on the tower above shouted, “Fliers!”
Knowing his command was gratuitous, as his magic-users were already conjuring their defense, he still felt the need to give the order. “Shields!”
Part of his nature was to be wary of ceding too much authority to others; this he knew could be a failing. But another part of his nature took pride in every serving warrior, priest, and magic-user knowing his task and answering need without hesitation. The more desperate the struggle for the survival of his people, the more filled with pride he became.
He was Undalyn, by lineage and law, leader of his people, Regent Lord of the Clans of the Seven Stars. He was the most powerful elf among his kind.
His features were typical of the people, though his skin tended toward a darker tone, due to his passion for hunting and years under the sun. His blue eyes were the color of the ocean, with flecks of green, and his brow was unlined, despite his more than three hundred years. Snow-white hair was tied high above his head in a noble’s knot—white leather decorated with five perfect rubies placed in gold settings—to fall in a long cascade down below his shoulders. Handsome by the measure of his race, he nevertheless had a dark and dangerous aspect to his features that was revealed at odd moments, though he rarely raised his voice in anger. It was his eyes that hinted at the fury always contained within.
He was accorded the utmost respect by the People of the Seven Stars, the Taredhel in the old tongue, for it was his burden to guide them, as it had been his forefathers’ before him. But no Regent before him had burdens such as his, and the wear on him was taking its toll. Dark circles under his eyes told of sleepless nights and endless worry, frustration, and ultimately a sense of doom.
He felt more than saw the energy barrier go up, as the remaining magic-users employed one of their more powerful spells. The demons had encountered this barrier before, yet they came and hurled themselves against it, time and again.
Archers waited against the possibility that one might rend the mystic defense, but so far it had failed to occur. Those on the walls dealing with the milling demons below could barely spare a glance toward the skies; they knew what would happen.
Archers on the wall peppered the retreating horde of demons, who appeared to be marshaling for one more assault on the wall should the fliers secure a breach. The Regent Lord took a deep breath and pulled out his sword, again to be ready should any flier breach the barrier. He glanced at his hands and saw they were free of blood. His shoulders ached and he felt as if he could sleep for a week, yet he had not
struck one blow against the enemies of his people.
His soldiers had kept the demon horde at bay for another day, and he had been free to oversee the defense of the barrier and not put himself at risk. Other days he had not been so fortunate, and he had killed his share of demons with his own hands, returning to his palace at night covered in their evil black blood.
He watched without emotion as the fliers struck the barrier. The sky above scintillated in rainbows of color as the winged horrors of the Demon Legion literally bounced from the defensive barrier; the Regent Lord knew there must be some intelligence among these monsters, but those who assaulted his defenses every day seemed without any spark of intellect. Had the demons possessed half the elves’ cleverness, they would have overwhelmed the Seven Clans years before. But even without anything remotely resembling organization, they were grinding the Clans of the Seven Stars to nothing. Worlds had been abandoned and now here on the home world—he shook his head, for this wasn’t the true home world, but it was the capital of his nation—they were making a final stand. He knew what every elf among the Clans knew: no matter how valiant the struggle, eventually they would fall.
The fliers beat in fury against the barrier, but it held. Lately demons capable of some magic had appeared from time to time, costing the elves dearly, but for this day the victory would go to the Clans.
The demons withdrew and the Regent Lord surveyed the barrier. He was no more an expert than any other warrior but he was no less. As the fliers withdrew and the sun lowered in the west, he knew the battle for today was over.
He removed his helm and almost instantly an aide was at his side to take it. Another came and said, “My Lord, we have a report that the Conjurer Laromendis has returned.”
The Regent Lord didn’t ask what news he brought, for the Conjurer had been under strict instructions to divulge his findings to no one before reporting directly to the palace. He could not afford unfounded rumors racing through the capital until the truth was known. The fate of the Clans of the Seven Stars rested on certain knowledge, not hope.
Rides a Dread Legion Page 6
