by Logan Petty
Sawain and Ilias climbed the twisting stairs and passed floor after floor. Each one was similar, though they seemed to serve different purposes. One floor lacked statues, and instead had a large silver basin in the center of the room that contained red embers. The worshipers in this chamber were throwing handfuls of herbs onto the embers while they sang a hauntingly beautiful song. Wisps of white smoke curled through the air, melding with the words of the elves.
Sawain’s elvish was still poor, but he thought it sounded like a poem of lament from the few words he could pick out. The aroma of the burning incense and the lilting melody made Sawain drowsy. He silently followed Ilias up to the next room as he reflected on his mother. He decided this was an appropriate place to remember her.
Sawain’s legs grew sore and tired as he climbed the tenth floor’s stairs. They emerged in a room unlike the ones below. This one was completely walled off, the floor below was solid. The room itself was only as wide as the staircase that leveled off here. A door like the gate outside blocked entry to the hallway beyond. One of the Ancestral Guards stood before it, leaning on her spear. She perked up when she noticed the two ascending the stairs in her direction. She cleared her ghostly throat as she spoke to them.
“Ah, the Thrallborn boy. Took you long enough, didn’t it? Right, in you go, your judgment is at hand.”
She tapped the gate with her spear, then dissolved before Sawain’s eyes. The gate unraveled itself and Sawain stepped forward, following Ilias into the hall. He heard the guard’s voice in his ear.
“Good luck, Thrallborn.”
He turned, half out of surprise, to say his thanks, but there was no ghost visible. The thought of the invisible ghosts lurking around made his skin crawl. He simply turned around and followed Ilias.
Ilias stopped in front of a double door. This one was made of polished white wood and had actual knobs for handles. Ilias stepped to the side and motioned for Sawain to go through the doors.
“The Triumvirate court is on the other side of these doors. This is as far as I go with you. Good luck Sawain.”
Sawain’s stomach tied itself into a knot. He suddenly became so nervous, he felt as if he would vomit, but he contained himself, took a few deep breaths, then several short ones as he placed his hand on the knob and turned it.
He stepped into a large circular chamber, about half the size of the lower floors. Three tiers of elevated benches ran along the length of the room and stopped at the far end, where three elevated pulpits resided. They stood side by side, with the middle one brought slightly forward. The benches were full of elves dressed in rich attire. They looked like the nobles of the realm.
Three ancient looking elves sat behind the three pulpits in high thrones made of wood overlaid with silver. They were dressed more elegantly than any other in the room. They wore blue robes lined with silver and perforated with precious stones. Each one wore a jewel encrusted crown on his or her brow. The two men had flowing white beards that were woven into their equally long snowy manes of hair. The elder to the left of the highest elder also had long white hair that wrapped around her waist like a sash.
Several feet above their heads, in the wall behind the pulpits, a balcony was carved in. Several ghostly figures dressed as stately as the elders sat there in a misty haze. All eyes were on Sawain as he walked into the room. It was nearly enough to make his knees buckle. He took another breath and remembered why he was there. He had a Hold to save. He had all of the Holds to save.
He strode to the center of the floor and looked up as fearlessly as possible to the elders. They sat a few feet above his head. Each of them stared down his or her nose at him like he was a piece of refuse. He did not allow their haughty manner to get to him. The middle elder spoke.
“Sawain Thrallborn, you are brought before the Triumvirate of Elders and the Council of Ancestors today on the charges of trespass, assault, and blasphemy. What have you to say to these charges?”
Sawain cleared his parched throat, “I am not guilty.”
The elder raised an eyebrow, “Did you not enter the borders of Alfhaven without permission from the rangers or the Triumvirate?”
“I did, but—”
“Did you assault the captain of the Eastern Watch when he arrested you for this trespass?”
Sawain’s temper rose, “He insulted me and struck me—”
“Did you wittingly lead creatures cursed with undeath into the forest of Alfhaven?”
“We were chased in by—”
The middle elder raised his left hand, “I do not care to hear excuses, Sawain Thrallborn. A simple yes or no will do.”
Sawain grit his teeth and glared at the inquiring elder, “Yes. I trespassed into the forest to escape an army of undead led by a necromancer that calls himself the Grey King. I defended myself against Captain Nerelis’ attack when he found out where I was from.”
The other elders gave each other wary glances, but the middle elder simply looked bored. The elves in the stand were mumbling amongst themselves. The middle elder sighed.
“So you admit your guilt of the crimes charged against you. According to your transgressions, your punishment will be severe lashing and exile from Alfhaven—”
Sawain could not take another word, “ENOUGH!”
His shout silenced all in the room as he continued, “I am the chosen of the god Turin as well as the son of an Alfhaven native. You will listen to my case now. I did not come here to be branded a criminal. I came to seek help from the warriors of Alfhaven. The other holds are in grave danger. The Necromancer called the Grey King has united the tribes of the Frostwylde and has marched south into the Fells. I have seen firsthand the destruction his curse brings with it. If you do not heed my warning and take the fight to him, Alfhaven, too will be in great danger.”
Sawain’s warning was met by bouts of laughter from living and dead alike. Only one did not laugh. Sawain noticed a ghostly elder sitting in the middle and at the front of the balcony who was staring at him as if the ghost was spooked by something more mysterious than himself. The head living elder raised a hand to silence the crowd.
“I have heard quite enough from you, young Thrallborn. Now, leave this court before I—”
The ghost who was studying Sawain stood up and shouted. He fluttered down to the floor in front of Sawain and reformed, facing the elders.
“Elder Orenias, you will hear this boy out! Did you not hear what he said? He is chosen of the god of the Sturmforge! He used his real name! None living remember the names of the gods, save you! You would be the greatest catastrophe of our history if you threw him out without giving him a chance to prove what he says.”
The elder’s eyes narrowed on the ghost who interrupted him, “Ancestor Værun, you will defend this criminal?”
The elder to the left of the head elder cleared her throat, “Orenias, you know we revere the words of the ancestors above even the words of the Triumvirate. That being said, we are still a council of three. One alone cannot make a decision, even you are not exempt from this law.”
Elder Orenias’ nostrils flared in temper at the counter action made by his contemporary. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked calmer than before.
“So be it. Go on then, Thrallborn. Prove to us you are who you say you are.”
The ancestor who came to Sawain’s rescue smiled and returned to his place in the balcony. All eyes were on Sawain again. He breathed deeply to steel his nerves and closed his own eyes. He prayed fervently.
Master Turin, lord of the Sturmforge, deliver me from these who seek to prevent me from fulfilling my destiny. Prove to them that I am who I say I am.
He opened his eyes again. He saw himself standing in front of the Elders of the Triumvirate. He was watching the scene unfold now as if he was someone in the crowd of nobles. His soulless body opened its eyes. They shone like beacons. Lightning crackled at his fingertips. The mist of the ghosts in the room gr
ew heavy and gathered around his feet like storm clouds. When he opened his mouth, a voice like living thunder erupted from it. He recognized it as Turin’s voice.
“I am Turin, god of the Sturmforge, wielder of the blade that splits heaven and earth. This warrior from Anvilheim is my chosen vessel to carry out my will in Hammerhold. You will show him the respect you would show me. He is young still, but he will grow into the hero this land needs, only if he is given proper guidance. I command you to aid him in his struggle against the torrent of the undead that washes across this land. There is one in this forest who will be his guide on the path to his fate. He must be able to seek her out. Do what you can to make sure he can pass freely in this forest or I will see to it myself that everything green will be turned to ash!”
When Turin finished his speech, a flash of lightning filled the room with light and a deafening boom of thunder shook everything so violently that pieces of vines and bark fell from their places in the walls and ceiling.
Sawain opened his eyes again and was standing before a trio of pale faced elders who looked frightened out of their minds. His body burned like fire, but he clenched his teeth and bore the pain. The room was silent as the grave.
Elder Orenias was the first to compose himself. His countenance changed to one of respectful kindness. He spoke to Sawain in a slightly shaky voice.
“I see now that you are who you say you are. Wait here. The Triumvirate will discuss your fate and decide what will be done.”
Elder Orenias picked up a small knife and pricked his finger with it. He stretched out the finger beyond the podium and allowed a single drop of blood to fall to the ground. A mass of white vines sprouted all around the three elders and enveloped them in a woven dome.
Sawain shifted uncomfortably as he waited for them to drop the barrier. He could not hear a thing. The dome unraveled after what felt to Sawain like an eternity. Elder Orenias spoke to him.
“Sawain Thrallborn, you hereby have full pardon from the Triumvirate and all restrictions on travel within the hold are lifted. I want to offer my sincerest apology to you for treating you like common filth. Now, what can we do to help the chosen of Lord Turin?”
Sawain could not help but smirk at this abrupt change of attitude, “You can start by releasing my friend, Jatharr, from prison. He is an ally of mine and will be accompanying me on my journey.”
The elder nodded slowly, “Very well, consider it done. I said before that you may travel freely within the hold, but might I humbly and strongly suggest that you accept an offer of training to prepare yourself for the dangers that wait outside of the city? This training may prove beneficial against the Grey King as well.”
Sawain raised an eyebrow, “What kind of training?”
Elder Orenias smiled, “ If you agree, you will undergo the same training every ranger of the forest must go through before leaving the city as well. It is a rigorous regime that promises to be difficult, but if you survive it, you will have the leadership and combat skills needed to wage this war your path has been set on.”
Sawain did like the idea of becoming stronger, with the chance to learn the elven style of combat. He did not like the idea of going out on his own in that dark forest again without being prepared.
“Very well, I accept your offer. Thank you, Elder. When may I begin?”
Elder Orenias grinned, “You begin immediately. Report to the Rowan Circle Fortress to begin orientation.”
Sawain nodded, excitement replacing nerves, “What about my friend?”
The elder waved dismissively, “Yes, yes, the halfling berserker. He will be released and sent to the Rowan Circle as well.”
Sawain had more questions still, “And the threat from the Grey King?”
Elder Orenias seemed to grow agitated as he waved again, “We will reinstate the Outrider corps used in the last great war. When you are ready, you will be put in command of this elite force and may ride against your enemy to your heart’s content. Now please, leave us. We have much to discuss.”
Sawain bowed low to the elders, joy filling his spirit. The promise of his own special fighting force was enough to make his head swim. He would gladly do whatever it took to become the leader this Outriders corps needed. He pivoted around and marched out into the hall beyond the wooden doors.
He was ready. He was ready to prove himself a hero, just as he proved himself a chosen of the gods. Nothing was going to stand in his way.
Chapter 4
Sawain rode along silently in the carriage Ilias called up for them as they jostled along the twisting road to Rowan Circle Fortress. A mix of emotion swirled in his skull. He was excited to take the next step on the quest Turin set before him, but something felt off to him. The way Elder Orenias shooed him away at the end of the trial felt to him like he was just a pest to the Triumvirate that could only be hidden and not stamped out. He was still treated as an outsider, even after Turin’s divine intervention. He began to think that the gods of the outside world held little sway within the walls of Alfhaven.
He rode through the city for an hour as the cart and driver wove slowly through the rest of the traffic around them. He stared out the open window of the cart and saw that they were very close to the gargantuan thorn wall. The buildings were not as condensed here, though still present. Ahead of them, a large fort rose into view. It was a circular structure of grand scale that was made of hundreds of oversized Rowan trees that were woven together to form the mass of the walls. Sawain noticed it had a leafy roof that spread out above it, making the fort itself look like a titanic Rowan tree.
The cart soon stopped at the front gate of the fort. Sawain climbed out to get a better look. He noticed that the fortress was covered in large swollen nodes. He wondered what they were for. Ilias joined him and gave him a gentle push forward.
“Come along, Sawain. We have to get you to the director. The new teams were put together already, so if you have any chance of being placed, we must act quickly.”
Sawain nodded, still lost in thought. He followed Ilias through the gates and into the interior of the fortress. The inner courtyard was a beautiful sight. A grassy lawn covered the ground, much like the one in the Arborhart. A tower stood exactly in the middle of the round courtyard. It reached to the canopy above. Several training rings dotted the outer edges of the courtyard, filled with targets and training dummies, as well as obstacle courses of various types and complexities.
Sawain saw dozens of elves wandering the courtyard. Some were dressed like Captain Nerelis’ rangers while others were dressed more plainly. Some were using the training rings, but most were lounging in the grass, talking to friends and telling jokes. From what Sawain could see so far, it looked like a pleasant place.
“This place is the training grounds that produced rangers like Nerelis and his drones?”
Ilias chuckled, assuming the responsibility of answering Sawain’s indirect question, “This is the place. It looks harmless enough now because it is resting time. No training goes on an hour before dinner until morning. However, for the fourteen hours between that time, this place is a nightmare for the weak.”
Sawain processed this information silently as he followed Ilias to the tower in the middle of the courtyard. He noticed the conversations stop as he walked by the groups of younger elves and felt several pairs of eyes watching him. He tried his best to keep his own eyes forward, but could not help a quick glance around.
As his eyes swept the courtyard, anyone whose stare he briefly met quickly looked away in embarrassment. The talking turned to whispers. He felt more like a stranger than a guest again. He was relieved when he stepped into the tower with Ilias.
Ilias led him up a spiraling staircase that lined the walls of the tower. The design was very similar to the main tower in the Arborhart, except not nearly as wide, and each floor was closed off by doors and hallways. They soon stopped their climb at the floor where the stairs ended. A single door stood at the end of the short hallway on this floor. I
t looked like a normal door with a brass knob. A wooden plank adorned the wall with an elven word inscribed onto it.
Ilias ushered Sawain to the door before whispering to him, “The Director of the Fort is just beyond this door. Be on your best behavior and only answer when you are spoken to. You thought Captain Nerelis was ill tempered? The Director of Rowan Circle is on another level.”
Sawain felt a lump rising in his throat and instinctively held his breath when Ilias reached to turn the handle. The pair stepped into a large office with green carpet, which reminded Sawain of the Dawnstar Manor, though this carpet was thicker and in much better condition. Bookshelves lined the back wall, packed full of tomes of different shapes, sizes and colors.
A large mahogany desk sat in the center of the room. Four chairs sat in front of the desk, and one larger, more comfortable looking one sat behind it. An elf woman sat in the comfortable chair. She was beautiful. Her blue eyes were set perfectly into her slender face. Her bronze colored hair was clean and combed, tied up in a braid that hung across her left shoulder. She wore a blue silken tunic that fit her well. The only thing not beautiful about her was the scowl etched into her face. She put down the book she was reading and closed it roughly as she glared at Sawain.
“You must be the outsider I received word about. Great. I was hoping you wouldn’t find your way here. Do you know how much paperwork I am going to have to go through tonight to get you on one of my recruit teams?”
Sawain shook his head silently. She snorted irritably.
“Of course you don’t.”
Ilias came to Sawain’s defense with a salute to the ill elven mistress, “Lady Tirinele, this young man has been chosen by the ancient gods to be a savior of his people. He—”
