And lived in peace till elves invaded them; yet now
Only the Emerald River elves remain, and men.
1.2.3 “Now you will see the end of all: Emeria’s end,
And then your own. Cursed Emeria, wretched tribe!
You who my brothers slew will be their incense nigh!
1.3.1 “Behold about you Cothus’ power, rank on rank,
The sabres, scimitars, and glaives uncountable,
All tempered by the flame and gird by dragons’ scales.
1.3.2 “Report unto your kings the doom over the elves,
And let them flee in fear, for theirs is coming next:
Now march my warriors and chiefs—to victory!”
1.3.3 The dawn rose cold upon the goblin emperor’s hordes,
And forward marched they in their ranks with arms ablaze,
A sight of dire grandeur for Emeria.
2.1.1 Down through the mountains, through the plains that Turus bathes,
The desert waste, the plainsmen fleeing in advance
With herd and home unto the Turus wasteland’s lords.
2.1.2 Then in their rocky fastnesses the Turus lords
Awoke, astern and hoary, learned of Cothus’ march
From embassies and scouts: and strapped on swords for war.
2.1.3 And meanwhile Cothus to th’ Emerian marches came
And from the Crag of Tyrrhus viewed the verdant lands
That soon he would make blaze with smoldering elven ash.
2.2.1 Unseen below the elf king, Amrill, watched them march,
One goblin wing to th’ south, the other west with Cothus,
And on his solemn charger, praying, gave command.
2.2.2 Unleashed, the elven fosters Cothus’ column besieged
With snares and arrows while the elven army struck
The southward wing within a wooded edifice.
2.2.3 The rising smoke for vict’ry Cothus took and soon
In disarray the elves appeared, led by their king,
That then in bloody battle both those kings were slain.
2.3.1 The battle raged till all the trees with blood were stained
And no elf stood or breathed; then Huthrak, last of th’ chiefs,
Stood midst the goblin vestiges to rally them.
2.3.2 With Cothus’ crown and Amrill’s head they gathered, poor
And wretched remnants of such terrifying hosts,
Then lit the Emerald Woods ablaze and turned for home.
2.3.3 Yet never to return, that hapless, boasting horde:
For as they straggled back there came the Turus lords,
Armed to defend their lands, and crushed the fleeing mob.
3.1.1 Upon the broken woods a silent rain began,
And quenched the raging flames, and laved the dead,
Returning blood to clay and soot to soiled earth,
3.1.2 And out of hiding came Emeria to the field.
Then weeping mother came to bear away her son
And son for brother, wife for spouse untimely dead.
3.1.3 With sprinkled wine and fresh-hewn flow’rs they strewed the field
And lifted prayers up for the dead who died for them,
Thus consecrating th’ earth of all that it had borne.
3.2.1 Dhevhain, now king at Amrill’s sad demise, arrived
Upon the field with all the court to mourn the dead,
And Amrill’s crown was brought before him by its guard.
3.2.2 Dhevhain replied, “None worthy of this weight can be;
Then let it rest, a shrine to those who gave their lives,
And foremost Amrill the Sequesterer, our king.
3.2.3 “Now let the goblin guards be given back to earth
And Cothus’ wicked soul be turned back to its judge,
That peace may follow violence for Emeria.”
3.3.1 And when all that was done then Amrill’s corpse was brought;
Torrential tears arose in every soul to see’t
That even th’ most stalwart warrior could not resist.
3.3.2 Then in procession he was borne, their fallen king,
And placed upon a bier of stones above the spring
Whence flows the Emerald River, and a cairn was raised.
3.3.3 Then spoke Dhevhain and said, “As long as freedom rings
Let it be told how Amrill gave his life for us;
So may he and we all be granted lasting peace.”
IV.ii.
A swarm of beetles took flight from the branches of a live oak standing amidst the boulders above the springs as the sun began to glow red in the west. The hills rose in tumbling granite and mass rocks to the east, and echoing the beetles, horse-hooves rumbled in the distance.
Tattered, aching, and half-starved, Deran fell to the ground and set his ear against the earth. Horses all right—most likely a whole troop. Unusually far south. He could already see the high peaks of the Narrissorean Mountains rising range over range to the south, to the Sûrthian Plateau. Behind them was Anthirion and the waterwood. The spring that burbled at their feet fell from there westward to become the Oris River. Northwards the hills rolled down into the highlands of the Therian Plains. Eastward, beyond Narrissor, home, there was the vale of Ristoria, by this time of year already turning fiery violet with its famous woods.
Alik crawled weakly over the rocky ground behind him and came to rest. Deran rose. “Never you worry, boy; a little further and we’ll make the outskirts. Then we’ll be home free. Wait, no—get down.”
Alik obeyed, crouching down below the tall, dry grass. “That bloody sneaker,” Deran muttered. “I wonder how long he’s been there. Would’ve never seen him at all if his horse hadn’t stomped its foot just then. He must have watched us all the way up the slope.”
“Vorcave? Vorceive?” Alik asked.
“We can’t make a run for it,” Deran went on, mostly to himself, “or we’ll be run down. Maybe we’re already surrounded. Bloody fools, ranging this far in. Well it’ll be their pity.” And with that said, he commenced pounding on the ground—boom, boom, boom, pause, boom, boom, pause, boom, pause, on and on.
A band of riders crested the far ridge at a gallop and reined in below the ridge. The horses were all sorrel or palomino. Their ears twitched; they wore leather chest plates, tack, and ornate saddles. The riders they bore were armed in Therian leather-and-chain armor and with slender sabres. One of them bore a long, bannered spear with the pennant of the Therian Fourteenth Division: X’ristofer’s infamous “Goblin Hunters,” the bane of Narrissor.
The two riders Deran had spotted before spurred their horses into a gallop toward the newcomers, the one a fair-haired lad and the other a short, long-handed scout.
“Lord, good even’, Sir,” the fair-haired lad declared on reaching the leader of the newcomer party, a large, regal man whose insignia declared him to be a marshall and therefore Marshall X’ristofer himself. “Sadi Sarefon and Ce’m Zan reporting.”
“What have ye’ to report?” Marshall X’ristofer spoke.
“Sir; we tracked a band of Narrissoreans south into the hills with Lieutenant Berrthen in command. When they reached the hills we lost them, and Lieutenant Berrthen ordered the scouts, including us two, to hunt them out. We have not heard yet whether the others have found the quarry yet, but we found two possibly unrelated skulkers down there by the springs. When we heard you were yourself in the area, we sent word.”
“How long ago?” the marshall asked.
“A few hours ago, Sir,” Cel’m Zan replied. “We held on them rather than attack since they seemed unrelated and we didn’t want to stumble onto a large company alone.”
“What makes you think they’re unrelated?” the marshall questioned.
“Sir; the other was a war party,” Cel’m Zan said. “These two appear unarmed and weak, and one is a non-Narrissorean for certain; a boy.”
“And you have lost contact with Lieutenant Berrthen?”
&n
bsp; “Yes, Sir; nor have we heard any sign of battle.”
The marshall paused. “Very well, dismissed,” he finally said, drawing out his field glasses and searching the area where the scouts indicated their quarry were hiding. “Hmm,” he muttered.
The man riding beside the marshall, a large, heavy-limbed, powerful man with dark hair, a delicate, sweat-beaded face, and a dark mustache and beard, finally spoke. “What do you think, Sir?” he asked.
“They haven’t gone anywhere,” Marshall X’ristofer decided. “They wish they could, I’m sure. Since they don’t, it’s obvious they’re bound for Narrissor and are enemies of the state.”
“They might be more refugees from Anthirion, Sir,” the other said. “Might even be the boy we were told to look out for.”
“Little matter,” X’ristofer replied matter-of-factly.
“What will be your approach?”
“There’s something in the air, Haleth,” the marshall said. “I wonder you don’t feel it. Perhaps ‘tis a feeling only a veteran soldier may feel, from time to time, before the battle looms. You couldn’t experience it over the forge.”
The man addressed, a blacksmith named Haleth who was attached to X’ristofer’s command, had seen almost as much action as the marshall himself, but he didn’t see the point of bringing that up to the marshall right then. “Do you expect a trap?” he asked.
“I expect nothing—that is why I have lived so long,” the marshall said. “What worries me most is Lieutenant Berrthen.” He turned to address his officers. “Commander, lead a few troops of men around to that ridge above the targets to cut them off from Narrissor. Post a pair of scouts on the crest and stand by. I expect those two there will surrender when you do that, but if they do not, try to take them alive.”
“Aye, Lord, Sir.” The commander gave quick orders and spurred his horse, and about twenty of the Therian riders followed.
“The rest of you come with me!” shouted the marshall. He urged his horse down the slope of the ridge at an angle to intercept the targets should they attempt to escape back the way they came, and the rest quickly followed his lead.
The soldiers rode down the hill with their marshall and the blacksmith Haleth just behind the lead. Then suddenly the marshall wheeled his horse; Haleth reined in his own and turned to see a hail of metal flying toward him. He instinctively drew his sword and as he did so a steel star shattered the blade inches in front of his heart to burrow shallowly in his leather armor. He saw the marshall’s horse rear up behind him, and beyond that soldiers falling from their horses stained with blood. A war-horn sounded; beyond that, a line of half-goblins and rock elf Narrissoreans burst from behind a line of builders. Haleth tore the star out of his armor and hurled it toward the enemies, taking one of them by surprise as they began to charge.
War-horns sounded furiously from every direction. Already though the marshall’s “Goblin Hunters” were wheeling about with sabres flashing to the ready to avenge their fallen comrades. Haleth turned: above them on the ridge over the springs the other section had also been attacked, and at the springs their two targets were popping up their heads and preparing to make a break for it. “C’mon, Shya,” he urged his horse, and spurred her down toward the springs.
He saw the Narrissorean rise out of the grass and run. He saw the boy run after him. He turned his horse a little to the south to correct. Shya flew down the hill as though on wings, the wind blowing through her mane and tail, the grasses blurring past her hooves. She overcame them. With one strong motion Haleth seized the boy by the arm and swung him smoothly onto the back of his saddle. Alik struggled in confusion; Deran shouted something and dodged. The horse wheeled and turned back toward the north, where the lone live oak marked the springs of the Oris, from whence the hills climbed to the north and to the south and to the east.
Alik drew his fish knife but Haleth caught his hand and knocked it away. The horse plunged downward toward the springs. Alik struggled but Haleth was too strong for him. A war-horn blew “retreat.” Alik shouted, “Te iaezai’ia ce!” He heard the splash of the horse’s hooves. “Vea hegofrai’ia veae!” he shouted again, trying to wriggle free. Haleth turned and nearly lost him, secured his grip upon him, and suddenly, before he was aware of any danger at all, a wave of water rose up and bowled him off his horse. Shya spooked; his foot caught in the stirrup and his hands lost hold of the boy. He tumbled free, and Alik ran.
IV.iii.
Crowds filled the Naryatha Cavern, the entrance to the underground world of Narrissor, as Nikharin’s Guardians returned triumphant with Deran at their lead. Colorful in reds and blues, whites and oranges and golds, the variegated peoples heralded the returning hero and their valiant soldiers, waved banners, threw brightly-colored sand, and brought forth food and flowers in great basket-fulls. They were short, stocky, pale half-goblins; solemnly jubilant, tall, tan half-men, mainly from the south; thinner, nimbler, dark-haired, pale-skinned half-rock elves; many interbreeds, unrecognizable as elf or human or goblin descendants; or smaller, hairy, pale-eyed, claw-handed Alukhi, natives of the caves bred down through many ages.
Deran, with Alik beside him, led the several frightened, empty-saddled Therian mounts that had been captured across the Bridge of the Channath Current that crossed Naryatha Cavern. Several younger Narrissoreans approached Deran, bowed, and accepted the horses, and with that the important members of the city approached.
The precepts of the city approached: a rotund half-goblin with a twisted, curious face and a velvet frock coat; a pock-faced person of indistinguishable race dressed splendidly as though of spun gold; and a quiet, simply-dressed half-man of Sûrthian descent. Another figure, a nimble, dark-cloaked pure-blood rock elf, also approached with them.
“Lord and General Deran,” the first of the precepts greeted Deran effusely, “what a splendid honor it is to see our hero and master at last return!”
“Likewise, Precept Kunar; Precept Gallaothk; Precept Shunedras; my dear Xetress.”
“Your Highness was gone so long we feared some very nasty demise: something particularly ignominious, like a giant sea-serpent swamping your vessel at high sea and you being nibbled to death for days by minnows,” Precept Kunar said.
“Your creativity outdoes your hospitality,” Deran replied. “Commend me to the crowd.”
“As you wish, Lord Deran,” Precept Kunar answered. He turned to the people and raised his voice. “People of the glorious city of the earth, the queen of cities, glorious Narrissor—rock elves, goblins, men, Alukhi, and all of us, living in harmony and prosperity, here alone amidst the turmoils of the world—we ought to be more grateful than any other nation in the world for the excelling leadership and fortitude of those who have carved for us the place of honor of the world. Among these leaders we see today the return of one preeminent, who deserves our special welcome and applause.” This the people gladly gave. Precept Kunar turned to Deran and whispered, “Make it quick, Lord; General Krythar is coming.” Deran flashed a cynical glance at Precept Kunar and waved. The crowd quickly quieted down for him.
“My people,” Deran began, “you well know that the balance of world power has shifted dramatically since last I saw you in these halls. You do not yet know that by my foresight and adventures, Narrissor’s glory—your glory—in the newly emerging order is secured.” The precepts were already beginning to leave, he noticed angrily. What did they mean, “General Krythar is coming?” He lifted up Alik’s hand—he would have to cut this speech short. “My people; I ask you to hail this boy, whom fortune has given to us and my feats have brought to you safely; our hope and power, the wizard’s heir, Alik!”
At this such a great tumult of applause arose that Alik felt it in the vibrations of the earth. He glanced around nervously but Deran’s hand was on him. Confusion, resolution, and desolation battered him in turns until he was only numb with the ringing in his ears.
Deran stormed down the corridors of Narrissor toward his private suites with Alik and th
e rock elf, Xetress, who apparently was his personal aide. “What the pits does he mean, ‘General Krythar is coming?’ What was he planning on telling me? And what in the earth happened to Dxachar?”
“Shortly after you left, Sir, Dxachar disappeared without a word. No one has seen either him or his remains. Convenient it is for filthy Kunar. His consort also disappeared. Now there are but two true-blooded rock elves left.”
Deran slammed his fist into the wall so that Alik had to come to an abrupt stop to avoid running into it. “Blast it all, let Krythar come,” Deran fumed. “He won’t find anyone left. Where is that food? I’m dying of hunger...and Alik, too.”
Xetress, who was carrying one of the baskets of foodstuffs that had been given them at their reception, presented it to Deran, who stopped long enough to take a choice handful and begin eating. Then he turned the basket toward Alik. It was curious food, all pale or speckled mushrooms or stranger, long, fibrous plants Alik did not recognize at all. He was too hungry to complain: anything that bore the name of food he would have taken then.
“What will be your orders, Sir?” Xetress asked Deran.
“Well obviously you have to organize the army to receive Krythar, His Nobleness. Hold him a little parade. Give him a meal. Have him informed that I haven’t yet returned and that you yourself went out to look for me. For you yourself I want nowhere near that cur. Go propagate somewhere. Close your ears, Alik. Find a nice little almost-pure-blood or two and preserve the race. Have no scruples about it. And once Krythar is gone, have someone relieve Kunar of a foot or two off the top. Let it be a lesson to those....” He trailed off to take a bite, and when he was done he thought better of resuming where he had left off. He turned to the subject of Alik. “Alik, however, will be our wizard. Krythar will be in trouble if he tries to attack us, won’t he?”
The Wizard's Heir Page 19
