by Levi Samuel
The loose sword hit the ground tip first, slicing into the massive fur rug. It flexed against itself but remained lodged firmly upright. Kashien took a step back, allowing the man to reclaim his dignity.
“Reclaim your weapon. There’s no honor in attacking an unarmed opponent.”
The figure stepped forward, plucking the weapon from the ground. Raising it, he charged, tip extended and ready to pierce flesh.
Kashien sprung forward, slamming his blade against the other. The edge slid along the other, ringing out when the cross-guards met. Staring defiantly into the helmed face of his opponent, he smiled.
Twisting his torso, Kashien ripped his sword away. Feigning left, he flipped the longsword and rotated it behind his back. His arm flexed as far as the joint would allow. Carrying momentum, he released the blade, catching it with his right hand. The tip shot out like lightning, displaying an array of red sparks against the thick armor. It sunk deep into the metal, burying itself in the side of the iron breastplate.
The armored figure glanced at the sword protruding through him. Looking back at his lord, he crumbled into a pile of empty metal and leather.
Kashien sheathed his sword and snatched his tunic from the back of the chair at the edge of the rug. The dark blue fabric shimmered as he pulled it on.
“My apologies for the delay. What may I do for you today, Captain Trendal?” Kashien tipped the empty chair on its back legs and spun it around to take a seat.
“My Prince.” Trendal placed his right arm over his chest and bowed low before his future king.
Realizing the man’s station, Ravion and Demetrix glanced at each other and back to the prince. Bowing as the captain had, they offered the proper respects.
“Arise. I’ve no need for formalities here.” Kashien gestured to the throne, implying he had no interest to sit upon it.
“As you wish, My Lord.” Trendal stood and glanced at the men behind him. Gesturing them to approach, he returned his sight to the prince and continued. “We came across these men a few miles south, near the edge of the Teratha Forest. They have a third, a devonie. He’s at the tavern. I told him to stay close if you wished to speak with him.”
The young prince looked the two dalari up and down. “Interesting.” He stood and approached Ravion, “The two of you have the look of House Santail, but your armor and dress isn’t of this region. From where do you hail?”
His eyes were locked on Ravion. There was something odd about the young dalari.
Ra’dulen could smell the power radiating from the man. While it wasn’t the type he craved, it made him hunger for its sweet aroma.
“We come from a land known as Dalmoura. We were brought here through magic, by no control of our own. If you happen to have a few maps, we’ll be happy to be on our way. Though, I’d like to read up on your people’s history, if possible. Dalari are extremely rare where we’re from.” Ra’dulen explained, bowing his request.
“Also, it seems you’re in the middle of a war,” Demetrix interjected. “Any details on what we can expect to encounter would be greatly appreciated.”
Acknowledging the younger man’s statement, Kashien considered their requests. “You may remain here as long as you like. Though, as you put it, we’re in the middle of a war. If your blades are needed, I won’t hesitate to call upon them so long as you remain among my men. As for the information you seek, I’m afraid books are in short supply and the few maps we have don’t mention a place called Dalmoura. While our history is fairly common knowledge among our people, we’d rather it didn’t fall into the hands of our enemies. Give me some time and I’ll see if I can come up with a historian to answer your questions. Now, if you gentlemen would be so kind as to leave us. I’d like a moment with my captain here.”
Kaileen spun and headed for the door. Waiting for the others, she stepped through and wiped away the spell, watching the doorway disappear.
Gareth stepped through the doorway into what he could only describe as a joke. The fact that the walls were made of canvas made no difference. If it weren’t for the few bottles on the shelf and the stack of whiskey barrels, this would have been little more than a stable built around a countertop lined in stools. Even the straw on the floor made him feel as if the place would be better suited for livestock. Though it didn’t matter. So long as they had ale, they could call it a palace for all he cared. “Barkeep, ale!” Gareth called out, taking a seat. He glanced around the shack, surprised to find the place empty, save for himself and the barkeep.
The dalari behind the counter nodded and went to work filling a wooden tankard from one of the casks tapped behind the bar. Careful to keep from spilling it, he set it on the bar and slid it across the table to the large man sitting across from him.
“What brings you to these parts? Thought the devonie weren’t getting involved in a war that ‘wasn’t their problem’?”
Gareth sighed. That was the second time he’d heard of these devonie. As if he should know anything about them. “Figured I’d act like the dalari and stick my nose in other people’s business. What do I owe ya’ for the drink?”
The barkeep chuckled at his remark. “Don’t worry about it. First one’s on the house. Any more and it’ll cost ya’ a copper per, or half a day’s rations.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. What can you tell me about these devonie everyone keeps going on about?”
“You serious?”
“Don’t I look it?”
“I— Uh— I guess I just assumed you knew about them since you are one.”
“I know the name now. That’s about it.”
“Ah, well, I don’t really know what to tell you other than, like the dalari, they’re one of the eldar races. Supposed to be good with powers of the mind or something like that. Can’t say I’ve ever spent much time around them. I guess there was a point when we all traded. But those days ended long before my time. I heard rumors the emperor sent an emissary to meet with them when the dreualfar attacked, but they were turned away. Said they weren’t cleaning up our mess. Other than that, I’m afraid I don’t know much.”
Gareth swallowed a large gulp of the foamy, bronze liquid and stared into the reflection inside his cup. “Don’t suppose you’d know of anyone that knows how to find them?”
“Can’t say I do.”
Gareth heard footsteps outside the canvas tent. He didn’t have to turn to know who was approaching.
Demetrix placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder and took the seat beside him.
“Where’s Ravion?”
“He wanted to look around. Said he’d meet up here pretty soon.”
The barkeep gave a questioning glance to the young dalari.
“Something sweet. Please and thank you.”
“Does he seem different to you?” Gareth kept his eyes locked on the reflection in his cup, feeling his anger grow at the tarnished image.
“A bit. You remember how it is over there. We spent a little over a year in that hell. Ravion’s nearly doubled that. I’d say he has every right to be a little temperamental. If you’ll remember, it took me about six months to shake the depression when we got back.”
“I don’t think it’s depression he’s suffering from.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just keep an eye on him.” Gareth downed the remainder of his tankard and slammed it on the counter. Standing, he turned and disappeared through the canvas flap.
The majestic gates radiated a white glow through the leafy green terrain. Armored guards marched across the allure, mindlessly making their rounds.
From the overgrown forest’s edge, a unit of dreualfar watched, awaiting orders from their commander.
“What are we doing here? There’s no way the ten of us can break the wall. I doubt we’d even get to the other side before the alarms sound.”
“Patience. All will be revealed in due time.” Jorin’otth stated calmly, watching the gate. He was growing tired of the constant questions. If it
hadn’t been for the general giving them express orders to follow his command he had no doubt they’d slit his throat the first chance they got. Not that the option was out of the question. They were dreualfar after all. Such was their nature. Hearing a wagon creak along the forest road, he held his finger up to silence the growing restlessness of the group.
The wagon reached the gate and slowed to a stop. The cover appeared to be made of a glimmering silk and the wooden frame was bleached white and sleek. Everything about it screamed it was made by the hydralfar. The wagon master stood, exposing himself as one. Reaching behind him, he pulled a horn and pushed it to his lips. Giving a soft, gentle blow, it echoed out, playing like music on the wind.
“It’s time,” Jorin’otth announced, reaching beneath his cloak.
“You’re crazy. There’s no way we can take the wagon so close to the wall. The archers will have us before we get close!” The hulking dreualfar insisted, gesturing to the others. It was clear they shared his opinion.
“Relax and trust me. This will probably be the easiest thing you ever do.” Jorin’otth pulled a bronze rod from beneath the dark brown robes and flicked it toward the ground. The rod extended into a full-sized staff of half a lacquered wood. A pair of oblong orbs rested upon the crest, joined by a thin bridge of what appeared to be quartz. Finite grains of sand swirled inside the ornament and the wood pulsed from base to the head and back again, seemingly decayed in spots only to be renewed a moment later.
The gate slowly cranked open, revealing a small glimpse of the majestic city beyond the wall.
Returning to his seat, the wagon master gave a firm whip to the reins, urging the twin horses onward.
Jorin’otth stood and slammed the staff into the ground. A wave rolled out toward the city, halting the wagon where it sat. The horses were frozen, mid-step. The guards watched from the top of their post, unable to move.
“Let’s go.” Leaving the staff where it stood, Jorin’otth stepped from the trees and into full view of the guards. Pausing, he turned to look upon the dreualfar. “And don’t kill any children. We may need them later.”
The small unit of dreualfar cautiously stepped from their hiding place, joining the advancing hydralfar on the road. They passed him, roaring to the open city gate. To their surprise, the hydralfar guards offered no resistance.
Jorin’otth reached the wagon. Pulling the rear flap open, he stared upon three hydralfar resting in the back. A woman peeked through the door at the front of the wagon, while two children sat along the padded bench running the left side. One appeared to be around ten, while the other looked as if she hadn’t learned the concept of words yet.
Pulling himself into the back, Jorin’otth heard the familiar pop of steel penetrating flesh. He didn’t have to look to know the wagon master was dead. Pulling the black book from his pack, he opened to the center pages and positioned it beneath the younger child’s hands. He plucked his dagger from his waist and carefully pricked the toddler’s finger.
Bright red liquid pooled easily and splattered onto the page. It disappeared as quickly as it marred.
Jorin’otth lifted the book to his face. “Is this a child of kismet?”
The book refused to answer his question.
Sighing, he repeated the process on the other child, a young boy.
This time the book offered response. In the center of its exposed page, a single word appeared on the surface. Yes!
A loud crash echoed outside, shaking the wagon.
“What the hell?” Jorin’otth peeked out the back, seeing the dreualfar atop the wall.
Several of the guards had already been run through. The crude assassins were taking turns trying to throw them on top of the canopy.
“If you don’t mind, I’m trying to conduct business here!” Jorin’otth shouted, annoyed by the barbaric actions of his loaned soldiers.
Despite the hydralfar’s words, they threw another guard from the wall. The broken alfaren body collided against one of the horses. A sickening pop echoed out and the horse collapsed from the unexpected weight.
Shaking his head, Jorin’otth returned to his attention to the boy. Pulling a brown leather bag from his pack, he placed it over the boy’s head. Carefully, he removed the child from the wagon, lifting him over his shoulder. Easily, he carried him to the tree line and laid him to rest beside one of the thick trunks. Turning, he marched back toward the city. Passing through the gates, the ground was stained in blood. Bodies were littered in all directions, frozen where they’d fallen. It seemed a waste, but his job was more important than their lives. He just had to be careful. One mistake and his entire plan would fall apart. Marching toward one of the elegant buildings, he stepped through the open door. He was fortunate the dreualfar hadn’t made their way into this building yet. Rounding the corner, he saw his prize. But he had to be certain.
Opening the book, he carefully pricked the young woman’s finger, watching the drop soak into the page. “Are you a child of kismet?”
As before, the book revealed the answer, granting him confirmation to his query.
Smiling his success, he placed another bag over her head and determined the best way to lift her. She was almost too large to carry. But until the spell ran its course or he ended it, which ever came first, she’d remain frozen. Exhaling sharply, he tucked his dagger and book away and bent at the waist. Pressing his shoulder into her midsection, he lifted and carried her from the house. Reaching the gate, he glanced back at the dreualfar, making their way through the first row of houses. Straining, he carried her to the trees and laid her beside the boy. Quickly, he bound their hands and stole a glance at the sands coursing through the hourglass. He was running out of time. The spell would end soon.
Retrieving the book, he pricked his own finger and fed the thirsty pages. “Do any other children of kismet reside in this city?”
The blank page slowly formed revealed the single word. No!
Packing away his effects, he pulled the staff from the dirt and lifted it into the sky. Quietly reciting the incantations, he amplified his voice. “Time is nearly up. Abandon your thirst for blood and return to the trees!”
A moment later the dreualfar filed from the open gate, gleeful expressions upon their gore spattered faces.
Waiting for them to be within earshot, Jorin’otth gestured to the subdued children. “Be extremely careful with them. Your general has use of these two.”
Two of the dreualfar picked them up and stepped into the forest.
Jorin’otth waited for his band to disappear before turning to look upon the city one last time. Flexing his fingers, he made a wiping gesture. A heavy gust of wind blew across the road, erasing any footprints they might have left. He couldn’t have anyone following them. Turning, he stepped into the tree line and squeezed the grip on his staff. The weapon collapsed, returning to its rod-like state. He tucked it beneath his cloak, hearing an assortment of screams echo in the distance.
Chapter IV
A Secret Weapon
The sheer number of dalari was beyond belief. In this camp alone there had to upwards of ten-thousand. Ra’dulen had searched most of the known world and never once found a grouping of this magnitude. From what Kashien had told him, there were others, many others. How did he miss them? It wasn’t as if they were intentionally hiding. Yet the fact remained, he believed himself to be one of the last of his kind. And here they were, living their lives, seemingly unaware of the troubles that had plagued him for so long. Rounding a row of tents, Ra’dulen noticed a fair-sized lake in the middle of the camp.
A few dalari sat along the edge, casting their fishing lures into the water. Another dipped a wooden bucket into the semi-clear liquid and loaded up a small cart. Once the cart was full, he lifted the handles and began pushing the single wheeled device up the incline and back toward the heart of camp.
It felt so serene, so calm. Yet the hunger inside him was growing. He needed to feed soon. Exhaling deeply, Ra’dulen stepped onto th
e wooden dock and marched toward the center of the lake. Reaching the end, he sat down, dangling his legs over the end. For such a large body, he had no trouble seeing through the crystal-clear water. The muddy bottom was calm and free of debris. Several large fish swam by, minding their own existence. It was as if the troubles of the world escaped their notice.
Of course, it does. They’re fish. We complicate our own lives. Ra’dulen thought. Mindlessly kicking his legs, the bottom of his boots skimmed the water. He watched the ripples of the mirrored surface expand away from him.
Gareth crested the hill, noticing his friend sitting at the end of the small pier. It seemed odd. The lake, while large, was free of boats. There was little need for such a device. Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he made his way down to join Ravion.
The echo of boots on wood roused him from his thoughts. Ra’dulen stole a quick glance behind him, seeing Gareth approach. The larger man took a seat beside him.
“Mind if I join you?” Gareth asked after he’d already sat down, as if the answer was irrelevant.
“It doesn’t appear I have much of a choice.” Ra’dulen stated coldly.
“What’s going on with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You show up, saying we have to come do this thing. You’re dressing different. In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you wear anything darker than a deep blue. Yet here you are, wearing more black than some of the assholes we’ve fought. And don’t even get me started on your sword. I know how much that blade means to you. Why go through the trouble of having it reforged into something that doesn’t suit you? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re going through one of those identity crisis things you hear about when mothers are bitching about their daughters.”
