Clans of Irradan

by RG Long

  Ealrin Belouve had his eyes on the direction they had come from. He was looking for someone.

  “She'll be fine,” Holve said, breaking Ealrin away from his pondering and bringing him back to their current situation. “And I'd start to figure out a way out of these chains if you want to make sure of it,” he added.

  The younger man turned to consider just what they were up against. A small army of Dark Comet worshiping elves were escorting them, or so it seemed, southward and away from the elven woods they had claimed to so desperately want. Fifty elves marched on either side of their cart. They formed rows in front and behind them as well. These did not include those Ealrin couldn't count outside of their vantage point due to the way the road wound through the forest.

  He had been a prisoner of war before, but only for a short time. Fate had saved his life by sending a group of dwarves to his rescue. The likelihood of that happening this time was slim to none. Irradan was a continent on elves, upon which the prisoners had few friends. And the one person Ealrin was truly concerned about they had abandoned on a beach two days before.

  “Did we do the right thing?” Ealrin asked, turning his gaze back to the north after not coming up with any idea of how they might escape the prisoner cart or their guards.

  Holve made a sound like a grunt.

  “You'd rather her be beside you as a prisoner?” he asked. “If we hadn't distracted the elves who attacked us, that's surely where she'd be right now.”

  “Of course not,” Ealrin replied. “I just...”

  He didn't quite know.

  It had been in a moment of desperation that he had flung his pack onto the sixteen-year-old girl in an attempt to hide her from the elves that jumped on them. They had been waylaid in their efforts to save two others of their own who had been captured, along with another whose safety they felt responsible for.

  Now their actions had endangered another.

  “She's just a girl,” Ealrin finished.

  “And one who's been through more danger and lived to tell about it than most I've ever encountered,” Holve said. “She'll find her way out of this. If nothing else, she'll make her way to the rendezvous point and meet up with the others.”

  A sharp metallic noise grated their ears and Ealrin instinctively ducked his head. The bars were ringing with a horrible sound.

  “Stop talking!” an elf barked at them.

  They had let their voices return to a normal tone and were forced to be silent for a time. But that didn't stop Ealrin from thinking about Blume. He had saved her life more than once. Could he ever really guarantee her safety? Or were they constantly to be bombarded with one danger after another until he couldn't keep her safe anymore?

  If she was smart and safe, she'd head to River Grove and meet with any of their party who had survived their fateful night on the sea, outrunning the ships of Enoth.

  Ealrin sighed as he gazed to the north.

  In the year and a half he had known Blume Dearcrest, safety had never been her top priority.

  4: Unity by Strength

  The twin suns rose lazily on a late spring morning. Many creatures began to stir underneath the light, awoken by the dawn. These beings were not men or elf, but rather foxes who walked on their hind legs and spoke as those of a higher intelligence. Wrents covered the small hills and dusty plains of the tribal lands of the north.

  Some began the morning scuffling over food and water, while others lazily yawned and kicked out their feet. Ragged tents made of leather and bone stretched far and wide. Some were tall, being the main source of shelter for a Wrent and its pack, while others were low to the ground, signaling that the earth beneath it had been dug into a suitable hole to dwell in. Barks and snarls intermingled with the sound of fires crackling and the morning meal being consumed.

  Cuno the Red-Handed surveyed his followers. Standing on a dusty hill, he could see thousands of Wrents from two different tribes. Having defeated each leader and proving his might, he now was the chief of nearly half the fox monsters who roamed the northern plains.

  The night had been thick with the blood of his rivals. The Arras tribe had marched north to Cromas shortly after Cuno had become their new leader. Howling and threatening barks had split the evening. As he had done with his own tribe, Cuno had marched his followers up to the tent of the tribal leader, Fenga. By the time he had stepped foot on the beaten down patch of dirt that was Fenga's front door, every Wrent in Arras and Cromas was watching the exchange.

  “What mongrel pup has dared to bring a challenge to the great Fenga!?” came a shout from the hole in which the Wrent lived. Strips of leather hung down over the entrance to the unassuming Wrent dwelling. The only marker that it was a place of importance was the banner that flew above it: a half black, half blue flag with a white tooth painted onto it.

  Cuno barked his reply.

  “Cuno the Red-Handed, unifier of the Wrents, has come to challenge you, Fenga of Cromas!”

  A large brown Wrent emerged from the hole, surrounded by several smaller fox monsters, all carrying crude wooden spears. Fenga himself held a stone tipped spear in each paw. He surveyed the scene outside his hole quickly before turning his attention to Cuno.

  “I know of no such weakling,” he said, though his eyes still darted about.

  Cuno could feel the fear building up in this Wrent's heart. It pleased him.

  “I challenge you, Fenga, as the new ruler of the Cromas tribe!” he shouted.

  Fenga snorted.

  “We'll see about that,” he replied before launching himself at his opponent.

  Brilliant light of orange and red burst into the night. The first lights of battle had quickly faded as Cuno claimed his victory.

  He flexed his paw, feeling the bumps and ridges of the stone that resided there. Turning his attention to the waking Wrents, he could feel its power coursing through him. It had been the key to his strength and his ability to crush his foes, like Fenga, with fury.

  A magic rock had wedged itself into his skin, turning his whole arm red like fire. With it, Cuno had discovered that he could conjure a flame that did no harm to him, but burned his foes with a vengeful fire. This new power had granted him dominance over any who had come against him. And now he was taking his new tribe, the Red Paws, to conquer the two that remained.

  He would be the leader of them all.

  A gentle breeze picked up and blew over his face. Behind him, Cuno could hear cloth waving in the wind. He glanced over his shoulder to see his new banner blowing in the breeze. He had ordered a lesser Wrent to paint a red paw print over the red and white X that had formed his tribe's old standard. Above the paw, an orange fire glowed. Now the red hand flew high on the black flag. It would be the flag every Wrent on Irradan would muster under.

  He had seen it clearly in his mind's eye. Cuno standing powerful over his enemies, while Wrents cowered in fear beneath him and obeyed his every command. He was drunk with his new power, eager to take it to its limits. With fire burning in his heart and his hand, he let out a howl. It pierced the morning light and was echoed a thousand times across the plains.

  The Red Paws were on the move.

  HE RAN OUT AHEAD OF his new tribe, feeling the thunder of thousands of paws hitting the ground behind him. It invigorated him, pushing him to dig harder and run faster. Speed was his ally, just as much as strength.

  The dusty ground of the northern plains blurred beneath him. Trees used to grow here, or so said the legends of some. Now only barren trunks rose like stone pillars from the ground. Some vegetation grew in patches, but these never lasted long. The Wrents needed sustenance as much as any other creature that lived in the north. This was why so many hunting packs were sent south. Many claimed it was for glory. In reality, it was mainly for food.

  Cuno cared little for what food the north could provide now. He would unite the tribes then lead them south, where food and meat were plentiful. When all Wrents were under his command, the land of the north would no longe
r support them. It would be the gifts of the south that gave them sustenance.

  For days, the Red Paws moved west towards the lone mountain of the north. This towering mass of rock was where the Wrents had first come, in days of old. It was said that they proliferated around the mountain until their numbers grew too many to live without constant infighting. The tribes all vied for the sacred spot, but, in the end, none of the tribes could hold it against the combined might of the others who claimed their rights to the site. No Wrent tribe had held the mountain since those first days.

  Cuno would change that, too.

  But first, he urged his tribe past the mountain that kept watch over the dusty plains and towards the west. The second largest tribe of Wrents made their resting place on the coast there. Remo were fierce Wrent warriors, ready and able to attack any who came on their lands. Cuno knew he would be facing his greatest challenge yet.

  But his fire burned inside of him and in his paw. As they ran, the suns began to sink below the horizon. Without even thinking of controlling it, Cuno's paw began to emit a fiery glow. It lit his path as he saw the Wrent holes dotting the plains ahead of him. He slowed his run and leapt off his front paws to stand on his hind legs.

  Holding up his burning hand, he signaled those behind him to stop as well. Behind him, barks and yelps echoed into the night. Cuno reared his head back and let out a low, long, and piercing howl. The tribe of Remo would know soon that Cuno the Red-Handed had come to claim them for his own.

  His cry was answered with many of his own clan behind him, beating their chests and holding their paws to the sky in a sign of unity with Cuno. A particularly large, black furred Wrent walked up close to Cuno and grunted.

  “They howl, too,” he said, pointing with his spear tip to the middle of Remo's camp. The big Wrent did not seem to fear Cuno nor his burning paw. He stood examining the camp of the rival tribe with narrowed eyes. Cuno thought this Wrent must be from Cromas, since he didn't recognize him.

  “What's your name?” Cuno asked.

  The Wrent beat his chest twice with his spear hand and his muscles rippled against the blows. He stomped his spear hard back down on solid earth and looked down at Cuno.

  “Lacha,” he answered simply. “I am strong. Remo is weak. Lacha wants blood.”

  Cuno smiled to himself. Lacha, it seemed, was a Wrent of few words and a powerful spear hand. Traits like that were useful to a Wrent leader. Loyalty was bought with strength in a tribe of the foxes. Cuno would show this one his true power.

  “Stay by my side, Lacha,” Cuno ordered. “Prove to me your strength.”

  Side by side, the two Wrents walked the path that led them straight into the camp of the Remo tribe with thousands of eyes watching the large black fox escort the one with the fiery hand. Tonight would be another night of blood.

  5: Grim Prospects

  “Tory Greenwall, I blame you for this,” Gorplin, son of Thorplin and prince of dwarves, said through gritted teeth. He wasn't typically cranky, but under the current circumstances, Gorplin considered his usual brashness to be warranted.

  The crew that had helped the rest of their party sail south through the middle sea had abandoned ship to avoid being overrun by the elves of Enoth and their war vessels. To that purpose, they were successful. Unfortunately, as soon as their feet hit dry land, they were apprehended by pirates.

  The very same scalawags that they had beaten and stolen a ship from months beforehand were the ones they had the misfortune of running into. Their poor fortune had seen them tied up and thrown into the brig of a pirate ship headed far away from where they were supposed to meet their companions. Comfort and care hadn't been the words to describe the last few days on their voyage. It seemed grudges didn't die easily in the company of pirates.

  “And how did you manage to come to that conclusion, shorty?” Tory replied, head leaned against the curved wall of the ship, hands tied behind his back, and scowl lined across his face.

  In what Gorplin considered to be a cruel irony, he and Tory had been locked into a cramped cell together. The rest of the crew was in the cell opposite them. The two could be on friendly terms, when they weren't bickering.

  From all he could discern, they were at the rear of the vessel. Two barred cells took up the entirety of the back wall, with a space between them only wide enough to allow for the doors to swing outward and prisoners escorted inward. Barrels, chests, and other varied, and potentially stolen, supplies lined either wall all the way along the bottom of the boat. They had been walked down two flights of stairs to get here. Gorplin could guess that most of the crew slept in the level above, due to the fighting he heard during the day and the snoring he heard at night.

  The lack of sleep and the sparse food they had been given had put him into a foul mood.

  “If you had just kept your mouth shut and let Felecia do the talking, we might have gotten out of that mess,” Gorplin argued with his cellmate. “That one pirate almost let us walk.”

  “Then another gutted him,” Felecia Stormchaser replied.

  Whenever their captain spoke, she had the uncanny ability to quiet the dwarf and human whenever they argued. A stern glance from the dark-haired woman's eyes was usually enough to silence anyone. Not a small amount of this ability was due to the constant stare of her first mate, Urt.

  Gray fur covered the cat who walked upright like a man. Rippling muscles were the second thing most people noticed after the shock of seeing a real live Skrilx wandering about. They were few in number. Regardless his strange heritage, Urt was unwavering in his loyalty to Felecia and was never seen far from her side.

  The two sat side by side in the cell across from Gorplin's. Lying down on the floor next to the wall past Felecia was an apparently fast asleep Jurrin. Jurrin was a halfling from Bigtree, a small village in Ruyn they had accidentally come across on their way elsewhere. Always polite, even in the darkest of circumstances, Jurrin had obviously given up on sleeping at night and was napping during the day. Though he didn't say it, Gorplin could tell the little one was starving. Halfling's tend to like more than a normal share of food. Two meals a day were all they were given.

  Swaying with the wind and waves, the pirate ship continued on its course. Neither a porthole nor an opening in the deck was visible to them, making it impossible to tell which direction they were headed. For the time being, all the captives could do was to wait in their cells for the next meal or round of jeering from an unfriendly pirate.

  From the sound of creaking wood at the end of the ship, just such a visit was about to take place. Sandals and light trousers were the first things that Gorplin saw coming down the stairs. Following them was a red vest and dark shaggy hair.

  The pirate they had met in the rubble of Bestone was heading down to their level. Casual and cool, this elf peeked his head down below the deck and called out to the prisoners.

  "Roll call," he said with a mocking tone.

  Hands in his pockets, he took his sweet time getting close to them. Gorplin found himself fuming with every step the elf took. It was all he could do not to launch himself at the bars. The very sight of the captain was maddening.

  "Let's see," he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest and looking down at them all. "One cat, one man, one woman, and two short somethings."

  He swung his hair from his eyes with a flick of his neck.

  "Did I miss anyone?"

  Gorplin couldn't take it anymore.

  "I'll have you know I'm a prince and a dwarf, you belligerent scalawag!"

  The elf only smiled.

  "I suppose being short helps one to think highly of themselves," he said, looking with pleasure at Gorplin's rising anger. The dwarf was losing whatever temperament he had managed to keep. Curses and threats came pouring out of his mouth loudly enough to wake Jurrin.

  "Here now, Mister Gorplin!" he said, eyes still closed. "There are some things you shouldn't say!"

  The elf took his eyes off of Gorplin just long enough to
inspect Jurrin with vague curiosity. After a moment, he simply shrugged and turned back to the dwarf, who was still cursing him profusely.

  "If you're finished," the elf said calmly when Gorplin took a breath. "I'd like to speak to your captain."

  Gorplin held his tongue long enough to catch a glimpse from Felecia. He knew what that look meant and sat down in a great temper, not feeling at all satisfied. There were so many more vile names he could think to call their captor.

  The woman stood with some effort and brought herself close to the bars of their cell.

  "What?" she asked, plainly meaning to disrespect the elf as much as Gorplin had with fewer words.

  Gorplin saw the elf eye Felecia up and down for a moment before speaking.

  "No manners at all," the elf said quietly, as if to himself.

  "You're one to talk," Felecia replied, looking quite disgusted with the elf's hungry glances. "You haven't even told us your name, let alone why you've tied us up and taken us prisoner."

  The elf shrugged.

  "As to the second, I'm going to sell you all," he replied with an air of indifference. "You cost me a ship and a crew. The least I can do is get a good coin off of some stout workers at Blood Spire for my trouble."

  "Sell us?" Jurrin asked, looking up at the elf in horror, as if such a thing were never heard of.

  Gorplin knew different. Pirates on Ruyn had the tendency to keep a lively black market of slaves for work and other, viler purposes. He had a feeling the elf wasn't eyeing Felecia for her strong arms.

  The elf pirate turned and walked away from them. There was a whistle from above as well as a bell ringing out. It didn't seem to bother the pirate much. He glanced over his shoulder in their direction.

  "As to my name, you can call me what everyone else does."

  He had put a foot on the first step before looking at them directly.

  "‘The Boss’ will do just fine." ‘