Clans of Irradan

by RG Long

  Bernard walked alongside his fellow guards, unscathed. When the foxes had charged up on the left flank of the marching line, he had been on the completely opposite side of the army. Ready though he was to fight for glory and for honor, the closest he got to any Wrent was three paces. The creature that had cut the furthest into their ranks was tall and red haired. He carried two crude looking spears. Bernard had locked eyes with the beast and lifted his sword to attack when the fox had been done in by none other than Lincoln.

  The shorter, skinnier Bernard was still fuming that his traveling companion had earned the kill.

  “I was going to challenge that monster!” he grumbled as they walked. “Then you had to just cut in and steal my glory!”

  Lincoln, Bernard's friend who was bulky, tall, and interested in poetry, still seemed shocked by the whole ordeal.

  “Truth be told, I wasn't even trying to kill the beast,” he said, dazed. He wasn't a man who normally chose violence over verse.

  Lincoln still walked with a slight limp. The Wrent had lunged in his direction and tried to wrap himself around the man's considerable girth. Not only did the fox fail to grab the large Lincoln, he caused him to stumble and twist. The beast never thought his last moments would involve being squished to death. The limp came from the fall, not the Wrent itself. Bernard walked beside him, incredulous.

  “At least you have a story to tell now!” he said gloomily.

  The two armies continued their march east. They had been briefed on their departure that they were heading to Baybreak, the settlement closest to the woods that belonged to the Walkers. It would be there that they would defend Darrion from invasion and, if necessary, launch an offensive. This was the battle plan that had been decided on by the combined leadership of the two nations and seemed good to Captain Kilgore, the leader of their small detachment.

  Doggedly they marched on. Many of the army from Darrion were injured, or at least battle-worn, from their encounter with the Wrents. Bernard thought they were moving slower than they had before the attack. Of course, he was hindered in his attempts to offer his companion help in walking. He felt like, at best, he was preventing Lincoln from squashing himself.

  “Can't you lean a little more to the left?” Bernard asked as he felt one of his legs giving out under the weight of Lincoln.

  “What's that?” Lincoln asked, pausing a moment, causing someone to bump into them from behind.

  Bernard was cursing and trying to see who it was that hit them without succumbing to his friend's bulk.

  “Your left!” he was howling at Lincoln. The short man was straining every muscle in his body. He turned to see Captain Kilgore shaking his head and begin walking towards them. He looked angrier than normal due to the bandage wrapped around his forehead.

  Just as the men around them began to turn and allow the captain to reprimand the pair in full, a loud commotion broke their attention. Five great horses and their elven riders thundered past the troop. To Bernard, who was unable to see over the heads of his fellow soldiers, it seemed like they were heading for the front of the line. Two very large banners flew in the wind, borne by the riders. One was the purple flag of Enoth with nine stars encircling a crown. The other was a yellow flag with an orange comet.

  “Wonder what they're up to?” Lincoln wondered aloud.

  Captain Kilgore looked at the riders, then to Bernard, and then back to the front of the line.

  “Shape it up, you two,” he ordered at the pair before turning his attention to the front and walking in the same direction the elves had ridden.

  Bernard relaxed at the exact moment Lincoln decided to lean most of his weight on him so they could keep walking. The shorter man was laying into the man who now lay on top of him with as many foul words as he could come up with. Lincoln, who was grimacing in pain, could hardly move at all. To both of their benefits, Bernard saw Kilgore begin running in the direction of the elves, his head hung low.

  “I DON'T CARE IF YOU don't understand why,” Kilgore shouted at Lincoln. The captain had, apparently, had it with his two most unpopular guards. “We're marching to River Grove to stay for as long as need be. Now get ready for a night's march! On the double!”

  Bernard didn't even have to time to offer up his support of his commanding officer. The captain had stormed off and was shouting at anyone who came too close. A similar order was being shouted all over the ranks of Darrion, as well as the elves behind them. The two armies would not march to Baybreak as previously planned, but instead they would head straight for River Grove, the closest human settlement to Lone Peak. There they would recover from the Wrent attack before moving on. After that, they would see if the Wrents had attacked North's Beach before heading south to Baybreak.

  “Seems like a long way around,” Lincoln mused as he hobbled along. The company had begun marching again and, as before, Bernard was stuck trying to aid the considerable bulk of his friend. He strained under his reply.

  “We're not supposed to worry about it!” he shouted as he attempted to keep both his legs moving forward as well as Lincoln's. “But, if we follow orders, we can have some more adventures! I'm sure of it!”

  Bernard was getting the impression that Captain Kilgore thought little him and Lincoln. If they could follow the orders he gave, perhaps they could be thought of more highly by their leader. He reasoned that if Kilgore valued them, he would send them on special assignments, away from the main army. Bernard had been foiled in his latest attempt at glory. Perhaps being a scout ahead of the company would earn him new tales to tell?

  He had almost opened his mouth to voice this opinion when he tripped over a dip in the road his companions had been smart enough to avoid. The resulting loss of support caused Lincoln to go rolling over, right on top of Bernard. The pair landed in a heap on the road and were soon being marched around. Their fellow guards didn't even look back to check on them.

  It was sometime before the two of them were untangled and standing upright again. So much time had passed, in fact, that the humans around them were growing sparse. Bernard looked around, panting from the exhaustion of getting Lincoln back on his feet.

  “I guess we're pretty far behind,” he said as he tried to search for a familiar face. He didn't see any.

  “Where's the guard?” Bernard asked out loud, looking left and right. He was sure they had been passed up by their own detachment. Now, however, he was beginning to think they had been passed by most of the inhabitants of Lone Peak.

  “Where are the humans?” Lincoln replied.

  The two were now completely surrounded by the purple banners and bright blades of the elves of Enoth. None were giving them much notice. Where the two stood, ranks upon ranks of elves simply expanded to go around them and then returned to their cleaner rows. No words were spoken by the disciplined warriors. They just kept marching.

  “You two look lost,” said a high voice from behind him.

  The pair looked up and saw what Bernard assumed was some important elf on his horse. He wore a purple coat with the sign of Enoth on his chest. Several other horses bearing stern looking elves came up behind him.

  The elf looked down at them with an expression of interest.

  “Come with me,” he said without compassion, or malice.

  Bernard was now really wishing they had kept up with their detachment. He had held the elves of Enoth in high regard from far away. Now that he was surrounded by them, he had to keep fighting back the urge to draw his sword. And, of course, it was all Lincoln's fault for getting them into this mess with his bulky awkwardness.

  “Big oaf,” Bernard whispered in Lincoln's direction as two elves behind the first dismounted and walked towards them, hands out stretched.

  9: Apprentice

  Deep in thought, the masked figure sat upon a wooden bench in the black tent that had been erected for his use. As was the way his followers were accustomed, there were no adornments, save the single metal statue he was facing and three more similar seats. Th
e beautiful sunrise outside was completely blocked out by the fabric of the tent. It may as well have been midnight inside.

  Thus was the way of his order: darkness. It was the inevitable end of all things. It was their custom to live in anticipation of that terrible fate. Others sought to avoid the end. They embraced it.

  For days, they had made their camp here, after fleeing the human settlement of Lone Peak. Their purpose there was accomplished and now they had been given a new mission. While the Comet fanatics ran around killing whomever they pleased and turning the hearts of men against the Walkers in the woods, they had been appointed with more meaningful duties.

  A noise came from behind him. Someone clearing his throat.

  He considered ignoring the sound, but the sound came again, this time louder.

  “Yes?” the masked figure asked, annoyed at the disturbance.

  Trusted and despised at the same time, the Order's mission was different from the ramblings of priests and marching of armies. Subtle and dangerous, they were the real makers of influence on the continent. It had been their hand that had begun this. And, if he had his way, it would be his hand at the end as well.

  He took a deep, steadying breath and focused on the task he was preparing for. A practice of sorts.

  Outside the tent there came a great noise. Several hundred pairs of feet were walking by at once. The metallic chinking spoke of horse bridles and a large cart being pulled along by the company. Shouts of command and answers came from outside the tent walls. More chains could be heard against iron bars and then dragging along the ground.

  He readied himself for what was coming. For many long years, he had been preparing himself for the stroke that was being cast. So many moving pieces had finally fallen into place. It was now the time to act.

  Several elves in yellow robes entered the tent behind him. Without having to turn around, he could perceive they had brought the prisoners with them. He inhaled deeply, taking in their scent and familiarizing himself with it. The smell was new. These were not elves. Standing up from his seat, he turned to get a good look at who had been brought.

  Flanked between two priests of the Comet each, stood an older man with dark hair, a creature that looked like a child but was aged, and a man who could not be yet thirty in human reckoning. They all stood blinking, adjusting their eyes to the darkness and looking at the man in the mask who was inspecting them.

  “You requested the prisoners?” one of the priests asked, without looking directly at him.

  Underneath his mask, a smile creased his lips. Fear and intimidation were his ally. The more these fanatical priests thought he was worthy of their terror, the greater his power.

  “Leave us,” he said.

  The priests were quick to obey his orders, leaving the three prisoners bound and looking hard at him. For a moment, they stood there in silence.

  “You request us, then?” the older man asked, an eyebrow raised. “What use have we to you?”

  A smile they could not see creased his lips.

  “None of great importance,” he confessed. “I have often asked for the prisoners of Enoth to be sent to me so that I might see if my knowledge grows, or if the slow culmination of time has dulled my skills.”

  “And what skills are those?” the younger man asked. “Are you with the Priests of the Comet?”

  His smile turned to a scowl.

  “With those fanatics? No, I am not,” he replied, indignation filling his voice. “I serve no star, nor do I seek to find meaning in what is in the heavens.”

  He began to walk towards them, taking from his robe a small stick of wood that was charred on the end. He passed it through the flames of a nearby light. The wood began to smoke.

  “My order is older even than the heralding of the Comet, though few of our kindred remember those days,” he said as he made complicated patterns with the gray tendrils that came from his stick. Like a conductor who stands before musicians, guiding them, he began to work his craft.

  “There are few on Gilia, indeed, who remember such a time,” the old man said in a low tone.

  A scoff escaped from underneath his mask. He forgot how much he loathed humans.

  “As if a mortal man could understand the passing of time like my order!” he said, stopping for a moment his complex movements. “You would not live to see a stream become a canyon, or a lush forest become a vast desert. You build a house and before even a sapling has matured you die and leave your hovel for others to inherit.”

  He desired to spit the foul taste of their scent from his mouth before regaining himself. Rage must not control him. If he were to perform this ritual correctly, he must have a mind that was not divided.

  “Yet, you have your purposes,” he muttered as he resumed spirals and weaves in the air with his hand. “You ought to count yourselves fortunate. Not many of your race will see such noble causes.”

  “What cause?” the younger man asked again.

  At that moment, he decided he would begin with him. He stepped closer to him and squared himself with the young one, staring deep into his eyes through the mask and motioning with the thin rod.

  “A fish does not comprehend the way of the river,” he replied. “Nor could you quite understand to what fate you are now destined. Fear not. Your deaths will not in be vain.”

  With these words, he saw the three of them strain and try to move their limbs, to run, to charge him, or to save one another. With great satisfaction, he could tell that his first few incantations were successful. This was the juncture in his experiments he enjoyed more than success: seeing fear and realization wash over his victims.

  “Were you the strongest elf on Irradan, you would not be capable of breaking through the bonds I have just put on you. Though, I must say, you put up an excellent struggle, old one.”

  Unseen to any save him, rippling pulses of energy were emanating from the older human. He was strong of spirit and heart. Unlike the other two, this one would have been difficult to bind under more equal circumstances. Had he known earlier what was being done to him, he may have resisted. But not now. The other two were in his grasp the moment they stepped foot into the tent.

  “What my order seeks is to understand the end of all things,” he said, more chanting now than speaking words.

  These worms would not comprehend his great purpose.

  “All things are connected: living, ending, seeing, being, breathing, dying, beginning. They are all a means to the terrible end that awaits all. My order seeks to better understand the end, not to avoid it, for none can do so. We seek to undo the end. To push back that fate that all must suffer so that we may better know what awaits.”

  With these words, the flames that gave off the little light the tent had burned down. In their going out, it seemed that the embers on the end of his wand had grown to a great flame. It was the only visible point of light under the canopy. A dark star. A brilliant fire.

  The three prisoners stood transfixed, eyes blank. They were his. Now it was time to test them.

  For countless hundreds of years, he had sought to undo the minds of those who walked Gilia. If he was to comb the very depths of knowledge, those who possessed it were to give it to him willingly. It was the will of his master to apprehend the spirits of those who may prove useful. The older man, for example, he may keep to study and search his mind. It seemed to him a great power lay there.

  But first, he would enjoy his first moments of mastery over new flesh.

  Priests had reported they were friends. How great had his control grown? Was he the master of both the dead and the living? He decided a test was necessary.

  “You there,” he said to the young man.

  With the face of a child seeking to please a teacher, the brown-haired human looked eagerly at him. The smile returned under his mask, though it was not the pleasant smile of one pleased with his work. This was the satisfied look of power over worms and lesser beings. Life and death were within his fingertips. He would
see that it was still so.

  “Kill the halfling.”

  10: Palace Pampering

  The whispering breezes of summer were blowing past the glittering seat of the emperor. It soared around towers and glided past the roofs of fine houses. Banners of purple and yellow flew in the wind, though none began to truly strain against the effort. This was a light and airy morning. Children played in yards and streets. Citizens of the great city went about their busy schedules. Shops were full, the sun was pleasant, and a new day was bursting into life all around. Pahyrst was arrayed in splendor.

  Wisym hated this place.

  Whenever she had thought of elves, in her mind she saw trees towering into the sky, filling the heavens with their leaves. Her mind wandered down long paths in the forest, only ever so often interrupted by houses made of stone that complimented their surroundings. Her own home had been a sanctuary among the trees. Even the Wood Walkers, who were strange to her even though they were kin, felt a bit like being around a distant relative. Their trees were larger and their ways stranger, but at least there was greenery to see.

  It was not so here.

  Pahyrst was a tapestry of stonework and design. Wood was present, but never left untouched by a craftsman's hands. Everything in the city was designed or made; nothing was grown. No stone was left unchiseled. No blade of grass was uncut. It felt so artificial. Even when Wisym had spent months in the cities of men, she could find solace in nature humans would allow to grow around them. A tree in a courtyard. A yard of grass.

  There was no such luxury to her eyes in Pahyrst. The Elves of Enoth valued craft more than nature. Every part of the city, from the lower layers where food was grown in planters, to the upper levels with its towers and buildings, seemed to be an intricate carving. It was suffocating to her.

  The plains that she could see from high up on her balcony offered no beauty. They were barren and dry. It was as if the city were a blight upon the land and, out from it, a disease festered. Grass did not grow in the plains, not even weeds. Dust and rocks were the only sights to see outside of the city. Perhaps it should have made the city more pleasant to look at.