Chapter Nine: Distant ThunderA Chapter by Jake
Chapter Nine: Distant
Thunder
South
Yard Carsten
looked up at the axe blade, glittering evilly in the torchlight. He was about
to die, and he knew it. He had never felt something so certainly in all his
life. As the guard-master swung, however, the dwarf heard a curious jingling
noise in his belt. Keys, he thought,
and felt a surge of energy coupled with hope.
An idea started to form in his head, and he immediately put it into action.
First, he rolled down the stairs, striking Sadens below the knees and knocking
his legs out from under him. Before the guard-master could regain his feet and
his axe, Carsten had run into the yard and picked up his war sword again.
Unlike before, the dwarf assumed an ox stance, preparing for a variety of
attacks. His opponent delivered; the first strike came high, a vertical cut
aimed at his head. Carsten’s quick thinking led him to a conclusion; the axe
strike had the heavy weight of the weapon’s double head behind it, and his
sword, though well-made, would probably not absorb many such hits. So, in lieu
of an up-front block, Carsten settled on deflection. He sued his sword to
divert the axe strike and returned with a normally eviscerating low counter.
But again, Sadens one stayed down momentarily; he rose almost immediately and
attacked again, his axe sweeping low for the dwarf’s leg. Carsten leapt up,
avoiding the slash, but his foot caught an icy rock and he slipped. The
guard-master’s axe came once more, again in a vertical stroke. Again, he rolled
out of the way, and Sadens’ stroke went wide. Carsten rolled to his feet and
thrust forward, his sword piercing through his armor and out his back. Instead
of withdrawing it, the dwarf sliced upward, opening a massive gash in the man’s
side. This time, the guard-master felt it, Carsten knew. He staggered backward,
holding his side and moaning. The dwarf followed up immediately, grabbing
Sadens around the throat and slamming him repeatedly against the stone
staircase. The axe fell from the man’s hands, and Carsten seized his belt
buckle and threw him onto the steps. As the guard-master struggled to rise, the
dwarf reached down and snatched the keys from his belt. Then, for good measure,
he slammed his boot against the side of Sadens’ head. Not that it did anything;
the guard-master still stubbornly held on to consciousness, but he was in no
position to do anything, either. The wound Carsten had inflicted had healed as
though it was never there, but it seemed that wound had overwhelmed his pain
tolerance. Carsten
had not seized the keys a moment too soon; the guards had already almost doused
the fire, and they were beginning sweeps of the courtyard. Carsten descended
the stone steps one by one, quickly reaching the bottom. Then he was at the
postern door and frantically trying to select a key. The first four did not fit
the lock, and he skipped the fifth and sixth were too small to fit the lock
mechanism. The seventh and eight were the wrong shape, but the ninth did the
trick, opening the door. Carsten immediately swung the gate open and stepped
through, though he immediately regretted doing so. The
postern opened onto a narrow, precarious stone walkway above a steep,
near-fifty-foot cliff. At the base, he could see sharp, jagged rocks, any one
of which could kill him. Carefully balancing, he swung the gate shut and locked
it again. Then, he began the descent. The stone surfaces had frozen over in the
e, and more than once Carsten almost slipped and fell to his death. Still, his
natural tenacity kept him going, and he managed to descend the rough-hewn
stairs after roughly twenty minutes. At the bottom he could see the wide,
snow-covered plains stretching out before him. The tunnels Issavea had marked
out on the map she gave them opened to the east, about forty yards from where
he was standing. Ahead, in the shadow of a small copse of trees, Carsten could
see the vague outline of several people. Sighing, he sheathed his sword and broke
into a run, his boots crunching in the thick blanket of snow. Here was hoping
they were the others, and not a returning patrol. He had not heard of Issavea’s
mean venturing frequently beyond the castle walls, but that by no means
rendered such a thing impossible. Everwinter
Waste Arcaena
and her group were still waiting for any sign of other survivors. To allay her
fears, or perhaps to ignore them altogether, she had begun fixing wounds on
other prisoners. Even though she was low on magical power, the young dark elf
did her best. Minor cuts and injuries were easy; things like full-on arrow
wounds proved harder, and it was for these she reserved her healing spells. She
was currently pouring magical energy into a nasty arrow wound on another elf’s
shoulder. “You ought to be careful,” she said,
ending the process with a sealing spell. “Even after healing wounds, they can
reopen if you treat them too roughly.” The other dark elf nodded. “Thanks. I’ve had my share of healed
injuries, so I know exactly what you mean.” The girl gently massaged her
shoulder as Arcaena stood. Once again, the princess’s eyes scanned the plain,
hoping for some sight or sign that Carsten was coming. Like the other times,
however, she felt the bitter tide of disappointment sweep over her as she saw
nothing. Dutifully, she went on to the next injured prisoner. This one was a
man with several laceration wounds on his face and hands in addition to an
arrow sticking out of his arm. The dark elf knelt beside him, running her
fingers gently along the injury. After a brief examination, she looked up at
him. “To heal that wound properly, the
arrow will have to come out,” she told him. “It will hurt quite badly.” The man
shrugged, his face twisted in pain. “Hurts like fire right now,” he replied.
“Take the thing out.” Arcaena nodded, snapping the arrow in two and pulling the
fletched end backward out of the wound. The man grimaced, but his muscles
almost immediately relaxed. “Thank you,” he breathed. “That’s
better.” Arcaena shook her head, emerald light creeping down her fingers. “I am not quite finished,” she
murmured, eyes fixed on her work. The wound’s edges began to seal and the
tissues to regenerate. Arcaena whispered the last word in the spell, and the
edges of the gash sealed. “There,” she said, sighing heavily. “You should be
fine. No risk of infection, now that the wound has closed. Also, I flushed it
thoroughly in the event that the arrow was poisoned.” The man stared at his
arm, almost disbelieving. “That’s a proper healing and no
mistake!” He breathed. “As if I’d never been shot.” Arcaena nodded and stood
again. This man was the last, she realized sadly. And the time she had said
they would wait was almost up. Her eyes swept the snowbound plain once more, in
search of any sign of life. As this was the fourth time she had done so, she
had little hope of seeing anything much. The snow all around looked undisturbed,
as it had before. She was about to turn and give the order to move out when she
saw him. The dwarf was running full out, his fur cloak trailing awkwardly
behind him. Still, she cared not a bit how he looked. Carsten was alive, and he
was coming. An excited exclamation came from among the prisoners. “He survived!” “That’s one lucky kid!” As he
approached, however, Arcaena had to question whether he was lucky or simply
stupid. His armor was pitted and gashed in several places, and blood oozed from
several minor cuts on his face. She did, however, note a more serious
laceration on his right shoulder. He ran until he was in the midst of the
prisoners, at which point he stopped at took several seconds to catch his
breath. When he had finished, he stood straight up and looked at Arcaena. “The others are dead,” he said
flatly. “We did not anticipate that there would be archers in the south tower.
They fired on us while we were getting the gate up, and they killed the rest of
the captives. I am truly sorry. If I had known…” Arcaena shook her head and was
about to say something when one of the survivors from Carsten’s group spoke up.
It was one of the dark elves, the girl who had been shot in the shoulder. “We accepted that our task might be
dangerous when we accepted it. You are not to blame because it proved so, are
you?” “Besides,” one of the dwarves put
in, “We’re out, and that’s what counts.” “About that…” a man said from the
rear of the group. “What are we supposed to do now? We’ve got provisions, but
we can’t just sit here.” Arcaena nodded. Moving would be logical, but where to,
and with whom? “All right,” she said, with more
confidence and authority than she felt, “we escaped the prison. Now, we have to
work out how to get everyone back home.” One of the man raised his hand. “My village is right on the border,
about forty miles from here. I’ve been up here before, and I know my way back.”
A few other humans and elves murmured that they, too, came from that village. “So, are we going to form groups
based on home destination?” Arcaena asked. The prisoners looked at each other.
One of the orcs spoke now. “We have no permanent home to return
to. If we split up that way, what becomes of us?” “You will travel with the smallest
group,” the dark elf answered. “Does anyone want to travel all together?” A few
people raised their hands, but no more than five. Of the twenty-six remaining
prisoners, this hardly constituted a majority. The rest of the prisoners looked
around uncomfortably. “All in favor of travelling separately?” Everyone else
raised their hands high. Arcaena sighed. “Then we part ways here, friends. It
has been a pleasure, and I wish you all the best of luck.” The prisoners all
said their separate farewells; a few tears might have been shed, but they
quickly froze to the faces of those who were crying. Carsten watched them go,
but he did not see them long; the snowy night enveloped their retreating forms
relatively quickly. Rolf, Edessa, Thomas, Arcaena, and Carsten remained. Five
people, alone in the Everwinter Waste, with enough food to last them four
months at the most. Most likely less than that. “Well,” Edessa said, sighing, “they
left.” “No need to get hostile,” she
admonished. “We will have our share of strife without it. And before we go
anywhere, it would be prudent to decide where exactly we make for.” “Does it matter?” Thomas asked. “It does,” Carsten replied. “We will
by no means benefit from a shorter route if we run into a village that fell on
a sparse harvest last year. For all we know, the first place we come to might
have suffered exactly that.” “Then what do you suggest?” The
other dwarf challenged. “I suggest that we decide where we
plan to resupply,” Carsten retorted. “It ought to be a large village, but one
fairly close to the border.” “What difference does the size of
the place make?” Edessa asked. Rolf rolled his eyes. “Woman, how much time have you spent
looking at farmland?” He asked. The Huntress bristled. “Not much,” she snapped. “My family
lacks the time or desire to spend our days staring at cows and pastures.” Rolf
folded his arms. “Well, if you had ever bothered to
pay attention to the world around you, you would have realized that villages
are large or small based on the amount of arable land around them. The more of
an area you can cultivate, the more people you can support.” Arcaena nodded. “Rolf is right. Size is an important
factor in making this decision. Now…” the dark elf pulled out Issavea’s map and
stared at it, not easy to do in the pitch dark of a winter night. “I cannot see
a thing. The storm blots out even the moon.” “What do we do, then?” Thomas asked.
Carsten pointed south. “We walk,” he answered. “That way.” “Until what?” Edessa challenged. “Until we find cover,” Arcaena said,
pushing forward. “Or until the sun comes up. Whichever happens first.” The
others watched her trudge forward. After several seconds, Carsten shrugged his
shoulders and followed her, Rolf and Thomas close behind him. Edessa was the
last to move; she spent nearly a minute standing there, looking back at the
castle. She could not shake the feeling that, although they were now free, they
had not yet escaped danger. The Everwinter Waste was a merciless
place; the wind whipped up sudden blasts of icy crystals into the faces of the
five dark figures struggling through the snow. Aside from the wind whipping in
their ears and the breathing of the travelers, the world was silent around
them. Arcaena had pulled the fur hood over her head, and it kept a good bit of
the precipitation out of her face. The others, however, did not have this
luxury. While Carsten’s cloak had a hood, he had unwisely caught it in the
straps of his sword sheathes, and he was not willing to stop to undo it. Thomas
had chosen insulated armor, and it kept the snow out of his garments. Edessa’s
garments maximized mobility, the reason for which she had chosen them, but they
minimized protection. Although she was near the front of the line, Rolf, who
was all the way in the back, heard her swearing under her breath. One of the
curious things about him was that he seemed to be able to hear things that
others could not. The cold did not really affect him, in all honesty. It never
had; the world around him had stopped hitting him long ago. Suddenly, he heard
a voice at his side. “So, where are you from?” It was the
red-haired dwarf. Carsten, if he recalled correctly. He had fallen back, a good
distance behind the others. And he seemed to have no trouble with talking while
he moved, even though the snow was up to his shins. Rolf sighed. “Forgive me for sounding
standoffish, but why do you care?” Carsten looked ahead, his face twisting into
a curious half-smile. “I care because you do not speak
often,” the dwarf answered. “And, from what you do say, I know that your quiet
exterior hides a busy mind. Not one devoid of activity.” Rolf found himself
actually smiling at that. “So you do pay attention,” he
murmured. “I had to wonder.” “Do you feel like talking, or would
you rather I left you alone?” Carsten asked. The gray-haired man sighed.
Although he was indeed a man, Carsten thought, he looked no older than twenty. “All right, fine. I came from a village in the
south, close to the sea. Bustling trade city, full of gilded images and vices.” “Where did you fall on the spectrum,
if I may ask?” Carsten queried. “A thief,” Rolf spat, with somewhat
more heat than he had intended. “And worse, one of the Abandoned.” Carsten was
silent for several moments, and Rolf felt the heat rising in his cheeks. “Go
ahead, say it. I know it is knocking around in your head. You can vocalize your
contempt. Everyone else does.” Carsten looked at him. The anger in his eyes,
had it been much more intense, might have melted snow. The feeling was
understandable; the Abandoned were more than orphans. Many towns and villages
had a system in place to care for widows and orphans, but even these systems
ignored the Abandoned. These were true social outcasts; often left alone at
later ages, these people were shunned by society and often referred to as “sons
of the wind”, reflecting parental absence. With no real choice before them, the
Abandoned often turned to crime or mercenary employment to make ends meet.
Therefore, others often disdained, them, saying they chose this life. Those who
did so often neglected to remember that they had pushed the Abandoned to that
position in the first place. In rare cases, families would try adopt the
Abandoned. While their familial peace was often unaffected by this, society
never quite accepted the Abandoned as members. “You know,” Carsten said, “I was not
going to say anything of the kind.” Rolf raised an eyebrow. “Really?” He
challenged. “I doubt that.” Carsten’s eyes narrowed. “That is not true at all,” he answered.
“I had three siblings who started as Abandoned. I would never disparage either
them or you. You cannot judge someone because of where they started life. In
fact, my mother was one of the Abandoned, too.” Rolf lowered his eyes. He had
not stopped walking through the conversation, but they had kept a respectful
distance from the others. “Sorry,” he said. “I have no idea
what came over me. I just…lashed out.” The dwarf shrugged. “I know how you feel. People judge
the Abandoned based on what they do, and they never consider that the reason
that they turn to crime is that they have no other recourse. But you said that
you were Abandoned. Did you know your parents?” Rolf shook his head. “I never did. I was far too young;
an infant, in fact. Later, I learned that I was brought to the orphanage in our
city, but they would not take me.” “If they would not care for you,
someone had to ensure that you would survive,” Carsten reasoned. The
gray-haired man nodded. “There was a…group in the city that
adopted me as a member. The leader even offered to adopt me as his son.” “Did you accept?” Rolf shook his
head. “I did not,” he answered. “How could
I? They were criminals, and I knew it. I got involved at a young age, and I
wanted to escape as soon as I could.” “Then who were your…” Carsten
searched for the right word. “…caretakers?” “I sought out a wealthy family and
served in their house in lieu of working with the criminals. My former…allies
did not joyfully accept my leaving and tried to bring me back. Therefore, the
family decided to adopt me instead.” Carsten’s mind was whirling; for a wealthy
family or group to simply adopt an Abandoned man with little background
information on him was unheard of. “They treated me well, as a son. But people
always gave me strange looks, no matter where I went or what I did.” “Why?” Carsten asked. “Men do not
always need a reason to be unkind, but did they ever give you one?” Rolf shook
his head. “To this day, I cannot understand
it. The people at the orphanage did not even want me as a child, and almost no
one has since.” “But something else bothers you.” It
was neither phrased as a question nor tendered as a topic for debate, and Rolf
did not like it. “How would you know?” He asked. The
dwarf shrugged. “The one thing you have not
discussed is the matter of your biological family. I believe that in part may
contribute to your general animosity.” Rolf sighed, his breath crystalizing as
it left his lips. “I suppose you are right,” he said.
“I often wonder what was wrong with me that my parents would leave me like
that. Hello,” Rolf said, suddenly interrupting his train of though. “I think we
found what we were looking for.” Indeed, the others had stopped up ahead in the
midst of a large, elevated ring of toppled stones. The dell looked for all the
world like an angry giant had simply thrown the stones to the ground in
frustration. Arcaena turned around, looking at the two of them. “We stop here,” she said simply. “It
keeps out most of the wind, and we should at least be warm here.” Edessa looked around. “I dislike
this,” she said. “It is far too open. We would be vulnerable from almost every
point of approach.” Thomas shook his head and took off his pack. “You worry too much,” he told the
Huntress. “Anyone stupid enough to be out in this weather would be frozen to
death before it ever reached us. Besides, we could see them coming.” Carsten
leaned against one of the overturned rocks. “I cannot believe I am saying this,”
he began, “but I agree with Edessa. This just feels bad.” Arcaena shrugged. “I do not really
care how it feels. We are exhausted, and cannot go much farther without at
least taking a small rest.” She, too, undid her pack and removed her bedroll.
“I would help you build a fire, but there are no trees that we could cut.”
Thomas shrugged. “Then line up the bedrolls,” he
suggested. “Males on one side of a stone and females on the other. Have the
males each take three hour watches.” “Good idea,” Carsten said. “I would
be happy to start on watch.” They all laid out their bedrolls, although Arcaena
and Edessa decided to move at least four meters away from the others simply for
privacy’s sake. Carsten took a seat on an angular stone, his eyes peering into
the blackness. As Rolf rolled up in his sleeping bag, he looked up at Carsten. “About what I said earlier…” he
began. Carsten turned to face him. “What about it?” he asked. “I just wanted to say that the
reason that being Abandoned bothers me is that everyone except my adoptive
family treated me like an outcast. They always acted like there was something
wrong with me.” Carsten nodded. Come to think of it, the dwarf’s youngest
sister had always been seen the same way. No matter how much love and affection
the family showed her, she always felt like an outsider. “And you believed them?” Rolf shook
his head. “I no longer see clearly what I am
to believe or why,” he said simply. “Life and the world used to be so
uncomplicated and straightforward.” Carsten shook his head. “It never
is, Rolf. Forgive my saying so, but that is just as much a part of coming of
age as being a man physically. A word of advice, though: never let the world
define you.” “That is easier to say than to do,”
Rolf replied. “How can you not listen to what the world says to you? Or about you,
for that matter? Ignoring words is not so simple.” Carsten laughed as he pulled
his bedroll out of his pack. “I never said it was easy. But
simple? It is that, my friend. Look at me. My great-grandfather killed his
second-born son with his own hands. My grandfather was murdered as he travelled
home from a family gathering. And for all my life I have been told time and
again that I come from a family of liars and traitors. So listen when people
point out your faults. But never, ever let them tell you that you are bound by
what your parents or ancestors did. Or who they were. As much as you might feel
it, you are not as they are.” “What choice do you have?” Rolf
asked. “Other people shape your life.” “But they do not have to shape you
and you should not let them,” Carsten said. “You never have to accept the hand
that fate deals you, ever. There is always hope, even if you cannot see it.” Rolf shook his head. “I wish that
were easy.” “Nothing good is,” Carsten replied.
“Now you should get some sleep. Morning will come a lot sooner than you think.” Frostspire
Castle King Shargann sat
calmly in the banquet hall, sipping the wine Issavea’s servants had brought
him. In truth, he did it as more of a formality than anything else; he hardly
tasted or felt anything anymore. It was one of the side effects of the repeated
use of his people’s powers. The Mierthyn, as they were called, had a unique set
of skills. Although they appeared as normal humans, they were actually
something much more deadly. They possessed the ability to dissolve into any
shadows present, and to travel great distances when they did so. Also, they
could use the darkness around them to heal injuries, drawing strength from pure
night. While their powers waxed strongest at midnight, and they were virtually
immortal, they had several weaknesses. One of these was sunlight; the absence
of shadows into which they could vanish or from which they could draw strength
made them vulnerable. Also, weapons forged out of shilthain could inflict serious harm. The longer the Mierthyn
lived, the less they felt, part of the side effect of drawing on shadows to
sustain their lives. Shargann was unusual among them in that he had reached out
from his people’s domain in the north to Issavea in the south. When he had
explained the reason for his alliance, she had been willing to join his
endeavor. The black-haired and violet-eyed king was watching Issavea’s men as
they rushed about the castle. He knew why they were going in all directions,
and one thing they did not: that he and their mistress had planned it so. The
sorceress currently sat across from him, quietly watching her men as they
worked feverishly. “They are gone,” she murmured,
staring into space. “They escaped long ago.” She could no longer see them
clearly, but what she could discern told her that her men threatened them no
longer. Shargann nodded. “Yes, as we
planned. Having that dwarf knock my nephew down, however, was not how we
orchestrated this.” Issavea looked down, her eyes
half-closed. “I know,” she answered. “But nothing about those five has gone
exactly as we planned.” “That is no excuse,” the shadow king
responded. “You should have foreseen this.” “I cannot predict every tiny
detail,” the sorceress protested. “That was unexpected.” “Is it that you did not see it, or
that you hoped that you could end our alliance?” Shargann queried. “Since the
first day, you have been unwilling to share your reservations with me.” “Do you not feel pangs of guilt?”
Issavea asked. “What we have done could destroy all five of them.” And still might, she thought. It often
seemed cruel to her, machinating like this. Using people might be necessary to
accomplish their goals, but that made it no easier to justify. Shargann nodded. “But I doubt you
concern yourself about all five of them.” The sorceress looked at him, her
unseeing white eyes glistening. “No, I do not. Are you not concerned with the
effect this could have on those two?” “What we have done is merely an
earlier realization of what you foresaw as inevitable,” he pointed out. “What
you did here only accelerated an already-commenced process.” “It is still not right to play with
them like pawns,” she admonished. “More like knights,” Shargann
amended. “They are more vital than anyone else. And you allowing them to escape
will provide an opening later on.” “Should we have warned them?”
Issavea asked. Shargann shook his head. “What would it have profited?” He
returned. “They would not believe us now. Give them time. While on this topic,
what have your agents reported?” Issavea frowned. “Nothing of
interest. Small troop movements, but no naval activity. They are far removed.” “Anything else?” Shargann asked.
Issavea hesitated. “Yes. I believe they may have made
overtures to our mutual problem children in the north.” Shargann smiled at that. He had
already heard this, as he had his own agents on the ground. Nevertheless, he
had wondered whether or not Issavea would share the truth with him. It pleased
him that she had in fact done so. Lately, her reservations had created doubts
in himself of how far she was truly willing to go. “Any activity on that end?” Issavea shook her head again. “What
is there to report? They are fractured, leaderless. As they have ever been. Did
you think that the Free would leave so serious a threat with any tools to
resist them?” “Still,” Issavea said, “I cannot
help but wonder whether we in fact chose wisely.” “What do you mean?” She hesitated. “They seem
so…unremarkable when you examine them individually. The dark elf, for example. She
has too much turmoil within her. By the time she realizes her true importance,
it may be too late. The gray one knows nothing of his true power or, if he
suspects, he dares not confront it. The other dwarf worries about his inheritance,
seeing himself as unworthy to take his father’s place. Ironically, that is the
only thing holding him back. The Huntress is impulsive to the extreme, and her
sheer lack of patience may lead to all their deaths.” “And the dwarf?” Shargann asked.
“You did not speak of him.” “He does not seem like much, I
grant,” she said. “And now he is not. But soon, very soon, he will make face
his demons.” “And then?” The dark king asked. “Either he becomes the stay of all
the others, or he will break utterly,” she answered. “I believe the latter is
more likely, given what is to come.” “And if he does not?” Shargann
questioned. “Then he will cease to be a man or a
warrior,” she whispered. “I cannot clearly see the future and yet…” Her eyes
were removed now, as her far-seeing mind processed the possibilities like an
endless series of mathematical problems. “And yet.” Karkopolis Royal Halls of House Blackfire The dark elves were often called the
mainstay of the Outlands, and in many ways it was true. They were by far the
wealthiest of the peoples that inhabited the less-habitable outer regions.
Also, they faced little discrimination among the Free; their exile had been by
choice rather than by force. No one quite remembered what had galvanized them
to retire underground and seek the riches of the earth, but no one interfered
or complained either. Also, being the religious center of the Outlands helped
at least partially endear them to their neighbors. Their city, the underground
trade center known as Karkopolis, was in utter opposition to Andrion, the light
elven capitol. Their reclusive Free cousins had merged their homes with the
towering trees of the redwood forest and linked them with rope bridges. They
arose with the sun and slept when it set. In Karkopolis, all light was
artificial, created by torches and luminescent crystals. The dark elves could
extinguish these lights when they chose, and the dark of the earth would
return. At its center rose a tall, elliptical building that everyone in the
Outlands would have recognized as the Temple of Rebirth. Behind it stood the
more angular palace, home of House Blackfire and the largest fortress over the
border. Its current royal occupant, Oriem Blackfire, was standing on his
balcony, brooding. His eldest daughter, Arcaena, had left fourteen months ago
and had not been heard from since. And this had occurred after she had defied
his wishes and declined an offer of marriage from Dothnae Redbark, whom her
father believed to be worthy of her hand in marriage. Although the rejection
had been against his wishes, her departure had not been so. She had asked to
travel with members of the Thornroot House, a noble family that had helped his
for generations. That they had not yet returned troubled him. Add to that the
rumors he had been hearing of voiceless, merciless marauders in the north, and
he had good reason for concern. Suddenly, footsteps behind him interrupted his
contemplations. “Your majesty?” The voice came from
a new servant at the place, one whose name had not yet become familiar to the
king. “I do not recall asking to be
disturbed,” he murmured. The dark elf female hesitated. “Your
highness, the members of House Thornroot have returned. I think you will want
to hear the news they bring.” In an instant, Oriem had turned around and bolted
past her. While running was certainly not a dignified activity for a nobleman,
he was past caring. Any news of his daughter was worth breaking protocol. Luthe Thornroot was standing inside
the gatehouse of the royal palace, for once without his sister. Oriem came down
himself, still running. The sight of the king moving at such speed rendered the
guards speechless for a full two minutes. He reached Luthe and paused for
several moments to catch his breath. After he had done so, he stood up, trying
to reclaim some of the regal bearing expected of a monarch. “You have returned,” he said simply.
“Where are the others?” Luthe looked up at him, a haunted look in his eyes. “Can we go someplace private? I do
not think you want to hear what I have to say.” In the king’s chambers, Luthe told
Oriem the whole story. About how he had hired Carsten, about the fight with the
snow phantoms, about their trek north, and then the kidnapping. Then he
detailed how they had been sent on their way by the kidnappers and told
brusquely not to follow. “And then?” Oriem asked. “We did as instructed,” Luthe
replied. “We did not dare risk them harming Arcaena, and therefore we left.
They threatened to kill us on the spot if we did otherwise.” “Where did you go from there?” Oriem
asked. “A small village to the south,” he
answered. “The citizens gave us provisions for the journey. We did stay for a
week to recuperate.” “Could you lead a force back there?”
Oriem asked. Luthe looked up. “No,” he said, tears forming in his
eyes. “You do not understand. We barely escaped the village. My sister lies in
the castle infirmary now, at death’s door. The raiders came from the north,
riding wolves. Or I think they were wolves; they were larger than any I have
ever seen.” “What did they do?” Oriem queried. “They razed it,” Luthe whispered.
“They burned that village to the ground.” “What did they take?” The king
asked. “There must have been something of great value there.” “Nothing save lives,” Luthe said
bitterly. “They did it of their own depravity.” “Then we shall avenge them,” Oriem
declared. “We will claim justice for your sister.” “No,” Luthe said again. “You
misunderstand. I came back to warn you. I believe Carsten and your daughter
were important to their kidnappers somehow, but they planned an escape, I am
sure. Arcaena told me that she would return to you, and I believed her.” “Then where is the danger?” “The raiders,” Luthe replied. “There
were only sixty of them, but that was enough. They were huge, at least seven
feet tall. Their skin was dark grey or black, their eyes blue or red. They had
long, mane-like hair down their backs, and they wore no armor.” “They sound like nothing more than
savages,” Oriem said confidently. “Wherein lies the danger?” “In their strength,” Luthe replied.
“Only three fell when they burned that village. And they destroyed the garrison
of men-at-arms in five minutes.” Oriem’s heart sank. Men-at-arms were
professional soldiers; war was their business if they stood no chance in
battle… “Then why have you come?” Oriem
asked. “To tell you that your daughter
cannot return,” Luthe replied. “Not with them blocking the way. More came after
they burned the village, and they are systematically wiping out cities and
towns in the north. I fear that there is great likelihood that they will find
your daughter first.” Oriem shook his head. “They will not,” he replied. “Go get
some rest. Guard!” He called. A ark elf soldier was at the door in a moment. In
another, he had opened it and stood stiffly at attention. “I am here to serve, your majesty.” “Tell my cooks to get this boy some
food. Then, instruct Pherne to go to the infirmary and tend to Ciara Thornroot.
She will know who to look for.” “Is that all, my king?” “No, it is not. Assemble our
swiftest Airknights and order them to saddle our best steeds. I will lead them
north without delay.” The soldier bowed and turned away.
“As you command, my liege,” he said.
As the soldier left, Oriem had to wonder about his daughter. Perhaps she was
rebellious, and maybe too headstrong for her own good. But he loved her, and he
hoped that she was all right. She was so much like her mother, and he could not
bear the thought of losing Tywana again. © 2016 JakeAuthor's Note
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Added on January 9, 2016 Last Updated on March 24, 2016 Tags: Fantasy, elves dwarves, dragons, magic AuthorJakeAboutStudent, writer, LEGO fan. I love fantasy and science fiction, and my background as a history student has led me to experiment with some historical fiction as well. more..Writing
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