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EVERYONE: The Archsage War (Non-Pokémon)

Patrick Haines

Lone Scribe for the Lord of Time
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The Archsage War takes place in Phates Tak, a world of my own creation. It is a stand alone story, but one of many that I have written in my universe. This is a work that has taken me years to put together, so I hope you enjoy.

Phates Tak has seen peace for over 2,000 years, protected by the mighty archsages and their lord, Garen Aercho. Now, two powerful witches seek to destroy the utopia Garen has created, while the aging half-elf searches for the means to attain immortality. Swept up in the conflict is a strange group of friends, led by the enigmatic Tarapak Berem. Together, they must race across the continent to halt the ambitions of the power-hungry sorcerers before their conflict destroys the world.

EVERYBODY.
-Fantasy and Magical Violence. No Blood and Guts.



CHAPTER 1: Meeting in the Dark

Malferna slipped over the windowsill and into the darkness beyond. She clasped the sheer wall of the tower calmly, a hundred feet above the ground, and in no danger of falling. Below her, the sleeping city of Arcadia sprawled out in three directions. To the west, she could see the large homes of wealthy merchants and craftsman, while the eastern portion of the city was dominated by the quaint domiciles of the working class. A huge market district sprawled out over the sourthern section of the city. By mid-afternoon, foreign traders peddling their wares would occupy the myriad of stalls that lined the streets and smoke would be curling upward from the chimneys of the permanent, local businesses. Above her, the five towers of the Temple of Meno'a loomed dramatically over the sleeping city. The Temple was meant to be a symbol of light to the world, but Malferna knew its true purpose was as dark and sinister as the overcast night she found herself in.

Noone moved in the courtyard below her and few people moved about the library she was forced to call home, but a clandestine meeting called for clandestine movement and she knew the Lord Archsage had employed a spy network to watch perceived threats. In his old age, that included a large number of people, but she knew she was near the top of his list. To his credit, I am a threat, she chuckled to herself.

She maneuvered silently down the face of the northeast tower, guided by her potent magic, and landed softly on the lush grass at the base of the tower. The witch glanced back once at the edifice towering over her before she glided toward the wall of fir trees reinforcing the iron fencing that surrounded the Library of Arcadia. Technically, the library and the temple were separate buildings, built over one hundred years apart, but the seamless construction made them appear inseparable from one another. The Great Library was the crowning magical achievement during the Age of Magic and housed a collection of magic, history, and knowledge that rivaled even the Queen's Library, deep within the heart of the elven homeland. The Temple of Meno'a was built around it to honor Garen's first wife.

Malferna recoiled at the thought of such devotion to any individual, but Meno'a was long dead now and few remembered the dedication that the temple represented. The witch's progress out of the courtyard was unimpeded by the fir trees as she effortlessly glided through them and it took her only moments to dismantle the enchantments woven into the iron fencing. Now in one of the wide streets surrounding three sides of the library, the fourth backed up to the wall surrounding the city, she looked both directions and pulled her dark hood further over her head. She feared little in this world, but the timing of her plan was everything and she didn’t want anyone recognizing her moving about the city in the early hours of the morning. No other soul occupied the well-maintained dirt street. Moving effortlessly toward a nearby alley, her feet barely touching the ground, Malferna was on high alert for anyone who might surprise her.

A bright orange streak moved between the roofs above her and she melted into the shadows of the alley. She could feel eyes on her, but their source was a mystery. Preparing a spell to incapacitate an assailant, the witch made to step from the shadows when the streak dartrf back across the rooftop. A cat, she sighed, releasing the spell. The small, ginger colored animal dropped from the rooftop to a barrel in the alleyway, its blue eyes trained on Malferna. The witch probed its simple mind to ascertain whether it was being controlled, but sensed no magic within. Suddenly, Malferna kicked out and another cat scampered into an adjacent alley. Almost immediately a third began rubbing itself against her leg. Rolling her eyes and sighing, she bent and picked up the black cat by the scruff of its neck. Bringing it to eye level, she again magically peered into bright blue eyes, but again sensed nothing. Frustrated, she threw the cat toward the street. It landed on all fours and starred back at her.

Malferna hated cats. The animals had always had a strange fascination with her, but that only fed her dislike of them. She moved deeper into the complicated backstreets that ran through the older parts of the city in an attempt to lose them. Arcadia, built just after Sereda’s War, in the early 900s had a long, but rather boring history. It had never weathered a war or political upheaval and the poor organization of the old city was due more to bad planning than anything else. Its size, wealth, and population now rivaled the ancient cities of Intreva and New City, but these dirty back alleyways were a blunt reminder of a time when the city struggled to grow.

The witch knew the twisted paths well, having traversed them dozens of times on other clandestine missions within the city. The Lord Archsage had long attempted to limit the power and reach of his fellow archsages by confining them to this city and forbidding them to leave the temple at night. Malferna, however, wasn’t one for rules. Another cat darted across her path and she showed great restraint in letting it prance on unscathed. Coming to the end of an alley, she peeked her head into the wider street beyond. Bakeries and butcher shops lined the road, the lights in all of the windows doused, save for a single candle in an upstairs window three buildings to the left. A sign that someone was having trouble sleeping.
A loud creak, amplified by the stillness of the night, sounded behind Malferna. Whipping around, her cowl moving backwards ever so slightly on her head as she did, she came face-to-face with a rather ugly human male. Face-to-face was relative, given how short the man was, but the abject terror on his mottled face indicated that he knew exactly who the woman standing before him was.
A single, incoherent sound escaped his mouth before the witch swept forward, whipped the man around, and held her long fingernail to his throat like a dagger.

”Who are you,” she whispered in a raspy voice.

”Ha…Han…,” the man spluttered, but was unable to mutter even the short word.

”Speak quickly or lose your tongue.”

”Hank,” he finally said, at the risk of maiming.

”Why are you here,” Malferna continued, looking up at the cloud-obscured moon. The sun wouldn’t rise for another two hours and everyone else had long retired, exhausted from celebrating the new year the previous day.

”This is my shop,” Hank answered, some confidence returning to his voice, perhaps because his throat was still in one piece, “I thought I heard the cats sneaking in again.”

His story was believable and Malferna pushed the disgusting man away from her and into the dirt. He smelled of rotten meat and, in addition to his unattractive face, he was missing pieces of two fingers. The dangers of being a butcher.

The man landed hard on his hands and knees. He quickly turned once more to face the terrifying woman. Brushing the dirt off his mangled hands, he stared up at her with bright blue eyes.

Blue eyes?

The cats, Malferna realized. Again, she was on the man, pinning him down, black eyes fixed on his blue ones. As with the cats, she probed his mind, looking for the magic that linked him to the filthy creatures. Again, she was disappointed.

”Why are your cats following me,” she hissed.

”My…my cats,” his stammer and his fear and returned in an instant, “I...I...I don't have any cats?”

Malferna looked around, but, for the first time since she had entered the twisting maze of backstreets, she could locate no cats. But he had just mentioned cats. They were trying to steal his meat. She was confused and her frustration was growing. The cats showed no indication of magic, the man showed no gift for the arts, and why would any self-respecting mage moonlight as a disgusting butcher?

She pierced the small man with her dark gaze a second time, peering past the man’s mind and into his soul. Nothing. Malferna wanted to throw back her head and scream to the heavens, but she had already been delayed long enough. Hank was breathing fast and hard beneath her. His fear will keep him quiet, she rationalized. Standing, she made to leave the alley and heard the terrified man rise behind her. She turned and there, standing behind the butcher, was the orange cat with blue eyes. Changing her mind, the witch lashed out with her right hand and slit the man’s throat with her long fingernails. She was gone before he hit the ground and felt no remorse at the innocent man’s slaying.

Out in the street, Malferna found her destination with ease. A window sat open on the second story of an abandoned bakery and, with an effortless leap, she glided through the air and through the narrow opening. Landing deftly in a crouching position, she muttered an incantation to allow sight in the dark room and looked around. Sitting on a low crate in the far corner was another hooded figure, but the rest of the room was barren. No furniture or carpeting adorned the floor, save the crate the stranger sat upon, and the weak moonlight shining through gloomy clouds revealed nothing upon the walls either. The hooded figure opposite Malferna stood and raised its left arm, but the hand was completely hidden by the voluminous robe.

"Thomra," it stated, in a clearly feminine voice.

Malferna nodded ever so slightly. The figure took a step forward and pulled the sleeve back on the cloak to reveal a tiny stone. It was round, smooth, and clear, but a mist appeared to be swirling inside it. The stone rose steadily from the delicate hand that held it and floated toward Malferna. She clasped it between her index finger and thumb, inspecting it closely.

"He is positive of its effects?" the witch queried.

It was the hooded figure's turn to nod briefly. Satisfied, Malferna stashed the strange stone in the inner folds of her cloak and turned her penetrating gaze on the woman whose features were still hidden beneath the other hood.

"Step one begins today at sunrise, make sure you are seen."

The other woman chuckled softly, "with pleasure."

In the same manner as the witch moved, her opposite floated across the ground with ease, alighted on the narrow windowsill and disappeared into the night without a backward glance. Malferna turned back to the window as well, but waited before following her lesser. She swept her malevolent gaze over the quiet city, relishing in the ominous night that foreshadowed a darker morning. She had failed to conquer her home world, but she would not fail again.

CHAPTER 2: The Witch

“Where is the girl,” demanded a man sitting upon a grand throne carved of the purest gold and silver with elaborate runes carved into its head.

The throne, though resplendent, was but the centerpiece of a grand hall that competed with even those of the kings of the five nations. Hanging from the high ceiling were five elaborate crystal chandeliers, rising so high from the ground that a balcony was built on one side of the hall so servants could light the dozens of candles that adorned each. The smooth marble walls were covered in murals depicting epic scenes from ages past and covering much of the flawless granite floor was thick, rich carpet of woven purple silk which silenced the heavy footsteps of the lone soldier cowering beneath the wrath of his master.

“She could not be found, sir,” stated the lone soldier, his voice ringing clearly through the chamber as he regained his composure, “it is as you suspected, she has fled the city.”

The soldier’s entirely gray uniform denoted him as a common soldier with no magical ability and the lone bar on his shoulder showed his rank as lieutenant. His appearance was in complete contrast to the man seated before him.

Garen Aercho, the Lord Archsage, ruler of Arcadia, was the picture of royalty in every way. His hair, once a soft blonde, had turned a brilliant white with age and was kept short and neat. His beard was much the same way, for the archsage hated the sensation of his hair falling about his shoulders and neck or waving listlessly in the breeze. Though taller than an average human, he was very slender, evidence of dedicating his long life to magic, not physical exertion. The nails on his fingers and toes were short and smooth, while the smell of lilacs seemed to cling to his pale, clean skin. He was dressed in a simple, but resplendent, royal purple robe made entirely of silk and strong leather sandals of elven design.

Rising gracefully to his feet with an ease that belied his age, he grasped a staff that leaned against his throne and descended the three stairs which led to his lofty heights. Now standing at eye level with the lieutenant, he scanned his plain face, looking for any signs of deception. Seeing nothing but fear in the middle-aged man’s face, he turned from his presence before giving his instructions.

“Bring the girl’s mother to me, if she resists, use force.”

“Yes, Lord Archsage,” the soldier returned, and, turning on his heel, exited the hall as quickly as he could without running.

Sighing, the lord of Arcadia returned to his lofty chair and, leaning on his staff for support, gently resumed his seated position. Age showed more on his tired face now that his underling had left the room and a low grumbling emanated from his stomach.

As the thick oak double-doors at the end of the grand hall closed with a low boom that echoed through the high-ceilinged room, a young girl stepped from behind the tall throne where she had been hiding during the interview with the lieutenant.

“Are you in need of anything, master,” she asked quietly, bowing slightly.

“Ah, Tricia,” the old man’s face lit up as he looked down at the girl, “indeed I do. Please inform Master Berem I require his presence and have the chef prepare my lunch.”

“Of course, my lord,” Tricia responded with little emotion, bowing again, “and what of your daughter? She wishes to see you.”

Closing his eyes in thought for a moment, having forgotten about the audience with his daughter, he finally replied, “have her meet me in the grand dining hall.”

“Yes, master,” his apprentice answered, bowing a final time and exiting the hall through a side door hidden within one of the murals.

Garen watched the mage leave and his thoughts wondered to her mysterious past. Tricia Jae, or TJ as most people called her, had arrived in Arcadia several years prior seeking a master to teach her the finer ways of magic. Such an occurrence was not uncommon, for there were only two places on Phates Tak to seek a master, the other being the Tower of Sages in western Emag. Tricia, however, was special. Her abilities upon arriving in Arcadia were already highly formidable, far beyond that of most mages her age, especially for someone devoid of a master. The Lord Archsage had not taken a pupil in many years, but he saw a challenge in the then teenage prodigy and had never once regretted his decision to train her. In addition to being a quick, steadfast learner, she had proven to be extremely loyal and Garen quickly found many uses for her within his kingdom.

The quiet thud of the door closing behind Tricia snapped Garen from his thoughts. Pushing himself up from his throne and grasping his staff, he slowly descended the stairs and made his way to the grand dining hall for lunch.

***

On the far side of the Library, Lieutenant Lars Redols II collapsed into a small wooden chair outside of his commanding officer’s study and waited to be summoned. Redols, who was in his mid-30s, had been at this post for nearly seven years, yet after all that time, he was still terrified to approach his liege lord. Being assigned to the Library was supposed to be an honor for a soldier, but for Lars it was more often a nightmare. He spent more time running errands or pretending to be invisible than commanding troops and he was charged with “protecting” a bunch of sorcerers who could kill him with a single word.

Originally, he had been happy with the assignment. Phates Tak had not seen war in nearly two and a half millennia, so what could be better than following in his father’s footsteps and commanding the small garrison of soldiers assigned to Garen and the Temple? As it turned out, everything. The archsages either avoided or looked down at the few soldiers patrolling the wide corridors. Some elven and dwarven archsages gazed at the lowly human with such contempt; he often expected to explode into flames or slowly gag to death on nothing but air. Fear permeated the lieutenant’s life and now it was worse than ever.

Several months earlier, Lieutenant Redols had met with Garen in a secret meeting that included only himself; his father, Colonel Lars Redols; and a pretty young girl who couldn’t have been much older than 20, whose name he couldn’t recall. His lord had told him that he feared a plot was afoot to dismantle the kingdom and it was to be led by Morigan Drachil.

Of all of the archsages the lieutenant had encountered, she was, by far, the scariest. She swept through the hallways and various rooms of the library like a silent specter, her black hair and robe flowing behind her, reminding the fearful man of the ghost stories his parents told him as a child.

The result of the secret meeting was that either Lars or his father had to keep an eye on the potentially rogue archsage at all times. Although originally a fearful notion, the assignment became rather fulfilling. Sneaking about the library, spying on the terrifying woman wasn’t exactly a soldier’s work, but after a few weeks, the younger Redols discovered he had a knack for it. Successfully spying on a woman who had frightened him for years also gave him a great deal of satisfaction. Two weeks ago, however, all of that changed.

Colonel Redols had assigned his son the late night shift, but the lieutenant, unaccustomed to the late hours, drifted off to sleep just after first hour. Three hours later, just before sunrise, a loud noise from within Morigan’s bedchamber jolted him awake. Worried that his charge had escaped him, Lars leapt to his feet and crept from his hiding place, a small broom closet adjacent to Morigan’s rooms. Pressing his ear to the door, he heard movements on the other side and, fearing the worst, pushed the door open enough to slip inside.

The bedchamber, like most of the temple, had marble walls and a granite floor, but dark covers obscured what little light was seeping through the windows, hiding most of the room in shadows. A pristine silence pervaded the room as Lars’ eyes slowly adjusted, revealing an overturned side table beside a bed copious enough to sleep three full-grown humans. Assuming the overturned table was the cause of the commotion, the intruder turned to leave when movement from the far corner of the room caught his eye.
Stepping from behind a dressing screen, wearing no more than a lightweight, black nightgown, was the enchantress Morigan. Lars had but a moment to admire the beautiful curves of her body before she held out a hand and the entire chamber burst into bright light. The spell blinded the shocked officer, but sheer terror overruled common sense as he spun around and sprinted in the direction he thought the door was in. He slammed hard into the smooth walls twice before finding the opening and flying into the hallway.
He had only taken a few strides, however, when Morigan’s laughter at his misery faded away and he heard her high voice utter an incantation:

Rätav nï eth rï'a, frëz ta ëm mokman

Immediately, the lieutenant’s feet grew cold, his paced slowed and, as the freezing sensation climbed up into his knees, his movement stopped altogether. Tugging with all his strength, Lars attempted to free himself, but to no avail. Eventually his sight recovered from the flash of light, only to see that his legs were encased up to the knee in thick ice, which held him fast to the cool, stone floor.

His father had discovered him standing in that same place three hours later, as he made is morning rounds, and it took another two hours for the soldiers to free him using ice picks. Lieutenant Redols shivered just remembering the experience and wondered if the feeling would ever return to his feet.
Lars looked up as the sharp slap of sandals smacking on the hard floor indicated someone approaching the door from the other side.

“Your father will see you now,” intoned a plump, elderly lady who opened the door and stepped backwards to let him enter.

Smiling and he thanked the woman, Martha he thought, or maybe Marie, he couldn’t remember, the servants changed constantly. He entered the small room that served as the officer’s study. His own desk sat in one corner with a chair pushed under it, while the colonel’s desk sat in the middle of the room with two more chairs arrayed before it. No beautiful tapestries or exquisite murals decorated the walls and the only other piece of furniture occupying the small room was a table in the opposite corner from the lieutenant’s desk with layouts of both the city and the library. Plopping down in one of the chairs before his father’s desk, he crossed his legs and waited for the colonel to finish perusing the document he had in his hand. After several moments, the elder Lars placed the missive upon a large stack to one side of his desk and addressed his younger in a deep, somewhat gruff voice.

“Where do we stand?”

“It is as the Lord Archsage predicted, the enchantress Morigan has defied his order and left the city, I followed her to the gates this morning,” Lieutenant Redols took a breath to continue, but his father cut him off.

“They let her pass,” he questioned, knowing that many guards who watched the gate were skilled mages and would not let her pass without attempting to stop her.

“She did not pass directly through the gate, but through the wall itself,” the lieutenant continued, shaking his head slightly as he remembered, “she strolled leisurely up to the outer wall, looked quickly in both directions, placed a hand on the wall and disappeared.”

Lars shuddered and continued, “I investigated the wall after her departure, it was solid as ever. Naturally, I reported directly to Master Garen.”

“Magic is a powerful and dangerous art,” the colonel stated the obvious to a son who had seen too much magic in his short life, “what is it Master Garen expects us to do, we can not hunt down this witch.”

“Thankfully he has commanded us to do nothing so suicidal,” the younger Redols responded with a sigh, the thought of personally finding the escaped enchantress had not even crossed his mind, “all he wishes us to do is bring Morigan’s mother, Malferna, to his audience chamber tomorrow at midday.”

Pushing his chair back from the heavy, wooden desk, the elder Lars rose and began pacing behind it.

“Even that seems a tall order, if an archsage doesn’t want to accompany us, who are we to make her?”

***

Garen was sitting at the head of a long, beautifully carved, redwood table, large enough to comfortably seat fifty people, when his daughter entered the grand dining hall. Lindae Aercho looked bored as she glanced at the epic murals, elegant candelabras, and rich purple carpet that adorned most of her home. She ran her fingers over the even walls, tracing a path through history from the God Mage War to the War of Darkness and coming to a halt upon a mural that depicted a strikingly handsome man and a mammoth golden dragon.

The man was an archsage, like her father, but, in her opinion, greater in every way. The art on the wall portrayed the final battle of The Second Great War, which concluded just prior to the building of Arcadia, and essentially ended the Age of Creation. Tarapak Berem was shown leading an army of humans, elves, and dwarves against the evil Nagrom Nakuda, who wished to usurp the throne of the dwarven kingdom, Kyndmentunok, and march his army of darkness across Phates Tak.

The archsage, already several centuries old at the time, wore only a pair of leather breeches and a long, red cloaked fluttered behind him in the breeze. His long, white hair, decorated with small, colored braids representing the seven elements of magic flowed out behind him as well, a sharp contrast to the deeply tanned skin of his well-defined torso. Upon his shoulder was the tattoo of a dragon, a mark of his order, the Black Dragons, and he wielded the legendary blade, Koobi’s Fury.

Unlike other archsages, Berem trained both his mind and body, making him adept at both magical and physical combat. Standing beside him, her head stretched towards the heavens as if emitting a mighty roar, was a mighty golden dragon. Supposedly, the first dragon to bond itself with a human since the third century, when Vaquan Maltazar acquired the Dragon Ring and claimed the title, Dragon Master. Berem was now considered the Dragon Master, and a single glance at this mural illustrated why.

“Lindae, you are daydreaming again,” her father’s voice sounded from across the table.

“I apologize, father, it will not happen again,” she stated...again, and turned to approach her father, who had eaten very little of the meal set before him.

Lindae spent most of her time daydreaming of ages past, wishing she could wield her magic in the grand wars and battles she could only read about in the multitude of history books lining the shelves of the Great Library. She had always loved history and adventure, but her desires had increased ten-fold after meeting the legendary Tarapak Berem two decades prior.

Berem was the one archsage who was not, by law, confined to the city of Arcadia. He was the first archsage, and the most powerful, thus Garen would have been unable to contain him if he tried. Instead, her idol traveled the world, living the adventures she wished she could have and rarely gracing Arcadia with his presence.

Their one meeting had occurred just after the Council of Magic had recognized her as an archsage, though the purpose of his trip to the city of the archsages remained a mystery to her. Having concluded whatever business brought him within her grasp, she cornered him in the atrium of Great Library and begged to hear his own accounts of his adventures.

Though she probably looked the fool jumping around like a small child, he conceded to her enthusiasm. From just past midday until well after the sun had set, the Dragon Master had regaled her with stories of witches and warlocks, dragons and minotaur, love and war, and everything in between. When finally he had concluded his stories, the young Lindae had been too tired to stand, so he assisted her to her bedchamber and tucked her in, something her father had never done. Smiling down at the girl, millennia younger than he, he delivered a single modicum of wisdom:

“Never lose your curiosity.”

Lindae had taken his wisdom to heart, satiating every curious notion she had, for better or worse.
“It would seem you are incapable of living in the present, dearest,” her father’s voice broke in on her reverie for a second time, but it was the insult of calling her ‘dearest’ that smarted more than her interrupted memories.

His precious TJ had been his ‘dearest’ for a long time now, but the slighted daughter skimmed over the insult and returned to the business at hand.

“I’m sorry, father,” Lindae repeated, “I have a request to ask of you.”

Garen took a small bite of an apple and wiped his hands on a cloth before turning his full attention to his daughter, “what is it you wish?”

“The Guild Council has sent a message to the Library requesting a representative of Arcadia attend their annual governance assembly,” Lindae took a deep breath, knowing she was about to ask her lord to bend a law for her, “I wish to travel to New City and represent our order.”

“No.”

The short, one word answer hit her harder than if he had struck her on the side of the head. She had not expected him to acquiesce, but the bluntness of his answer of lack of an explanation as to why hit her like a blow. Recovering from his response, the upset woman took a deep breath to find her courage and ask why, but the Lord Archsage cut her off.

“If the council wishes an archsage to be present, then they must hold the meeting here” he stated matter-of-factly, leaving no room for argument, “if that is their decision, then you have my permission to attend.”
“Yes, my Lord Garen,” mumbled Lindae, looking downcast and wishing she had spent the day in the library reading her favorite histories instead of approaching her father on what ended up being a pointless errand, “do you wish anything else of me?”

Returning his attention to his plate, and motioning for a servant to refill his drink, Garen allowed her to leave his presence. As the girl drug her feet across the expensive carpet, tearily eyeing the murals on the wall, he couldn’t help but remembered the promise she had once held.

Lindae was not actually his daughter, though few were privy to that secret. Over 60 years ago, an unknown half-elf was found dying upon the steps of his library clutching a new-born child to her breast, that child was Lindae. Garen’s second wife, Belano’a, had convinced her husband to adopt the child and the two raised the half-elf as their own. Although Garen took no interest in Lindae at a young age, she began to show signs of magic and the once unloving father took her under his wing. Having shown a knack for light magic, her father’s dominant discipline, allowed her to learn quickly under his tutelage. The Council of Magic conferred to her the rank of Master in her twenties and by her 40th birthday, he was the proud father of an archsage. Her discipline and concentration faltered after that, however, as she became more interested in childish fantasies of war and glory, fueled by the visit of Tarapak Berem and the death of her foster mother.

Cursing Berem, who had been nothing more than a thorn in his side for centuries, he hoped the endeavor he was about to undertake would rid himself of the meddlesome hero forever.
 
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CHAPTER 3: Malferna

The day dawned bright and warm in Arcadia, as Colonel Redols watched the sun slowly rise over the horizon before peeking over the ramparts of the wall surrounding the city. Sleep had eluded the veteran soldier the previous night and he rubbed the fatigue from his eyes as the morning sun filled his office with a pleasant warmth. Although the temple was never too hot or too cold, for the archsages had inscribed ornate runes and spells into the stone walls to affect the temperature, the colonel basked in the sun’s natural warmth for several moments, enjoying the simple sensation upon his face and bare torso. No matter how long he had been at his post, magic continued to irk him.

Besides, he thought to himself, their spells make the air smell funny and the walls are always so cold.
Turning briefly from the window, Colonel Redols reached for a canteen of water sitting on his desk and took a long draught. As the cool liquid slid down his throat, he remembered he had forgotten to take breakfast because of his inability to sleep. Thus, setting the canteen on the window sill, he made his way to his son’s desk in the corner of the room. Normally, he would have walked the short distance to his home for his morning meal, taking the opportunity to see his beautiful wife and youngest son. This morning was different, however, so he rummaged through his older son’s desk for several minutes until he found a stash of bread and honey.

Unscrewing the lid on the sweet, sticky, golden honey, a gift to his son from a suitor, he dipped a stiff piece of bread into it and, suddenly famished, shoved the entire piece into his mouth. Although the bread was stale, the honey more than made up for it, having been harvested and properly preserved by the elves who traded their wares in the market several times a year.

Returning to the window to retrieve his canteen, Colonel Redols made the mistake of passing his glance over the library’s grand courtyard. The courtyard dominated the landscape, partially hiding the sprawling market district from view.

The entire courtyard was rimmed with a variety of dangerous coniferous trees, preventing intruders who would attempt to gain entry from the east or west, not that they could elude the enchantments woven into the ornate silver and gold fencing that encompassed the property. A single cobblestone path lined with elf wine trees, leading from the library’s main gate to the front doors, split the courtyard in two equal sections.
On one side of the path was a mostly open field, used mostly by apprentices to practice their magic outdoors during the warmer months of the year. The other side, however, housed a collection of trees known as The Forbidden Grove. The stand of trees was “forbidden” because it was off-limits to everyone except the archsages, as it contained several species of plants and trees that grew only in Imononanai. To the colonel, who had been at his post for over twenty years, the grove was also rather foreboding. He doubted many had noticed, for it took him nearly a decade to do so himself, but the Forbidden Grove moved. Not often, and clearly never during the day, but several times throughout the year, the colonel would look down from his lofty window and observe that, during the night, the large copse of trees had migrated from the north end of the garden to the south, or in reverse. As the sun climbed slowly toward its zenith, Lars imagined the entire grove uprooting itself and flying off into the distance.

Tearing his eyes from the disturbing sight, he snapped from his fantasy to see the trees exactly where they had stood the night before, swaying gently in the early summer breeze. Another movement caught his eye and he turned his head toward the gate which opened into main garden. Four men strode down the cobblestone path towards the library’s grand entrance. In the lead was his son. The younger Redols was considerably shorter, slimmer, and paler than his father, a testament to his youth spent indoors; whereas, his father spent his early year’s as a soldier campaigning, not cooped up in this irksome temple. Despite their differences in appearance, they shared a strong facial resemblance, as both father and son sported strong chins, brown eyes, short brown hair, and tendency to allow their facial hair to grow a bit to long before shaving.

Following Lars II down the path were three enchanters, each wearing the robes of their specific order. Directly behind his son, seeming to hover instead of walk, was a shaman, a disciple of Leola, Goddess of Darkness. A black hood covered the shaman’s head, while a thick black robe covered the rest of his body, making him impossible to identify. Colonel Redols pondered how the man, he assumed it was a man, could withstand the early morning heat in such an outfit, as he was sweating rather significantly with his chest bare and the window open to let in the breeze. Farther behind the shaman were two men of great contrast in rather animated conversation.

The first was tall, slender, and elegant, wearing a stark white robe that seemed to reflect the sun’s radiance, giving him a divine aura. A monk of Patrinon, worshiper of light. Man number two was short and rather rotund, yet merry as could be as he swung his arms about, clearly trying to convince his fellow of some epiphany he had recently. Though the Colonel Redols could not recall the jovial man’s name, he remembered having to remove him from the library on numerous occasions for disturbing other patrons with his continuous, and fairly loud, epiphanies. He sported simple and well-worn leather breaches and a cotton shirt, yet his blue cape and the pouches of spell components at his waist marked him as a water mage, follower of the Sea Goddess, Wasacatas.

Lars smiled broadly as he used a towel lying beside his desk to quickly wipe the sweat from his body before hurriedly throwing on the rest of his uniform. The thought of procuring assistance for their meeting with Malferna had not occurred to him, but his son had both thought of it and acted on it without hesitation. What a colonel he will make some day, Lars thought proudly.

The colonel nearly sprinted down the stairs, deigning to meet his son and the enchanters in the entrance hall to save them the energy of having to climb to his office, retrace their steps, then climb again to Malferna’s quarters. He began to perspire again with the exertion of traversing the stairs so quickly, but the temples enchantments soon kicked in and cooled his body. Lars silently swore to himself, he enjoyed the feel of sweating and physical exertion, the adrenaline made him feel alive. The magic of this place often drained those feelings from his. He was so glad when Garen’s young daughter, Lindae, had agreed to remove all the spells and enchantments woven into his office.

Coming to the bottom of the staircase, Lars found himself in one of the four long, wide, and completely empty hallways that led from the Temple of Meno’a’s towers into the Library of Arcadia proper. Taking a deep breath, he put his head down, took a few quick steps and launched into a full sprint toward the entrance hall. Oh, the feeling to stretch his legs out and run, he couldn’t wait until the following year. It would be his sixtieth birthday, which meant only one thing to the aged colonel. Retirement.

The colonel, panting heavily but with a broad smile of elation upon his face, reached the library’s atrium at the same time as his son’s group. Lieutenant Redols looked grim about the upcoming assignment, if one could call it that, while the shaman floated silently behind him, like a strange living shadow. The plump mage continued to articulate whatever point he was making to his seemingly uninterested companion then suddenly spun around and threw both arms into the air. The result was a plume of water shooting straight up into the air, dousing both mage and monk.

“See Li’on, just as I was saying, it really would work,” the plump man smiled cheerfully.

“Apparently,” Li’on replied dourly, showing none of the other man’s enthusiasm. Muttering a few words to himself, he passed a hand over his damp head and shoulders to dry them. Then, catching the expectant looking mages eye, he reluctantly dried him as well.

When Li’on had finished casting his spell, he turned to the younger Lars and apologized for the delay. In turn, son turned to father and introduced his companions. Li’on, a half-elf and monk assigned to Arcadia’s Order of Patrinon; Jak, a traveling water mage who seemed far too eager to meet a potentially rogue archsage; and the shaman whose lack of name added to his mysteriousness, though he did incline his head slightly when introduced, the first sign to the others that he was, indeed, alive.

Colonel Redols acknowledged each in turn, commended his son for bringing them and turned on his heel to lead the group to their destination.

The Temple of Meno’a was separated into five towers, one representing each of the five types of elemental magic. Four of the towers were connected with the library only by a long hallway that ran along from base of the tower to the ground floor. The fifth tower rose directly from the middle of the library and was accessible from the second floor. The archsages resided in the tower that represented their dominant elemental magic, so it was to the northeast tower, the Tower of Water, that they now traveled.

The colonel led the group down a wide corridor that led to the left, taking them around the library’s main room and toward another long corridor, which was originally used to house visitors to the ancient library. As the city of Arcadia had grown around its namesake building, the myriad of taverns had eliminated the need for guest rooms within the Great Library and most had been converted to private study chambers. The group passed the passageway that led towards the Time Tower and the officers’ quarters, swung a left down a smaller hallway and up to the second floor. They only stopped once, to prevent Jak from accosting a passing archsage, before they reached the foot of the spiral staircase at the base of the Water Tower. A short climb brought them to Malferna’s quarters.

Mustering his courage, Colonel Lars Redols, commander of the Great Library’s security force, reached out to knock on the non-descript wooden door and stopped. Images flickered across his consciousness. A huge beast, immeasurable in size and terrifying beyond reason roared up through the foundation of the library. Flames engulfing the southeast tower of the temple, flames licking through the window of his offices, destroying all within. The sound of a young man screaming, the voice familiar but distant. Blackness.

Colonel Redols stepped back from the door, face deathly white, panting slightly. His son, concerned in his father’s abrupt change in countenance rushed forwar. The colonel recovered, blinking rapidly, and apologized for his weakness. Sensing the man’s apprehension at approaching the door again, the half-elf Li’on stepped to the forefront of the group and pounded three times upon the door.

A long paused followed and Li’on lifted his fist a second time, but before it could fall the door swung silently open. Standing in the open door, illuminated by the sun streaming through several windows was a woman of considerable age, yet undeniable beauty. Her long white hair was clean and straight, hanging down unrestrained to nestle on her shoulders and back of her plain, dark blue robe. Despite the numerous age lines that criss-crossed her face, the striking beauty she had always been known for was fully apparent. That beauty, however, ended at her eyes. Deep and black, they gave many who gazed upon them an impression of untold fear and abjection. It was not hard to believe, when trapped in their unforgettable depths, that this woman, of unknown age and origins, was as soulless and evil as many legends forewarned. Even the jubilant and loquacious Jak was left speechless.

Several long moments of silence followed, a smiling forming on the ancient witch’s lips as she enjoyed the affect her presence had upon the group. Finally, the mysterious shaman stepped forward.

“Milady,” he bowed lowed, his voice deep and hoarse, “the Lord Garen requests your council regarding the disappearance of your daughter.”

“I am aware, Brother,” was her only response, though just the few words she spoke seemed to cause the temperature to drop and Jak shivered noticeably from his place at the back of the group.

“I would be honored, then, if you would accompany us,” the shaman continued, backing into the hallway, giving Malferna a wide berth.

The elegant witch deigned not to respond, simply stepping gracefully into the hallway, as the three humans and the elf moved quickly away from her. After a little confusion, which Malferna ignored, Colonel Redols again took the lead, followed by Malferna surrounded by the three enchanters, and the lieutenant obediently brought up the rear.

The party re-traced their steps down the stairs, traveling in silence for the far side of the library with the colonel lost deep in thought. A beast, the fire, a scream, and blackness. He had seen the images before, several times in fact, they had haunted his dreams for many weeks. Though he had long ago assumed they had some connection with his mission for Garen, the truth that they pertained to Malferna was now evident. The fire, the scream, and the blackness could all be rationalized. Fire was a common spell by any archsage, even one mainly aligned with water, while the scream was clearly pain, and the blackness could mean unconsciousness or even death. But what of the beast?

Just yesterday, when his son had reported to him of Morigan’s escape, he had been checking and double-checking the list of archsages known to be shape-shifters, which was the only explanation he could imagine to calculate for the beast in his nightmares.

He ran over the list in his mind once more. Alfred Duluc, drowned 2187 in search of sea elves; Artur Merinus, disappeared 3276 searching for the Lost Gate of Fathrim; Mana’a Rynur, deceased 2601 protecting the city of Tizangrrnak from the rampage of the salamandric dragon known as Quartz; and Sivarna Alun, murdered 3018 by heretics from the Temple of Darkness. Shaking his head, Lars recalled the only two shape-shifters still living: Tarapak Berem and Enjol Senkra. Morigan and Malferna were absent from the list.

Looking up from his feet, the beleaguered officer realized they had reached their destination. Gesturing to one of the guards that stood on either side of the high doors, he coughed.

“Inform Lord Garen of our arrival.”

The guard nodded and saluted his commanding officer before he and his companion placed their hands upon separate doors and pushed. With a good amount of effort, the doors slid open.

Surprisingly, Garen’s meeting with Malferna was short. The Lord Archsage accused Morigan’s mother of negligence in allowing her daughter to harbor rogue thoughts, while doing nothing to prevent her defying the law and leaving the city. Malferna countered by accusing Garen of forcing the girl’s hand by having her followed. Despite the acidity with which the accusation were thrown, both archsages maintained control of their emotions and when Garen instructed Colonel Redols and his company to escort Malferna to the dungeons, the witch turned on her heel and was led away.

As the small convoy made its way to the basement, the colonel noticed Malferna fiddling with a small, clear stone. She deftly wound it about her fingers, absently toying with it in her boredom. For some reason the stone struck a memory for the officer.

It resembled an Occlumency Stone. A rare artifact that allowed the wielder to hide their thoughts from other prying minds. Garen was a well-known as a talented mind-reader, but even he would be unable to see through the cloud of someone’s mind holding an Occlumency Stone. Colonel Redols mulled over his thoughts as they soldiered on and Malferna, perhaps aware of his thoughts, slid the stone out of sight. It was true, everyone had secrets, but anything the witch desperately wished to remain hidden from The Lord Archsage, could certainly not be good for Arcadia or the future of humanity.

CHAPTER 4: Escape

The hot morning sun beat down on the seemingly deserted dirt road that ran east out of Arcadia toward the foothills of the Kneron Mountains. A slight wind kicked up dust and caused low ripples to pulse across the surface of the not-too-distant Lake Azala. As the sun crested the tops of a single stand of fir trees just off the abandoned road, a lone figure emerged from the grove groaning and mumbling to herself.

Morigan Drachil had spent most of her twenty-six years inside, away from the sun and elements, thus her flight from Arcadia the previous day had taken a heavy toll. Though formerly fair-skinned and graceful, the young archsage’s face was burnt a deep red from the blistering summer sun and her gait was labored due to blisters and sores forming on feet unused to walking long distances.

Morigan was elated the day before with the ease of her escape, leaving the “prison” she had called home behind her, yet, on more than one occasion, she had considered returning to its friendly confines. After literally walking through the western wall of Arcadia and eluding her tail, the witch had cast an invisibility spell upon herself and daringly headed north, easily within sight of the Great Library and Temple of Meno’a. She smiled up at the familiar windows as she passed, praying her return would be a triumphant one, as she traveled into the world for the first time. Her trek across the open plains, however, quickly turned sour.

The energy used to maintain her invisibility spell, coupled with the intense heat of the summer, quickly sapped her strength and left her sweating. Sweating was a new sensation for the inexperienced archsage, one she decided quickly was unappealing. After several long hours of suffering in the late morning heat, Morigan finally escaped the shadows of the Temple and released her invisibility spell. Collapsing on the soft grass, she took a long draught of water from a water skin she had stolen from one of the Library’s soldiers and rested to regain some strength. She desired nothing more than to be out of the accursed sun, but trees—and thus shade—were rare on Emag’s grassy plains. As some of the frail girl’s vigor returned, she stood and located Lake Azala to the south. Knowing she had to travel east and south from her current position, she set off at a brisk walk, hoping to quickly discover the lone road leading to the mountains.

Two hours later, Morigan had failed to find the eastern road and began to feel lost and alone. The heat continued to bake her delicate features and her thoughts turned to the soft darkness of her chambers, the gentle waters of a cool bath and…No, she had to stay focused. Shaking herself, Morigan considered her options. She could return home and, in all likelihood be arrested, or continue on, bearing the elements, and begin the first stage in her journey to bringing down Arcadia.

Drawing a simple rune on the back of each hand to combat the heat, berating herself for not thinking of such a solution earlier, she set out again with the rippling lake to her back and the remote eastern mountains her destination. A short walk brought her to the banks of a wide river, which she followed south for a time, bringing her to a bridge and the road. The journey had been more or less tolerable from that point, even enjoyable for the last few hours, as the sun sank beneath the hills and sweet wind caressed her sun burnt face.

Counting herself lucky to find shelter as fatigue set in, Morigan wrapped her robes tightly around her and settled down for what she hoped was the first of not so many nights spent sleeping on the ground.
Now, after a surprisingly fitful and dreamless sleep, Morigan set out again. She was in considerably higher spirits than the day before, having redone the runes to keep her cool before leaving the grove of firs. Her feet still ached, however, and she was lost in thought, designing a way to relieve them, when a low sound caught her attention.

Immediately the enchantress stopped and listened intently for the sound to come a second time. Few travelers utilized the eastern road out of Arcadia, preferring to head west toward the prosperous towns of Praha and New City or south toward the dwarven built Internation Highway. East led only to the northern Kneron mountains, a mostly uninhabited land where grotesque monsters were rumored to prowl and the legendary Temple of Darkness was said to reside.

Concerned that Garen had deduced her destination and sent someone to capture her, Morigan shuffled off the road looking for a hiding place. Then the sound came again. A low cough and the steady clump-clump of hoof beats coming from the east and not behind her. The noises grew louder and eventually the high creak of wagon wheels become audible as well, followed soon after by a cloud of dust coming ever closer. Curious, the young witch stepped back on to the road and closed her eyes.

telëm ana sa Sanai nak.

The magic flowed swiftly through Morigan, sharpening her vision and allowing her to take in the scene approaching her. A single man, rotund and balding, sat steering a single-horse wagon down the empty road. He was dressed in a dirty brown habit with a rope belt around the waist, strained against his swelling stomach. Every few minutes his body was wracked with a fit of coughing, likely caused by dust being thrown behind the sauntering horse.

Rapidly forming a plan in her head, the conniving witch threw back her hood, revealing her sun scorched features, and dropped to one knee. As the cart drew near, the driver reined in his horse and focused on the figure kneeling uncomfortably near the side of the road. Despite poor eyesight and the bright sun, the friar could easily discern the shape of a woman, apparently rather distressed. Bringing the horse and cart to a stop a few feet from Morigan, the man endeavored to shift his great bulk and help the girl.
As the innocent man struggled slowly to his feet, Morigan sprang lightly to hers and transfixed her dark gaze upon the unlucky man.

ëcï nurna dlok thrü eth väns fö eth crasda.

The incantation rang clear and loud through the empty air. The effect, though unapparent, was immediate. The friar’s ascent from his seated position grew slower as he attempted to step down from the cart, but he found his body unresponsive.

Realizing, too late, he was the victim of a sinister spell, the friars’ eyes grew wide in shock and horror, even as the exposed skin of his face turned a faint blue. Small popping noises emanated from the man’s entire body and, within moments, he was frozen in place. The now frozen man, semi-conscious and quickly dying, faltered slightly on the edge of the cart, off balance in his frozen position with one leg hanging over the side. Silently, the helpless man fell the few short feet to the ground, accompanied by a sound like breaking glass, and breathed his last.

Morigan stepped back to admire her handiwork. She had frozen the blood in the man’s veins, effectively paralyzing him. The spell was reversible, if done quickly, but the man’s swift fall from the cart had been his ultimate end and the young woman found she had no remorse. Knowing the obese friar was too heavy to lift on her own, she traced another rune, a sigil meaning earth, into the dirt beside him and shifted the ground beneath him until he lay peacefully just off the road. Then, grabbing the horse’s reins in her soft hands, she uncoupled the cart and, with a sharp word and twist of her arm, shattered one of the front wheels.

Stepping into the middle of the road, horse’s reins still in hand, she stared hard in all directions. Seeing nothing and hearing little, save the wind in the tall grass and scattered birdsong, Morigan placed a hand on the horse’s bare back and heaved herself on. The horse was short, but strong and sure of foot, which would make the rest of her journey all the quicker and easier.

Kicking her new steed sharply, it broke into a light gallop, leaving its former master lying abandoned in the dirt on the side of the road. It could be several days before another traveler found the body of the unfortunate friar and his broken cart, while his untimely death would likely be tabbed as accidental. The hundreds of dirt road and paths that crisscrossed Phates Tak were poorly maintained and the seldom used east road out of Arcadia was no exception. Judging by the cart’s broken wheel and the unceremonious way the friar’s body was dumped beside the road, officials would assume the cart hit a rut, breaking a wheel and throwing the driver. The missing horse would have then broken from its harness and joined one of the many herds of wild stallions roaming the plains.

Morigan smiled to herself, sunburnt and beautiful face once again hidden beneath her black hood. Yesterday she had been hot, sore, miserable, and moving slowly, but her fortunes had completely changed. Two simple runes glowed slightly on the backs of her hands, keeping her cool, her progress had drastically increased with the acquisition of a horse, and she had killed a man with a spell of her own design.

She had read once that, before the herbalist Grache discovered antidotes for most known poisons, mages would freeze the blood in a poisoned victims exposed limb, stopping the toxin from spreading. If ancient mages had been able to freeze a small amount of blood, she had thought, why couldn’t I freeze someone’s entire blood supply?

Following her discovery, she spent many late nights capturing insects and rats as test subjects. Weeks and weeks of trial and error lead her to the proper incantation and soon she was successfully freezing every stray insect and vermin that crossed her path. She had even replicated the process with a black cat, ironically a gift from an unwanted suitor.

It was after freezing the cat that she discovered the process was reversible. As she gazed intently at the feline moments after she had spoken her incantation, she noticed her pet’s eyes still moved and its nose twitched. Thinking quickly, she reversed the spell by heating the frozen blood and life slowly returned to the tortured cat.

The steady clump of the horse’s hooves on the hard road interjected on Morigan’s thoughts and she sat up straighter, peering through the dust cloud at the mountains rising up before her. Somewhere on the lower slopes sat her father’s castle. Although she had never met her father, Malferna had often whispered stories of his greatness to her, speaking of his aptitude for dark magic and mastery of necromancy. Norris Drachil was considered the only real threat to the archsages since the salamandric dragon, Dalasandra, had wrecked havoc upon the nation of Akukynd in the 15th century.

‘Norris,’ the beautiful enchantress repeated to herself, ‘what a stupid name.’ Supposedly he could raise armies of the dead and command brutish creatures like ogres and trolls to do his bidding, but his name sure wasn’t striking fear into anyone. ‘Run, run, it’s Norris,’ the witch laughed to herself, unlikely anyone would remember that name, but her’s? Yes, her name would be remembered forever.
 
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CHAPTER 5: A Change of Plans

He sat upon his throne, waiting. Casting his eyes about the hall, he saw nothing. Nothing, save the table. It was neither large, nor small, short not tall. It sat before him mocking. A table for a single purpose. A semi-circle, the flat end facing the dais he sat upon, the rounded side facing the huge double doors opposite. Oaken doors, like the table. Wood, elven made then, not dwarven, dwarves would use stone. He squinted at the object of his misery. The four legs were intricately designed. Small leaves and vines carved delicately into them, twisting up them. Upon the top, more carvings. Runes. He could read them if he was but a bit closer, but his age no longer allowed it. The silence was broken. The doors creaked open. Slowly, he stood, an eye on the door, an eye on the table, but both seeing his fate.
Garen was expecting the interruption, but was disappointed when only a single, grey clad soldier made his way across the plush carpet toward him. Focusing on the entryway beyond the door, he could see several bodies milling about, but could not determine their identities. The Lord Archsage sighed internally. Old age is a curse, he thought, in my youth I could see a mile with my elf-eyes.

"Milord," the soldier had reached him, "one of your guests is late."

"Late," Garen muttered, sounding confused at the word. He focuses his gaze on the exterior hallway and squinted again. Berating himself for not thinking of it earlier, he recited an incantation to improve his vision. Immediately the haziness in his eye sight dissipated and he could clearly see the small group of spectacular individuals impatiently awaiting his summons in the foyer.

Nearest the door, leaning somewhat heavily on a long walking stick that the master archsage instantly recognized as a mage’s staff was a pure-blooded elf. His pale skin, thin face, and long pointed ears differentiated him from the half-elves, who, like Garen, had ruddier skin tones, rounder faces, and less distinctive ears. Strangely, his long, silky hair was a light purple color, an oddity even the centuries old archsage had never before witnessed. His garb was also an oddity, for, in addition to the staff, he carried a sword at his waist and was adorned in radiant silver plate armor, complete with a dark purple cape draped elegantly down his back. Directly opposite the elf was a short human in a dark robe with serious green eyes. He was scrutinizing the old elf with fascination. The neatly trimmed green hair stopped at the boy’s shoulders and his long bangs served to hide the red rune Garen knew to be emblazoned on his forehead. Soren was the boy’s name, a promising young time mage studying under the archonae. But the elf? Garen searched for the name, was his mind dulling as well as his eyes? StormBlade. The name finally came to him.

The final two visitors stood apart from StormBlade and Soren, conversing softly between themselves. A man and a woman, about the same height, her tall for a woman, him short for a man, were clearly related. They shared similar facial features and sharp brown eyes, eyes that hid an intelligence that belied their upbringing. Both were dressed simply and carried swords at their waists, but it was the hair that drew Garen’s attention. The man, Felix, had a mop of brown hair, unkempt and unremarkable, in outright contrast to his sister. Jenna had beautiful, thick and long red hair tied in a ponytail down her back. It was not the auburn red of most humans, which is more orange and contrasts with the typical albino skin of women who wear it, but a luxurious blood red that complemented her tan face wonderfully.
The half-elf Brisr Maji was missing. Typical, Garen thought, he is self-righteous prick if I have ever known one.

The grey-clad soldier shifted his feet as he waited patiently for his master’s answer. Hearing the scoff of the man’s feet, the Lord Archsage returned his attention to the matter at hand. Making a snap decision, he addressed the soldier.

”Send them away, I no longer have need of them.”

”Sir,” the man replied in a questioning tone, looking up at his liege.

”Now,” demanded Garen, his voice raising. He did not like to be questioned.

The soldier nodded and turned on his heel, returning the way he came. As he left to dismiss his lord’s guests, Garen called over the man’s shoulder.

”Have Colonel Redols report to me as well.”

The Lord Archsage slumped backwards onto his throne, suddenly exhausted. He had far outlived the normal life expectancy of a half-elf. Few ever reached the 1,000 mark and he was approaching 2,500, but his life seemed to be ebbing away more and more everyday. Magic had no doubt sustained him for this long, but he knew that soon even his magic would not be enough. He needed more. Thus, the coming endeavor. He had intended to send his guests upon the grand quest to seek out the artifacts he needed to ascend his mortal life. Five mortals, five artifacts. But without Brisr and after seeing his chosen champions, he had second thoughts. He would find another way. He could not undertake the venture himself, age would not allow him, he needed a new champion, though the man he had in mind would never be considered anything so heroic.

The heavy oak doors creaked open again and the decidedly plain façade of Colonel Lars Redols strode strongly into the room. Garen sat up straighter on the throne and waited for him to cross the long chamber. He could actually say he liked the older Redols, in a fashion. He was devoted, reticent, and fastidious. A true military man and a stable leader.

”Prompt, as always, Colonel,” stated the archsage, smiling down at the man.

Colonel Redols bowed and accepted the compliment silently.

”I have need for the assassin, Darsun,” Garen continued, “and have the servants remove this table.”

He waved his hand dismissively at the ornate piece of furniture still standing in the center of the room. The colonel bowed again, turned, and was gone without saying a word. Exactly how a man in his position should be, Garen thought. Lars left the doors open upon his exit and soon ten servants scurried into the room. Their simple cloth tunics, once white, were stained brown in many places and the scent of sweat and dirt reached the immaculately clean lord as they neared his resting place. No one spoke a word as five of the servants arranged themselves around the table and the other five each picked up a chair. They cleared the room as quickly as they entered, but left their pungent smell in the delicate nose of their lord.
Colonel Redols returned in due time with three men in tow. Two were members of the guard under his command and the third was chained between them like the animal he appeared to be. The soldiers partially drug the captive forward and dropped him before the resplendent throne.

Darsun smelled worse than the servants who removed the table and Garen briefly wondered why his olfactory sense hadn’t deteriorated with his sight and hearing. Pushing aside such petty thoughts, he observed the chained man with interest. He wore a battered and dirty black cloak pulled over his head, so his face and hair were currently hidden. His arms were bare of both clothing and hair, but decorated with a plethora of scars and tattoos. The rest of his body was hidden beneath the overly large cloak.
”Unchain this man and leave me with him,” the Lord Archsage ordered.

The two soldiers restraining the assassin glanced questioningly at their superior officer, clearly not wanting to leave their liege alone with an obviously dangerous man, but the colonel nodded his agreement and moved forward to release the prisoner. The colonel personally unlocked the shackles binding the convict’s feet, while the soldiers each removed the bonds tying them to each of the prisoner’s arms. The three guard members then left the fourth man lying motionless on the floor beneath his cloak, exited the chambers, and pulled the doors closed behind them.

A long silence followed, broken only by the ragged breathing of the prisoner, the only indication he was actually living. Neither man moved, but when Garen was satisfied they were alone, he spoke.

”Stand up.”

”Why,” the filthy man croaked from the floor, unmoving.

”Because I am your better and I demand it,” commanded Garen.

”Unlikely,” returned the assassin, but he did move himself to a seated position and threw back his hood.
Garen almost wished he hadn’t.

Darsun’s visage was as filthy and unbecoming as his clothing, something the Lord Archsage was unaccustomed to in his clean and well-organized world. Disgusting blonde hair was matted together with mud and grime, a small piece of his left ear was missing, and two nasty scars decorated his face. The blue eyes were cold beneath bushy, unkempt eyebrows and several teeth were missing from his crooked smile. The first scar, running over the right eye and back toward the ear, existed when the two first met two decade prior, but the second, starting on his left cheek and running down the neck passed the collarbone, was fresh. Opposite the second scar was a tattoo that ran from the jaw line to the right pectoral. He wore no shirt, possibly to display his scars and body tattoos and the grubby leather pants, which ended mid-shin, had seen better days. The muddy, calloused feet were bare and he was missing two toes, the middle of each foot.

Satisfied with Garen´s reaction to his face, Darsun gave a nasty smile and asked, “What do you want?”
”I want a better option, but you will have to do,” responded the archsage sardonically, “I have a mission for you.”

”And why would I do anything for you,” returned Darsun, in a similar tone, spitting on the spotless marble floor, “you had me imprisoned for over a year on no grounds.”

Garen cringed at the liquid on the floor, but pushed on.

”Your crimes are numerous and heinous and the only reason you have not been executed is because you are my descendant.”

Darsun snorted derisively, “you only seem to remember that when you need something from me that you are unable to attain for yourself.”

”Was it not you who came to me two decades ago seeking sanctuary with your long lost ancestor because your parents were dead and you didn’t want to live in squalor?” the Lord Archsage rebuked.
”We both see how well that went,” the assassin responded, picking a bug off his arm and flicking it across the chamber. Garen visibly shuddered.

”I set you a simple task, you failed.”

”I would hardly call collecting magical artifacts that have disappeared from historical records ‘simple’ and I didn’t fail,” Darsun thought for a moment about his next words, “I decided to take a different path.”
”You decided you would take advantage of my charity,” the archsage took a loop of string from inside his sleeve and tossed it to the assassin, “yet I am giving you a chance at redemption.”

The loop of string landed a few feet in front of Darsun and he leaned forward to pick it up. On the loop were seven rings: red, dark blue, light blue, green, brown, black, and yellow. The dirt-stained fingers ran over each one in turn, when satisfied Darsun pushed the loop and rings into his pocket and stood.

”What do you want?” he repeated.

”I need you to collect something for me,” answered Garen simply.

Darsun rolled his eyes, “I should have guessed. What is in it for me?”

”You expect something more than the rings and your freedom?”

”Clearly,” replied Darsun.

Sighing, the Lord Archsage leaned over the arm of his throne and picked up a pair of non-descript, yet clean, black boots. He tossed them to Darsun who greedily snatched them up and slid them on his butchered feet.

”Anything else,” the assassin pushed.

”No,” Garen responded definitively, “that is enough.”

”Wrong,” smiled Darsun, his missing teeth making the gesture horrifying, “I shall be leaving then.”

Before the assassin could disappear, Garen stood and took a step off the dais.

“Wait.”

Darsun halted.

”If your venture if successful, I will no longer be in need of this throne. I will leave it to you.”

The normally expressionless scarred face was intrigued.

”And the kingdom?”

”Yours,” replied Garen painfully, “as rightful heir of my line.”

”Deal,” said the assassin, his smile broadening.

Turning, he drew a vertical line through the air before him and a dark rift opened in the air. Waving sarcastically to his great grandfather, he stepped into the void and vanished.

”You may need this,” Garen called to the empty room, picking up a file from his abandoned chair and holding it in the air.

Another, smaller rift opened near the throne, a scarred and tattooed arm shot out, seized the case, and disappeared once more. Alone in the room once more, the Lord Archsage slumped back onto his throne and closed his eyes. If this works, I will be the most powerful being on Phates Tak, he thought. And if he fails, you will die, another voice reminded him.

***

Darsun walked leisurely across the stormy landscape of The Void, basking in the power that surged around him and contemplating his next move. With the Fade Striders back on his feet, he could go anywhere and hide for an eternity, unseen by the world around him. Their use came at a price and his mutilated toes reminded him of that price every time he took a step. In his opinion, however, they were worth the cost. In fact, if he had lost all his toes, it would have been worth the power. With the unassuming black boots, he could access The Void, a dimension parallel to the Takian Realms that housed the souls of malevolent dead, from any location in Phates Tak and was immune to the influence and destructive potential of the disembodied souls. On his first trip to The Void, the voices calling out to him had nearly driven him to madness, but he had long since blocked the cries out.

On the other hand, with the Seven Justices back in his possession, it was likely he could achieve whatever quest Garen had concocted for him. And let’s be real, he thought, who doesn’t want a throne.
As he walked, he came across a stream of bubbling orange liquid and paused. For the most part, The Void was empty of everything. The ground, though occasionally rocky, was primarily flat and composed of coarse black sand, while the sky was constantly filled with black storm clouds, although Darsun had never witnessed rain. The temperature was neither hot not cold, yet was oppressive and lacking even a hint of breeze. The landscape spanned forever in every direction with only the occasional acidic river breaking the monotony. Darsun was unsure exactly what the viscous orange liquid was, but years ago his curiosity had nearly lost him a hand. A shocking ally had saved the dying appendage and he thanked his great luck for her existence on a daily basis.

Coming to a decision, he opened a tiny rift in The Void and peered out. He hadn’t wandered far. Widening the rift, he threw the tattered hood of his black cloak over his head and stepped into an empty alleyway. He stuck to the alleys and shadows until he skirted the busy market district and sidled up beside an inn with a sign swinging above the door naming it The Devil’s Anvil. Darsun slid stealthily through the front door. It was early in the day and only a single patron, sitting with his back to the door, occupied the dining room. Walking silently to the bar, he tapped once on the rough wooden surface and a tall, barrel-chested bartender stepped out of the kitchen.

”Another chicken for the pot,” recited Darsun, taking a single bronze coin from a pouch he had stolen from a man in the Market District, he slid it across the bar to the stone-faced man.

”Room 17,” the man replied simply, tossing the coin into a copper pot behind the bar.

Darsun nodded and headed down the hallway. The door to Room 17 was unlocked and the thief pushed it open. Like most cheap inns, the room had only a table, a chair, and a bed decorating it, but the squirrelly man had been living in a dungeon for a year so he wasn’t particular. Taking the sole chair, he wedged it under the door handle to prevent disturbances, then pulled the table adjacent to the bed and sat down. Opening the file Garen had given him, he began to leaf through the information. Five artifacts, one for each of the elemental magics. Each protected by a royal family or dangerous individual. Two would be difficult to attain, two would be easy, and the fifth could require dancing with a dragon.

Darsun slid the pieces of vellum back into the file and laid his head on the pillow. He had his freedom and his power, should he risk his life for the prospect of a throne? It was true he had taken advantage of Garen's charity as a child, but what impoverished and orphaned teenager who discovers he descends from the Lord Archsage wouldn’t. His family had done phenomenal work tracking their lineage since Garen had tossed aside his first son, born of his wife Meno'a who had died of birthing complications. Thus, when Darsun's parents were slaughtered by bandits, their sole inheritance was the lineage they had kept for forty-five generations. When Darsun had arrived in Arcadia two decades previous, Garen was unable to refute the relation, but was also unwilling to welcome him with open arms. Therefore, the archsage turned to exploitation. Although Garen offered his ample resources and wealth to aid the young boy, he set upon him the task of acquiring the Seven Justices, a set of magical rings enchanted by the 500th Council of Mages.

At first, the inexperienced teenager had abused Garen's charity, using the money to dress himself in the richest clothes, dine in the finest establishments, and sleep in the wealthiest inns. However, concerned the Lord Archsage would withdraw his blessing, but more importantly the money to which he had become accustomed; Darsun set out to make progress in his quest. Surprisingly, he found his first ring, Night’s Justice, for sale at an apothecary in New City. After paying an ample fee for its possession and instructions on its use, Darsun sent word to his great grandfather of his progress.

The assassin shook his head, causing dirt to shake loose on the white pillow. He remembered the short missive vividly. I expected more.

After that disappointment, he re-doubled the search, desperate to please the man and maintain his wealthy connection. His pursuit was in vain. He was only able to locate a single ring and no amount of money would pry it from its owner. The next missive from Garen hit hard. You are no heir of mine.
After that, the money stopped and the rich clothes and fancy inns became tattered rags and muddy alleys. Desperate and starving, he turned to his one possession, Night’s Justice. Using the ring’s magic to shroud himself in the darkness of a cloudless night, he snuck into a mansion near Arcadia. Practically invisible, the thief succeeded in stealing both food and money from the prosperous owners, but, more importantly, he discovered the thrill of crime and power of black magic. No longer interested in the wealth of his ancestor, Darsun turned to stealing only what he needed to survive, while he searched for dark artifacts to increase his power.

To his disappointment, unlike his ring, most required inherent magic, of which he had none, to utilize. The Fade Striders, however, were different. Learning of their existence and location from a young shaman he kidnapped and tortured, his desire for their power led to the boy’s first murder. Over the next decade, he would use their power, and that of Night’s Justice, to lie, cheat, steal, and murder his way into the possession of the other six rings. Perhaps more importantly than attaining the Justices were the associates he acquired along the way: the Thief Lord, Callen; the Flame Witch, Enjol; and the Mermaid Princess, Ahrá’el. The filthy man’s thoughts ran to the final one, the mermaid princess, as he pulled the no longer white sheet over his disgusting body. She had saved his life once and, inexplicably, fallen in love with him. The Tortured Man, she called him, referring to his scars and tattoos. Yes, the Water Shard would be first and easiest, he thought, if I am lucky, my “fiancé” will gift it to me as a wedding present. Smiling at his own nefariousness, he drifted off to sleep with dreams of his new kingdom dancing through his head.

CHAPTER 6: The Curse

The Lords of Fire. Three towering volcanoes whose peaks soared over even the highest mountains in the extensive Kneron Range. Mount Varfungr, the most northern peak, was named for the dwarven archsage Varfungr, who gave his life to seal the mighty inferno dragon, Dalasandra, at its core. The central peak, Mount Nevarus, received its name from a half-elf whom had discovered that the Fire Sea was fed from the heart of the mountain, while the barren Mount Krynakus was said to be the home of the legendary Golden Dragon.

A solitary brown bear weaved its way up a seemingly well-known path near the mouth of the southern peak, Krynakus. Vegetation was sparse on the mountaintop and the temperature was sweltering, despite the lofty elevation. The brown bear pushed a small rock off the narrow trail and continued its solitary climb. No birds or beast interrupted its steady walk, as few animals could survive in the thin air and those that could refused to tempt the wrath of the fabled dragon. The bear seemed unperturbed by either, however, and pushed itself over a fire-blasted boulder and into the crater of the behemoth volcano.
A winding staircase, carved from the igneous rock within the crater, led down toward the mountain’s core. Standing on two legs, the bear began to slowly descend and, as it did, its shaggy hair began to recede. As the hair made way for pale flesh, the rippled muscles withered and the towering beast shrank slowly to human size. Tendons popped and snapped as the muzzle retreated into the face and teeth re-formed and dulled in the now-human mouth. By the time the once powerful brown bear reached a small landing at the base of the stairs, it had been replaced with a young girl in loose fitting tan robes and a brown cloak. Her long brown hair rested carelessly on her back, without a breeze to blow through it, and her brown eyes twinkled to match the wide smile that played on her lips.

Glancing around to confirm that she was alone, the girl approached the smooth crater wall, searching for the smallest imperfection in its glossy surface. Finding the tiny blemish, little more than a chip in the sheer rock face, she began to trace a simple rune around the unassuming spot. Upon its completion, the wall erupted into flames, outlining a large door. As the fire melted away, the girl stepped through the door and was met by a stone sword.

“State your business, Tricia Jae,” a gravely, inhuman voice demanded briefly.

Tricia forced a smile, but had to suppress a chill. The statue standing before her, one of two that guarded the castle within the mountain, had stepped down from its pedestal to the left of the magical door. In its hand was a long sword of stone, while its partner, which remained unmoving on a pedestal, carried a matching shield. She knew from experience they would do her no harm, but something about them was unnerving. Once, before the magical doors were enchanted, they had fended off a fire dragon who had attempted to make the cavern its home.

Shaking off her nerves, she set herself and answered in a steady voice.

“I come seeking the archsage, Tarapak Berem, who calls this mountain his home. His presence is requested by the exalted lord of Arcadia.”

“The master,” the statue responded, referring to Tarapak, “is currently absent. He will return at his own will.” The solid black man, carved from the volcano itself, showed no emotion and his voice remained monotone.

Tricia waited expectantly, thinking the statue would lower its sword and let her pass. Several long moments passed, but still the emotionless face showed no inclination to stand down. Stepping to one side, TJ hoped to bypass the guardian, but it followed her movements with the igneous sword, blocking her path.

“Stand down, Golem.”

The command floated down the hallway behind the statue as if carried by a breeze, yet it carried a resonating authority. Immediately, the guardian lowered it sword and took two steps backwards, returning to its plinth. Anyone passing would presume it an ordinary statue, albeit one carved of an extraordinary substance.

“Mistress,” TJ said simply, bowing slightly, as the owner of the voice rounded the corner.

“The is no need to be so formal, TJ,” the woman replied with a smile that seemed to light the entire cavern, “we are friends after all.

The mage nodded, but did not speak. It was true, the two women were well-acquainted, as TJ had spent most of her childhood in the castle, but she saw the striking figure before her more as a mother figure than a friend.

“You seem troubled, dear girl,” the lady continued, taking Tricia’s hand, “come sit in the study and tell me your worries.”

The younger woman let herself be led away, trying to keep stride with the graceful older woman. Sconces on the wall, filled with the dwarven-mined powder known as fyrust—a fine dust that once lit was nearly impossible to extinguish—lit the dim, underground corridor, yet the long, golden hair of Tricia’s companion seemed to be the strongest source of illumination in the cavern.

Entering a large room with a low circular table surrounded by heavily cushioned chairs, the golden-haired woman motioned for Tricia to sit. Raising a hand, the torches, which had been burning low, rose up to light the room and a roaring fire blazed to life in the hearth. Selecting a chair with its back to the fire, TJ sat gently down and turned her attention to the woman occupying the chair directly opposite her.
Despite having grown up around the woman, her unique look never failed to fascinate. She was an average height for a human female, though somewhat slender for her size. Long, golden tresses outlined a smooth, flawless tan face, but it was the eyes which captivated. The deep, golden eyes, normally accompanied by a bright smile, always gave Tricia a feeling of deep peace and security. Yet anyone who knew the true nature of this woman would always question the purpose of those feelings.

Choosing her words carefully, TJ addressed her “friend.”

“I know you only wish to help, Chrislan, but I must really speak with Master Berem.” The young shape-shifter paused for a quick breath, relishing in the clean air of the volcanic domicile. “My thoughts are troubled, but such was the life I was born into. You have my gratitude for your comfort, but there are events taking shape that our mutual ally must know off.”

Chrislan smiled, the warmth of her golden eyes ostensibly heating Tricia’s face, as the blazing fire did her back. The older woman took no offense at TJ withholding the information. Although the two held a deep trust for one another, a trust forged through years of training and hardship, Tricia also knew the woman’s true nature and would not lightly part with information Garen had provided her. Working as a double agent wore on the girl’s psyche and Chrislan, who loved TJ like a daughter, would do nothing to worsen her already troubled existence.

Standing, the older woman offered Tricia a light meal, which the shape-shifter politely refused. Smiling her radiant smile, Chrislan turned on her heel, golden hair whirling behind her and catching the firelight, and left the room. TJ let out a long breath. She was exhausted. Pushing herself up from the chair, limbs now feeling leaden, the young girl followed Chrislan toward the corridor. As she exited the room, the flames in the sconces about the wall lowered and the fire in the hearth died completely.

Dragging her feet across the smooth floors of the wide hallway, Tricia slowly made her way up to the cavern’s second floor. Coming to the room she had called her own before re-locating to Arcadia several year’s prior, she shoved open the door and slumped onto the bed, knocking a small chair to the cool stone floor in the process. The young mage suppressed a yawn as she glanced around the familiar room and picked up a small leather bound book from the bedside table. Leafing through the first dozen pages, memories of her training came flooding back to her.

Learning to shift the stones beneath her feet. Magical sparring with Berem and Chrislan. Fending off attacks from the golems. This place held so many memories.

Another yawn interrupted her interlude and, placing the tome back on the table, she stretched out on the bed, laying her head on the soft down pillow. The dying rays from the sun shone brightly through the lone window in the bedroom. Berem’s mountain fortress possessed just two windows, both angled upwards so inhabitants could view the sky over the lip of the volcano’s deep crater. Fighting off another yawn, Tricia resigned herself to a night of fitful sleep, but as she closed her eyes, she caught a glimpse of a magnificent bird circling high overhead.

The brilliant red avian, with its elegant crest swooping back over its head and vivid gold tail feathers reflecting the setting sun, was the picture of regality. A phoenix, Tricia thought. Smiling, she drifted off to sleep.

***

A lone bird rode the winds high overhead, its brilliant red plumage and gold crest foreign to its sole onlooker. Suddenly the bird dove, spiraling quickly downward, landing effortlessly on the shoulder of a ferocious mountain bear. The bear stood erect, walking steadily through the lush plains of Emag, not a care in the world. Unexpectedly, the bear turned sharply to stare at its observer. The brute stood over eight feet tall, its shaggy brown coat blowing in the light breeze, and its sharp claws glinted in the sunlight, but instead of a bear’s strong muzzle and jaws, it wore the mask a young girl. A familiar girl.

Without warning, a beam of pale blue light shot out of the ground behind and to the left of the pair of strange animals. Immediately, a second beam of light shot from the ground directly right of the first, this one a brilliant navy blue. A third beam of light, a rich purple, erupted next surrounding the two animals; then a fourth, pure green and shimmering, forward of the navy blue. A long pause followed as the final beam, which should have been fiery red, failed to shine forth. A great force trembled the earth, causing the dazzling lights to falter, then…darkness.

Lindae Aercho sat bolt upright in bed, shaking slightly from reliving the dream for what seemed like the hundredth time. Each time she waited for the red light to emerge from the ground, each time it failed to come forth. For several weeks now the dream had haunted her sleep. For several weeks its meaning had haunted her waking hours. Yet after all this time, she had no clue the purpose of her dream, nor the identity of the bear who wore such a familiar mask.

A shiver ran up the girl’s spine, despite the warm evening. Glancing around the dark room, nothing moved, save the curtain dancing in the breeze, illuminated by the full moon. Setting aside her uneasy thought, the worried archsage returned to her troubled sleep.

***

“How is she?” Tarapak Berem asked, the last few feather, the golden ones that formed the phoenix’s crest, receding into his head.

“Troubled,” answered Chrislan, a sad look upon her face, “yet she sleeps peacefully, let’s not disturb her.”
Berem nodded and stepped through the high arched doorway into his well-hidden domicile. Chrislan, sensing his approach, had met him on the landing outside the castle’s secret entrance. Striding passed the two obsidian golems, the legendary archsage made his way to TJ’s room. Pushing the door open slightly, he gazed in on the sleeping girl.

“You would not suspect, seeing her rest so peacefully, the accursed life she leads,” Berem stated matter-of-factly.

Chrislan nodded a remained silent. Silence reigned for several minutes as the two ancient beings watched the steady rise and fall of the young girl’s chest as she slept. The golden haired lady finally broke the stillness.

“Did you find the answers you sought?”

“Partially,” the archsage responded, “though we can truly confirm nothing.”

He pulled the door closed and retreated down the hallway. Returning to the sitting room, which Tricia and Chrislan had used earlier in the day, he slumped heavily into a chair without bothering to ignite the fire or torches. Sitting in the dim light, Chrislan standing behind him with a slender hand on his right shoulder, Berem breathed a deep sigh.

“I have motive to believe that Tricia Jae is the daughter of Norris, master of Vangaar Keep. Though I do not think Malferna is her mother, as is the case with Norris’ other daughter, Morigan. It is likely that the warlock was unhappy with Tricia’s magical potential, thus he cursed her to wander the wilderness in the form of a bear.”

Leaving Tarapak’s side and foregoing the chairs situated about the room, Chrislan sat gently upon the short, circular table and crossed her legs. “Why Norris,” she asked, peering into the archsage’s eyes, “and who do you believe the mother to be?”

“Norris is one of a handful of people with the power and knowledge to perform such a feat. The others being myself and several archsages who haven’t left the confines of Arcadia in a few centuries.” Berem removed his gaze from Chrislan’s, instead staring thoughtfully at the smoothly curved ceiling. “Her mother could be one of many women, Norris has entertained dozens of consorts throughout the years. I find Malferna an unlikely prospect because TJ lacks much of the raw power that her half-sister, Morigan, possesses.”

Chrislan sighed deeply, regretting the possibility that the two girls, Morigan and Tricia, so different in every way, were related. Tricia was kind-hearted and loyal, hard-working and diligent. Morigan was corrupt and brutal, though her innate power was unmistakable.

“Which girl is the elder?” she wondered aloud.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Tarapak stated, “the curse could have either quickened or slowed the aging process. She appears to be in her early twenties, which would make Morigan the elder, but there is no way to ascertain the truth. All we know is, by some miracle, she discovered us ten years ago and, since the curse was broken, she has aged physically very little.”

“Does the Council agree with your theories about her lineage?” the elegant woman asked, shifting her position slightly.

“I do not know,” Tarapak’s voice lowered and a look of frustration contorted his face, “Master Jeran altered the date and location of the meeting to ensure I was not included.” A mixture of shock and anger mottled Chrislan’s beautiful face, but Berem continued. “Though he received my message about attending, he deemed my concerns petty and worried my presence would cause undue stress in this prolonged time of peace.” Tarapak snorted derisively, an action unlike the usually composed archsage.

“Damian is a senile fool, whose position with The Council has made him soft and unwise,” Chrislan retorted angrily.

Berem laughed aloud, he enjoyed when his friend angered, unless it was directed towards him. “Perhaps Master Jeran has grown soft, but his wisdom remains intact. He has remained Master of the Council of Magic for three decades for a reason and though I am still an honored member, my presence is normally a call for alarm. I spoke with him at length and he agrees with my assumptions.”

“You can not take a single man’s opinion, though it may match your own, as confirmation,” his friend responded, her anger lessened, though still evident.

Tarapak nodded, returning his gaze to the golden eyes. “Precisely, thus I returned home via Imononanai and the Queen of Time’s library. The elves could find no record of TJ’s birth. Norris’ actions have always been a mystery to them. Though there is no solid proof, no plausible alternatives can be established.”

“Will you tell the girl?” Chrislan asked, her anger fading fully, making way for the sadness in her voice.

“I don’t know if I have the heart,” Berem said, his mask of sadness identical to that of his mysterious friend.

The archsage stood and walked to the back of the room where a tall table was illuminated by a single purple lantern. Upon the table was a chess board, but the pieces were not in their standard starting positions. Three of the pawns on each side had moved forward and the black queen was situated on the far right side of the board. Chrislan joined Berem beside the table and as the two watched, a white bishop slid forward into the middle of the board. Without hesitation, the black queen captured the bishop and placed the white king in a state of check. Tarapak frowned, "it has begun.”

***

The night passed swiftly, neither Chrislan nor Berem taking any rest. Tricia woke near dawn the next morning to the smell of warm apple cider and eggs, her favorite. Stretching and yawning, she made her way to the kitchen where she found the archsage finishing a large skillet of scrambled eggs and a cup of warm apple cider at her place on the table. Smiling, she sat and enjoyed her breakfast. The conversation over the meal started lightly, but eventually turned to the series of events Morigan had set in motion. Tricia updated Tarapak on Morigan’s escape, her probable destination, and Garen’s increased fervor to recover the Element Shards and restore the Stone of Sages. Malferna’s uneventful arrest intrigued Berem. After eating her fifth slice of toast with honey, TJ pushed back her chair and made ready to leave. The archsage escorted her to the hidden mountain door. Before Tricia began to morph into her bear form, Chrislan appeared in the hallway, calling to halt her departure. Coming up between the other two, Chrislan produce a small tome from behind her back.

“Take this with you, it will come in handy,” she said, handing the small book TJ had been browsing the night before to its rightful owner.

“Thank you, drache,” the young girl bowed graciously, using Chrislan’s ancestral name.

Tricia turned to leave again, but Berem called her back.

“Wait, there is something I must tell you.” The archsage steeled himself, knowing the weight of the knowledge he prepared to impart. After a short pause, his nerve failed. “Good luck, I feel I will see you soon.”

Tricia smiled, and turning a final time, ascended the long staircase, reverting to the bear form that was both a curse and a gift.
 
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CHAPTER 7: Army of Darkness

Morigan sat in her father’s study, listening to the dark-haired warlock drone on about the forbidden magics of transfusion and necromancy. Boring, she sighed to herself. Despite the nearly three centuries that separated father and daughter, it was possible that Morigan knew more about the forbidden arts than the aging half-elf. He had spent his younger years studying in the Temple of Darkness, had even passed on an opportunity to become the High Priestesses prime escort, but she grew up with the wealth of Phates Tak's knowledge at her fingertips. Twirling her long, black hair around her finger like a whimsical teenager, she continued to stare blankly at her father.

"Clearly, you believe you are the expert and I the novice," Norris suddenly changed the subject. His voice was gruff, but even, and Morigan jolted out of her bored trance.

"Possibly," the young girl returned, not knowing the warlock's game and upset that her expression had given away her feelings, “you have yet to enlighten me further than my studies in that god-forsaken temple."

Raising an eyebrow, somewhat surprised, Norris asked the obvious, "those uppity archsages teach you the dark and forbidden arts?"

Morigan laughed shrilly before answering her incredulous father.

"I am an archsage myself, father," she spoke the word with distaste, "and the basics of dark magic are required for such a designation. As for mastering them, there are far better teachers in that musty, stifling temple than your decrepit old castle.

Norris smile sardonically, but before he could retort, she continued.

"As for the arts termed 'forbidden' by those who believe themselves to be overly righteous...," her voice trailed off as eyes glazed over recalling the moonless nights she spent sneaking into the library's secret vaults to discover their mysteries.

Remembering the danger and intrigue of those excursions physically excited the still-inexperienced girl and she shivered as a chill ran up her spine. Although her mother was a skilled and experienced archsage, whose age and origins were unknown even to the archonae, transfusion and necromancy had been foreign to her, thus Morigan had risked life and freedom to ascertain their deepest secrets. Together, the centuries-old Malferna and her then-teenage daughter, had unraveled the clandestine arts, hidden from the world since the Age of Creation. The young witch had even discovered two thin, black and silver volumes designed with intricate runes and covered in layers of dust that had been stolen by a young initiate named Lé'endra. A small journal found with the tomes chronicled Le'endra's hellish flight from the Temple of Darkness and across the plains of Emag. She had been pursued by agents of darkness for two weeks during the coldest part of the winter months. The cold, darkness, and a subtle poison gnawed away at her the entire time, but she successfully delivered the two evil texts to the elven outpost of Valen. All the memories of those black nights and blacker days came flooding back to her at once and she shuddered. Opening her sparkling black eyes, she noticed her father watching her expectantly.

Smiling ruefully, he turned on his heel and spoke back over his shoulder as he took long strides toward the door, "perhaps I have underestimated you, Morigan. Your flashes of memory are clouded, but if you truly discovered the Books of the Lost Arts, you have great knowledge indeed."

It was Morigan's turn to be surprised. Legilimency, or the ability to read another's mind or emotions, was a rare skill, one she was unaware the warlock possessed. In addition, the archsage Wyn had taught her the art of occlumency, which clouds the mind and makes it difficult to infiltrate. Norris had reached the room's threshold and begun descending the winding stairs from the tower that served as a study before his daughter overcame her shock. She hurried after the older man, but she struggled to keep up with his long, powerful strides. The half-elf was just over three centuries old, middle-aged for someone of his race, yet signs of age were apparent in his appearance. His human heritage was far more evident than his elvish, which may have accounted for the streaks of white in his shoulder-length black hair and the lines appearing around his eyes and mouth. Despite the signs of age, Morigan had difficulty keeping pace and on one occasion only caught sight of his long, black cloak as it whipped around a bend in the hallway at the base of the stairs. The young archsage, slightly winded, finally tracked down the swift half-elf as he stood before a blank stone wall in a portion of the castle she had yet to visit.

Placing one bony, off-white hand on the wall just below eye level, Norris took a deep breath and, using the index finger of his opposite hand, traced a small rune on each of the splayed fingers pressed against the wall. The sigil glowed a soft blue until he completed the final rune, then all five began burning an angry red on his skin. A look of intense pain passed swiftly over the warlock’s face. As the pained expression faded, a low grinding sound emanated from the wall. Slowly, a section of the wall slid back revealing another spiral staircase leading downward. Dimly burning sconces lined the walls, throwing spookily dancing shadows about the walls as Morigan and her father descended in silence. Long minutes ticked away in the gloom as they strode on, the temperature slowly dropping, while the air and walls became moist. A fetid smell suddenly hit Morigan and she took a step backwards. Norris, unaffected by the grotesque stench rising from below, paused to wait as his young daughter recovered her senses and finally broke the utter silence that pervaded the long, serpentine staircase.

"Lord Varfungr once ruled these mountains and stored his greatest treasures deep in this vault. Although most had been plundered by the time I arrived, I now keep a sort of treasure within these vaults as well."

Morigan, weary of his mysterious attitude, started to snap at him, but stopped abruptly as they rounded a final corner and a massive cavern opened in front of her. She was standing on a wide ledge at the base of the stairs with her father, a separate set of steps to her left led down into the copious space she now overlooked. Much like the corridor from which they had come, the cavern was dimly lit, causing whatever moved about in the space below to toss strange, dancing shadows upon the walls. The fetid smell was overpowering now and Morigan held a hand over her nose and mouth in an attempt to mask the horrid stench. Glancing at her father, his features skeletal in the dim light, she noticed the warlock watching her expectantly, waiting for a reaction. Turning her attention back to the cavern, she squinted, but could make out little in the darkness. Closing her eyes, she muttered a short incantation which would allow her to see in the darkness and when she re-opened her eyes, she gasped.

Milling about in the grand space beneath her, packed together tightly despite the wide open space, were thousands of undead. Wights, revenants, bonewalkers, even several large draugr with their reptilian flesh peeling away from old bones jostled about beneath her. The putrefied flesh and rotting bones of the mass of undead explained the nearly unbearable stench that occupied every nook and cranny of the mountain's interior. A flash of movement caught the astounded witch's eye. Following a thin stream of white smoke, she traced the movement to a small alcove near the cavern's lofty ceiling. Again the girl was taken aback. Darting quickly in and out of the tiny recess were numerous wisps, spirits of the undead in their natural form. Norris, satisfied with the effect his long years of work had on the overconfident archsage, grasped Morigan's arm just above the elbow and led her gently down the stairs toward the creatures splayed before them. Still recovering from shock, she did not resist. The young woman expected to be led all the way to the floor of the cavern, she even spotted another door on the far wall, one that the undead seemed to be avoidin. She was surprised, therefore, when Norris halted little more than halfway into their descent. Placing his hand on a section of wall and repeating the process he had in the hallway far above them, Norris pushed open another hidden door.

Witch and warlock together walked through the door and it slid quietly into place behind them. Torches flared up on the walls and the temperature rose dramatically. The air was much fresher and Morigan took deep breaths to replace the stagnant and stinking air of the undead cavern. Rising before her was another long staircase. The girl sighed, she was tired of stairs. The return trip to the surface was quicker, however, and Morigan was relieved when she saw a large wooden door appear in the corridor above them. Norris, reaching the door before his daughter, pushed it open and sunlight flooded the tunnel, causing Morigan to shield her eyes. As she approached the doorway, strange noises reached her ears, echoing down the passageway. Loud snuffling noises, vicious growls, and high-pitched shrieks caused the weary woman to increase her pace to investigate. Stepping into the sunlight, she again found herself amazed at her father's handiwork.

She was standing at the edge of a cliff, again looking down at the toils of her father's dark magic. Nestled in a small valley, with Vangaar Keep looming protectively in the mountains above, sat the remnants of the city of Vangaar. Occupying the long abandoned city, with its myriad shops and houses in ruins beneath their feet, were dark creatures of every race. Most numerous of the creatures were the goblins, disgusting little creatures created by the fusing of elves and dwarves through dark magic. The goblins were spread out across the entire valley floor, many being bullied by the larger monstrosities, but each of the other races staked a claim to a specific portion of the ruined village.

To the east were trolls, tallest of the creatures. Their skin, a pale brown, was covered in coarse and darker brown hair and, in a way, they resembled the dwarves and humans used to give birth to their kind. To the west ogres; shorter and fatter than the trolls, they were the unholy merging of elves and dwarves. Their tough hide was a deep green, scaly in places and devoid of hair. Many had extended lower canines that jutted above their upper lips and resembles tusks. Further east, partially hidden by a collapsed building and potentially being protected by the ogres, was a single behemoth. Behemoths were the rarest of dark creatures, coming from the union of minotaur and humans. Its bullish face, complete with long, curved horns, was distinctly minotaur, but the creature, though possessing tough, leathery grey hide, entirely lacked hair. Its powerful tail was curled around the backside of the demolished structure and huge, dull teeth were visible in the gaping mouth.

Tearing her eyes from the hulking quadruped, she focused on the black skinned orcs gathered in the northern portion of the valley. They were fewer in number than the trolls and ogres, but their lean, well-muscled physiques and battle acumen made them the most formidable of the arrayed forces. They stood proudly, backs straight, ugly deformed faces serious, behind a single orc with stiff, white hair; a contrast to the standard black hair of the horde. Although dwarves are common in the mountains, Morigan briefly wondered how Norris had come to possess the three dozen minotaur it would have taken to assemble such a force. Like most of the creatures displayed before her, minotaur had been hunted to extinction during The Scouring in the ninth century.

A great roar rose from the assembled army, greeting their master and creator with war calls and raucous laughter. The orcs, adorned in heavy steel armor, stomped their booted feet in unison, a sign of respect for the warlock. Norris held up a hand to silence them. Turning to his daughter, he spoke solemnly.

"Lying before you is my legacy, centuries of study and practice has allowed me to return many of these creatures from the brink of extinction. With this army, I can march on Arcadia and bring an end to the archsages, but I can not do it without you." Norris paused and glanced at his daughter, his normally emotionless features struggling to maintain composure.

A heavy silence now hung over the valley, replacing the cacophonous mixture of sounds that had previously echoed through the mountains. Morigan met her father's gaze.

”What possible help could an archsage be to the all-powerful Norris?” she responded sarcastically.
”Your mother’s attitude does not suit you,” the elf-half sneered in return, “and, in all seriousness, you possess both knowledge and powers that I do not.”

”I am listening,” returned Morigan, brushing off the comment about her personality and basking in the praise.

Norris rolled his eyes at the immature girl, but she failed to notice.

”The wisps and other undead currently inhabit the cavern below because they need a constant connection to The Void. Using an intricate and complicated network of runes, I have been able to tie them to this plane, but if they were to leave that cavern, each and every one would be drawn back into The Void.”

”And?” questioned Morigan, only partially understanding her father’s situation and enjoying the effect she was having on him.

”You have seen the ancient texts,” he pushed, his frustration becoming more evident, “you know how Narcissa was able to lead them across the continent.”

Morigan ran her deft fingers through her beautiful black hair and she thought back, once more, to the discovery and study of those texts. Although she had been pivotal in their reclamation, Malferna saw her as much more of a tool than an equal and kept many of the secrets to herself. Embarrassed at her lack of wisdom, she concentrated on the tip of Norris’s long nose, unable to make eye contact as she admitted the truth.

”I don’t know.”

”You don’t know,” the warlock replied, confused, then angry, and then returning to frustration.

”No,” responded Morigan, regaining her composure, “Malferna did not share all of the books’ secrets with me, but you can ask her yourself when she arrives.”

”She is coming here,” he exclaimed, a brief look of fear distorting his features before he too regained composure, “when?”

The girl shrugged, she honestly didn’t know, but she enjoyed watching the warlock sweat at the thought of his former concubine joining them at her own convenience. She knew both her parents were powerful, and she planned to usurp them both in time, but the terror at which her father displayed at the mere mention of Malferna’s name was telling.

”Perhaps you can aid me in another endeavor,” Norris began.

Morigan simply raised an eyebrow, she didn’t like to be goaded. I am not going to play his little games or start finishing his sentences, she thought to herself.

The warlock sighed aloud, reacting to the look. Taking Morigan by the arm, he led her up an earthen slope to the left. A short climb led to a balcony overlooking the valley and a stone pathway curling around the north side of the castle. The witch, shaking loose of her father’s grip, followed him through a set of glass doors on the balcony and into a luxurious chamber she knew to be part of his living quarters. After passing into the hallway, Morigan caught a whiff of dinner being prepared from another corridor. Her stomach growled. She was about to break from her father’s tediousness and treat herself to a good meal when Norris’ voice caught her by surprise.

“I have been unable, despite multiple attempts, to manifest an elemental demon. It is a tricky process and I, myself, do not possess the elemental energies it requires. Some of my ‘friends,’” he stated, referring his concubines, “have tried to help in the procedure, but we have always failed.”

“Have you tried using elves with inherent magical abilities,” Morgian asked, racking her brain for everything she remembered about elemental demons.

“Of course,” responded the warlock, sounding insulted, “but they did not possess the requisite energy.”

Norris continued talking, but the young witch withdrew into her own mind and tuned him out. She knew, unlike the other forms of transfusion, which involved replacing the light energy in two creatures with dark energy and fusing the energies together, elemental demons required elemental energies as well. In the past, warlocks had used the mystical energy, the energy which allowed mages to manipulate the elemental, within their victims to achieve similar results, but it required copious amounts of matching mystical energies. In addition, the fusion demanded an elf and a minotaur, the latter of which are in short supply. Returning from her own thoughts, Morigan realized her father had ceased speaking and halted before a thick, wooden door.

“I may be able to provide the magic you need, but where do you intend to find more minotaur,” she asked, drawing from her earlier thoughts.

Smiling, the warlock pushed open the door. Within, a dozen separate cells lined the stone walls. Six of them contained minotaur. Each standing well over seven feet tall, before the additional length of their horns, with matching chestnut colored fur coating everything save their faces. Despite malnutrition, they all appeared strong, fit, and eager to destroy their captors. The bull nearest the door snorted through its wide nostrils and smashed its head against the bars of his cage. Laughing, Morigan thrust out her left arm and the minotaur flew through the air and crashed hard into the back wall.

“Where…” the witch started, but, anticipating the question, Norris cut her off.

“It doesn’t matter. Will you help?”

A chilling smile graced the beautiful lips at her fortune and the prospect of having demons under her command.

“When do we start?”

CHAPTER 8: Action

A lone dwarf sat in the dark corner of a noisy pub absent-mindedly stroking his graying beard and sipping an ale. Suddenly, the front door swung open, allowing the full force of the storm raging outside to blow in. The dwarf looked up expectantly from his ale to see a tall figure, wrapped in a cloak to stave off the elements, slip quickly inside before slamming the door shut and silencing the wind once more. Without removing its hood, the figure approached the bar, spoke shortly with a burly man tending the customers there, then made its way toward the stairs in the opposite corner of the large room. As the still-cloaked figure disappeared, Fordar briefly took in the rest of the bar's patrons. Several large groups of dwarves sat conversing loudly in one corner, situated at shorter tables set out to accommodate the abundance of their race in the city. The rest of the room was filled with humans, while two elves sat chatting softly at the bar. Most everyone was well-dressed and anyone causing trouble was promptly escorted out into the raging weather.

A lone woman sat in the opposite corner from Fordar, also scanning the crowd. She seemed very out of place. She was extremely short for a human, possibly just an inch or two taller than the dwarf. Also, despite the unmistakably beautiful face, hidden beneath an abundance of light brown hair and highlighted by unnaturally bright blue eyes, most everyone in the pub seemed to be avoiding her. A slight smile played across her face, matching her air of confidence, as she went about whatever mysterious business she was conducting. Turning her shining eyes away from the two elves at the bar, she glanced in Fordar's direction and he attempted to discreetly avert his gaze.

Trying to forget the eerie feeling the woman gave him, he turned his attention back to the pub. It was a relatively new addition to the city of Zumo’a and its sturdy walls and solid frame, likely dwarven design Fordar thought to himself, muted the thunder crashing overhead and the rain lashing against the windows. The only indications of the storm were intermittent flashes of lightning and sudden violent bursts of sound when new patrons entered the bar. The Gryphon's Beak had become a popular after hours location for wealthy businessmen, traders, and politicians in the steadily growing city. Fordar even spotted several Guild Masters, the ruling voice of the city, toasting each other in the center of the room.

Although it was still early in the evening, the large room was almost full and the dwarf began to grow impatient as he waited. He was not a fan of crowds and the last thing he needed was a young drunk crawling into the booth adjacent him and begging the veteran mercenary for stories. The front door banged open again, but Fordar quickly went back to his drink when two young men entered followed by a small group of scantily dressed and giggling women. A busty barmaid shuffled near, tray full of empty tankards, and the ever more frustrated dwarf was about to call for a re-fill when a crash, much louder than the constant thunder, echoed down the streets outside. A second crash, followed by the smell of acrid smoke, caused a few curious patrons to rush towards the door. Fordar smiled slyly under his beard. His waiting was over.

A deafening roar jolted more patrons from their seats. Some took cover under their tables, but many rushed to the peer through the blinding rain, striving to locate the source of the commotion. Lightning arced across the sky, momentarily silhouetting two shapes high above the city. The first was small and quick moving, while the second was massive and glistened in the rain for that single moment until the lightning winked back out. So intent were the patrons on the chaos above, they failed to notice the small figure drop from a roof into an alley behind the pub, then slide in through a window.

“Your late,” the dwarf muttered, as a young gentleman with white hair, seemingly untouched by the storm, slipped into the booth across from him. Fordar had known the mage for many years, yet he was still impressed with his aptitude for theatrics.

“I was…delayed,” the mage grinned across the table and deftly pulled his hood over his head, effectively hiding his white hair. A moment later, two official looking men wearing identical, short cut brown hair, black uniforms, and emblems marking them as wyvern riders from the nation of Gaia pushed through the crowd at the door. Numerous angry shouts rose from the crowd.

“You have no authority here, Gaian.”

“Take your conflicts elsewhere, Southerner.”

Ignoring the comments, the soldiers took a cursory glance about the room, failed to spot their adversary, and allowed themselves to be pushed back into the squall.

“Wyvern riders this far north,” whispered Fordar, raising a bushy eyebrow.

The mage stood before nodding, “my delay,” he stated simply. “Amazing how over three millennia have passed and the Emalites still have animosity toward Gaians.”

Fordar shrugged as he pushed himself up from the booth with some effort. Together, the two made their way toward the stairs at the back of the building. The floorboards creaked under the weight of the dwarf as they ascended the stairs and Fordar pushed open the door to Room 14. He motioned for the mage to enter first. Once inside, the dwarf slammed the door shut behind him, spun on his heel, and brandished his axe at an intruder hiding behind the door.

”Show yourself,” demanded the dwarf.

In a blur of motion, the figure whipped off its cloak, wrapped it around the head of the axe and yanked down. Suddenly, Fordar found himself lying on the damp wooden floor, axe pinned beneath him and a dagger at his throat.

”It is nice to see my friends getting along,” Berem commented sarcastically from the center of the room.

Glancing up at the mage, the figure removed her dagger from the dwarf’s throat and muttered an apology. Fordar responded by throwing her a dirty look and immediately wished he hadn’t. Despite his extensive travels, he had rarely encountered a pure-blooded elf, but that is what stood before him now. She had a grace and nobility that elves who have mixed with humans lack. Tall and lithe, her pale, silky hair was long and green, matching her almond shaped eyes, and her slim physique belied the strength she contained.

”Christiana Guilvana,” continued Berem, “meet Fordar Ironsmith, and Fordar, this is Christiana.”

”Enchanted,” murmured the dwarf politely and somewhat in awe of his new companion.

”Likewise,” returned the elf sympathetically, embarrassed by the way Fordar was staring, “why are we here?”

“All the nations are on edge,” Berem responded, taking a seat at the foot of the single bed in the room and motioning for his friends to sit as well. “Morigan’s flight is a major concern, especially since many reports have her headed west toward the major human cities.”

“Reports can be false,” Christiana stated shortly, having taken a seat near the room’s lone window and placing her long cloak on the sill to dry. Beneath the cloak, she wore tight fitting leather breeches, a lightweight white blouse, and supple brown sandals of elven design.

“In this case, you may be correct,” Berem continued, shifting his gaze back and forth between his companions, “though she was seen leaving Arcadia near its western gate, she has not been seen since. In addition, a lone priest was discovered dead on the road about a day east of the city. Officials labeled the death accidental, but it could easily indicate the witch heading toward the mountains.”

Christiana gasped, “not Vangaar Keep.” Berem nodded, confirming that the elf had guessed his suspicion.

“What is Vangaar Keep,” the dwarf wondered aloud. Tarapak began to respond, but Christiana cut him off.

“The warlock, Norris Drachil, resides in the ruins of Vangaar Keep. He has re-built most of the mighty fortress in the foothills of northern Knero and it stands as the foremost bastion of darkness in these lands.”

The archsage waited until Christiana and calmed slightly before adding, “Norris also happens to be Morigan’s father.”

Dwarf and elf cast each other a sharp glance and Christiana asked the question on both of their minds, “why have Gaia’s wyvern riders ventured this far north?”

“Gaia’s king, Abraham LeBlanc, believes, as do I, that Morigan has headed east toward Vangaar. He sent his riders to confirm that suspicion. My confrontation with them was accidental, a byproduct of the unusual fashion in which I traveled.”

No one spoke for some time as each contemplated the situation. Rain lashed against the window and Christiana spotted the massive shape in the sky again and again, every time lightning flashed.

“How is it we plan to proceed,” she finally asked, breaking both men’s train of thought, “Morigan can not be left to her own devices, especially if there is a powerful warlock involved.” Fordar grunted and nodded his agreement.

“Sadly, Morigan is not our biggest concern,” the archsage stated solemnly.

Again, dwarf and elf exchanged a look, they already felt an odd kinship to one another. A strange connection due to their friendship with the one-of-a-kind mage. Berem took a deep breathe, glanced absently out the window at the world beyond, and began to relay what he knew of the events unfolding. Though acknowledging the threat that Morigan posed if left unchecked, he emphasized that Garen’s ventures represented a greater threat to Phates Tak as a whole.

“Did you bring the map,” he asked Fordar.

The dwarf nodded and produced a roll of vellum from his pack. Unrolling the small map, he laid it out across the table in the corner and anchored the corners with stones. Crudely drawn in black charcoal were the nations of Emag and Imononanai with a portion of the Nordak Mountains to the south.

”This is the area you indicated in your message,” Fordar pointed to a section of coastline in the northwestern corner of the map labeled Arena Blasé, “but there are no structures portrayed on the map.”

Christiana muffled a laugh, “Arena,” she said emphasizing the e instead of the first a, “not arena. It loosely translates to ‘Burning Sands’ in Elvish.”

”Lovely,” muttered Fordar, “so not only do we have to sneak into the elven homeland, we have to traverse ‘burning sands.’ I don’t know why I sign up for anything with you.”

Christiana smiled at the dwarf’s casual attitude, he possessed a nature she wished was more prevalent in elves.

”We don’t need to enter the forest at all if we approach from the sea,” she said, tracing out a path on the map, “the currents in this area should be calm this time of year. Even inexperienced sailors should be able to traverse it.”

”I don’t do boats,” Berem stated seriously, a fact neither of companions were aware of, “but if we enter the forest south of Valen,” he in turn indicated a location on the map, “we can bypass a majority of the Orlathi.”

”Orlathi,” Fordar questioned.

”It’s complicated,” responded the mage, “but essentially the border guard of Imononanai.”

”I thought you were friends with Lanthala,” Christiana queried, “won’t she grant you admittance.”

”The Elvish Queen,” said Berem, answering the question regarding Lanthala before Fordar could ask it, “and ‘friends’ is a strong term. We are acquainted and I informed her of our expedition, but you know better than anyone the laws of your people. She will not hinder our quest, but she can not help us either.”
”Understood,” she responded, “so we will head…”

She fell silent as Berem held up his right hand, the index finger and thumb glowing a vivid purple.

”We will head south for the kingdom of Gaia and implore the aid of their king,” intoned the mage in an overly loud voice a moment later, “Lord Abraham is both strong and wise, he is sure to help.” Christiana and Fordar both voiced their assent in the same overly loud tones as the archsage.

“Now off to bed with us,” Berem continued, “Christiana, milady, you may have the bed, Fordar would you prefer floor or chair?”

The charade continued for several more minutes until the slim, dark-haired man outside the door grew bored and hurried to report to his superiors.
 
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CHAPTER 9: Dragon

The sun shone dimly through the small, barred half-window near the ceiling of Malferna’s dingy cell. The old witch was bored and utterly alone. Only one other prisoner had been incarcerated with her, a short, ferrety man who had been led away the day before with a bag over his head. Two guards, who rotated every three hours, stood at the top of a long staircase. Three times a day, a somber man in a grey uniform would shuffle down the staircase with her meals.

Loneliness wasn’t a problem. Even before she was imprisoned, Malferna spent most of her days alone. Sitting on the edge of the stone bed, day turning quickly into night, the ever-plotting archsage seemed to be waiting. As the last rays of the dying sun finally dipped below the high dwarven-built walls, she turned to gaze at the base of the lone entrance to the dungeons.

Moments after turning her gaze to the staircase, shuffling could be heard from the top, followed by a muffled scream. One of the two soldiers who guarded the powerful prisoner tumbled backwards down the incline, coming to a rest on the final step, a dagger protruding from his heart. The fate of the second guard was a mystery, but the smell of acrid smoke and burnt flesh suggested his demise was a fiery one. Soon, two long shadows, and a much shorter one, cast by the artificial light in the corridor above, extended into the passageway outside the cell block.

The first person down was an elderly woman with dark brown shoulder length hair and matching brown eyes. Ignoring Malferna, who still sat silently in her cell, she strode to the end of the dark cell block and disappeared. A second woman appeared next, her long black hair a stunning contrast from her dark red eyes and matching robes. Her fluid movements and elongated ears marked her as an elf. Following close behind her was the man Malferna had seen escorted from the dungeons the day before. His short blonde hair was unkempt and he was in desperate need of a shave. As he reached the bottom step, he retrieved his dagger from the unfortunate guard’s body and, after wiping the blood on the man’s uniform, returned it to a sheath hidden at his waist.

“The magical seal is broken,” a voice called from the end of the hallway, surprisingly deep for the older woman. Without acknowledging her companion, the elf approached Malferna’s cell and gripped two of the bars. Smoke began to curl from beneath her fingers and the bars slowly melted into molten iron.

“You could have taken the keys from the dead guards, Enjol,” Malferna scolded, frowning. Pushing herself up from the bed, she moved into the hallway next to the elf.

“My way is more fun,” Enjol said, grinning wickedly.

The second older woman returned from the shadowed end of the dungeon. In her left hand, she held a forest green cloak covered in intricate runes of a dozen different shades. “Everything has been prepared,” she stated, in the same unnaturally deep, yet feminine voice.

“Thank you, Wyn, but I have arranged for a different means of escape,” Malferna said, waving away the proffered cloak, “are you sure you wish to stay here?”

“I will benefit the cause better from here,” Wyn responded in a tone that left no room for argument, “and you should still take the cloak, it should be of great use.”

Malferna could not argue with the other woman and motioned for Enjol to take the cloak. Casting a despising glance at the human, Enjol took the cloak from Wyn, clearly not happy about taking orders from anyone. Ignoring the arrogant elf, the two older women raised the right hands and touched each other’s palms in a gesture of mutual respect. Wishing each other luck on their separate ventures, Wyn quickly ascended the stairs and her footsteps soon disappeared into the distance. Not wasting any time, Malferna turned to her younger companions.

“You must be Darsun,” she said, fixing her eyes on the shorter man’s pale blue ones, “you must be rather cruel for our evil little friend to have drug you into this.”

The short man smiled, showing yellowing and broken teeth. An ugly scar down his left cheek caused his smile to become more akin to a snarl. He bowed slightly, but seemed far more interested in ogling the elf’s lithe form. Suppressing a wave of revulsion at the disgusting man’s lust for Enjol, she instructed them to use the cloak and retreat a ways up the stairs.

“This spell will take some space,” she explained, a wide grin splitting her face, as Darsun and the elf slipped under the cloak and vanished entirely from sight. Where did Wyn acquire an invisibility cloak, she wondered to herself.

Making a mental note to ask the next time the two old friends met, she stepped back down the hallway and began the spell. A sickly cough from the far end of the cell block forced her to cut off the spell. Leaving the other two where they stood invisible, she traversed the distance to the end of the dungeon, fully shadowed, in three strides. Peering into the cells on-by-one, she finally found the source of the noise.

"Visaroth," the witch exclaimed, louder than she intended.

The sickly man in the cell smiled, revealing cracked, chipped, and missing teeth. One of his legs was twisted at an odd angle, while the other was missing entirely. His arms were bone thin, skin sallow, eyes milky white, and dirty black hair covered half his bruised and deformed face. Malferna was shocked. Visaroth, despite his appearance, was the only known seer in Phates Tak. How had he come to reside in Garen's prison?

"You seem surprised, Malferna," the crippled rasped, "perhaps you fear I shall reveal your secret. A secret so deep, only I, the One Seer, possess the knowledge of its existence."

Visaroth moved slightly and a flash of green briefly illuminated the entire room. Situated on one of the man's twisted fingers was a heavy steel ring, inlaid with an emerald. The source of the seer's power. Malferna shivered. She did indeed hide a secret, one she had hidden for her entire existence, was it possible this decrepit old man knew the truth?

"You secret is safe with me, Darkana," Visaroth continued, "but remember, the deeper the darkness, the brighter the light seems when it shines once more."

Malferna shivered again, she wished to strike the man down, but she knew better. She also doubted if it was even possible to slay him. Thus, she nodded briefly, acknowledging the seer's power over her, and returned to where Darsun and Enjol stood hidden. If the two noticed her absence, they said nothing. Closing her eyes, Malferna concentrated on the spell once more.

At first, it appeared that nothing was happening, but suddenly a soft ripping noise indicated that Malferna’s white shift was tearing. Her legs and feet were rapidly expanding , while her toenails elongated into sharp claws and scales began to coat her growing body. A thick tail erupted from the base of her spine, slithering behind her into the darkness. Leaning forward to support her weight, she fell to her hands, which were quickly shaping into talons, matching her hind legs. Small wings sprouted from her back and swiftly grew as her back convulsed and bulged. Last to change was her head. Her neck, now covered in hard purple scales, stretched outward and wicked, curved horns sprouted from the top of her skull. Mouth and nose lengthened as her body slowly expanded outward, pressing on the walls and cell doors until several collapsed.

The transformation took only a few minutes and when it was complete, a powerful purple dragon replaced the mysterious old witch.

“You may return to the base of the stair,” Malferna instructed Darsun and the elf, who waited impatiently halfway up, “and remove the cloak.”

Almost immediately the two appeared, the assassin’s eyes wide in shock, though the elf seemed bored. Darsun’s shock quickly turned to excitement.

“Did you just speak directly to our minds?”

The dragon nodded, “we have no time to sit idly by, someone will have noticed the discharge of energy and investigate. Darsun, you wear the cloak, your part in our endeavor must remain hidden for now.”
The squirrelly little man grabbed the cloak and promptly disappeared. Shifting itself into a better position, the dragon carefully wrapped a dangerously taloned foreleg around each of the tiny figures, then pushed itself from the ground. Masonry crumbled on impact and Malferna in dragon-form exploded upward, toppling a few trees that sat just outside Arcadia’s northern walls. Letting out a mighty roar, which shook the nearest towers and sent city dwellers ducking for cover, she bathed the Tower of Time in luscious blue-white flames. The intense heat blackened the magically enhanced wall, licking at curtains hung in windows and sending the tower’s few residents scrabbling for safety. Satisfied with her display, Malferna beat her wings to gain altitude, then turned east and flew off toward Vangaar Keep.

***

“Why is it called Vangaar Keep, dad,” a young man asked his father who was sitting beside him on a barstool of a well-lit tavern. Colonel Redols was trying to enjoy his night off with his youngest son, but the constant concerns of his job distracted him from the mug of ale placed before him.

“It is a long story, Craig,” his father responded at last, “drink your ale, you will like it.”

It was the day after Craig’s 15th birthday, so he could legally drink in taverns now. His older brother, also Lars, had brought him to the same tavern the night before, so he already new he liked the taste of the house ale.

“It is a long night and I haven’t heard a good story in a while,” Craig pleaded, “please tell me.”

When the colonel’s son had been younger, he would beg for a story every night before bed. His father was an excellent story-teller. Stress and anxiety, however, had combined to rob his father of his former humor and wittiness. His brother had tried to fill the void, yet now he shared many of the same tribulations.

Giving a weak smile, Colonel Lars conceded to his son. It was difficult to deny one’s children, even in times such as these. Taking a long draught of his ale, willing himself to enjoy these precious moments, he began.

“Vangaar Keep was named for a city, which once bore the same name. It was founded by Archsage Varfungr, a hill dwarf who had the keep built to protect his village from invaders. The archsage ruled over the land for nearly 400 years. Then, in the early 15th century, the terrifying salamandric dragon, Dalasandra, appeared and chaos ensued in Upper Knero. Riding great wings of flame, the serpentine dragon bathed much of the country in flame, but Varfungr fought back. He and three other archsages combated the dragon. By sacrificing his own flesh, he sealed the uncontrollable dragon within the volcano that now bears his name. Vangaar began to falter after that, however, and soon the city disappeared altogether. The keep, being reinforced by magic, survived the centuries and Norris claimed it for his own purposes several decades ago.”

Colonel Redols drew in a deep breath as he finished his story. He realized he had been staring up into the ceiling, remembering how his own father had told him the same story many years ago. It wasn’t one of the old man’s favorite, but it was an interesting part of history nonetheless.

Bringing his gaze back to his son, he smiled at the rapt attention the young man possessed. Just like when he was a young boy. The two mugs of ale sat forgotten on the bar as father and son discussed Norris and the potential threat he posed to the long-standing peace between nations of Phates Tak. The last remnants of the sun were fading away when the conversation was interrupted by burly man plowing through the door and breaking one of the hinges.

“DRAGON,” he screamed.

Colonel Redols was on his feet immediately. Though vicious and far from friendly, dragons rarely assaulted humans unless they unwittingly wandered too near their dens. A dragon attack on a village hadn’t been reported for years and never on a city the size of Arcadia. Rushing to the door, the colonel saw the purple dragon open its mouth and emit a mighty roar. The sound was deafening, even from a distance, and vibrated the foundations of the building. The swinging tavern sign, ironically announcing the pub’s name as The Tiny Elephant, crashed to the ground beside him.

Sweeping forth from the open maw, intense blue-white flame coated the Tower of Time. Colonel Redols let out a bellow and rushed from the doorway, his oldest son was in the tower.

***

Flames licked at the inside of windows, curtains smoldered, and small pieces of furniture burned. Garen picked through the wreckage with his long staff, dousing blazes as he passed them. Three other archsages had hurried to the tower, responding to the abrupt escape of Malferna and Enjol. Most of the fires had been extinguished and it appeared no one had been harmed in the assault.

An elderly woman with shoulder length brown hair brushed passed the Lord Archsage, ignoring him completely. Staring after her, he sought for a name. Wyn, he believed. A very competent archsage, specializing in earth magic. She had once been an ambassador to the realm of Gaia. Coming to a room about halfway up the tower, its door blasted backwards off its hinges, Garen stepped in. No one had dealt with the fires burning on the two desks or small table in the corner, so Garen waved his staff and the conflagrations died.

Sandals slapping on the spiral staircase caught the Lord Archsage’s attention and he turned to see Colonel Redols sprint into the room, thoroughly out of breath. Pushing rudely past his liege lord, the commander of the library’s security force circled behind his desk and collapsed on to the ground. Curious, Garen followed. Laying on the ground, the bulk of his torso and legs burnt to a crisp, was the lieutenant.
Closing his eyes, he said a silent prayer to Patrinon, Lord of Light, wishing the brave man a safe passage into the afterlife. Turning on his heel, Garen descended the long stairs, leaving the grief stricken colonel sobbing for his oldest son.

CHAPTER 10: Hidden

Berem sat peacefully by the inn’s window watching the rain fall in sheets and the brilliant flashes of lightning slowly disappear into the distance. He had always had a strange fascination with rain, despite his strong aversion to most water. Such a powerful storm this early in the season was rare for Emag and he pondered the powers behind it. Fordar snorted in his sleep causing Christiana to turn abruptly, but remain asleep.

“You should sleep as well, young one,” a sweet, but stern voice spoke directly to the archsage’s mind.
“Perhaps following the assault,” the archsage responded, directing his thoughts to her alone.

The voice remained silent, but Berem sensed her curiosity at his statement. That curiosity was soon satiated as she spotted six dark clad men emerge from a nearby alley. Moving cautiously to avoid drawing attention to themselves, pausing twice to magically douse street lamps, the group slowly made their way toward the building sporting a gryphon with a purple beak.

Silently they pushed open the front door and made their way to the back of the room. One man remained to watch the door. The other five other men moved with unnatural stealth toward the door marked 14. Two men took up position on either side of the door and drew swords, while the fifth placed both hands on the frame and began to mutter an incantation. Violently, the door flew inward and shattered against the back wall.

The four men leapt into the dark room, while the mage followed at a wary distance. Suddenly, the room burst into shining light, blinding all five men. Brandishing their weapons to fend off the imminent attack, they prepared for the worst. As their eyesight slowly returned, however, they found themselves whole, uninjured, and disappointed. The room was empty, save for the bed, chair and table. The only lingering sign of their quarry being the small, muddy footprints left by the elf’s sandals.
From Room 11, Tarapak chuckled.

***

The stormed ceased at sunrise and the sun streaming in soon woke Christiana. As she bustled about in preparation of their departure, Tarapak mentioned leaving their lazy dwarven friend behind if he was too tired to travel.

"You had better not," snapped the dwarf, false snoring abruptly ending as he pushed himself off the floor and readied himself as well.

As they descend a short stair toward the common area, they saw only a small cloaked figure poking at breakfast at the bar and two large disfigured creatures muttering to themselves in the corner.
Not noticing the newcomers, one of the creatures pushed itself up from the table and made its way to the bar, where it pulled a sword from beneath the small person’s cloak.

“I would put that back if you wish to keep your hand.”

“How will you remove my hand if you have no head,” he laughed, swinging the sword downward.

Grabbing a serving tray from the bar, the figure ducked sideways, thrusting the tray upward. The sword sunk halfway into the supple material before the hooded figure twisted, wrenching the sword from the creature’s hand and flinging him to the floor. He landed heavily, crashing through some barstools, but reached his battleaxe as his friend approached from the corner table. Before the axe left its sheath, the cloaked figure’s sword sliced through the air and cleanly removed the right arm below the elbow. The creature’s companion, more human than his friend, diverted his path to the front door, calling for the city guard as he burst through. Two guards, on patrol near the tavern, rushed toward the commotion, but the figure had disappeared, leaving only the mangled creature and his friend.

Stepping slowly backwards to avoid drawing attention, the companions at the top of the stairs retraced their steps to Room 11 and pushed up the window. Christiana leapt down with ease from the second floor, followed deftly by Berem. Turning, the mage offered to help the dwarf down. He waved off the aid and took the leap himself. He landed hard on his short legs and pitched forward. Berem steadied him before he hit the ground, but not without muttering something about the stubbornness of dwarves under his breathe. Fordar gave him an apologetic glance. Christiana had moved to the end of the alley.

”We should move,” she said, turning left on the street, but the mage caught her in three long strides and grasped her arm lightly.

”One last stop,” he said, steering her right.

They headed east, away from their destination, at a quick pace, Tarapak stopping periodically to peer down alleys or in recently opened shops. It was still early and most of the town was quiet. The market district would be bustling, but they were well away from the city center. Christiana was about to ask what the mage was looking for when he slipped into an alley and swiped his hand at the open air. A second later, a distinctly feminine head with long, blonde hair and sparkling green eyes floated strangely about five feet off the ground.

“Quite a nifty trick, my dear,” said Berem casually, “how is it you came by such a magical artifact and possess a sword that belongs to an officer of the Gaian Royal Army.”

“Heirlooms,” the cloaked figure muttered, its voice ringing both high and low, like a young boy entering manhood.

”Then you must be a descendant of Brigadier General Douglas Zagunis.”

”How,” the girl exclaimed, “how do you know my grandfather?”

”I gave him the cloak,” Berem smiled down at her.

”You’re Tarapak Berem,” the girl responded, her voice rising higher in excitement, “I always wished to meet you some day.”

The archsage bowed politely and the girl whispered softly to herself causing the rest of her body to come into view. She was short, but little else could be determined because of the voluminous blue cloak that was draped over her entire body.

”Explanation,” asked Fordar simply from behind the two. Christiana’s face portrayed the same query.

”My name is Hawken Zagunis,” said the girl, stepping around the archsage to see his companions, “granddaughter of Douglas Zagunis, once the greatest swordsman in the Gaian army. He was sentenced to death for accidentally killing a man during a training exercise. King Bryan greatly respected the man, however, and gifted him this cloak. He fled with nothing more than it and his sword and hid for the rest of his days. Which, sadly, seems to be the fate of our whole family now.”

”I thought you said Tarapak gave you the cloak,” Christiana interjected, confused.

”The cloak, which is called Nayru, was a gift to me from Patrinon, God of Light, at a time when I desperately needed to hide someone,” the archsage answered for her, “I later bequeathed it to Kayla B, an exiled princess of Gaia. It has been in the possession of the Gaian royal family since, but King Bryan wished to have my permission before passing it on to Brigadier General Zagunis.”

Both Fordar and Christiana nodded in understanding, but it was clear they were perplexed by parts of the story. Before they could ask further questions, a voice echoed down the broad, empty street.

”Little Birdie has come out of hiding, boy am I glad to see you.”

Hawken's expression fell and she threw the hood back over her head.

”I have to run,” she whispered.

”Wait,” returned Berem, “we can handle this.”

The young girl looked skeptical, but remained where she was, still visible.

”Found some friends, I see,” said a burly man, approaching the strange collection of individuals at the end of the alleyway, “I doubt they can help you out of this, Little Birdie.”

”Her name is Hawken, not Little Birdie,” stated Tarapak seriously, placing himself between the girl and her antagonizer, “and whatever problem you have with her, you have with me.”

The man, shorter but stronger than Berem, threw back his head and laughed raucously. As he laughed, three more men, each well-muscled and poorly shaven, exited a pub and joined their leader.

”And who are you, her father,” the man jested, “no, that can’t be, I killed the wretch’s father, and she belongs to me.”

”Then perhaps we can come to an arrangement,” suggested Berem.

”I suggest you back away if you wish to keep your head,” the man said, drawing his sword.
”If it is a fight you want, I can oblige,” said Berem calmly, despite the blade inches from his nose, “but if I win, the girl goes free.”

The mercenary scratched his scraggly beard, contemplating.

”Four versus four,” he questioned.
”No, just you and I.”

”As the girl is mine, it seems I am not getting anything out of this if I win,” haggled the man, “what’s in this for me?”

”Me,” stated Christiana, striding forward.

”Deal,” he responded, licking his lips at the thought of adding an elf to his collection.

Berem drew his own sword, a glistening red-bladed katana, from its sheath beneath his cloak and knocked the opposing broad sword from its threatening position before his face. His enemy reacted by lunging forward, but the mage deftly parried the blow and assumed a defensive pose.

”Gut him, Zak,” one of the other mercenaries yelled, as Zak made another forward thrust, causing Berem to retreat.

The archsage took a cursory glance at his surroundings. Broken pieces of stone, remnants of old pavers, made footing tenuous, but otherwise the street was wide, clean, and empty; therefore, unlikely to affect the duel’s outcome. Zak’s followers stood well back from the fight, but each had a hand on their weapons, ready to jump in if anything went sideways. Berem was confidant his ally’s could match them, but preferred to end the duel fairly. Zak thrust again, forcing another parry, and followed with a downward slash that narrowly missed Tarapak’s right knee. Although a formidable swordsman, Berem was out of practice and possibly outclassed. His opponent was fleet of foot and hand, while wielding the heavy blade with a practiced ease. Victory would not come easily.

Zak thrust forward again and Berem glided to his left, countering with a horizontal slice. The corresponding upward slash caught Berem’s lighter blade and sent his arms flying upward, exposing his chest. The mage rolled forward away from the next blow, then sprang to his feet and turned back to face his foe. Unwilling to fight with his enemy’s seconds to his rear, Tarapak initiated the next thrust. It was Zak’s turn to counter. The crafty mercenary, predicting his foe’s movement, sliced downward again, opening a nasty gash down the mage’s left leg. Wincing, Tarapak once again turned to face his opponent.
Moving with unnatural speed, Zak brought his sword crashing down with both hands. Berem caught the blow with his katana, but its force and the pain in his leg, forced him to one knee. Seeing the opening, Zak turned his cut sideways and opened another gash on the mage’s forearm.

Seeing the blood dripping from his blade, Zak continued his relentless assault. Swinging downward again, he forced Tarapak to roll backward and spring painfully to his feet. The end in sight, Zak swung downward a third time, again catching the katana and forcing the mage to his knees. Another blow knocked the sword from Berem’s hand and Zak swung his broad sword in a great circle as he came in for the finishing blow.

In the brief moment before the final blow struck, Tarapak heard a faint whisper on the wind "sihï elksüms" and noticed one of the mercenaries chanting an incantation under his breathe. Reaching up, he caught the broad sword's blade in a hand now made of stone. Arms rattling from the force of the blow, Zak stumbled backward and Berem, a knowing scowl on his face, rose to both feet. Enraged at the shift, Zak raised his sword high above his head and struck downward with all his force. The blow landed squarely on Berem's right shoulder, but the rock that encased his hand moved rapidly up his arm and the weapon stuck fast. Stone now encasing his body from head to toe, the mage casually knocked the sword from his shoulder and rushed toward his opponent. Frozen by fear and awe, Zak took a punch directly to the chest and flew backward twenty feet. Terrified, the other mercenaries fled, leaving their leader unconscious in the dirt.

Turning from the fleeing men, the rock retreating as rapidly as it formed, Tarapak addressed his companions, "we should go before we attract too much attention."

"Agreed," the dwarf and elf responded in unison, reverting to their original trajectory.

"You too," said Berem, addressing a seemingly vacant alley.

"Thank you," returned a muffled voice, and a small set of footprints, devoid of a visible creator, fell in line behind elf, dwarf, and mage.
 
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CHAPTER 11: Thief in the Night

The sun rose bright and hot over the lush Emagian plains west of Nareska and the odd band of mismatched adventurers were already underway. The trees of Imononani had begun to grow large in the distance before midday and the four bypassed the thought of a warm lunch by snacking on sweet, red apples that Christiana provided from her pack.

They travelled mostly in silence, marred by the occasional coughing of Fordar and his complaining about allergies. Berem had the lead with Hawken hovering near his right hand, as she had been since he freed her from the mercenaries. Christiana brought up the rear, perhaps to keep Fordar from falling too far behind. The three older explorers had divested themselves of their cloaks before sunrise, but, despite the temperature continuing to rise with the sun, Hawken remained comfortably buried in hers. The sun crested and began to set before anyone interrupted the profound silence that had fallen over the group.
”What’s that,” asked Hawken, pointing to a spot deep in the elven forest.

The legendary trees of Imononanai were the tallest in the world, some towering over one hundred feet high, but the one to which the young girl gestured, deep in the northern region of the forest, stood three times higher than even the tallest of the other trees.

”That is the Tree of Time,” spoke Christiana reverently, moving forward beside the girl and leaving Fordar to maintain pace without aid, “the heart of the elven kingdom and the royal palace of Her Majesty, Lanthala Ellin.”

As they progressed, the enormity of the tree became more apparent and the Hawken, whose eyes were keener than the mage’s or the dwarf’s, spotted another anomaly.

”Why are the leaves red?”

”Because the Tree of Time, is the clock of the world,” responded Berem, not truly answering her question and drawing a quizzical look from beneath the hood.

Christiana, however, elaborated.

”The leaves on the tree, which never fall, change throughout the day, indicating the time. Each morning at first hour, they are blue and slowly progress to green. By the time the sun rises, they have shifted to yellow. Throughout the day, the leaves transform to orange and red, and then finally morph to purple as the moon rises. Everyday, at precisely the same time, the leaves change. This is how the ancients developed the system for time that we use universally today.”

”Amazing,” breathed the girl, who had spent most of her short life in Nareska, first as a beggar and thief and later as Zak’s prisoner. True, the mercenary had put a roof over her head and fed her on a regular basis, but it hardly compensated for the mental and physical abuse.

”It is,” commented Berem, “I have traversed almost the entire continent, but little compares to the natural wonders of the elven kingdom. Twice a year, on New Year’s Day and Mid-Year’s Day, the leaves of the Tree of Time shine a brilliant gold the whole day.”

Hawken remained quiet, but her eyes shone big and bright as she shifted the hood back further on her blonde hair.

”Is it true that the gold leaves can cure any ailment,” chimed in Fordar, slightly winded, but keeping pace with the rest of the group.

”That is the legend,” confirmed Christiana, “but I do not truly know. Each of the different colored leaves has various uses in poultices and potions, but my family are not apothecaries, so I do not know the details.”

”What are your family,” Hawken queried, tugging on her hand like a little girl.

Christiana smiled at her enthusiasm, “my parents raised griffins before they elected to partake in the Eternal Sleep and passed their legacy to my brothers and I. My brothers, however, are mages and left home to study at the Tower of Magic, so I passed the griffins on to a relative who raises pegasi and travelled to Emag looking for a more exciting life.”

”You found it,” muttered Fordar from behind them, but Hawken, full of more questions, ignored him.
”Eternal Sleep?”

The elf chuckled, “that one is a little more complicated.”

”How?”

”Did you know that elves can not die naturally and are immune to most illnesses?”

”No,” answered the girl and dwarf in tandem, though Hawken’s response was far less bitter than her aging counterpart.

”Scholars call it para-immortality,” Christiana said gently, addressing the girl and ignoring the dwarf, “although we are susceptible to death by physical means, if left in peace, an elf will live forever without aging past where I am now. A long time ago, few are truly sure when, on a different world, our ancestor, Mohi, discovered the Light of Eternity and was blessed with unending youth and health. His ten children were the last of the Elva, an ancient form of elf, and gave birth to the new para-immortal elves.”

”Amazing,” Hawken repeated, paying rapt attention to Christiana’s every word, “but the Eternal Sleep?”

”The Eternal Sleep is how many older elves decide to pass on,” the elf responded, wording her answer carefully, “when an elf feels they have fulfilled their purpose in life, they often opt to be given back to the earth. They are placed in a magical sleep and buried beneath a family tree, known as a Shasra. As the body decays and enriches the earth and the Shasra, the spirit of the elf passes into the tree and can occasionally commune with living family members.”

”You can talk to a spirit in a tree?”

Christiana chuckled again, the girl’s innocence was contagious.

”Sometimes, in times of great need or periods of significance.”

”Isn’t Shasra an elven festival,” asked Fordar, positively benefiting the conversation for the first time.
”It is,” continued the elf, “on the first day of Jauar every year, families travel to their Shasra to commune with their ancestors. It is one of our biggest festivals.”

”Jauar,” queried the girl.

”The fourth elven month,” Fordar answered unexpectedly, “Aular, Ujar, Mar, Jauar, and Selar.”
The dwarves also have different names for the five months,” interjected Christiana, an odd attempt to best the dwarf at knowledge of the opposing race, “Gryzyk, Azyk, Marzyk, Krazyk, and Demzyk.”
Fordar looked impressed with her knowledge, but any reply he planned was cut short by Berem’s loud laughter.

”Your knowledge may be impressive, but your pronunciations are terrible.”

Dwarf and elf shrugged off the insult.

”What is this other world Christiana mentioned,” Hawken said, persisting with her barrage of questions. It was Berem who responded.

”Phates Tak is one of five ‘Takian Realms,’ the others being: Ansa Tak, Ajakim Tak, Inbera Tak, and Drache Tak. All of our ancestors, including the elves, migrated from Ansa Tak thousands of years ago.”
”I still don’t understand,” the young girl announced after a brief silence, her mind on the brink of exploding with all the new information being thrown at her.

”It isn’t important,” continued Berem, “besides, we have arrived.”

The conversation had indeed made time move quicker and Hawken looked up to see the Tree of Time’s leaves finish shifting from a deep red to a royal purple as the sun fell behind the horizon and the moon began its evening journey across the sky.

”We only have about ten minutes,” stated Christiana seriously, training her eyes north, in the direction of the ocean, “the Orlathi meet daily at sunset in Valen, but this section of forest will soon be under surveillance again.”

”Where do we go from here,” asked Fordar.

”Forward,” said Berem, indicating the edge of the forest, “but first we must disguise ourselves in case we are happened upon.”

”How?”

”Simple,” responded the mage, “Hawken back under Nayru and Fordar, come here.”

The dwarf stepped forward obediently and Berem placed a hand on his shoulder, closing his eyes.

ëdï dëna kes.

A warm sensation ran through the dwarf’s body.

”What did you do?”

”Look at yourself,” smiled Tarapak.

Again the dwarf obeyed, but he didn’t see anything extraordinary. In fact, he didn’t see anything at all.
”Am I invisible,” he exclaimed, his excitement getting the better of him. He loved magic, even though he had zero aptitude for it.

Tarapak nodded and the dwarf pumped his invisible fists, glad no one could see his expression of intense emotion.

”And you,” inquired Christiana.

Berem smiled and closed his eyes a second time. Slowly, he began to grow, adding nearly a foot to his average frame. Although his physique was already similar to that of an elf, his skin adopted a pale green shade and his ears became elongated and sharp. His blue eyes became larger and changed shape and, for the first time, his companions noticed great starbursts of yellow emanating from around his irises. Although his hair remained the same, a distinct and unique elf now stood where Berem had minutes before. Hawken chuckled.

”Your clothes don’t fit now.”

The mage glanced down at his elven body and noticed she was correct. Luckily, he had gained no girth, so his clothes were no tighter, but the leather pants no stopped just below his knee and his lean, green midriff was exposed.

”We don’t have time to worry about that,” said Christiana, “we need to move.”

As if to emphasize the necessity for haste, the upper foliage in the trees rustled loudly. Wasting no more time, Christiana and Berem plunged into the forest with Hawken and Fordar close behind. Although not moving particularly quickly or stealthily, the group managed to avoid detection by the Orlathi and pressed on north toward Arena Blasé. Despite the thickness of the trees and relative darkness of the forest, they made good time, but returned to the silence that had dominated the early portion of the day. Dazzling rays of moonlight sparkled down through breaks in the umbrage. Christiana, who maintained the lead, maneuvered them around the beams from heaven. At one point, firelight could be seen through the trunks to their east, Christiana deviated and the lights soon disappeared. An untold amount of time passed with the group making steady, silent progress, but as they approached a clearing in the trees, the elf held up her left hand and they all fell in line behind her.

The glade was shimmering in the moonlight. A small creek flowed from the north, emptying into a pond in the southwest corner before continuing on through the trees and out of sight. Berem leaned forward to inquire about the delay, but a moment later the earth began to shake violently and a shower of leaves rained down upon the companions; the leaves landing on the hidden dwarf and human hanging mysteriously in mid-air.

”What is that?” Fordar whispered harshly, his low voice louder than intended in the stillness of the night.
Glancing furiously about, Hawken spotted a massive creature, resembling a tortoise, but over seven feet tall and weighing thousands of pounds, poking its huge head into the clearing. Something else seemed to move in the darkness, but, even with her young eyes, she could not make it out.

”Terrasaur,” responded Berem, also unable to keep his voice to a level that didn’t ring clearly throughout the peaceful glade.

Fordar gave him a questioning look that went unseen through the spell and Hawken focused on the massive creature and whatever followed it. The tortoise-like head, scaled and coated in dirt, moved further into moonlight, but it wasn’t until its stump-like front legs crested the tree line that Hawken realized something wasn’t moving in the forest behind it, but the forest itself was moving.

Like a tortoise, the meandering behemoth did appear to have a shell, but atop the shell was something both dwarf and human were having difficulty believing. Short, scraggly trees, some bearing leaves, others bare, and thick, tall grass was growing out of the creature thin shell. As it finally fully entered the moonlit glade, lumbering at a lethargic and earth-shaking pace, she also noticed a stunted, triangular tail protruding beneath the shell.

Waddling along behind the terrasaur, awkward on their short legs, were a dozen related yet contrasting figures. Half of them also stood on four legs with stubby tails and peculiar reptilian bodies, but they were demonstratively shorter and had large flowers sprouting from their backs instead of trees and grass. In addition, they more resembled un-scaled alligators than tortoises. The second half of the group, however, stumbled about on only two legs and resembled no other living creature. More akin to balls of green flesh, they simply had grass sprouting from their bulbous heads. The wondrous group of creatures, neither plant nor beast, ambled unhurriedly across the clearing, intent on the pond opposite them.

”We must move around the glade,” Christiana whispered, “if startled, terrasaurs can be extremely dangerous.”

The other three nodded their agreement, though only Berem's could be seen, and refrained from speaking. Motioning with her hand, they all turned as stealthily as possible and returned in the direction they came. No more than a hundred feet removed from the first threat, Berem, now in the lead, came to another abrupt halt. After a tense period of stillness, a creature akin to a tall, green monkey dropped from the treetops. It landed without a sound and bowed to Tarapak.

Hawken rubbed her eyes and looked a second time. The creature was taller than Berem, but shorter than Christiana, and short, dark green fur coated its similarly toned skin. It had elongated ears and almond-shaped eyes like an elf, but wore nothing save a delicate loincloth from beneath which a tail, some four feet in length, twitched lightly.

”Runik,” responded the mage, returning the bow.

Runik straightened, pulled a slim stick from a sleeve at his waist, and began to trace a symbol in mid-air before them. The wand left lines of emerald light drifting on the wind wherever it travelled and when Runik finished, he whispered a single word.

Rebmemra.

The rune flashed the same luminous emerald, filling the dark forest with a magical glare, forcing Hawken to shield her eyes. When the dancing stars finally cleared from her eyes, she was no longer standing in the dense forest, but was floating above a labyrinth of flowering evergreen hedges. The other three were floating nearby, but their bodies, like hers, appeared ethereal. They were both focused on one thing. She followed their gaze.

A small man was weaving his way through the serpentine maze beneath them, dangerous eyes focused on his goal, which could only be the obelisk constructed in the labyrinth’s center. A tiny green jewel, reflecting the minimal light, glistened at the obelisk’s peak. Hawken trained her eyes back to the man. He was making headway toward his destination, black, tattered cloak whipped around corners as he sped along. Twice he met dead ends only to vanish and re-appear on the other size of the impeccably maintained hedge. The third time he vanished; however, he re-appeared in exactly the same place and begrudgingly retraced his steps. When finally the maze runner reached his destination, a final obstacle barred his path.

A single elf, regal in his white, cloth breeches and lightweight purple vest which opened at the front exposing his chest, stood solemnly blocking the white marble edifice. The invader did not hesitate. Lifting a hand, a fireball streaked forth toward the solitary elf. Quick as lightning, he drew his rapier and sliced at the magic fire. The flaming projectile split neatly in two even halves, swinging harmlessly passed the elf’s trademark ears and elegant ponytail. Next, the man attempted to dash by the imposing elf, but the rapier was too quick and blocked his path both times. Scowling, the would be thief vanished, re-appeared without moving, and began stomping his feet in frustration. The elf remained unmoving. Taking a step back from the elf, the man pulled something from his pocket, fidgeted beneath his cloak for a moment, then turned his determined gaze once more to his impassive adversary.

With no prior indication of magic, a blinding white light filled the area, forcing the elf to shield his eyes, although Hawken was unaffected by the blast. Taking advantage his weakness, another fireball shot forth, striking the defensive elf square in the chest and throwing him backwards against the monolith. The assailant disappeared yet again and an unknown force, presumably the invisible man, began to struggle with the elf for his sword. Despite his injury, the elf maintained possession of the rapier until two strong, unseen blows to the head rendered him unconscious and the evil man materialized wielding it.

From a distance, it appeared the man contemplated slaying the unconscious elf, but thought better of it and turned his attention to the obelisk and its prize. Holding the sword at arm’s length, he placed the thin, green blade through a minuscule hole in the edifice’s base and twisted it like a key. The obelisk trembled and settled, a cloud of dust emanating from its base, and the multi-faceted emerald tumbled from its resting place and into the thief’s outstretched hands. With a deft movement, he slid the stolen relic into his filthy trousers vanished once more. The green rapier, however, did not. The sword jerked twice, as if an invisible force were pulling on it, then fell unceremoniously to the floor and the labyrinth dematerialized.
Hawken was standing back in the forest outside the clearing. The terrasaurs had moved on, but the hairy elf-creature sat stoically before them, waiting.

”You saw it happen,” Berem asked incredulously, clearly understanding more of what occurred than the young girl.

”No,” said Runik, his voice a strange combination of husky age and the normal musical quality of elven speech, “but the labyrinth remembers.”

“He escaped,” the mage continued.

”Some hours ago, there is little left for you here, you should turn back.”

Tarapak nodded and glanced sideways at Christiana, searching for a new course of action. It was Runik that provided an answer.

”Return through Valen, I will travel ahead and tell them to expect you. Two horses will be waiting, take them south to Gaia, perhaps you can aid King Abraham.”

Only two horses, thought Hawken, but there are four of us. She was about to speak up when she remembered that both she and Fordar were imperceptible. Keeping her mouth shut, she saw Berem and Christiana bow once more to the man, she assumed it was a man, before, with a great leap, he returned to the treetops.

The mage waited until he believed the other man was well away before motioning them on.

”Come,” he said quietly, “and when we reach Valen, remain in the shadows until Christiana and I have prepared to ride.”

”Understood,” she and Fordar whispered in tandem.

The sun was peaking over the horizon and through the dense foliage by the time Valen came into view through the trees. The village was little more than a circle of grass huts rimming a clearing near the edge of the forest. Near the center of the encampment was a wooden statue. It appeared elvish, but from the back it was hard to tell. Beside the carving, a couple nearly identical elves were saddling two horses, one chestnut, the other roan.

”Stick to the shadows,” Berem said as they approached, pointing to the south side of the village, “wait near the gate. When we reach the gate, we will stop and look back, giving you time to mount.”

”Those horses are too tall for me to mount,” Fordar admitted embarrassed.

Berem stroked his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully.

”I have an idea, just be ready.”

Sticking her arm briefly from beneath Nayru, Hawken proffered her outstretched hand to the similarly invisible dwarf. He took it.

”Ready?”

Fordar squeezed her hand, indicating that he was.

Moving at a pace she felt the shorter, older dwarf could match, Hawken ducked and weaved around towering tree trucks and various berry bushes. Despite being invisible, she moved in a pattern that would be difficult to track even if she removed the cloak. Once clear of the trees, she jumped from shadow to shadow of the huts cast by the dawning sun. Her breathe caught in her chest once as a solitary elf emerged from between to huts, headed deeper into the forest. Luckily, he failed to notice the stealthy intruders and they soldiered on.

Fordar and Hawken approached the gate, a gap between two trees wide enough for the terrasaur to pass through with an archway of branches connecting them, just as their counterparts mounted their respective horses. Hawken squeezed the dwarf’s hand then released him.

The two horses approached the gate at a trot with no intent of slowing when Berem unexpectedly slid sideways and off the sleek brown animal. That was their cue. Rushing forward, the young girl skirted the fallen mage and vaulted onto the roan horse behind Christiana. She wrapped her arms tightly around the elf’s midriff and chuckled softly into the back of her cotton blouse. It was obvious now why the mage had fallen and it entertained the young girl to picture the unseen events transpiring.

Berem had pushed himself to his hands and knees, making a show of having the breath knocked out of him. When the horse handlers sprinted in his direction to help, he held up a hand to wave them off. In the meantime, an undetected Fordar would be using Tarapak’s body as a step stool so he could place his foot in the stirrup and heave himself onto the animal’s back.

Hawken chuckled again and Christiana patted her hand lightly, reminding her to be careful. The girl composed herself and watched Berem climb awkwardly on to his mount and prod him forward.
The miles passed quickly behind them, but near midday both horses bulked and refused to continue. Berem hopped gently down from his roan horse and extended a hand to aid Fordar. The invisibility spell had been lifted once Valen had vanished in the distance.

”The horses are being called back,” the mage stated simply, though he appeared upset at how soon they had lost them, “we can walk from here.”

Hawken and Christiana followed suit and no sooner than their feet had touched the ground, both horses turned and galloped home.

”Are we headed south,” the elf queried, “if so, we have ridden too far east.”

”We are,” responded Berem, “but we need to skirt the mountains and it may be prudent to find new horses.”

”Novel idea,” chimed in Fordar, who was rummaging through his pack for something to eat, “Nareska or Zumo’a?”

”I suggest New City,” an unfamiliar voice suggested.

Looking up, the company saw a beautiful woman approaching from the north. She wore a long, golden dress that left her tan shoulder and arms exposed to the warmth of the sun. Her long golden locks reflected the sun’s brilliance. Hawken glanced in all directions and saw nothing but grass and sky. Where had this stunning woman come from?

”Chrislan,” Berem exclaimed, almost shouting, by far the most emotion he had had shown in the short time the girl had known him.

”Events are unraveling faster than anticipated; it may be too late for Gaia.”

”Truly,” Christiana asked, unconvinced.

Crislan nodded her assent, but the elf seemed no more satisfied. Hawken wasn’t the best at reading people, but she guessed the women had a history and it wasn’t a necessarily friendly one. Berem, however, had already altered course and begun walking northeast. The other four, Christiana begrudgingly, followed.

Fordar munched happily on a piece jerky. He offered a strip to Hawken, but she turned him down, instead increasing her pace to overtake Berem and Chrislan.

“Do you mind explaining what is happening. I was happy to tag along this little adventure after you freed me from Zak, but I would like to know what I have gotten myself into.”

Chrislan looked down at the much shorter lady, her golden eyes boring into the young one’s soul, but Berem responded.

“I understand,” he said, “we set out to acquire Vivamuerto, the Time Shard.”

“That tiny emerald.”

“Yes. It is part of a greater magical artifact that was entrusted to humanity millennia ago. Believing it was too powerful for one man to control, the Council of Magic shattered it and hid the five pieces around Phates Tak. Each piece, a shard, contains the pure essence of one of the elemental magics. Garen’s tower in Arcadia, though also a demonstration of power, is actually a means to an end. It is designed to harness the power of the artifacts; a gambit to reunite the pieces into the Stone of Sages and ascend to godhood.”

“And we are trying to stop him,” Hawken asked incredulously.

“We have to,” responded Berem seriously, “very few people know the shards even exist and fewer still their potential.”

“How do you know?”

“Because in the seventh century, Cybaila, the Earth Shard, was discovered by the nomads who founded Algren in the Nordak Mountains and the Council of Magic decided to recover the shards and entrust them to the ruling families of Phates Tak. Akukynd lacked a monarch, so my master, Mygora Maltazar, was gifted Mariusz, the Fire Shard. She taught me everything she knew about the artifacts.”

“Why now though,” Christina interjected.

“I can only guess,” Berem said, shaking his head, “perhaps Morigan’s escape has forced his hand, perhaps he finally discovered all of their locations, or perhaps his pending death has made his truly desperate.”

Fordar choked on the piece of jerky he was greedily chewing and doubled over. Once he recovered and took a swig of water from his skin, he re-hashed Berem’s statement as a question, “Garen is dying. I thought he was immortal.”

“No one is immortal,” the mage asserted, somewhat forcefully, “Garen is a half-elf, thus doomed to the mortality of his human half. Although magic has sustained him far beyond the standard age limitations of his race, his passing is imminent. Unless, he believes, he can find the shards and thwart inevitability.”

“So we find them and protect them from the thief who stole Vivamuerto,” suggested Christiana.
“Until they can be re-hidden, yes,” confirmed Berem.

“If the ruling families possess the artifacts now,” Hawken pressed, “where are the Water Shard and Mariusz.” She struggled with pronouncing the final word.

“Honestly,” sighed Berem, “Mariusz is beyond me. Mygora hid it where she felt no one, including me, would find it, but do not underestimate the cunning and ingenuity of a dying man. Aquareous, on the other hand, is protected by the King Triden and the sea elves.”

“Sea elves are real,” exclaimed Hawken.

The other four laughed heartily at the exclamation.

“Yes, my dear,” Chrislan responded, “and I have implored a friend of mine to aid us in retrieving it.”

CHAPTER 12: Lichalla

“Are we there yet,” Fordar groaned, not for the first time since the group had been forced to turn back after Runik’s surprise news.

“We should be there by nightfall,” Tarapak answered, hoping it would raise the grumpy dwarf’s spirits.

The dwarf had worn through his left boot shortly after daybreak and his foot was becoming increasingly sore. In addition to his exposed foot, he had tripped over an root during his invisible flight through the forest and injured his wrist in the subsequent fall. Christiana claimed it wasn’t broken, but his periodic complaints about the pain said otherwise.

The elf was in no better a mood than Fordar. She had been brooding since their brief encounter with the elva, even through their discussion the previous day. Even Hawken, whose curiosity normally led to an unending barrage of questions, was quiet this morning.

The archsage was, admittedly, perturbed by the ease in which the Time Shard was taken, but four other remained hidden and well-protected. Two of the shards were considered royal treasures, heirlooms of the Gaian and Kneron kingdoms. Both were guarded by the best soldiers each race had to offer, neither was in immediate danger.

“The Time Shard was guarded by a royal family as well,” Chrislan spoke from her mind directly into Tarapak’s, “yet despite that, and a labyrinth designed by the Gods, it will soon find its way into Garen’s hands, if it is not there already.”

Tarapak glanced back over his shoulder, where Chrislan was walking beside the hooded figure which was Hawken. “The Time Shard was neglected by its keepers,” he responded in the same fashion, “its power forgotten, its threat disregarded. The humans and dwarves will not make the same mistake.”
“And the sea elves?” she questioned.

Shrugging at the question, the archsage returned to his thoughts, fully aware that his oldest friend could see each of them. It was true, the sea elves protected the Water Shard, but it also lay beneath ten leagues of the Arame’en Ocean.

Then, finally, was the Fire Shard. He racked his mind, not for the first time, over where his ancient benefactor could have hidden it. His first thoughts always ran to Drache Tak, the land of dragons, where Mygora and her husband, Vaquan, had spent the bulk of their later years.

“We have combed that mountain a dozen times,” Chrislan reminded him, her voice again echoing in his head alone, “if we couldn’t find it, how will Garen’s mystery thief.”

Content once more with his state of mind, if not the state of Phates Tak’s affairs, Tarapak returned to the venture which had kept him occupied most of the journey--mastering a quite vexing spell. The spell should have been simple, or so he thought when he first read it. It had been discovered in an unlabeled grimoire he had taken from old friend following her death over two millennia before. The grimoire in question had been overlooked by his friend, probably due to the difficulty in deciphering the crude penmanship, thus Tarapak had put it aside as well. TJ had just recently re-discovered the book and, being more naturally curious in her youth, discovered a single yellowing page near the end of the decrepit text written in dwarven with an eloquent stroke. Being unlearned in the dwarven language, and confused as to how such a well-written spell came to be in the same book as the barely readable lines scribbled on every other page, she immediately took it to her mentor.

Berem was intrigued, especially when he discovered the words Mastery Spell inked in at the bottom of the page. At first, he thought a cunning mage had been hiding a complex spell by filling the rest of the grimoire with nothing. Had that been the case, the mage had been successful, but, upon further inspection, it was little more than an entertainment spell. The spell allowed the caster to manipulate a tiny serpent forged of flames. A neat trick, but despite its complicated incantation, it had no practical uses.
Unable to ignore the nature of the spell’s obscurity, Tarapak decided to explore any hidden qualities it may have by mastering it. Three months later, not only had Berem failed to master the spell, he had yet to sufficiently cast it.

The day drug on, with dreary morning becoming a drizzly afternoon. Each individual pulled their respective hood over their head and silence pervaded. Late in the day, as the sun set, its orange rays shining brightly through gaps in the clouds, the first signs of New City came into view. Before long, the small, damp group passed some small farm houses and the road slowly began to grow crowded. Without guidance, they moved into a single-file line, Tarapak at the front, Chrislan at the rear.

New City was the oldest city in Emag, founded in the early days of Phates Tak as a place where elves and humans could live together outside the rule of their sovereign governments. The race of half-elves was literally born in this city, as well as the only truly democratic government in Phates Tak, the Guild Council. Although a modest town at its inception, its location as a key port to the Northern Islands quickly saw the town expand and when the dwarves brought their wares up the Internation Highway in 254 AC, the population exploded. At strategic points in the thriving city’s history, the Guild Council commissioned defensive walls to be built for protection, but each time New City outgrew its bounds. After three attempts, the Guild Masters ceased trying to fight progress and the city was divided into four distinct districts: the Water Front District, the Ancient District, the Inner City, and the Outer City.

As the sullen group filed through a gate separating the Outer City from the Inner, the boisterous cheer of the streets, packed with merchants heading home from their stalls and farmers headed in toward the taverns, boosted the somber moods of tarapak’s companions.

“Where is the nearest cobbler,” queried Fordar, standing on his toes in a poor attempt to see over the masses. Tarapak suppressed a laugh as he saw the dwarf’s left big toe sticking out of his over worn boot.

“Are you not familiar with this city,” he asked.

“Surprisingly, no,” the dwarf replied, “despite working for a merchant who was based in this city for over 20 years, I think I only set foot here once.”

“Well now you are setting toe here for the first time as well,” Christiana chimed in, noticing the exposed digit and earning herself a stern look, “luckily, I know a good cobbler near here.”

Fordar’s expression softened and Tarapak motioned for the elf to lead. The group skillfully weaved their way through the crowd and soon arrived at the rather ironically named Graveler’s Cobbling. The proprietor was clearly closing for the night, but Christiana slid gracefully through the front door and put on her most persuasive persona.

“Good sir, do you have time for perhaps one last customer this fine evening?” her bright smile lit the room and was reflected in her voice. Tarapak couldn’t recall a time he had seen her so coy, she was typically blunt and easily came off as abrasive.

The cobbler, a dwarf who was short even for his race, looked up momentarily from his sweeping. He muttered gruffly that the shop was closed and she could return in the morning. Clearly it wasn’t the first time a pretty elf had graced his front door asking sweetly for something and, Tarapak guessed, the last time hadn’t gone so well.

“But my friend has run straight through his shoe,” Christiana pushed, showing more charm in five minutes than Tarapak had seen from her in all the long time they had been acquainted.

The cobbler looked up a second time and inspected the group at the door. His eyes opened wide as he passed over the dwarf.

“By Knero, it’s Fordar Ironsmith.”

Reacting to his name from the supposedly unknown shop keep, Fordar assessed his fellow countryman. Realization finally set in.

“Graveler? Harden Graveler?” You old dog, how did you end up here?”

Chrislan and Christiana both gave the archsage identical questioning glances, but Berem could only shrug. He had no idea how the dwarves knew each other.

“Long story,” Graveler answered, “got time for it?”

“Have I ever.”

“What about them,” Graveler motioned in the direction of Tarapak with a jut of the chin, “never thought I would catch you running with an elf and two humans.”

Two? Tarapak thought to himself at the comment, but a quick look around revealed that Hawken had taken a seat on a step outside, thus was out of view for Fordar’s old friend.

“Times change,” Fordar stated seriously, overlooking Graveler’s miscount, “for you as well, it seems.”
Harden laughed lightly in agreement.

“I left the tavern to my son when he was of age and decided to give in to wanderlust. Got robbed my first day in Rugrad, but a cobbler picked me up as his apprentice. One thing led to another and now I run my own shop.”

Having finished his sweeping, he hung the broom on the wall and opened a nearby cabinet. He pulled out a tall bottle of dwarf spirits and two glasses.

“Will your friends be joining us?”

All three waved off the kind invitation.

“Your loss,” he said, taking the bottle and glasses to a table in the corner of the shop and dragging a couple chairs up beside it. With drink and chairs set, he motioned Fordar to accompany him. Fordar glimpsed back over his shoulder for the approval of his companions.

“Sit, enjoy, catch up,” Tarapak answered his look, “we will find a room and return.”

Fordar smiled from ear to ear and joined his old friend while his other friends joined Hawken on the stairs.
“I wonder if he will actually get that boot fixed,” Chrislan wondered aloud, drawing a laugh from all, save Hawken, who was staring in the direction of the ocean.

"Are we getting on a boat?" Hawken asked quietly, eyes fixed on the dark sky over the tall masts of the ships in the harbor.

Chrislan, not noticing, or ignoring the girl's somber demeanor, laughed aloud. The laugh was loud and clear over the hubbub in the street, but it lacked the musical quality her voice normally possessed. Hawken and Christiana both gave the serious woman strange looks, they had never heard her laugh before, rarely did she even smile. Tarapak hadn't heard her laugh in some time either, but he knew what was funny, at least to the golden-haired woman.

"Our fearless leader doesn't do boats," she smiled, throwing Tarapak a demure look, one he did not return.

Tarapak hated boats. Hated them. And really anything that had to do with the open water. As long as he had lived, as many affairs as he had been involved, as many battles as he had survived, he was still terrified of boats. He could not swim, he got terribly seasick, and he felt trapped, even on larger vessels. No, he thought to himself, a boat is out of the question.

Gladly, Hawken looked relieved at Chrislan's revelation and managed a slight smile.

"Where to next, fearless leader?" she jested, using the archsage's discomfort to ease her own.

Good question, Tarapak thought to himself, stepping down off the cobbler's porch, but not far enough away to be swept into the swift moving mass of foot traffic surging by. It had been many years since his last sojourn to the northern coast and his memory of the area was limited.

As he thought, Tarapak watched as an elderly man stroll slowly down the pebbled road activating the enchantment to light the street lamps. Long ago, a similar job was performed manually by a man carrying a bucket of fire and a long stick. As the nostalgic mage glanced the opposite way down the busy street, he noticed a young boy, not more than nine years old, following the gentleman at a distance and systematically and mischievously, undoing his work. Quite a feat for a child his age, yet he still jumped when all the lights he had dowsed flared suddenly back up and the tramp scampered into a dark alley. Tarapak smiled slyly and lowered his hand from casting the spell. The magical street urchin wouldn’t likely mess with the old man again for some time and the archsage made a quick mental note to investigate the boy’s talent once he had completed his journey.

Mind returning to the task at hand, contemplating the best course of action, he overheard the excited conversation of a group of fishermen headed in from their catch.

"Best day of fishin we've had in years," one said.

"Fish were practically swimming into the nets," commented another, his thick accent a trademark of the Northern Islands.

"It's as if summat was scarin the fish ta shore and they was more 'fraid of it than us," came a third, his grasp on Common tenuous at best, but that was the last Tarapak heard before they moved past him and their voices melded into the masses.

The archsage didn't take much stock in the conversation, but Chrislan reacted immediately. Her eyes widen and she leapt from the porch to the street in a single bound. Without looking back or explaining her actions, she sprinted in the direction the three fishermen had come. Concerned, Tarapak turned on his heel to follow, but remembered the others.

"Stay here," he said quickly, noticing both had risen, intent on following as well, "if we don't return by 25th hour, continue on without us."

Christiana nodded, but Hawken hesitated until the elf put a hand on her shoulder and eased her back onto the stair. Turning again, the archsage hurried toward the docks as well. Despite his age, the archsage could move very fast when motivated, even devoid of magical assistance. Chrislan, however, was surprisingly spry as well and had an ample head start. By the time he reached the Water Front District, the crowds had completely dissipated, yet Chrislan was nowhere to been seen. He slowed to a walk as he passed through another gated wall. This part of town was deserted at night, thus no lanterns lit the streets and the overcast sky made visibility minimal. Berem closed his eyes.

til deniheb ëm äyas, ëvig ëm sït nï sith senkrad.

When the archsage opened his eyes, his yellow-streaked irises glowed faintly and he could see as if it were early afternoon on a sunny day.

As he progressed slowly down the now-clearly visible cobblestone path toward the public docks, a scuffling in a nearby alley caught his attention. With his right hand, he reached for his sword, simultaneously raising his left hand preparing a spell. The sight that met his magically enhanced vision, however, was shocking enough for the spell to flee his mind, even if his grasp remained tight on the sword hilt.

Rolling on the ground in the dirty backstreet, hair flying wildly about, arms wrapped around an unidentifiable creature, was Chrislan. She was trying, and failing, to pin the creature. Chrislan was deceptively strong given her slight, feminine build, but the animal was putting up a tremendous fight. As the woman rolled again in an attempt to disorient it, its scaly blue tail lashed out to strike her leg. Chrislan anticipated the attack and dodged the blow. The strong, muscular tail struck the ground with great force and propelled both woman and the creature she clutched toward a solid brick wall. Maneuvering herself strategically, the crafty woman used the animal to cushion their flight into the wall. Bone met masonry with a sharp snap, eliciting a loud squeal from the injured combatant, and the struggle ceased.
Chrislan pushed herself from atop the partially maimed creature and brushed the loose dirt from her normally immaculate clothing. She had lost a sandal while wrestling which Berem located near the alley's mouth. Handing it to her, he gazed at the animal lying wounded behind her and failed to hide his shock. It was a dragon.

Around five feet in length from nose to tail, its stream-lined body was perfectly adapted for a mostly aquatic lifestyle. Its shimmering blue scales, now coated in dust, would serve as excellent underwater camouflage and Tarapak could tell from the odd angle at which its left wing sat that it had been broken during the collision with the wall.

"A youth or a miniature," the archsage questioned, stepping fully into the alley to avoid being seen in case someone wandered their direction.

"A miniature," she responded, obviously winded from her flight and struggle. She knelt to assess the damage to the broken wing, "but simply a small fish, his presence means his master is near."

The miniature dragon, who had been feigning grogginess, took a wild snap at Chrislan’s hand. She pulled it back quickly and lifted her hand to retaliate, but thought better of smacking the dragon's thick skull with her bare hand. It hissed venomously and Tarapak brandished his sword.

Dragons, even miniature ones, fear few blades, but one look at how the feisty blue dragonKin withdrew from Tarapak proved he recognized the ancient and powerful weapon.

"What is it you want from me, He Who Is Called Master of Dragons?" it spoke clearly and concisely in the Common tongue. Unlike many dragonKin the archsage had heard speak, there was no sign of a hiss or difficulty speaking the language. Perhaps due to the smaller teeth, he thought.

"Your name, small one," Tarapak asked politely, stalling, wondering both at the dragon's presence in a major city and its evident knowledge of him.

"I am Stream," he answered in the same confident voice, snapping his tail in the direction of Chrislan, who's presence seemed to bother him, "and all dragonKin know of you, Tarapak Berem," reading either the man's face or thoughts.

"And your master," Berem continued questioning.

"I am a dragon, I have no master," he responded shortly. His voice sounded much like a child's, albeit a highly educated one. He snapped his tail at Chrislan again and this time she caught it. Stream snapped and hissed, but she squeezed, pushing down the dorsal fin atop his tail which allowed for easier navigation and speed in the water.

"Take us to Lichalla," she said coldly.

Berem was taken aback again. Lichalla was a silver dragon, or better THE silver dragon. The existence of dragonKin on Phates Tak was a mystery to most of the world. True, Gaia had wyverns and drakes in their military, Akukynd was devastated by a salamandric dragon a few centuries previous, and Vaquan Maltazar was rumored to have used dragons to win the First Great War, but beyond those stories most races believed dragons to exist only in myth. Some people, discounting wyverns as true dragons, believed in them only as myths. In reality, dragons lived somewhat abundantly in each of the five realms. They kept mostly to themselves and those who discovered them rarely lived to pass on that information. Dragons were powerful, mysterious, and majestic, but two dragons were revered by their kind above all others. One gold. One silver. Lichalla was that silver dragon.

Stream, though rebellious, had little choice but to obey his temporary captors. He had no chance of fleeing with a broken wing and feared, if not Berem, than his ancient blade, enough not to seek another physical confrontation. Additionally, miniature dragons do not possess any type of breathe attack, like their larger cousins, thus the short trip from the alley to the water's edge was uneventful. Stream was ungainly on land. His legs were too short for his body and the broken wing made balancing difficult.
The three reached a long pier which stretched out into the open bay. A fishing pier with no boats save a tiny sloop tethered at its far end. The blue miniature dragon, a stream dragon, stepped out onto the pier and hooted twice. First a high note, then a low note. For a long moment, the only sound that could be heard were the waves lapping gently against the shoreline, then Tarapak noticed a lone ripple appear off the end of the dock. It radiated outward, others joining it, and a slender hand gracefully broke the surface. The hand was followed by a striking woman with delicate, yet strong, features and shimmering silver hair. She was clad in a sleeveless aqua blue dress, revealing a tattoo of a winged dragon on her left shoulder. Two teardrop-shaped gemstone earrings hung from pointed ears and she wore a pointed crown, adorned with a single flawless sapphire, atop her long, wet hair. The moon's light radiated off her silver lochs, much as the sun did with Chrislan's golden hair, yet, as Berem watched, her beautiful hair shifted to a midnight black and reflected the night no more. No longer fearing reprisals, Stream hurried awkwardly down the pier and hid behind his master, wrapping his own slender body around her right leg.
"Elegant," Chrislan muttered at Tarapak's shoulder, apparently disagreeing with her opposite's style.
Stepping forward, she opened her mouth to address Lichalla. Instead of words, incomprehensible growls and grunts emanated from her throat. Tarapak knew the language in which she spoke, but didn't understand a single word. Lichalla, to whom she spoke, ignored her and bent to tend Stream's broken wing. Resetting the bone, she closed a hand over the disconnected shaft and closed her sparkling blue eyes. The miniature dragon winced in pain, but didn't utter a sound. The maiden's black hair flashed silver momentarily and when she removed her hand, the bone had healed.

Chrislan, ire rising at being ignored, stepped farther down the dock and repeated the grunts and growls. Lichalla acknowledged her and responded in the same impossible language. The two women nodded to each other and Chrislan backed off the pier. Stream, aware of what had transpired, leapt into the rolling waves and disappeared. Tarapak, ignorant of the words spoken, but wary of the miniature dragon’s reaction, retreated as well. His precaution was well-founded.

Lichalla had begun to grow taller and heavier, causing the wooden planks of the dock to creak of groan. A long, silver scaled tail erupted from her backside, while long, feminine arms and legs thickened and grew razor sharp claws. She fell forward onto her forelegs, even as her neck elongated, and the swaying dock shattered into hundreds of pieces. Lichalla’s rapidly expanding body dropped heavily into the ocean with a mighty splash, which rocked every ship in the harbor, capsizing a few that were nearby. Tarapak saw the mighty wave surging toward him and could do nothing more but brace for impact. Wiping salt water from his eyes, wringing out his clothes, and shaking his long hair to relieve it of excess water, he blinking the stinging liquid from his eyes in time to see Lichalla’s black hair recede into the skull beneath her long, swept back horns.

Moments before, a graceful dark-haired maiden had stood on a lonely dock before Tarapak, now a majestic silver dragon towered over him, body half submerged in the Serla’o Sea.

“Satisfied,” Lichalla growled, the hissed that accompanied the word no less venomous than the stare she gave Chrislan.

The golden-haired woman nodded, “I apologize, mistress, but the world is full of imposters, I had to be sure.”

“I understand,” the silver dragon returned, bowing her long neck low, nose touching the tip of the ground in front of Chrislan. A sign of respect.

The golden haired woman touched her middle finger to her forhead and kneeled, touching the same finger to the ground. A low rumble emanated from Lichalla’s throat and she began rapidly restoring her human form. Once complete, she walked confidently atop the waves to shore. Stream was close.

“Did you obtain Aquareous,” Chrislan asked, surprising Tarapak. This meeting was no coincidence, his friend had arranged it.

“It was stolen,” she responded simply, her voice similar in resonance to Chrislan’s, “possibly even before I received your message.”

“How,” Berem asked, drawing an intense stare from the dragon lady. Given her reaction, it was possible she noticed him for the first time.

“Your thief is cunning and resourceful, Dragon Master,” she emphasized the last word with disdain, “he possesses an artifact that allows him to breathe underwater and exploited a previous relationship with Princess Ahrá’el to acquire the shard.”

“He obtained it before he ever reached Imononanai,” Berem concluded, thinking aloud.

“And likely commandeered a boat to enter the elven kingdom from the sea, bypassing their defenses,” Chrislan added.

“No matter the machinations of the past, your path must look forward,” Lichalla interposed on the other's thoughts, “and your time grows short.”

“Thank you, Great One,” Tarapak said, addressing the silver dragon, “your council is both wise and timely, we will push on with haste.” He repeated the sign of respect Chrislan had performed and the lady smiled, pleased.

“Dragon Master, indeed.”

Turning gracefully on her toes, the elegant woman took a single stride toward the water and leapt fluidly into the dark waves, Stream at her heels.

“Aquareous and Vivamuerto are beyond us; with a two day advantage, Cybaila is all but lost; and Mariusz has been lost for an age,” Chrislan sighed in resignation as she relayed the hard truth.
“Then we continue west to Kyndmenatunok and pray Burá’as still shines upon our arrival.”
 
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CHAPTER 13: infiltration

The gentle rocking of the ship had lulled Darsun into a dreamless sleep, so it was only fitting that a sharp jolt from the ship woke him. Taking a cursory glance about, he noticed the boxes behind which he was hiding had shifted and was thankful none had fallen while he slept. Although a short trip from Jae to Castle LeBlanc, Darsun felt refreshed after his nap and yawned loudly. He pushed himself to his feet and stretched his arms toward the low wooden ceiling of the hold. If the sharp jolt had been their landing, he still had a time before the sailors escorted the royal guards down to inspect the goods from the mainland. Yawning a second time, he reflected on the happenings of the past few weeks.

Upon waking in his room at The Devil’s Anvil, he discovered he was being watched by a scintillating elf with midnight black hair wearing a diaphanous red robe. Excited did not begin to describe the emotion Darsun felt at seeing Enjol again and he was quick to demonstrate his loyalty and willingness to serve the enchantress. Dalliance swiftly turned to business, however, and Enjol smuggled the assassin back into the library to aid in Malferna’s escape. Although unneeded in its execution, Darsun had to admit that being flown to the city of Uther was considerably faster than swimming or commandeering a shallop from the local fishermen.

Convincing Ahra’el to steal the Water Shard was absurdly simple and he spent the better part of the day practicing his swimming in the shallow coastal waters. Upon the sea elf’s return, she pleaded with him to stay with her, but he convinced her that his quest was of utmost importance and rushed off. He had no choice but to commandeer a shallop from Malan the subsequent evening, not that it contradicted his loose morals, he simply disliked open water. Thankfully, the late night sail across the Straight of Emeri was uneventful. He capsized the small boat within sight of his destination and swam the final mile to shore.

Arena Blasé lived up to its name. Even in the cool pre-dawn air, the sand was burning beneath the soles of Darsun’s Fade Striders. A map in his missive, however, was precise to the location of the beach’s hidden grotto, thus his suffering was short-lived. A long, strangely arid tunnel connected Arena Blasé to a much larger cavern where he encountered the labyrinth. The monstrous maze proved simple to navigate at first. He simply traversed The Void to avoid any dead ends, but the maze seemed to learn from his magic and began blocking his route, even through The Void. In fact, the second time the intruder had opened a portal and discovered an identical evergreen hedge adorning the adjacent landscape; he quit cheating and navigated the maze fairly. The mysterious elf had been a small nuisance, but in the end, the wily thief had succeeded.

Darsun absently fiddled with the small jewels in his pocket. He removed them, holding both easily in the palm of his hand. They were smaller than he expected, but radiated power. A power, sadly, the mundane could not access. Voices and scuffling from the far end of the cargo hold caught the thief’s attention.

”No problems with the shipment”

”Nah, just another boring trip.”

Darsun slipped the tiny gems back into his pocket and slipped a blue ring onto his finger. He opened a portal from the ship into The Void, then a second from The Void back into the same dimension. Stepping through, avoiding the sea of acidic orange liquid within the dark dimension, he fell a short distance into the sea. Twisting the ring on his finger, he dove deep under the water and began swimming toward the shore. The grizzly man had never been a strong swimmer, but with access to Wave’s Justice, he could breathe underwater for hours, thus eliminating the need to swim properly.

The castle’s docks were situated on the eastern wall and the front gate on the northern, so Darsun, staying sufficiently beneath the calm waves, headed south. Despite his innate and magically enhanced evasion skills, it was still best to wait for nightfall to enter the castle. Although the guard would be no less numerous or vigilant in the wee hours, the number of other people moving about the palace would be minimal. Finding a smooth boulder, Darsun placed his back against it and settled down on the compact sand to wait. The reflection of the sun off the castle walls and the natural refraction of the water made seeing difficult, but the thief passed the hours monitoring the actions and patterns of the soldiers and praying the remained the same on the night shift.

Darkness fell swiftly over the great stronghold of Gaia. Timing his movements with the guard pattern he had memorized, Darsun pushed hard off the sandy seabed, kicked his feet rapidly for speed, and broke the surface within feet of the shore without a guard in sight. Grinning at his own ingenuity, laughing silently at how easy power was falling into his lap, he approached the slick, black castle walls and opened a portal. Blocking his entry was a wall.

I am getting sick of this, the thief muttered to himself. In nearly two decades of Fade Striding, I have never seen an obstruction and now twice in a week. Growling in his throat, he hugged the wall and began searching for a new entry point. A spotlight shined directly in front of him. Darsun leapt backwards, tripped over his cloak, and landed heavily in the well-trimmed grass. Fumbling in his pocket, panic attempting to claw at his psyche, he slipped Night’s Justice on his first available finger and froze.
An indecipherable voice rose over the peaceful night air and a second responded. The thief, still on his backside, shuffled up against the warm stone wall and held his breathe.

”What is it, lieutenant,” a voice floated down clearly from the ramparts.

”Thought I saw movement in the darkness, captain,” the lieutenant responded.

“Wild animal?”

”Couldn’t tell, sir, but didn’t want to take a chance.”

”Private,” the captain’s voice rose above his conversational tone as he began barking orders over the battlements, “double the watch on the southern wall and lieutenant, you and I will have a closer look.”

Darsun risked a glance upward in time to see the two officers’ disappear and two younger looking soldiers take their place. In moments, two spotlights illuminated the ground on either side of the obscured thief. Taking a deep breathe, he stood, back to the wall, and watched the spotlight to his left sweep from left to right, then out to sea. A second time. A third time. As the spotlight swept left a fourth time, Darsun heard voices approaching from the west. Removing his flask from inside his cloak, he took a long draught and heaved the half-empty vessel with all his might. It flew in a shallow arc and splashed down twenty feet from the shoreline.

Immediately, both spotlights snapped toward the sound and the two officers came sprinting around the corner, drawn by the noise. With the four soldiers occupied, Darsun sprinted east toward the docks. The docks sat on sand banks that stretched forty feet in each direction and a massive drawbridge was lower onto the docks to allow cargo in and waste out of the castle. With the drawbridge retracted, the docks were no more than useless structures in the shallow salt water. Hoping he would have more luck traversing the entryway through The Void, he again opened a portal. Again, he was disappointed.

Moving fully into The Void, if for no other reason than to dodge the soldiers who would come along shortly, he gazed up at the imposing structure that sat on both sides of the dimensional walls. Castle LeBlanc, the ancient bastion of Gaia, had been the palace and stronghold of humans since the beginning of time. Legends said that The Earth Lord, Gaia himself, built the castle, brick by brick, with his own hands. Darsun had always shrugged off fanciful legends about the Gods and their personal relationships with the ancient people of Phates Tak, but this story seemed too convincing to ignore. An exact replica of the black stone fortress occupied the corresponding space of The Void, a feat only conceivable by the Gods.

He circled the building to the north, but the great gate and portcullis of the castle were firmly shut in both dimensions. Two shadows moved quickly by. The soldiers’ patrol had reached him. Nasty luck alerting the guards, he thought to himself, and then slapped himself in his own stupidity. The guards came out and I can follow them back in. Double checking that the black ring was still on his finger and the obscure spell in place, he slid silently out of The Void and fell in step fifteen feet behind the two officers.

”Must have been a krokadilian or giant torti,” the taller man said, patting his companion reassuringly on the back.

”Apologies,” the second, assumedly the lieutenant responded.

”Better safe than sorry,” the colonel recited, comforting his underling, “you made the right decision.”
The other man perked up and they continued on in silence.

”Disgusting,” Darsun muttered, keeping his distance.

The two officers rounded the northwestern corner of the castle. The colonel broke from his counterpart, approached the seemingly flawless wall, and knocked twice. He waited a brief second and knocked twice more. A peep hole slid open at the officer’s eye level and he exchanged unheard words with someone on the other side. The peep hole slid closed and the colonel stepped back from the wall. Seconds later, a trap door was pushed open from beneath the ground, revealing a set of stairs leading down into the castle’s dungeons. Darsun closed the gap between himself and the officers stealthily, but the third man began to pull the door closed as soon as they entered. Breaking into a sprint, the thief had to slide on his back to squeeze through the closing door.

”What the…”the soldier started, but the assassin was too quick. His dagger slit a neat red line across the unfortunate man’s throat before he could sound the alarm. Sheathing the dagger, Darsun caught the man before he tumbled down the stairs. Laying him across the top stair, he searched the body for anything of use, found only a ring of keys, which he tucked into his cloak, and descended the stairs. The intruder found himself looking down a long row of cells, some occupied, but mostly empty. Each cell contained a cot with a pillow, a shelf containing a couple books, and a chamber pot. Nicest prison I have ever seen, from the inside or out, the assassin chuckled inwardly. All of the prisoners were sleeping, or feigning sleep, and the obscured thief moved passed without incident. At the far end of the prison, situated at the bottom of a steep staircase, was a single, unoccupied, wooden desk.

Must have killed the jailor, Darsun noted. I am on a timer now. Knowing he had less than four hours before the entire garrison was hunting him, he sprinted up the stairs and found himself in an empty hallway. Numerous sconces lined the passageway, but few were lit, lending to Darsun’s ability to remain hidden. Closing his eyes, he pictured the map from his file. He was likely in the western corridor of the main floor. To the right he could access the main hall and throne room, to the left were meeting halls and the room on his map labeled gallery. He headed left. Much as the Green Rapier, a relic of the Gods and a gift to the elven royal family, had unlocked the Time Shard, so Gaia’s Blade, a sword with a similar history, unlocked the vault which protected the Earth Shard.

Moving quietly, avoiding the sparse torch light, Darsun remained alert. With the dead body adorning the cells below, he could little afford another delay or distraction. The heavy clop of boots sounded down the corridor and the thief slunk into a corner until the one man patrol marched passed. Continuing down the passageway, his destination came into sight. Two lit torches adorned the wall on either side of the door, illuminating the single guard to the left of the door. Darsun weighed his options. Sneaking passed the vigilant guard would be dangerous and, if discovered, could alert the royal guard of his presence. A second murder, however, would guarantee both his entry and his discovery when the next patrol made its rounds. Deciding quickly, he positioned himself in the center of the corridor and coughed loudly. Reacting to the noise, the posted soldier moved away from the door and peered into the gloom, searching for the source. His chest now exposed, Darsun launched his dagger. The blade struck true, burying itself in the poor man’s heart. Pitching forward, he smashed hard onto the floor, the sword at his waist clanging loudly. Darsun cringed at the noise. Rushing down the hall, he pushed open the door to the gallery and drug the dead man inside. Retrieving his dagger from the man’s heart, he wiped the blade clean on the soldier’s uniform, then sliced a large swath out of the cloth from the man’s cotton trousers. Returning to the hallway, he mopped up the streak of blood with the cotton swath and turned back into the dark room, closing the door silently behind him.

The last patrol just passed, he reminded himself, I have less than an hour before the man is reported missing. Darsun cast his eyes about the moonlit room. At first, he could only see the moonlight reflecting off several glass cases, but eventually his eyes adjusted and the whole room came into focus. Lining the left wall were cases full of axes, lances, and swords, relics of long dead kings whose exploits were captioned beneath their weapons. The right wall primarily contained suits of armor, but a single table contained various objects captioned in the same way as the weapons opposite. A glass case in the center of the room contained pottery and vessels, supposed antiques from Ansa Tak, but it was to the back wall that Darsun focused his attention.

He had been in the gallery once before, having stolen Flame’s Justice from a memorial dedicated to the exiled princess Kayla LeBlanc. The memorial consisted of: a beautiful rendering of a young girl with brown hair and eyes, typical of the LeBlanc family; a green tunic with matching leggings and a cap; a purple-hilted broadsword; an oaken longbow; a strange green jewel; and a plaque reading, Kayla LeBlanc, the lost child. Darsun stopped briefly to stare at the pretty girl in the portrait, then turned his attention to the only other artifacts against the back wall, an elegant suit of ceremonial armor and a glistening great sword.

The sword seemed to be absorbing the moonlight streaming in through the windows and shining with its own brightness. Leaning his shoulder against the stand which held the purple and gold armor, he slid it sideways for better access to the sword hanging horizontally on the wall above. Though just out of reach, a cursory inspection of the room revealed a wooden step-stool which allowed his short frame to reach the sword. Removing the hilt from its anchors first, he took the full weight of the six foot long blade and staggered backwards under its immense weight. The blade swung down off its mount, screeching as it scratched down the stone wall, but landing luckily on the plush carpet that covered most of the room.
Although slim of frame and having an inclination for daggers, Darsun silently wondered how anyone could wield such a cumbersome blade. The great sword stood taller than the diminutive thief and he could not fully lift it from the ground, instead he laboriously drug the glistening blade across the moonlit carpet. As he approached the door, he heard a voice from the other side.

“Henry, where are you?”

Footsteps shuffled behind the closed door, then the brass nob jiggled as it turned.

“Private, I don’t want to...”

His words were cut short by his death, Darsun’s dagger piercing the heart of yet another Gaian soldier. The assassin had little qualms about killing, especially soldiers, but the body count on this mission should have been lower and he began to question his own methods. The newly dead soldier pitched forward and landed face first on the carpet, which muffled his fall. Darsun sighed, rolled the man sideways away from the door, retrieved his dagger, and continued dragging the huge sword out of the room.

Once across the threshold, he lost the carpet and the sword made a horrendous noise as he drug it along the stone hallway. Abandoning stealth for speed, he left the gallery door wide open, both dead bodies readily visible, and slung the massive hilt onto his shoulder for better leverage.

This mission went south in a hurry, he thought to himself. But he had no one he could blame and no time to do so, so he struggled on. He briefly considered trying The Void again, but he instinctively new that neither castle, in this dimension or the other, would service him better. Besides, the last time he had tried to escape with a legendary weapon, it had resisted him. Slowly, surely, and somewhat miraculously, Darsun reached an antechamber leading to the throne room. Heaving the blade inside, stealth completely forgotten, he swung the wooden door shut behind him and collapsed, exhausted, on the cool floor. The small room was sparsely furnished. Two three-legged stools and a chair sat in one corner; an unadorned mannequin in another; and a slender purple tapestry depicting the royal seal, an axe and sword crossed beneath a five pronged crown, hung beside the door leading to the next room. It was little more than a staging area, but to Darsun it was a heavenly reprieve. He heard two sets of heavy footfalls in the corridor and voices.

“The noise was reported from this sector.”

“I thought David was sent to investigate.”

“Never returned,” the voice took a breathe as if to continue, but the footsteps and voices halted as a louder, faster set of footfalls approached. A new voice addressed the first two men in the hallway.
“Lieutenant Marks was found murdered in the prisons,” both men gasped in shock, but the new voice continued, “we have a dangerous intruder, remain with your partner and report any findings to General Hammel at Guard Station A.”

“Understood,” the soldiers returned in unison, and Darsun could imagine them snapping to attention and saluting.

“Capture order is primary, but with resistance, death is permitted.”

Darsun again heard footsteps running down the corridor and the original soldiers, more carefully now, moving toward the gallery. Taking big gulps of stale air, the thief prayed his good luck continued and pushed open the door into the throne room. The high ceilinged room was pitch black. It sat in the center of the castle’s main floor and no windows or skylights provided illumination to its massive confines. Even accustomed to working in darkness and with eyes mostly adjusted, Darsun could see little more than a foot directly in front of him. Guessing at the position of the throne from the map in his head, he crept forward.

In an attempt to quiet the screeching of the blade on the stone floor, the assassin laid the sword flat on the floor, bent low over the hilt, and pulled it as parallel to the floor as possible. Though considerably quieter, Darsun could not avoid the occasional clanging on uneven stones and his heart raced as he expected the doors to be flung open and the lights cast on at every moment. His luck held, however, and he bumped into the arm of the Gaian throne without further delay.

Needing to risk a small light, he fumbled in the darkness with the rings in his pocket and, one by one, held them close to his face. Upon finding the ring he needed, he slipped it on a finger, closed his eyes, and twisted it a quarter turn left. Although the light now shining from his hand was dim, it would have blinded him had his eyes been open and he counted out thirty long seconds before he risked opening them again. Once he did, he left the sword lying beside the throne and began crawling around searching for a keyhole few knew existed. Finding the hidden panel on the rear base of the throne, he slid it sideways, revealing a hole designed for Gaia’s Blade. Struggling once more with the heavy blade, he positioned it before the keyhole and pushed. The sword glided forward up to the hilt and a mechanism in the elaborate throne clicked.

The floor on which Darsun was standing began to move. He leapt sideways to avoid falling down the stairs that led to the LeBlanc’s secret vault. In the minimal light, the thief could make out two stairs leading down into the darkness, but suddenly all the torches in the throne room flared to life. Half blinded by the firelight, Darsun threw him into the hole and prayed. Again, his luck held. No footsteps raced to the throne, no raised voices screamed for his arrest, and the fall was brief enough to only knock the air from his lungs.

Blinking his eyes rapidly until his sight returned, he took in his surroundings. The floor, like the gallery, was covered in plush carpet and the ceiling was no more than five feet high. The chamber stretched out under the throne, but the walls were barely wide enough for the slim thief to kneel abreast. On the ceiling, beneath the throne, was small indentation that appeared to be a release mechanism and the shape of the great sword was outlined around it. Darsun heard cushioned footfalls approaching the throne and a deep, commanding voice speaking in an even tone.

“What is the situation, General Hammels?”

“It appears someone came ashore and infiltrated the castle through the prisons, Lieutenant Marks was found murdered at the trap door. None of the prisoners were released, but Privates Henry and David Samson were founded similarly murdered in the gallery, milord Abraham.”

The king? Darsun threw a hand over his mouth to muffle his gasp of surprise.

“Was anything stolen,” asked the king.

“Gaia’s Blade is missing, but nothing else appears to have been removed.”

Silence pervaded the throne room as the footsteps grew closer. Panicking, Darsun searched for an escape. Deeper into the chamber was a shelf. Two unique items sat on the dusty perch: an ancient book with unknown letters emblazoned on the cover and the Earth Shard. Snatching the Earth Shard and adding it to his growing collection, he returned to the entrance. The measured footsteps grew closer. There was no chance of escaping unseen.

As a last resort, Darsun reached up and pressed the indentation in the ceiling. Two panels slid back from the motif of the sword above him, revealing the sword itself. Leaping deeper into the chamber to avoid the falling blade, the thief covered his ears and waited for the resounding crash. It never came.
The sword landed on the thick carpet without a sound and the secret door slowly began sliding back into place behind the throne. The king broke the silence once more, his voice dangerously near to the closing hatch.

“No ships are to come or go until the situation is resolved. Awaken the full force and organize the search. Our thief will find he will have difficulty leaving the island with that sword because of its...”
The stone door slid shut and Darsun, blanketed in darkness, heard no more.

Chapter 14: A Wedding

It had been a long ride down the Internation Highway from New City to Abarak, a small town on the edge of the Marakali Desert. It was made longer by general lack of sleep and the tendency of Fordar’s horse to bulk at every stray noise, movement, and hint of light. After the exasperated dwarf had been thrown for the third time, he refused to re-mount his horse and the company was only saved another bout of dwarven stubborness by a lively young man approaching from the opposite direction. The man, clearly more accustomed to the early hours than anyone in the party, bent to aid the fallen dwarf. Recognizing the crest emblazoned on the young man’s jerkin, as it belonged to an old friend and former employer, Fordar implored that he introduce the group to his master, to which the young man, Alex, was happy to do. His master, Asir Sate, owned and operated the largest overseas shipping company in Emag and heartily welcomed his former bodyguard and friends. Putting them up in three of his mansion’s finest rooms, the traveler’s, save Tarapak, slept from just prior to sunrise until after midday. Once roused, even the archsage admitted they were making good time and agreed to postpone their departure until the next morning.

***

“Youngest draws first,” Tarapak chuckled, handing a deerskin bag to his companion, “even if the young man is 200 years old.”

“Humph,” muttered the dwarf, taking the bag from the archsage. He didn’t mind being younger than Berem, even if he looked considerably older, few beings on the continent outdated the powerful mage, but he hated being reminded of his own age.

Digging his hand into the small bag, he pulled out ten ivory tiles, each marked with a number between one and ten, and carefully, without looking at the numbers, placed them in a straight line in front of his crossed legs. Tarapak, sitting cross-legged on the floor opposite Fordar, then took the proffered bag and repeated the process.

Rubbing his supremely hairy chin thoughtfully, the experienced dwarf considered his tiles then flipped the second one from the left.

“Three,” he groaned, clearly disappointed in his first choice, “now draw a two, rookie.”

Berem had played the game before with Fordar, but that was his only practice, having not grown up playing the common dwarven game like his friend. Despite his lack of practice, he had still had some success against the stubborn dwarf, much to his friend’s disgruntlement. Reaching down, he too took the second tile from the left, showing a four.

“Beginner’s luck,” muttered the dwarf, as Tarapak picked up both tiles and started a pile beside his right leg, “draw again.”

Again, the mage knew well the rules of the game, but listened to his friend’s instruction quietly, knowing the wily veteran liked to believe he still had the edge in the game. Scanning his tiles again, he flipped the tile directly to the left of his first choice.

“Eight,” Berem stated, quickly followed by his companion’s, “five.”

“Six,” Fordar intoned, drawing first now, “nine,” came the reply.

Taking a deep breath, frustrated with his luck, Fordar changed the subject, “Where is your little elven friend?”

The pensive mage raised his eyes from the game, a sly smile playing across the face, and glanced at the door which was sliding silently open behind the dwarf.

“Here,” came Christiana’s sweet, melodious voice from the doorway, causing the cautious dwarf to leap from his sitting position and reached for the short axe at his waist. The elf giggled slightly at his abrupt reaction before gliding into the room and closing the door as silently as it had opened.

“You should be more careful when entering a room, lady,” he added the last to show his distaste, knowing she despised the elven formality, “you may find your ally’s blade as dangerous as your enemy’s.”

“I will take my chances when clumsy old dwarves ally themselves with me,” the sweet smile still played across his face.

Fordar turned up his nose at her jest, but there was some truth to what she said. Despite being four times the dwarf’s age, Christiana was hitting the prime of her life. Her speed and reflexes were unmatchable by the other races and her skill with a blade was peerless. The aging dwarf, on the other hand, had a cunning and stubbornness that were stronger than his sword arm some days. Alighting upon the bed in her silent, graceful manner, the curious elf eyed her friends’ post-lunch entertainment.

“It is the dwarven game of Parunukles,” explained Fordar, noticing her quizzical look, “each player flips a tile and the highest number wins the round. The player with the most tiles after ten rounds wins the game.”

As the Parunukles Champion spoke, Berem flipped another tile, a seven, and the dwarf claimed his first set with an eight. The game continued four more rounds before the game’s lone spectator interjected, “what happens if you choose the same number?”

“He wins,” Berem answered quickly, cutting off the excited dwarf, “because I have no desire in losing the skin off my knuckles.”

Christiana raised an eyebrow, still confused.

“A tie means a duel for the tiles between whoever flipped them,” Fordar explained, “and a duel consists of each player bashing their knuckles together until one player gives in.”

The elf grimaced at the prospect, taking a mental note never to accept an invitation to play such a barbaric game. Ignoring her unease, Fordar continued, “in both dwarven and human military units, they play with tiles numbered one through five instead of ten so there are more ties. The outcome of the game is usually rather ugly, thus the humans nicknamed it ‘Bloody Knuckles.’”

Conversation ceased as the last two rounds were played, with Fordar valiantly triumphing, pulling a ten to defeat Berem’s eight and keeping his record against the new player spotless.

"Remind me to teach you how to play Bones," the dwarf chuckled, relishing in his own success.

Distracted as he was by another dramatic victory, he never noticed the archsage tapping several of his tiles lightly to revert them to their original numbers. Both the dwarf and archsage returned their tiles and prepared to draw again when the door flew open and Hawken burst in.

“This place is amazing,” she said in a muffled voice, her mouth stuffed full, likely with the same pastries she was carrying in her left hand.

“We can leave you here,” Berem responded smiling, but serious. It would be a good place for the young girl to start a new life. Away from the prying eyes of the bigger cities.

Hawken shook her head vigorously and swallowed her current mouthful.

“No thanks, I am enjoying the food, but the scenery would get boring after a while.”

Berem understood completely. The young lady, so long confined to Zumo’a, had wanderlust. Likely escalated due to the adventures of the past couple weeks.

“I do understand there is a party tonight,” she continued, “are we going?”

The other three looked expectantly at Berem. They all knew he would have gotten his bearings before sleeping, if he slept at all.

“We are,” he said, suppressing a laugh at the general excitement in the room, “our host’s daughter, Asabe, is marrying a local boy, Dukkar Tirar. This party is for friends and families of both bride and groom, so we will be sitting with the bride’s family, as Fordar is a close personal friend of Mr. Sate.”

The dwarf blushed beneath his greying beard, but neither of the women noticed.

“I can’t wear this to a wedding party,” Hawken gasped, “this is a disaster.”

“I am sure we can find you something to wear, dear,” the elf consoled her, “let’s go down to the shops and see what they have to offer.”

“Truly,” the girl gasped again, excitement replacing her previous concern, “but I have no money.”
The elf chuckled light, “come”

“Christiana, have you seen Chrislan,” Berem called after the girls.

“She rose before I did, I assumed she was eating,” the elf answered.

“She wasn’t in the kitchen,” interjected the younger girl, remembering her pastries and shoving another one in her mouth.

“I am sure she went looking for food elsewhere,” returned Berem, “pastries aren’t really her cup of tea.”
Hawken nodded and grinned, jelly dripping from the corner of her mouth. The elf put a hand on her back and led her toward the stairs. Both men heard her whisper, ‘we need to work on your manners too,’ before they descended.

“So, who is this Dukkar that Asir is marrying his daughter off to,” Fordar asked as the two set the stage for another game.

“The son of a merchant here in Abarak, Asir is hoping to extend his trading empire to overland routes and believes a union with the Tirar family’s business will be the kick start it needs.”

Fordar frowned deeply, an odd sight behind the beard, “and the girl, she was still young when I left the company and I don't know if I ever met her.”

“Just celebrated her fifteenth birthday,” replied Berem, his face passive, “unions like this can be difficult on the children, but as I understand it, Asir is a good man.”

“He was,” Fordar said, he face lightening and he returned to arranging his tiles, “he was always kind and just to his employees. In fact, he treated me more as a brother than a mercenary. But people can change. He was a younger man when I knew him and his company had yet to grow to its current capacity. Wealth and life can affect people for the better or worse.”

“Then let us pray for the better,” said Berem, flipping his first tile, which proved to be a ten.

“Jerk,” muttered Fordar, tossing his tile at the archsage without even looking at it.

The two passed the afternoon playing games and joking about old times, the journeys behind and the trials ahead temporarily forgotten. The dwarf attempted to teach his old friend the dwarven game of Bones, but realized he had forgotten half the rules, so Berem regaled him with stories on their favorite topic: dragons.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon and paint the sky a myriad of reds and blues, a knock came at the door.

“Enter.”

A robust middle-aged man pushed through the door, the brilliant smile on his face reaching into his watery blue eyes. He was well-dressed for the party with a heavy, white cotton shirt that buttoned down the front under a long, leather coat dyed the turquoise blue of the ocean in the morning. His breeches, though simple, were elegant and his fancy leather boots were laced up passed his thighs. A ceremonial style sword hung at his waist and he brushed the shoulder length brown hair out of eyes before addressing Fordar.

“I brought you something,” he said, tossing a package on the table in the corner.

The dwarf pushed himself up from the floor and began fiddling with the twine that bound the cloth bundle laying on the table.

“Why were you sitting on the floor,” Asir queried, “you had a table, a sofa, two beds, and there are half a dozen sitting rooms on the lower floors.”

“Sorry, sir,” responded Fordar, struggling with the knot binding his gift, “we had been playing Bones and your tables are not designed for dwarves.”

“Of course,” boomed Asir jovially, making a show of smacking himself upon the forehead, “and you know you can call me Asir, we have known each other for decades.”

The dwarf nodded, but didn’t answer. Growing frustrated with the knot, he bent and pulled the knife from his boot and cut the strings. The bundle of cloth fell open revealing a cotton shirt similar to Asir’s, leather breeches, and a matching waistcoat. Fordar looked from the gift to Asir and back to the gift, speechless.

“I assumed since you have been traveling, you wouldn’t be carrying anything formal,” explained the businessman, “was I in the wrong.”

“No,” the dwarf stuttered, searching for his voice, “no. I just didn’t expect anything so nice.”

Asir laughed raucously, a sound that often proved contagious.

“You saved my life countless times in my youth and naivety, it is the least I can do. You can wear you own boots or, if we are still the same size, you can borrow a pair of mine.”

“Mine will be fine, thank you,” replied Fordar, having difficulty finding the words to portray his feelings towards his friend’s generosity.

Turning to Berem, the businessman looked apologetic.

“My wife is helping your lady friends’ with their dress, but I am afraid I neither knew your measurements or style. You are welcome to have a look about the house though.”

“I appreciate your generosity,” Berem said, “but I have a robe which should work well for the occasion. Is there a color I should wear?

Stepping back and straightening to his full height, an inch or so taller than the archsage, he indicated the blue of his jacket.

“The bridal side will be wearing blue and the groom’s side red. You should find an ascot in your bundle. I will be seeing you boys soon.”

The buoyant man turned on his heel and disappeared into the hallway to finish preparations.

“I am not wearing an ascot,” grumbled the dwarf as he removed his boots and began changing his clothes.

“Tie it around your arm.”

Berem flipped open his pack and began riffling around inside. Finding his robe, he yanked it out and laid it neatly on the bed.

“Last time I checked, that is black, not blue,” Fordar said from the far side of the room.

The archsage smiled sarcastically at him, turned the right sleeve inside out, found the appropriate rune and muttered a word.

blü.

“What,” responded Fordar, turning around, assuming Tarapak had spoken to him.

Instead he saw the previously black robe mirroring the color of Asir’s jacket perfectly. He rolled his eyes, either at his friend’s annoyance or his own stupidity. Turning their backs, they finished changing and descended the staircase toward the garden, where the party was to be held. Fordar barely remembered the way they had come the night before as he had been so tired, but Berem led them to the ground floor, through the delicious smelling kitchen, and through a sliding glass door to the garden.

The garden was huge, at least an acre, and splendidly decorated for the impending party. Asir had spared no expense in preparing for the wedding of his only child and soon-to-be business partner. A short picket fence enclosed the entire area with purple lilacs growing in each of the corners. A dozen tall oak trees dotted the landscape, each with three magical dragon lanterns to light the festivities once the sun fully set. In the center of the garden, already laden with appetizers, were two long tables, one set with blue flowers, the other with red. At the far end of both tables, its back to the ivy covered entry of the garden, was a separate table for the guests of honor.

“Shall we sit,” motioned Fordar, moving toward the nearest chairs and eyeing a plate of croquets.

“Let’s find the girls first,” rationalized the archsage, taking a tiny blueberry muffin for himself while the dwarf showed great restraint in eating only two of the fried ham treats.

A few dozen people had already gathered in the garden, talking animatedly and enjoying the food. Fordar noticed a group of men hunched over a dice game, but Berem was wise enough to steer him clear. They shared a love for games of chance, though Tarapak preferred games that required skill, but if Fordar felt his luck was running smooth, it would be impossible to pull him from the game.

The archsage spotted Christiana quickly. She was the only elf at the party, though some partially pointed ears indicated some elven heritage in a few others, and stood taller than everyone else. Dragging the dwarf through the growing crowd, he made for her long green hair. The elf and Hawken, wearing matching blue cotton dresses that revealed the shoulders and neck line, but with skirts falling to the ankles, were speaking to a brown eyed woman in a similar dress made of silk. Berem waited politely for them to finish their conversation, then Christiana introduced the lady.

“Tarapak Berem, this is Yshla Sate, mother of the bride-to-be.”

“A pleasure, ma’am,” the archsage spoke cordially, bending and kissing the lady’s hand gently. The woman blushed slightly, but the process was repeated by Fordar.

“Mrs. Sate took us shopping,” chimed Hawken excitedly, grinning from ear to ear, “and I have never seen so much food in my life.”

“It was an honor, dear girl,” Yshla said, patting the Hawken’s head. Her smile, like that of her husband, stretched into her twinkling brown eyes. Though of average height, she was slim, but seemed strong and it was easy to see why the burly businessman shared a successful marriage with her.

“I must be off,” continued Yshla, “so much to do. I must find my daughter and that rascal she calls a best friend.”

“Thank you again, madam,” Christiana said, bowing, and the woman dashed off.

“Enjoy your day?” asked Berem.

“Sure did,” responded Hawken, “Mrs. Sate took us shopping, we ate some cake, and I learned all about manners.”

“Ha,” laughed the dwarf, “only you would be excited about manners.”

“Be nice,” scolded the elf, punching Fordar in the shoulder, “and an ascot goes on the neck.”

“Of twelve year old boys,” retorted the dwarf, maintaining his stubbornness.

Together they found seats at the table with blue flowers, Christiana on one end, followed by Hawken, Berem, and Fordar. The latter sitting next to an elderly man whom he pointedly ignored. They waited patiently as the sky turned dark and the magical dragon lamps hanging from the trees became the only source of illumination in the garden. Christiana quizzed Hawken on her manners and rewarded each correct answer with a treat. A croquet first, then some pineapple, a cookie, and finally some hearty apple cider.

Fordar was about to teach Berem to play Kor, Fry, Amkra when a loud voice hushed the constant drone of chatter. Asir Sate, his charismatic voice booming throughout the garden, introduced the mother and father of the groom, Dukkar Sr. and Alvara; his wife, Yshla; and, holding hands as the passed under the ivy strewn gateway, the future Dukkar and Asabe Tirar. The big man welcomed the gathering, ushered everyone to their seats, and soon the main courses were placed on the table. An entire roasted pig was set on each table, each being carved to order. Several large ducks, turkeys, and chickens, followed them; and countless other dishes for the guests to enjoy. Hawken’s manners were forgotten in her rush for all the delicious food and Fordar’s suffered as well due to his appetite. The elf ate sparingly, her appetite much less than her friends, as well as the limited amount of proffered fresh fruit. Tarapak ate an ample amount, but more slowly than the the greedy youths. He enjoyed food and rarely had the opportunity for such quantity and variety. As dessert was served, scrumptious portions of apple cobbler that even Christiana inhaled, Asir again stood and introduced the evening’s entertainment.

A beautiful young lady named Emile bowed herself through the glass doors leading from the house and danced her way down the aisles toward the main table. Her loose fitting skirt flew through the air as she gracefully twirled about, drawing the eyes of everyone attending and quieting the assembly. The first dance ended with a flourish before the bride and groom to the sound of great applause. Once the clapping died down, Emile began again, this time quicker and accompanied a boy in his early teens furiously playing the violin. The exotic mixture of grace and beauty kept the crowd in a reverent silence as the dancer continued. The song slowed and her dancing followed suit, her bare toes parting the grass in time with the music. The tune almost stopped before it increased in pace a second time, the girl a blur as she spun about, ending in a grand flourish, arms reaching for the stars balancing on a single foot. Once again the crowd roared its approval, many standing and shouting as she bowed and moved off into the distance. Her accompaniment followed and they settled against a tree well-removed from the festivities. Several young men excused themselves from their tables to greet her, but the boy prevented them speaking with Emile. A few walked away without incident, but Asir had to step in when a persistent suitor attempted to brush the boy aside. Tarapak had his eyes on the proceedings when a delicate hand alighted upon his shoulder. He turned to see Chrislan smiling behind him.

“How do I look,” she asked, spreading her arms to the sides to display herself in full.
She was wearing an identical dress to the one she normally wore, but in the turquoise color that represented the bride. Her feet wear bare with her toenails painted the same blue and around her wrist was wrapped a serpentine bracelet decorated with black onyx. Like always, her golden tresses caught the firelight and shimmered in glorious detail. Pointing to the bracelet, a new addition to her standard ensemble, Tarapak asked the obvious.

“Do you think you will need that?”

“Better safe than sorry,” was the simple return.

A large hand suddenly appeared on her shoulder.

“Hey pretty lady,” came a slurred introduction from a tall, overweight man coming up from behind.

“Do not touch me,” Chrislan returned, voice sounding dangerous in her ire at being accosted by the drunk.

“Oo, temper,” the ignorant man continued, clearly unaware of whom he was addressing, “why can’t I touch you?”

“Because she is with me,” Tarapak interjected, knowing the woman could care for herself, but wishing to avoid a scene. As entertaining as it would be to watch the slender woman floor the larger man, they were guests in the house of the bride and it would be unbecoming of them.

“And who are….” the would be insulted man looked up to see two flames dancing from the tips of Berem’s fingers. Realizing, even in his drunken state, that he had made a mistake, he backed away quickly without even taking a second glance at Chrislan’s striking figure.

“Thank you,” she said, surprising the archsage, “I think I shall step inside.”

“I shall accompany you,” he returned, and turning to Fordar, he said, “keep on eye on the little one.”
“Of course, no problem,” he said between mouthfuls of mashed potatoes, “wait, where is she?”

Tarapak pointed just over his shoulder where the girl had wandered to the dessert table looking for seconds on cobbler and possibly more pastries. Grabbing an entire turkey leg, he preferred the savory to the sweet, he pushed through the legs of the humans, all of which stood taller than him.

“And I will keep an eye on him,” Christiana said lightly, standing, “and his ale intake.”

The archsage put his hands together, placed them on his chin, and tilted them forward in the traditional gesture of gratitude in elvish custom before following the shimmering golden hair into the house. He found that she had passed through the well-lit kitchen and into a sitting room beyond. Berem leaned up against the doorframe and was about to ask her a question when a voice from behind him interrupted.

“Excuse me, sir.”

“I am sorry,” he responded, stepping aside to see two girls about Hawken’s age standing behind him in the kitchen.

The nearest one, who had addressed him, looked just like her mother, Yshla. Plain, but attractive face and long brown hair with matching eyes. She was taller than her mother, strongly built, not unlike her father, but the expensive gown she wore accentuated her feminine features and belied some of the strength of arms her father had taught her.

“Are you not the bride-to-be,” Tarapak continued.

The girl nodded, but she didn’t appear particularly happy about the situation.

“And who are you,” the second girl asked rudely.

Like her friend, she was tall for a girl, especially one in her early teens, and had long hair. The hair, however, was a dark green and thick as well as long. Her eyes were green too, but a lighter green than her hair and the sharp features of the face indicated a mean streak not evident in the prospective bride. The observant archsage also noticed the outline of a dagger hidden in her boot when the girl’s blue dress brushed up against her leg.

“I am Tarapak Berem,” he replied simply.

Both girls took a step backwards into the kitchen.

“The all-powerful archsage,” Asabe stuttered, disbelieving.

Chrislan chuckled softly in the darkness behind them. Having not seen the other stranger, Asabe’s friend pushed passed Berem into the sitting room.

“We are headed to Asabe’s room to relax,” she said, her tough facade returning, “come on.”
She stomped off towards the stairs. Asabe turned back to the archsage.

“That is my friend, Tonks, Tonks Fuente. We are sorry to disturb you, but it was a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Was not,” Tonk’s haughty voice floated down the hallway.

The girl smiled apologetically and then followed her friend from the room. They could hear their light footsteps clearly on the carpeted stairs as they ascended.

“Strange,” observed Chrislan.

Tarapak shrugged it off, “kids.”

He took up residence in an armchair near his oldest friend and they sat in silence as the party continued outside. It had been a long time since Berem had attended any sort of party. He had long been a solitary individual, although he always had a close friend he could turn to when he felt the need for companionship. In his old age, his isolation had become more complete and though he knew the social protocols of such festivities, he internally felt out of place. He reflected on the memory of certain special celebrations from his past and smiled.

Both Chrislan and Tarapak sat up straighter when they heard the glass door from the garden slide open and two sets of feet cross the hard kitchen floor.

“Excuse me,” came a voice from the doorway, its frame outlined by the light from the kitchen, but whose identity was obscured by the shadow falling over her face, “could I borrow a minute of your time?”

“Of course,” returned Berem, curious, “what is it you need?”

The woman stepped fully into the darker room, allowing the archsage to recognize the newcomer. It was Emile.

“My name is Emile Destitude and I am an entertainer here in Emag. This is my son, Vagabond.”
She indicated the boy peeking his head through the doorway, but he refused to enter the room with the two strangers.

“My son is only three years old,” she said, continuing despite the looks of utter shock on both faces before her, “but he has aged far beyond his years, both physically and mentally, since his birth. Asir mentioned you are well-versed in the ways of magic and perhaps could shine some light on our misfortune.”

“How is his aging a misfortune,” Chrislan questioned, her tone even.

Surprised at the woman’s question, especially since she had addressed Tarapak, it took her a minute to reply.

“Many of my colleagues believe him to be cursed. Two different groups of entertainers have asked me to leave their company after discovering it and it is becoming more and more difficult to find work as a solo dancer.”

Christiana nodded, but remained silent.

“You are a talented dancer and I hope work continues to find you,” Berem picked up the conversation, “could you tell me who the boys father is?”

“His name was Samuel Destitude, he died shortly after Vaga was born,” she wiped a tear from her eye as she continued, “he was considerably older than I, but we had known each other for nearly eight years when our son was born.”

“And he had magical gifts,” the archsage pressed.

“None that he ever revealed,” another tear fell as she reflected on her lost love, “he worked and traveled with a group of entertainers organized by his parents for his entire life. I assumed something similar after discovering Vaga’s curse and questioned them about it, but they insisted he was a mundane.”

“And he is the only man who could be the father,” Tarapak tried to asked the sensitive question delicately, but was still surprised when the woman did not reply with anger.

“Yes,” she said, failing to hold back the tears that now flowed freely, “he is the only man I ever loved, although in this business, it is sometimes difficult to avoid other advances.”

Berem stood from his chair and placed a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder. Moving his eyes to the kitchen, he attempted to goad the misleading child into the room, but he wouldn’t budge. Emile, noticing his stubbornness, also motioned for him to enter and he eventually acquiesced. She whispered something softly in his ear and he stood up straight, directly in front of the archsage, who dropped to one knee to examine him.

The boy had long black hair, a sharp contrast to his mother’s blonde, tied in a tight ponytail, which revealed overly large ears and strong facial features. He had dark grey eyes which shifted to a deep red when Tarapak conjured an orb of fire for more light. His muscles were taking shape beneath his thinning clothes, an indication of an increasingly difficult life, and his movements were fluid and practiced, not those of a toddler.

Tarapak cast a simple spell over the boy and he began to twitch.

“What are you doing,” he asked, his voice husky and intelligent.

“Casting a spell to check for curses or latent magic within you,” answered the archsage intrigued, “can you feel it?”

“My whole body is tingling.”

“Interesting,” said Berem, casting a glance at Chrislan whose face remained passive, “have you ever demonstrated magical abilities?”

“No, but isn’t it rare for individuals to demonstrate magic prior to their teens.”

“Indeed,” replied Berem, intrigued by the boy who was not a boy, “but if your other aging has been increased, it is possible your magical potency would have as well.”

The boy nodded, but didn’t respond. His mother behind him looked sad. Suddenly, the boy perked up and peered into the darkness leading down one of the hallways.

“Two girls are coming down the stairs,” he said in a serious tone.

Moments later, soft footsteps could be heard by the others in the room.

“How did you know,” asked Chrislan.

Vaga opened his mouth to answer, but paused as they heard the front door open and shut. After a short paused, he continued.

“I heard two distinct sets of footsteps on the stairs. Men walk considerably heavier and boys tend to move much quicker down the stairs. Most of the women at the party were wearing heavy shoes or heels, which would have sounded different on the carpet. I assumed two girls over barefoot women based on odds.”
“It was likely Asabe and her friend, Tonks,” said Berem, patting the boy on the back, wondering at his mysterious origins, “they came in some time before you.”

“Can you tell me anything about my son,” asked Emile, turning the discussion back to her concern.

“It is difficult to tell,” admitted the archsage, “there is clearly magic at work, but what is unclear. I…”

He was cut off by a loud crash from the garden. Shouting rose over the light music that had been playing since Emile’s performance and Berem excused himself to investigate. Chrislan followed, leaving Emile and Vagabond in the dark sitting room alone.

Outside, chaos reigned. It was unclear how it had started, but the dessert table had been overturned and sweets were strewn unceremoniously across the ground. Comically, a small child was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the mess ingesting anything it could reach. On the opposite side of the garden, one of the dragon lanterns had ruptured, engulfing the tree in flames. Many of the guests had fled the scene, toppling the ivy covered archway in the process, and the few remaining rushed about blindly or were attempting to douse the magical fire.

Casting his eyes about the chaos, he spotted Christiana herding her charges in his direction. Catching her eye, he pointed toward the burning tree and she veered in that direction. The five met beneath the smoldering branches of the tree, which Berem extinguished with wave of his hand.

“What happened,” asked Tarapak, directing his question at Christiana.

She shrugged and her answer was cut off by the arrival of Asir.

“My apologies for the mess,” he panted, “that troublemaker Tonks has convinced my Asabe that Dukkar is no good for her and they are both on the run.”

Fordar raised his hand as if to ask a question, but the burly man was off in pursuit of his runaway daughter and her green-haired friend.

“Should we help,” Fordar asked his friends the question he had intended to pose to Asir.

“Seems a family matter to me,” observed Christiana and the others nodded in agreement.

“Now may actually be a good time to take our leave entirely,” suggested Berem.

Hawken’s face fell, but the others agreed it was the best course of action. Planning quickly, they organized themselves and set about their individual tasks. Hawken, her face a mask of sadness, drug her feet sullenly toward the house, but a gentle hand on her shoulder halted her meandering progress.

“Why don’t you gather some pastries for the road and I will pack your belongings,” Christiana said in a friendly tone.

The sad expression evaporated and was replaced by one of sheer joy, so as the others prepared for the long road ahead, the young girl sprinted back into the chaos for cookies.
 
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CHAPTER 15: Hidden Power

Morigan awoke with a smile on her face and magic dancing between her fingertips. It had been a little more than a week since her arrival and she had aided Norris in furthering his war machinations in two big ways. First, they had begun designing an artifact that would hold the undead spirits to this realm. Although they only had marginal success, several of the creatures had been led out of the cavern and into the village before collapsing, Morigan was convinced all they needed to bridge the gap was Malferna. Norris was less convinced of this theory and every time his former lover’s name was mentioned, he shuddered and changed the topic. The devious girl knew her mother had a reputation for being terrifying, but nothing her past encounters with the women explained the evident fear that the warlock possessed for her mother.

Secondly, the two had successfully created three elemental demons. Their initial attempt had been a disaster and the north wing of the castle was evidence of that. The spell combination had incinerated the test subject, crumbled a portion of an interior wall, and blasted a hole straight through the roof. Needless to say, the two toned back the amount of magic they poured into their second attempt and met with their first triumph: a fire demon.

Somehow, the process shrunk the minotaur subject to only a foot tall, but its power and energy were unmistakable and became building blocks for further experiments. Attempt number three, however, again resulted in failure. Instead of transforming the minotaur into a living statue that could wield darkness, they simply killed the minotaur and turned him to stone. Trial number four mirrored their first success in many ways. Although living, loyal, and with a certain amount of power, the dark creature’s stone skin had a tendency to crumble and fall off. Morigan was able to weave a regeneration spell that replaced the make-shift armor, but it was their final experiment that brought her such joy this morning.

With only a single minotaur left, Norris was cautious about how to best use it and put off another experiment for several days while he poured over ancient texts and his own research. Morigan, bored with his demeanor and growing sick of the musty castle, ‘borrowed’ one his consorts and traveled south to the town of Ithil. The town was small and consisted primarily of humans and half-elfs, but the witch discovered, by traveling in the guise of an old beggar, that the Knights of Bere’a had an outpost west of the city commanded by elven sisters. Under cover of darkness, Morigan swept over the outpost, projecting herself as a specter, and drew out the fabled Winged Mages. Casting bolts of lightning down from their pegasi, the twin sisters, Raya and Tilna, combatted the evil specter. The witch, however, was too powerful and elusive. The two mages exhausted their strength and Morigan captured them before the sun rose. Upon deceiving their pegasi, she flew back to Vangaar Keep and presented the prize to her father.

The elves, with their inherent magic, combined with Norris’ research, formed the perfect union with the final minotaur slave and from this union a thunder demon was born. Standing over ten feet tall, composed of shadow and darkness, electricity crackled from its soul and power pulsed through its hulking body. In a demonstration of its might, it destroyed the already crippled north wing of the castle, leaving it a ruin sitting upon a crumbling foundation. Limited in true intelligence, it was obedient yet unruly. Morigan, in an effort to truly control it, had taken to sparring with it twice daily to earn its respect and loyalty. It was in that spirit that she tossed a heavy fur cloak over her shoulder, the castle was poorly maintained and the mountain air cooled drastically in the evenings, and traversed the long hallways to where the demon was bound, spells twirling through her head. The demon, Zor it called itself, was awaiting her arrival impatiently, its beaming yellow eyes glaring through the significantly smaller woman. It pounded the stonework with a boulder-sized fist and roared silently, but could do nothing against the magic that bound and silenced it.

“Morning, Zor,” Morigan said sweetly, wondering if the demon understood her speech, “shall we play again?”

Zor ceased pounding the cracked stonework and began hammering its fist against the invisible prison. Chuckling to herself, the witch released the imprisonment spell.

lavs fö dëniv, rë-ësäl roy ëmarf.

The demon fell forward, but caught itself on the far wall and swung a mighty arm at the source of its frustration. Morigan, expecting the blow, nimbly dodged it and swept gracefully under the outstretched arm and into the open space beyond. Zor followed, stepping out from inside what remained of the northern corridor and stretching to his full height. Even without the deadly horns, it stood taller than the hallway behind and could only release its true might outside the stronghold.

Not waiting for an invitation, Zor cast great orbs of pure electricity at his antagonist. Dodging passed one and ducking under the second, her enhanced reflexes making it easy work, the powerful spells smashed into the mountain wall behind her causing rocks to shower down the cliffside. Zor, unwavering in his assault, roared and cast forth a dozen bolts of lightning. Morigan countered by creating a wall of stone with the fallen rocks. Although they halted the bolts’ progress, the stones exploded into dust covering the witch in a veil and prompting her first attack. The creature, disoriented by the dust veil reacted too slowly to the first ice blast emitting from the swirling mass and took the blow directly in the chest. Staggering backwards, it shattered the second assault with a charge of electricity, but the splintering projectile showered the demon in razor sharp ice. Bellowing in pain and rage, it dropped to all fours, like a rampaging bull, and barreled into the cloud of dust.

Morigan, overconfident in her offense, was caught off guard and had to leap from the monster’s path to avoid being trampled. Momentum took her to the ground and she again had to scamper away as a second rock slide ensued from Zor’s headlong collision with the mountainside. Collecting herself, she retreated to the far side of their sparring arena and readied herself as the demon turned and once again rose to its full height. Lifting its arms to the heavens and roaring in cacophonous tones, it released a wave of electric energy that raced toward Morigan. Unable to avoid the incoming assault, the witch absorbed a portion of the energy and sent it careening back toward her foe, Zor…laughed.

Holding out a great, clawed hand, it collected the returned energy and concentrated it into a ball. He heaved the energy back at the witch like some terrifying athlete. Eyes wide, fear of the demon’s power growing, Morigan deflected the surging energy at the last second and was blown backwards. Zor lowered its head for another charge.

Mind racing, the witch summoned an enormous chain to bind the demon’s legs. It fell forward, shaking the plateau, and Morigan used the interval to summon a second chain to bind the first to the mountainside. Zor, its rage growing as sparks erupted from its black horns, fashioned a single lightning bolt into a sword and broke through the chains with ease. Its lightning sword in hand, it again rushed the diminutive woman who had retreated toward the castle’s entrance.

Morigan waited patiently as the demon beared down on her. As it raised its crackling weapon over its head, eyes fixed on its victim, the witch raised a group of paving stones in its path. Concentrated as it was on obliterating its tormentor, Zor caught his awkward hoofed feet on the obstruction and its momentum launched it forward. As it flew toward the castle, it desperately swung the sword downward, narrowly missing the fleeing witch, yet the heat from the lightning burned a gash in her fur cloak.
The demon’s impact again shook the ground beneath Morigan’s feet, but she was able to maintain her concentration as the creature slid into what remained of the northern corridor and re-activate the imprisonment spell.

“Elegant,” came a voice from the hallway.

Morigan expected Norris, drawn by the noise and the vibrations, to appear and lecture her on the misuse of magic and the dangers of battling with the demon, but instead Enjol stepped from the darkness. Her long black hair and fair skin reflected the firelight leaping from the small demon that accompanied her and the smile she wore confirmed her approval of the engagement.

The two girls had been friends for most of their lives. Morigan, having been born in Arcadia, had never left the city’s confines, so when a young mage from Akukynd was adopted by one of the older archsages, a young Morigan had befriended her to learn more of the outside world. She had always mistrusted her fellow archsages, save Malferna, who was tight-lipped about her past, and found the girl’s insight interesting and compelling. As they grew older, they discovered a shared passion for trouble and Enjol became Morigan’s portal to the outside world while Morigan was Enjol’s pathway to greater power.

In their early 20’s, they lived for the nights the archsage could escape the temple and aid Enjol in praying on the desires of young men. For several years, they would lure men into dark alleys and inns with the promise of love and find progressively entertaining and disquieting techniques to torture them. Twice they were apprehended by the Arcadian authorities, but both times they escaped. The first time, Enjol had seduced an officer before Morigan lulled him to sleep and made him believe he had simply dreamed the two beautiful women burning the hair off young men in an alleyway. The second time had been more serious. The girls had trapped half a dozen men in the bridal suite of a fancy tavern and were enchanting them to fight one another on their behalf. The inn keep, however, grew suspicious and alerted the town guard. Morigan had escaped from a window, but Enjol was arrested. Although unwilling to battle the platoon of guards single-handedly, she later fashioned a fiery escape from her prison, leaving half a city block in flames. Once established as a criminal, it was more difficult for Enjol to move about the city, but it only served to heighten the girls’ excitement and sense of adventure on subsequent excursions. It was Morigan’s idea to include the fiery mage into their current schemes. Malferna resisted at first, but recognized Enjol’s inherent wickedness and lust for power.

“Where can I get one of these,” Enjol said, seductively tapping on the invisible wall binding the thunder demon. It glared up at her from the floor and snarled.

“Seems you already have one,” returned Morigan jokingly, indicating the fire demon that was the result of her first experiment.

“He is cute,” she responded, reaching down for the fiery creature, “but I like this one’s raw power.”

“Both will serve their purpose when the time is right,” came another voice from further down the corridor.

The morning was growing late, but the shadows were still deep in the mountains and only a shadow could be seen moving forward. The husky voice sounded masculine, but Morigan knew better.

“Mother,” she spoke to the darkness before the shadow took form, “I expected you sooner.”

The old woman shrugged nonchalantly.

“We took a slight detour to aid in her boyfriend’s quest,” she cast a disgusted look at Enjol as she spoke, “besides, I bet it was fun to watch Norris writhe in the pain of not knowing when I would arrive.”

“He trembles at the very mention of your name.”

Malferna cackled, a terrifying sound. She was truly the image of the evil witch mothers warn their children will steal them away if they don’t return before dark.

“Where is your father anyway,” Malferna asked.

“No doubt brooding about is inability to bind his apparitions to this realm,” Morigan paused briefly thinking, “or he may be entertaining one of his consorts, it is still early.”

“Well we don’t want to miss that,” the older woman said sarcastically, “come, let us find him.”

The girls allowed themselves to be led away, leaving Zor to rage against his invisible prison. Although it had been many years since her last visit, it was clear Malferna knew the inner workings of the castle far better than Morigan. She cut through two corridors that Morigan didn’t know existed, passed though a section of the castle foreign to the younger girl, and arrived far more quickly than if Morigan had led the party.

They found Norris sitting upon a faded settee, a remnant of the castle’s former glory, legs crossed, gazing through the glass doors at the sun rising over the mountains. So deep in concentration was he that he didn’t notice the intrusion until Malferna’s long shadow fell over his lap. He glanced, bored, at the shadow’s owner, then jumped from his chair in shock and fear.

“M...M...Malferna,” he stuttered, “how unexpected.”

“I doubt it, your daughter informed you I would be arriving.”

“Y...y...yes,” he returned, visibly shaking and bent halfway at the waist, as if unsure whether he should bow.

“Ever the blubbering idiot I remember,” Malferna continued calmly, though revulsion was evident in her eyes, “make yourself presentable, we have business to discuss.”

“Of...of...of course,” he answered, unable to remove the stammer from his tone. He bowed and shuffled into his sleeping quarters, hopefully to comb his hair and don something other than his blue bath robe.
Malferna made a noise of disgust as the door swung shut behind him.

“Disgusting little man.”

Morigan agreed, but said nothing. She knew little of her parent’s relationship, other than Malferna had once been Norris’ favored consort, but after becoming pregnant had left the stronghold and announced herself an archsage. Given the amount of fear shown by her father and contempt held by her mother, the girl was beginning to think Malferna had simply used the warlock in an attempt to bear a powerful child. If so, the older witch’s gambit had been successful and left a permanent distaste in both parents.
Enjol, who had been admiring the large sitting room, moved to look out the glass windows and eventually proceeded onto the balcony overlooking the ruined village. The fire demon followed her.

“Have you done what I asked,” Malferna questioned once Enjol was out of earshot. Morigan nodded.

“His army is formidable, but a large portion of it is bound to a cavern beneath the castle. The rest sits idly in the ruins of the valley. They are loyal to him, but I believe their allegiances can be adjusted.”

“Good,” replied her mother, “you have done well. Any surprises?”

“The pathway into the vault is protected by a Blood Lock and it only works with his blood.”

The older witch chuckled.

“Clever, but I have a solution for that,” she returned and remained quiet for a moment, thinking.

“And the scrying stone,” she asked finally.

“I haven’t found it.”

Malferna was about to respond, but was interrupted by simultaneous noises. The glass doors slid open and Enjol re-entered the sitting room, her long coattails sweeping through the dust accumulated on the floor, at the same time that Norris re-appeared, bathrobe discarded, but hair no less messy.

“My dear,” Malferna began sweetly, exhibiting a charm few knew her capable of, “where is this scrying stone you supposedly acquired since our last encounter?”

“Scrying stone,” the warlock responded innocently, “I am sure I don’t know what you are talking about.”

The simple response was the most backbone Norris had demonstrated in relationship to Malferna in the short time Morigan had known the man and she wondered if he had cast some sort of confidence spell while he was dressing. Spell or not, the old witch was not a patient or tolerant woman and Norris’ stutter quickly returned with her reaction.

Sweeping across the room in a single motion, he purple robe a blur of motion as she moved, she gripped the terrified warlock by the neck and pinned him to the wall, feet dangling helplessly beneath him. Enjol and Morigan both watched in awed silence as Malferna’s black eyes pierced Norris’ green ones. For a moment, Morigan even thought her mother’s fingernails elongated into claws.

“Where isss the ssstone,” she hissed furiously, causing the girl’s to step away and the fire demon to flee down a hallway so frightening was the display.

The warlock’s nerve held, though he could not find the words to deny the woman. He meekly shook his head. Malferna’s other hand flashed forward, pinning the man’s right arm to the wall directly beside his head. Again, it appeared that Malferna’s nails were sharp and pointed. And was her skin taking on a purplish hue?

“Tell me,” roared the witch, rage exploding from her with a force of its own, “or I will remove both of your hands and find it myself.”

“Ok,” Norris croaked.

Clearly Malferna had surmised correctly that the scrying stone, like the castle’s other secrets, were hidden behind a blood lock. Morigan had a fleeting picture of her mother walking from corridor to corridor, Norris’ severed hands on sticks, testing each wall until she found the right one.

Malferna peered enraged into the warlock’s eyes for a moment longer before releasing him. He collapsed to the floor, breathing hard, the red outline of the witch’s hand distinctly visible around his neck.

“Get up,” spat Malferna, kicking him.

The warlock may have been happier dying, but he begrudgingly pushed himself up and rubbed his sore neck.

“We are waiting,” Malferna continued impatiently, giving Norris no time to recover.

He glared at her intensely, a look which she coldly returned. After a long, silent pause, in which the girls exchanged confused and somewhat scared glances, Norris stumbled backwards as though he had been punched, an ashamed look upon his face. Eyes cast downward, chin to chest, he pushed open the door to his private chamber and Malferna motioned for the other two to follow.

Morigan had never been beyond the door before and even now she wished it had remained that way. Although bigger than she anticipated, the room was filthy. Discarded clothes laid about the floor and on the ancient furniture, a ragged silk veil hung down from the four-poster bed, but did little to hide the scantily clad woman still sleeping upon it; and the minimal light streaming through the window revealed evidence of bloody atrocities.

Three doorways led from the room, all positioned on the wall opposite the main door. One led to a closet, the second to a laboratory of sorts, and the final to a narrow hallway. The four proceeded single-file down the narrow hallway.

No wonder I haven’t found this room, Morigan thought to herself. I have barely explored half the castle in my search and would never have found this. Though it was true she had been wondering the castle at night, hunting for secrets as her mother had asked, going as far as testing the blood locks with her own magic, she had discovered nothing. Except that blood locks hurt immensely and can only be opened by the creator.

As they traversed the hidden corridor, Enjol fell back to where Morigan was walking and whispered,
“I was scared your mother was going to turn into a dragon again.”

“Again,” Morigan replied in shock.

“That is how we escaped Arcadia,” she continued, keeping her voice low, “she destroyed a portion of the grounds and torched the southeast tower.”

The other girl shrugged off the comment, but wondered what other powers her mother was hiding from her.

The hallway turned sharply left, then left again and descended down a flight of stairs. The group halted at a wooden door and Norris pulled a ring of keys from his pocket. Fitting one into the door, he unlocked it and it swung open to reveal an iron door. Replacing the key ring, he tugged at a chain on his neck, revealing a another key he had been wearing like a necklace. Fitting the second key into the iron door, it too swung outward. Behind the second door was a seamless glass panel with an imprint of Norris’ left hand etched into it. Glaring back over the shoulder at the women, furious at having to divulge his secret, he placed his right hand beside the etching and began the ritual to undo the blood lock.

The standard wave of pain washed over his face and the glass panel slid effortlessly into the floor. He stepped aside to usher the women inside, bur Malferna pushed him through the door, suspecting a trap. A tense moment followed, but nothing happened and Malferna led the two younger girls into the room.

The chamber, located directly below Norris’ bedchamber, was large, but decorated only by a large pedestal in the center of the room. Atop the pedestal was a shallow bowl filled with a mysterious silver liquid. The liquid constantly rippled, like a teardrop fell into the center of the bowl at regular intervals, and emanated an eerie light. The only source of light in the chamber.

Norris stood near the pedestal and the girls took up positions on either side of the door while Malferna inspected the four corners of the room before approaching the bowl.

“This is not a scrying stone,” she said, fixing her eyes on the warlock.

Placing a finger in the bowl, she stirred the liquid, but the rippling continued as though it had not been disturbed.

“The stone is in the bottom of the bowl, the liquid is just a medium.”

Malferna and Norris’s gazes both snapped to the door and fixed on the speaker. Enjol. The mage did not wither under the gaze of the older couple, but she did cast an apologetic look at Morigan before she continued.

“My mother was a scryer, the best in Knero until she and my father were murdered and the stone taken.”

She fixed her eyes on the warlock and strode forward accusingly. Unlike his reaction to threats from Malferna, Norris returned her piercing gaze in full and didn’t back down.

“You murdered my parents,” Enjol said, her voice dangerously calm and level.

“I have murdered many people,” Norris retorted, taking a step away from the pedestal and toward his accuser, “what makes an ugly scryer and her cowardly husband any different.”

“They had a child,” she screamed, thrusting her arm toward the oncoming warlock.

Norris threw both of his hands before him to defend against the spell and the two remained deadlocked, while Malferna and Morigan looked on patiently. The warlock took a step sideways, trying to shift the balance of the interlocked spells, but Enjol countered him with alacrity. He tried a second time, but again failed. The stalemate was finally broken as a bellow erupted from near Morigan’s knees and the diminutive fire demon burst into the room. It launched itself at the shocked warlock, defending its adopted mother, and gave Enjol the opening she needed. Summoning a fire spell, she blasted the distracted warlock against the far wall and the fire demon leapt upon him, beating mercilessly.

Enjol called off the creature with a whistle, leaving an unconscious Norris bruised and bloodied on the floor. Murder in her eyes, the young woman stepped forward to finish him off, but Malferna grabbed her arm.

“Now is not the time for revenge and he may still be of use to us. Besides, it is never good to waste powerful blood.”

Enjol rounded on the older woman, fire burning in her soul, but Malferna refused to back down. After a brief, but tense, standoff, Enjol relaxed and took a breathe.

“Do you know how the scrying stone works,” Malferna asked kindly, a voice she only used when she wanted something.

“My mother began to teach me and I remember a good amount.”

“Shall we,” asked the witch, motioning toward the pedestal and away from Norris’ unmoving body.

Enjol nodded and all three women approached the pedestal, the fire demon close at Enjol’s heels. Placing her hand in the silver liquid, the mage grasped a small item resting on the bowl’s bottom and removed it. Immediately, the rippling motion stopped and resting in the palm of Enjol’s hand was a multi-faceted pearl. It gleamed with the same light as the liquid.

“Who are we looking for,” asked Enjol.

“Tarapak Berem.”

If either of the younger girls were surprised, they hid their emotions well.

“I don’t know what he looks like,” responded Enjol, concern crossing her face, “can you describe him.”

“I met him once,” interjected Morigan.

“Can you picture him in your head?”

“Yes.”

Enjol nodded and extended her arms toward Morigan, palms up, balancing the scrying stone in her left hand.

“Place your hands over mine, cupping the stone, and concentrate on your mental image of Berem,” Enjol instructed.

Morigan did so, picturing the tall, thin figure with long, white hair and multi-colored braids. She had only met him once, in passing at the Library of Arcadia, but she recognized him immediately from the paintings and murals. He was being doted upon by Garen’s daughter, Linde.

Morigan lost track of time, but eventually heard Enjol say, “Open your eyes and remove your hands.”

She did so. Enjol took the pearl, which now displayed a tiny picture of the male archsage, and dropped it into the center of the shallow bowl. The liquid began to ripple furiously. When it calmed Tarapak Berem’s visage was mirrored in the liquid. Malferna approached the bowl, but a soft noise from behind her drew her attention back.

Norris was attempting to rise. Unable to use surprise to his advantage, he cast a spell at Malferna, trying to buy time. A dark mass of energy swirled forward, but the witch dismissed it with a wave of her hand. Before he could launch a second attack, Malferna’s hand shot forward. Norris was lifted into the air and pinned against the far wall. Waving her opposite hand, the witch summoned iron shackles to bind the warlock’s wrists and ankles. He struggled mightily against his bonds, but to no avail. A devious smirk playing across her face, Malferna produced a short dagger and ran her index finger and thumb over the blade causing it to glow an angry red. With a single, swift motion, she swept the blade upward and removed Norris’ right hand. Although the heated blade instantly cauterized the wound, the warlock’s piercing scream echoed off the walls for a long moment before he passed out from the pain.

”This will be handy,” Malferna joked, evil smile playing across her face once more as she bent to retrieve the severed hand.

Placing the gruesome trophy inside her cloak, the witch returned to the scrying bowl and the two somewhat terrified girls.

”Shall we continue,” she asked the girl’s impatiently.

They both nodded and Enjol stirred the liquid with her index finger. Berem’s face disappeared and was replaced with the scene of five companions trotting down a paved road atop four horses. Tarapak Berem led the way, accompanied by a gorgeous woman with golden hair. Riding behind them on a smaller pony was an old dwarf. Further behind them, riding double on a tall horse, was an elf and a small girl. The girl was speaking animatedly and gesturing with her hands while the elf smiled and half-heartedly tried to calm her.

”Let us make trouble for our little company,” Malferna cackled, turning to Morigan “where are these monsters you spoke of, my dear?”

CHAPTER 16: Ambush

The four companions sat wearily around the campfire, lost in the desert of northern Akukynd. The previous day, not long after rising, the Internation Highway had vanished. Destroyed by the ages or vandalism and later succumb to the desert. While attempting to locate it, a sand storm blew unexpectedly in from the mountains and separated everyone. Although four of them had found their way back together, they could neither discover the road nor the whereabouts of Chrislan. Their current predicament was a perpetual reminder of how overly exciting, but decidedly unsuccessful, their journey had been.

In all likelihood, three of the five shards had already been obtained and time was running short if they hoped to stop Garen from harnessing their power. In addition, Morigan remained mysteriously inactive in Kneron Mountains. Fordar, unable to rest without using his hands, a trait common among dwarves, dug a small drum from his bag and began to beat a slow, mournful tune. Christiana soon joined him, pulling a small flute from her own bag, matching his rhythm, but with a bright, quick jaunt. Smiling at the strangely mixing tunes, Hawken pushed herself to her feet and began to dance. Adding her constantly changing voice to the music, she sung both high and low, creating a melody unlike Berem had ever heard.

Tarapak sat silently watching his friends and listening to the music roll over the empty dunes. The wind picked up and carried it along, though only the wildlife could hear its unique tune. He smiled softly, then frowned. Although he enjoyed listening to music and watching people dance, he could do neither himself. His gift of magic had come at a price, the ability to create art, in any form. He could not dance, nor sing; paint, nor draw; craft, nor smith. Although beauty did not fall of deaf ears, or grace blind eyes, he had always been somewhat bitter that he could not create artistic masterpieces. Yet even as the thought passed through his mind, he knew that magic was his art. He created magic more beautiful and awe-inspiring than any song, dance, or work of art. Magic was his mistress, his master, and his everything.
The song eventually died down and the musicians settled into sleep for the evening. Berem sat up restlessly long after the others had nodded off. The clouds hung thick and low in the sky, blotting out the light of the moon and stars. Only the embers from the slowly dying fire illuminated the uneasy look on Berem's face. The night was silent, a little too silent, which only contributed to the archsage's unease. No wind blew across the sands, nor animals rustled the tall, dry grasses, and the sand crickets were not chirping.

Berem squinted through the darkness and began to trace runes in the dirt around him. The hours wore on, the embers dying to no more than a faint glow, and the archsage began to yawn in weariness. Suddenly, a low whistle broke the pristine silence. One of the runes traced in the dirt burst to light, first a bright blue, then a dull red, and a single arrow, the source of the whistle, exploded into splinters. Berem jumped up with a shout to wake his friends and more arrows shot out of the unnatural darkness. Two more exploded, a third caught fire, while a fourth flipped in a midair and sped back in the direction it came.
Fordar and Christiana leapt from their bedrolls, ready in an instant. Hawken, always wrapped in Nayru, muttered a word and disappeared. Suddenly, the night was alive. Monstrosities materialized around the all but dead fire, many humanoid, but others twisted beyond recognition. More arrows flew from the darkness and, with the runes exhausted, one finally found its mark, burying itself deep in Christiana's right calf. The dwarf moved to help her, but a skeletal hand erupted from the ground and, his momentum carrying him forward, sent him crashing heavily to the dirt. In an instant, four wights had pinned the unfortunate dwarf to the ground. Now more concerned for Fordar's safety, the elf moved to aid him, but her right leg would not support her and she fell in a heap beside her companion.

A flash of fire and an earsplitting roar filled the night announcing the arrival of a massive dragon. Dozens of undead exploded into flames, while dozens more retreated into the darkness. Landing lightly beside the fallen duo, the golden dragon swept the marauding wights from Fordar's unconscious body and adopted a protective stance.

"Thank you, friend," Tarapak spoke directly to the dragon's mind, "now take the injured and flee, we are vastly outnumbered."

"Never stopped us before," the golden behemoth returned seriously.

"Now is not the time for pride, drache," Berem spoke aloud this time, his voice almost pleading.

Hearing the urgency in her friend's voice, the dragon acquiesced. Nodding in a very human-like gesture, she wrapped Fordar safely in one claw and Christiana in the other. Wings splayed to full length, she pushed off the ground and flapped hard for altitude. As she disappeared into the low hanging clouds, she loosed a fireball into the unforgiving darkness and prayed it found its mark. No sooner had the dragon vanished, the undead began their assault anew. A massive draugr appeared at Berem's left, but a flick of the wrist and a sharp word relieved its body of its head.

"Hawken," the archsage called to the darkness.

"Here," came the girl's response, a mere whisper just behind him.

More and more undead materialized form the darkness. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of the unholy beasts. Hawken and Tarapak were massively outnumbered and completely surrounded, but the archsage had a plan. It was daring and potentially fatal, but the odds seemed better than facing a hoard of rotting skeletons.

"Do you trust me, Hawken," the archsage whispered over his shoulder. The young swordswoman squeezed his hand to indicate that she did.

"I am going to clear a path through the wights," Berem stated confidently, "when I do, run. When you reach the cliff face, do not hesitate, you must jump."

Hawken squeezed his hand a second time to indicate that she understood, but it shook slightly as she did. Berem returned the firm grasp in an attempt to calm her. The archsage took a step forward and straightened to his full height. He was average height for a human, but he could still be considered imposing. The undead wavered. Swinging his arms high over his head, he swung gracefully in a semi-circle and shouted an incantation to the sky.

dënï dëna erif, nütïda ëkil Kubiro, sprëna throf dëna lëd eth yav.

A strong, concentrated blast of wind streamed through a section of the undead, knocking most of them to the ground. In the vacuum that ensued, a blaze ignited, incinerating all that remained in its path. As soon as the fire died, Hawken put her head down and took off at a full sprint. A lone wight leapt into her path, but before she could pull a dagger to dispose of it, it crumpled harmlessly to the ground. Hearing Tarapak’s footfalls, she knew he followed close behind.

Suddenly, as if she had passed through a curtain, the night sky brightened. The stars twinkled into magnificent existence and the waning moon had begun its descent to the horizon. She had little time to admire the lovely sky though, as the cliff face grew closer with each step she took. Muttering a short prayer to whichever of the seven Gods that Berem served, she squeezed her eyes shut and jumped.
 
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CHAPTER 17: Desert Interlude

As she jumped, the archsage cast a spell to lighten her body, effectively slowing her fall and allowing him to catch her in mid-aid. He had followed her over the precipice, altering his form to become a phoenix once more. So practiced was he at the change, she fell not ten feet before he caught her in the newly formed talons. Now the two soared hundreds of feet over the desert as they passed over the realm of Akukynd. Berem, the majestic red avian, firmly but gently, bearing the young girl to safety.

They glided smoothly for some time on the robust thermals that rose over the scorching sands. Long ago, the nations of Gaia and Kyndmenatunok had warred over possession of this brutal wasteland. Gaia lost its eastern territories to the war, while the dwarves and humans came together to settle the nation of Akukynd, much as the humans and elves had done with Emag centuries prior. Many other wars had been fought on the open sands as well, including one that drove the minotaur, original masters of the land and favored of the Fire God, Koobi, to the sea. Though sparsely populated, the nation was vital to both human and dwarven economics, thus well defended.

As the sparkling lights of Alaja began to twinkle in the distance, Berem altered his course. The last thing they needed was another confrontation with peaceful forces. They continued to fly steadily on until the night sky began to brighten, then Tarapak curled into a slow, spiraling descent. Hawken, who had long ago drifted off to sleep, calmed by the rhythmic beat of wings and warm, gentle air upon her face, yawned loudly and opened her sharp green eyes. The air shimmered and waved before her groggy, sleep-filled eyes, perhaps a product of the heat radiating off the sand. As Berem gently completed his descent, the awestruck girl was amazed to find herself standing on the edge of a beautiful ocean, the sun slowly rising over its placid waves.

Looking back over her shoulder, she saw the last of the phoenix’s feathers, the gold crest and tail feathers, rescind into Tarapak’s skin as he finished the transformation back into his youthful old self. She opened her mouth to inquire at their location, there were no oceans in the desert as far as she knew, but her eye caught something at a distance and she pointed over the archsage’s left shoulder. Approaching the two at a light jog was Chrislan, the rising sun radiating off her golden hair.

Berem turned and raised his right hand. Keeping his ring finger down and his index finger tight against the middle finger, he saluted Chrislan. Chrislan halted and returned the salute with her left hand. The two then bowed to each other and began to converse in low tones. Not wanting to interrupt two people she greatly respected and who had saved her life multiple times now, she waited patiently. As the conversation drew on, however, she turned her poorly concealed fascination toward the mysterious ocean.

Silently and methodically, the small waves, not even large enough to crest, rolled ashore. As she looked on, the sky slowly changed colors as the sun climbed steadily into the sky. Basking in the early morning heat, Hawken watched the originally angry red sky shift to marvelous orange before erupting into brilliant yellow as the sun emerged over the waves. The near blinding yellow faded into stunning lilac until the glowing orb concluded its dramatic ascent and the heavens faded into the calming azure they would remain throughout the day. No clouds dotted the pristine sky and the young girl wondered if she would ever again witness such a phenomena.

“It is all but an illusion,” spoke a light voice behind Hawken, “an enchanting and realistic one, but an illusion nonetheless.”

Disappointment clearly evident on her face, the girl turned to see Chrislan moving carefully through the sand toward her, bare feet barely making an impression in the sand. Hawken understood that the mysterious woman was highly serious and straightforward, but was somewhat upset at the revelation. The sunset was easily the most enrapturing event she had ever witnessed, yet it was all a trick, it had never actually happened. Reading the palpable disappointment on the younger woman’s face, Chrislan attempted to rectify her previous comment.

“The morning does indeed dawn with such majesty over the seas of Emag. Perhaps this was more a re-enactment than a true illusion.”

Hawken smiled weakly, wanting to accept the apology. If this was a re-enactment though, maybe she would witness a true sunrise one day.

“Where is Tarapak,” she suddenly asked, realizing the archsage had somehow vanished.

“With the witch who is responsible for this desert illusion,” Chrislan responded nonchalantly, though not without a hint of scorn in her voice.

“Witch, where?”

Hawken reached for her daggers and began to push herself up from the sand.

“Fear not, child,” Chrislan placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder and noticed a slight shaking, “I use the term lightly. Her powers serve many a mysterious master, but she will aid your friends and can not harm the archsage.”

Hawken relaxed slightly. She turned her attention back to the false ocean and Chrislan lowered herself into the sand as well. Despite knowing that her senses were being fooled, the younger woman took comfort in the gentle roll of the waves and the cooling breeze flowing over the swells. The streets and hovels she'd had grown accustomed to in her youth were filthy and the ocean portrayed to her the embodiment of cleanliness. The two women sat together for several hours, the elder attempting to coax Hawken into revealing some fraction of her mysterious past. After some time, however, she ceased her efforts, understanding how little she enjoyed speaking about her own secretive past.

As the sun reached its zenith, a shuffling noise caught their attention. Turning, they saw a great sand tortoise, the top of its shell flattened like a table, carrying a tray of food and drink in their direction. The tortoise bowed its head as it approached, allowing Hawken to remove the refreshments. Hawken partook thankfully in the meal of fruit, bread, and water, while the tortoise basked itself in the midday sun at their feet. Surprisingly, Chrislan took nothing to eat, although she drank a copious amount of the sweet tasting water. No sooner than the meal had been consumed, their reptilian friend stood, proffered its shell for the tray, and shuffled off into the distance.

The process repeated at dinner time. The second meal included a chocolate cake to compliment the fruit and bread. Night fell without word of Berem, but Chrislan assured Hawken that all was fine and, as if to prove her point, the tortoise returned once more, this time carrying pillows and blankets. Hawken’s own bedroll was still lying on a cliff face, abandoned as they fled the undead the previous night. As the girl settled into the soft sand, Chrislan finally touched on a subject they both were willing to discuss: the events on that far-from-forgotten plateau.

“After the dragon saved Fordar and Christiana, Master Berem and I fought back-to-back for a short time, but the horde was unending. Instead of waiting to be overwhelmed, he blasted a path through the monstrosities and we took the only route we knew they couldn’t follow…over a cliff. As I fell, Master Berem shape-shifted into the phoenix and enchanted me so I would light enough to carry.”

Chrislan smiled knowingly. The scene Hawken was painting in her mind reminded her of a time she had caught the archsage in mid-air after he had accidentally destroyed the cliff face he was standing on.

“Chrislan, don’t phoenix have the ability to carry immensely heavy loads without the aid of magic?”

The golden-haired woman took a sharp intake of breath as she contemplated. In Berem's vast library, he had numerous books on both magical and non-magical creatures. If she recalled accurately, in addition to burning and being re-born from the ashes every 500 years, phoenix could also heals most ailments with their tears and carry unfathomable burdens as the girls suggested.

“I believe you are correct, my child, that is one of three magical properties they possess.”

“Then why did Master Berem have to enchant me if the phoenix could already bear my weight?”

Chrislan laughed involuntarily, she knew the answer to that query. Shape-shifters, she explained, may be able to take on other forms, but they do not gain their inherent abilities.

“For example, if one were to change into a dragon, they would not be able to breathe…,” Chrislan stopped mid-sentence. If shape-shifters didn’t adopt their form’s natural abilities, she thought, and she knew from experience they couldn’t, then how had… Chrislan jumped up from her seat and, turning from Hawken without a word, sprinted in the direction which the tortoise had appeared.

“Can’t breathe fire,” Hawken guessed, voicing her opinion aloud to the only companion she had left, the sand tortoise. Shrugging her shoulders at the strange behavior of her even stranger friend, Hawken curled up on the sand and was soon asleep. The tortoise, bereft of other orders, pulled its short legs into its massive shell and soon joined her.

***

Tarapak walked with measured tread toward the landmark that Chrislan had pointed out between two towering dunes. Not once did he look back or notice that she disappeared almost instantly after leaving his side. As he approached the two dunes, he was unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched, but was unable to detect his observer. Irked as he was with the feeling, he closed his eyes and felt the magic flowing within him. Reaching out with magically enhanced senses, he finally discovered two creatures tracking his every movement from beneath the sand. Sand dragons.

Both strong and fast, sand dragons usually preferred to hunt above the sand, but their modified wings also allowed them to move beneath the sand as easily as fish move through water. Berem noted them warily, but doubted either was a true threat and forgot them entirely when he saw the small, unimpressive hut dwarfed by the desert's mountainous dunes.

Despite being built to the standard size for humans, the door of the small outpost was marginally larger than that of a squat dwarven home and Berem had to duck considerably as he swung the door open before him. As he did, he quickly stepped back out. Plodding purposely out the door, now held open by the archsage, was a sizable sand tortoise toting a small meal on its flat shell. Once the animal had lumbered through the door, Berem once again ducked inside.

The interior of the dwelling was an unassuming as the exterior. Christiana and Fordar lay unconscious on two beds situated along the back wall, while a rather small woman sat on a chair between them. She was tending to Fordar as the archsage stepped through the door and held up a finger in Berem’s direction, informing him to wait. The archsage did so quietly, taking in his surroundings. No furniture, save the beds and chair, were visible, the walls were unadorned, and no windows looked out over the whirling sand. Given the simplicity of the shack’s construction and its general location, he assumed the witch had built it solely for this occasion.

Christiana was breathing heavily in her bed and sweat was rolling unchecked down her cheeks and forehead. She shivered from time to time and the area directly surrounding her wound had swelled to an ugly green and erupted into a spider web of dark purple lines. Fordar, on the other hand, seemed to be sleeping peacefully, giving only a small shudder as the brown-haired woman passed her hand over his eyes. As she finished looking over the dwarf, she turned to Tarapak, brilliant blue eyes flashing.

“Elaine,” the archsage acknowledged her softly.

No matter how many times he encountered the woman, he always found his heart racing a bit faster and his palms sweating. Her long brown hair stretched down passed her well-formed backside and her delicate figure was enrapturing. Tarapak shook his head, trying to concentrate on the matter at hand. The witch smiled.

“You know I hate that name, Dragon Master,” she returned, using a name the archsage wasn’t particularly fond of either.

Although he was considered the Dragon Master by many, the title seemed overly formal and somewhat mocking to him. Besides, he had met enough dragonKin to understand that no one was truly their master.

“Shall we get down to business or are you not done staring,” Elaine asked sweetly, not just noticing, but expecting Berem’s awkwardness.

The archsage apologized half-heartedly, berating himself for lack of control, and inquired as to the condition of his companions.

“You elven friend is in trouble,” her brilliant blue eyes turned sorrowful and the archsage had to look away, lest he be overcome by the emotions they portrayed.

“She has been badly poisoned by ku'ará and is beyond my capability to heal. I have placed the body in stasis to slow the process, but she has only a few days before the poison spreads beyond the leg.”
“Is there nothing we can do for her, even with our combined abilities.”

“Nothing, I’m afraid,” it was Elaine who turned away this time, but continued, “it is a poison designed to resist magic, but there is one who can help.”

Silence briefly pervaded the room, only the sound of the wind blowing sand against the outer walls was audible. Tarapak stared at the slowly dying elf, waiting for the witch to continue. When she didn’t, he drew a conclusion himself.

“Grache,” he practically yelled, causing Fordar to snort loudly.

Elaine nodded, having come to the same conclusion previously, “the Sanderson brothers live but a day’s journey from here. If you can gain access to their tower, Grache can save your friend.”

Tarapak chuckled, “that should be easy.”

“How do you figure,” Elaine spoke acidly, she cared for the archsage in a way, but she did not appreciate being laughed at.

“I am not laughing at you, dear,” Tarapak interjected, noticing her look and wishing to avoid her ire, “simply at the fact that Drago, Grache’s brother, desires Chrislan and she also knows the location of their tower.”
Elaine’s expression softened, but only slightly, and she said nothing.

“What of the old dwarf,” Tarapak asked lightly, he had already guessed, but he wished to lighten the mood.

It was the witch’s turn to chuckle, “he rests peacefully under a simple spell, I couldn’t take the chance of him recognizing me.”

“From the pub,” Tarapak queried.

Elaine smiled and nodded. Her secret was her life, it wouldn’t do well to let too many people in on it.

***

The two old acquaintances passed the day lightly speaking of their pasts and the unraveling of current events. In many ways, the two had helped shape the history of the world for over a millennia, Tarapak in the light, Elaine from the shadows. The tortoise returned after lunch and rested in a corner, received food from the witch for dinner before leaving, then returned and left a final time with blankets and a pillow for Chrislan and Hawken. Elaine stood at random intervals to check the progress of the poison and maintain the spell holding Fordar. Growing tired himself, Berem stood to conjure at least a pillow when the small wooden door burst open and Chrislan slid gracefully inside.

"Malferna is a dragon!!!"

Neither Tarapak nor his companion responded as the pondered the revelation. Chrislan stood impatiently in the doorway, chest heaving from the exertion as Berem came to the same realization she had.

"The report from Arcadia said she breathed fire upon the southeast tower when she escaped," he said, nodding, "I assumed she was an unregistered shape-shifter, but if she can breathe fire, it proves me wrong."

"I thought purple dragons breathed lightning," the witch inquired.

"On the dragon world they do," responded Berem, "but outside of their natural environment, some dragons alter form or color to adapt to different challenges."

"That is not the case here."

Both mages turned to look at Chrislan, confused at her interjection.

"There is a race of dragons on Drache Tak known as the Dark Dragons. They have purple scales, but of a deeper and richer color than normal purple dragons. They are physically smaller than other Greater Dragons, but possess a higher level of intelligence and the natural ability to take human form. Millenia ago, before I was born, the Dark Dragons, led by Darkana and Drakoran, raged a terrible war for possession of the dragon world. The earth was ravaged and entire generations of dragons fell before them. Even the great crested dragon, Lord of all DragonKin, fell before the mighty duo. However, in their time of greatest need, a mysterious dragon, known as the Rainbow Dragon, appeared and led the remaining factions of the decimated Dragon Army in a final battle against the dark dragons. Although both Darkana and Drakoran escaped, their army was destroyed and peace returned to Drache Tak."

"And you believe Malferna is one of these dark dragons," Elaine asked.

"I think Malferna is Darkana herself."

"Why," Berem asked incredulously.

"It would take an extremely powerful and extremely old dragon to possess the magical ability Malferna does in human form. In addition, unlike most dragons who can take human form, dark dragons can do it indefinitely."

"The facts add up," the witch added, "someone would have noticed Malferna periodically becoming a dragon during her long stay in Arcadia."

"Plus, Malferna loosely translates to 'Exiled One' in the dragon tongue,” Chrislan concluded.

“Then,” Berem stepped toward the door, intent on rousing Hawken and setting out immediately, but a blazing red light flashed before his eyes.

He was flying over the desert sand at tremendous speed. His trajectory continued over the Fire Sea and halted at the base on Mt. Nevarus, on a narrow ledge between the cliff face and the molten lava. A passageway slid open before him, revealing a tunnel leading straight down. He jumped. The length of the fall into the darkness was indeterminate, but when he landed, he was standing on another ledge, this time overlooking a stone labyrinth. The grand maze was constructed on a platform suspended over the heart of a volcano. On the far side of the maze, blazing with the same light Berem had before his vision, was Mariusz, the Flame Shard.

Tarapak blinked rapidly and woke to find himself lying on the floor of the small hut, wet rag pressed to his head and the two women leaning over him concerned.

“What did you see,” Elaine asked.

“The Fire Shard,” Berem replied simply, sitting up slowly.

Silence reigned in the hut for a long while until the archsage pushed himself up from the floor and, rubbing his head, returned to his chair. Both women watched him carefully.

“Chrislan,” Tarapak spoke slowly and pensively, “lead the others to Tower Ámental. I am going for Mariusz.”

“Alone?”

He nodded.

“The path is too difficult for the others to traverse, I will test my luck solo.”

“Luck has never been your strong suit,” Elaine said seriously.

Tarapak shrugged, stood, and stretched. His tired muscles popped.

“Meet me at the mansion in Rugrad,” he said to Chrislan and then turned to the smaller woman with glittering blue eyes.

“I never seem to have the words to express my feelings toward you.”

The witch smiled mischievously as he bent and kissed her softly on the cheek before turning and disappearing out the short door. Both women watched him go.

“How long have you known him,” Chrislan asked her counterpart once he had gone, a cold look in her normally warm eyes.

“Nearly his entire life,” she responded, turning to attend her charges once more.

“So you understand his nature better than I?”

“You mean his serious and emotionless demeanor,” Elaine questioned.

“No,” countered Chrislan, “the unfathomable sadness he hides from the world.”

Elaine’s shoulders dropped and she turned her sad eyes back to the other woman.

“I suppose I am to blame for that, but the story is long and the dawn is near. Take my protectors and head east, Grache is Christiana’s only hope.”

CHAPTER 18: Seperated

Fordar yawned loudly and blinked the morning sun from his aging eyes. What a wonderful sleep, he thought to himself. It had been so long since his sleep had been so deep and peaceful.

“A good night’s sleep deserves a good breakfast,” he muttered sleepily, “maybe eggs and sausage or a heaping bowl of potatoes with jerky bacon.”

His stomach grumbled loudly and he cursed himself for never marrying. He was a terrible cook.

“Christiana would appreciate a good breakfast too, if she wasn’t dying,” an irritated voice above him spoke loudly.

The dwarf’s dark brown eyes snapped open and reflected the early morning desert sun as he suddenly remembered where he was. He felt the coarse, hot sand beneath him and recalled the nightmare atop the cliff top that preceded his dreamless sleep. Starring down at the dwarf, concern clearly etched into their features, were the grim faces of Chrislan and Hawken. For some reason, the archsage was nowhere to be found.

“Tarapak had business elsewhere,” Chrislan responded to the unasked question, not for the first time causing Fordar to wonder if she could read minds.

“And the elf,” the dwarf asked groggily, trying to shake the enchanted sleep from his head as he pushed himself up from the sand.

No explanation was needed, however, as he vividly recalled the arrow and her valiant attempt to save him nonetheless. As he saw her lying motionless beside him, her face pale and the leg an off color of green criss-crossed with jagged purple lines, a tear attempted to escape his stubborn heart.

Unlike some dwarves who held on to an ancient and long-forgotten disdain or even hatred of elves, Fordar carried no such preconceptions. He had worked with and among elves, or at least their half-blooded cousins, for a century and even could venture to admit he liked a few, yet the outpouring of guilt and affectionate for the one who lay prostrate in the constantly shifting sands surprised him somewhat.

“What can we do?” he asked gruffly, failing to burying his emotions as far as he wished.

“Magic can not heal the wound,” Chrislan stated solemnly, “but there is a group of elves who can. They live solitary lives deep in the desert, yet Berem believes they will help us. His friend,” she spoke the word with more than a little disdain, “even provided an escort.”

Hawken raised a hand and pointed behind him. Lying, basking their shining auburn scales, which seemed to shift with the sand, in the blazing morning sun, were two sand dragons. Though less than ten feet long from tip to tail, they had dangerously serrated teeth and elegantly swept back horns making them the unofficial rulers of the barren desert. Well-developed foreclaws and short, powerful wings made them natural burrowers and suited a mostly subterranean lifestyle.

Chrislan nodded in their direction and they rose gracefully from the dunes, revealing much lighter, unscaled under bellies, which would burn if exposed at length to the brutal Koobian sun. One bent low and scooped Christiana up from the ground into its strong arms, while the other turned and headed east. The golden-haired woman, the sun making her long locks almost glow, fell in line behind the long, sweeping tail of the desert reptile, with Hawken close behind, and the dwarf jogging to keep up. The second dragon brought up the rear, sauntering awkwardly on its hind legs and using its tail and short wings to balance.

Fordar willed the hours to pass quickly, but to no avail. Long before the burning sun reached its zenith, his stomach began growling louder than he cared to admit and he reached for his pack. Belated, he remembered that is pack was lying some hundred miles away atop a cliff, along with all his food and his favorite whittling knife. Sighing and suppressing another growl, he reached instead for the water skin presumably provided by Berem’s mysterious friend.

The water was fresh and cool despite the heat and, to the sweating dwarf’s great surprise, a small pouch of deer jerky was attached to the strap. Most dwarves balked at deer jerky, preferring less gamey meats like pork, chicken, and the occasional mountain cat, but Fordar loved the richer flavor, perhaps because it was so difficult to acquire in the dwarven kingdoms. A soft breeze blew in from the south constantly shifting the never-ending sand dunes.

“Not to sound like a child,” Hawken finally broke the silence after long hours of slow progress, “but, are we there yet?”

“At this pace, we should reach the tower in two days,” Chrislan responded evenly, keeping their steady pace.

What tower, Fordar thought glumly, glancing about. All her could imagine existing in this desert was sand, sand, and more sand. Hawken, however, was less concerned about towers and sand. She was far more concerned with food.

“Two days?” she repeated, voice rising slightly in anger at the other woman’s demeanor, “are we meant to make it alive? Or have you forgotten that our packs, supplies, and personal belongings were abandoned and likely claimed by an undead hoard?”

Chrislan swiftly bent and touched the tip of the lead dragon’s tail, directing it to stop. She turned to face the young girl. Voice never changing from her normal, even, unconcerned tone, she explained the situation to her companions.

“An undead horde has little need for personal belongs and we are in little physical danger.”

Hawken’s anger only grew at Chrislan’s calm demeanor and her face grew redder. She clearly wanted to refute the previous statement, but she was given no opportunity.

“As for survival, your water skins and food pouches are enchanted to re-fill themselves, the witch promised to abate the sun, and little in the desert can challenge two fully-grown sand dragons.”

“Fine,” muttered Hawken to her toes, sounding much more childish than the question that started the confrontation. Kicking at the sand, she fell back in line and they trudged off once more.

A few more long hours later, the sun vanished below the horizon and they settled into camp. No fire was lit and talking was sparse as they lay out on the bare sand to sleep. The sand dragons kept watch in shifts allowing the others a full night’s rest.

The next day passed much as the first. Spirits were low, but Chrislan was right about the lack of danger. Now that he knew his pouch would re-fill constantly, the dwarf found himself eating a little too much. Midday came and went, then before long the sun was setting beneath the dunes again. As they settled in for a second night, Fordar looked over his ill friend with concern. Christiana looked no worse than she had two days prior, but the poison was slowly crawling up her leg. Sighing deeply, he laid down in the sand some distance away, stretched his aching feet, and closed his eyes. The last image that passed through his consciousness prior to drifting off was the absurd picture of a wight sitting on a porch swing whittling with his lost knife.

Day broke too early in the opinion of the begrudging dwarf on day three and he had the strong impulse to repeat Hawken’s childish inquiry from a couple days before. No wind stirred the sand today, yet the regular sound of wind gusts continued to reach his possibly addled brain. Turning his head to investigate the source of the sound, Fordar came to a sudden realization.

“Why can’t we fly?”

Hawken, who had been walking with her head down, starring at her toes, perked up and stopped walking, causing the dwarf to crash into her and fall to the soft earth. Concerned the trailing dragon would follow suit Fordar hurriedly attempted to rise, but could find no purchase on the side of the dune. Thankfully, the creature, though ungainly on two legs, had stopped some distance away and looked down at him with what might have been amusement. How could one truly tell the emotions of a scaled reptile?

“The wings of a sand dragon are ill-adapted for flight,” Chrislan responded from the front of the line, her voice faint as she had continued walking, “they can do little more than hover, so bearing riders is out of the quest…”

Her voice trailed off abruptly, then a deep roar from the same direction caught the dwarf off guard and he jumped. The sand dragon that had stopped behind them sped past as quickly as he could while maintaining his charge, responding to the cry of his comrade. Hawken gave chase.

Unable to keep stride with either dragon or girl, Fordar gritted his teeth, dropped his head, and took off at a sprint. He sped up one dune, then back down and up a second. It had barely crossed his mind that his companions had ventured quite far when the ground opened unexpectedly before him. He tried in vain to slow his momentum before tumbling into the hole, but instead slid through the loose sand and over the edge. A sharp tug at his collar saved him from plummeting downward into the hiatus before him. With a great effort, Hawken pulled him back up.

“Thank you,” puffed the dwarf, gasping for breath.

Fordar now sat at the edge of a massive pit, his short legs dangling over the side, looking down at Chrislan and the first dragon far below. Although the woman seemed to have maintained her composure with the fall, the lead sand dragon was lying prostrate and possibly unconscious near one wall of the pit. The golden-haired woman, far less radiant in the shadow of the sand walls, signaled that she was unharmed and knelt to assess the gravity of her guide’s injuries. The dragon snorted weakly as she inspected it from snout to tail, but so concerned was she with its well-being, she failed to notice the shifting of the sand or abundance of sand mites behind her.

Two long, hairy tusks shot upward from the center of the pit and the shower of coarse sand alerted Chrislan to the danger. Hawken recognized the creature below before the others.

“ANTLION,” she screamed, the panic in her voice as much for herself as her friends trapped below.

Long hair flying out behind her, the ambushed woman spun and imposed herself between the mostly submerged creature and the prone dragon. The second sand dragon, looking down at its helpless kin, knelt slowly to the ground and placed Christiana gently away from the drop off. It clearly intended to jump into the pit and confront the antlion.

Chrislan, her attention strained between the injured dragon, the monstrosity before her, and the activity above her, motioned for the second dragon to stop. It obeyed immediately.

“Press on,” she screamed to make herself heard, “the tower is due south of here.”

The antlion chose that same moment to snap forward with its immense jaws, but somehow the woman rolled left and out of range. She feigned an attack to draw its attention away from the dragon who had begun to move slightly, but backed away as it swung its furry head savagely to fend her off.

“Move,” she shouted again, noticing that Fordar was hesitating far above.

The stubborn dwarf was caught between his own need for survival and a stubborn instinct to protect his greatest friend’s closest companion.

“She can take care of herself,” Hawken whispered, tugging on his sleeve and urging him away from the antlion’s lair.

At first, Fordar resisted, but as the ensnared sand dragon shakily rose onto all four legs and roared a strong challenge, he allowed himself to be hurried away from the battle below. Sand dragon number one, who the dwarf decided he would call Seth instead of thinking of them by numbers, had already scooped up Christiana and scurried away in the direction Chrislan had indicated. The young girl continued to tug on his sleeve, hoping to keep up with the surprisingly spry creature, but the dwarf’s short legs and old heart couldn’t take it and he could only conjure a weak jog.

Another roar from the pit, muffled, but sounding higher pitched than the first, rose and died away followed by a great rush of wind. As Fordar glanced once back over his shoulder, he caught a brilliant flash of fire, then all signs of the battle and his companions faded away.

Although Seth had moved rapidly southward as instructed, he could not sustain his pace over distance and, despite his aging body, Fordar was able to close the distance in a short time. He wished to stop and catch his breathe, but the look of urgency and concern written all over Hawken’s young face pushed him forward. A short swig from his water skin kept him moving for the time being, but stubborn dwarf though he was, age was beginning to have its way with him. An hour or so passed with Fordar struggling to keep pace, but just as the dwarf thought his wobbling knees would give out, he heard Hawken halt and whisper, “look.”

Pausing with great joy and drawing his full attention from the aching feet he had been starring intently at in an attempt to keep them moving, the panting dwarf saw their destination before them. The tower was tall and simple, made of large sandstone bricks and, from a distance, seemed to have no windows. Hawken motioned that she wished Fordar to take the lead. He did.

Striding with purpose toward the base of the tower, the dwarf was shocked into an audible gasp when, quite suddenly, the tower vanished. Had it been a mirage? Some trick that had fooled both he and the girl? He turned to ask Hawken her opinion and discovered the tower was now behind them.

“How?” he started, but Hawken’s face mirrored his confusion and he failed to finish asking the question.

Shrugging, and with greater intent than before, the befuddled dwarf again marched for the tower’s base. Again, he was fooled. As he turned a second time, he knew he would find the tower behind them, but it did nothing to curb his frustration.

“Gah, I wish Chrislan were here,” the dwarf spat angrily, knowing the ever-vexing woman would have the answer.

“CHRISLAN?” a voice boomed across the open desert, possibly projected from the tower, but so loud was the voice, it could have come from any direction.

Fordar was at a loss for words, but Hawken boldly answered the disembodied voice.

“We are friends of Chrislan, sent here with her blessing so you can aid our friend.”

There was a pause, as if the voice was contemplating the young girl’s response before answering,
“ENTER,” it boomed, no less loud or intimidating than the first time.

As it spoke, the sandstone tower appeared directly before them, door opened invitingly. The four of them, Seth still cradling Christiana in his arms, stepped through. The group was met by an unforgiving blast of cold air, a stark contrast to the desert heat, and all shivered where they stood. Before them, covering an expanse far greater than the interior of the tower should, was a frozen wasteland.

Colossal evergreens, coated in thick sheets of ice, dotted the landscape and two majestic waterfalls, encapsulated in their regal descents, fed identical frozen rivers that carved an unfamiliar symbol into the floor of the tower. So in awe were dwarf and human, that they barely noticed Seth set his charge respectfully on the tundra and back slowly out the door. The temperatures within the mysterious tower were inadequate to support his kind. A slight click indicated the door closing behind them. Glancing at one another, unsure how to proceed, Fordar, being over 200 years Hawken’s senior, steeled himself to take the lead, only to be stopped unexpectedly by the appearance of three elves.

All three were identical in appearance, with pale green skin and long pointed ears, but each wore a different color robe to match their eyes: one red, one blue, and one green. In unison, they studied Fordar, Hawken, and finally Christiana, an odd look overcoming their faces as they took in the elf.

“Friends of Chrislan, you claim to be,” the one in red began.

“Then prove yourself, you must,” the blue-robed elf continued.

“Survive the tower challenge,” intoned the green-eyed elf.

“And you will have our trust,” they finished in unison.

As unexpectedly as they appeared, they were gone, taking the ailing Christiana with them, and leaving bewildered dwarf and teenager to ponder their predicament.
 
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CHAPTER 19: Tricked

Tarapak soared high over the Marakali Desert once more, majestic red and gold wings spread wide, riding the warm winds that rose from the scorching sands below. His sharp bird eyes captured everything that transpired. Though little happened in the open desert, the period of morning before dawn was the most active and the archsage watched sand rats chase each other out of holes and roadrunners scamper from cactus to cactus as he soared along. His destination was Mount Nevarus or more accurately, the temple built within it.

Berem had heard a story once, from the famous Vaquan Maltazar, about a Fire Temple, built by the Gods, concealed beneath the ocean of sand. It was there that the old dwarf had acquired Koobi’s Fury, the very sword Berem carried with him now. It had never dawned on the archsage that Mygora would return Mariusz to the care of the Fire God, but it made perfect sense.

As the phoenix passed over the Fire Sea, it had to fight the stronger thermals billowing up from the molten lava, but eventually was able to land on a slim ledge between the formidable landmark and the mountain which housed its heart. The Fire Sea was natural wonder unexplainable to even the greatest of Takian scholars. Despite reaching temperatures over 1000 degrees, the heat it radiated was bearable. The city of Rugrad, capitol of Akukynd, was built on the Fire Sea and with magical ships designed by the dwarves, served as a small port for some of the northern colonies of Emag and Knero.

As such, the archsage stood on its very precipice and, though sweating profusely, suffered no other adverse effects of the temperature. Hugging the mountain wall, he closed his eyes and returned to his vision. No indention or cleft indicated the entrance to the temple, the wall had just opened and...
“Whoa,” Tarapak screamed audibly as the mountain wall opened without warning and he pitched forward into the darkness. He threw his hands up to protect his face from smashing into the adjacent wall and began to fall. The dim, glowing light beneath him grew quickly as he fell and, thrusting his hands downwards, he cast a spell to slow his descent. He landed softly on an outcropping of rock overlooking the labyrinth. A narrow path on his left led down from the ledge to the towering maze of stone. Standing before the entrance of the labyrinth, Tarapak weighed his options.

Passing through the maze would be dangerous and time consuming, but he sensed a high level of magic in the air and assumed he would be barred from attempting to cheat the maze in any way. Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, the archsage entered the maze. Although the high temperature caused him to sweat heavily, the ground was smooth and the walls well-constructed, making progress easy. He ran into several dead ends, forcing him to turn back, but he began creating a map on a small piece of parchment so as not to lose his way.

***

From a distance, Tarapak was being watched. Darsun sat on the outcropping of rock at the entrance to the cavern, spyglass in hand. On the ledge beside him was sheet of parchment he was using to track the archsage’s progress. Having already traversed one magical labyrinth, he had been better prepared for the second, knowing his normal tricks would be of no use. He made another note on his parchment as Berem turned back for the third time somewhere near the center of the maze. He again reflected on his adventures, while contemplating how to outwit the archsage who was, unwillingly, playing right into the thief’s grubby hands.

After being stuck in the dark beneath the throne of Gaia for two days with limited food, Darsun risked his discovery in an attempt to escape. Luckily, it was early morning and, though the guard was still on high alert, he was able to return to the dungeons unseen. A posting of four guards was on the secret entrance, however, so he had to improvise. Using the keys he had stolen from the dead jailor days before, he released the prisoners from the dungeon as a distraction. The alarm was immediately raised, but two of the guards at the door remained vigilant and Darsun begrudgingly returned to the first floor. Dodging numerous soldiers swarming to aid with the prison break, he made for the docks. The lights in the receiving room were extinguished and the guards, likely responding to the riot below, absent.

Finding the release mechanism for the drawbridge, the thief cut the counterweights and the bridge crashed down onto its sturdy support beams in the sea. He sprinted for the opening, knowing the sound would have alerted someone. He was almost free when he stumbled on his long cloak and fell hard into a barrel of fish near the dock. A single soldier, roused by the dropping of the bridge from the adjacent guard room, began firing on the obscured thief. Although he could not be seen, the spilled barrel gave away his general direction and a lucky arrow pierced the assassin’s calf as he fell painfully into the sea.
Hearing the splash, the guard rushed to the opening, but Darsun had already submerged deep enough to ward off any further arrows. The blood tinted water remained the only trace of him.

Darsun unconsciously rubbed his injured leg as he snapped back to reality. Tarapak had progressed considerably further in the maze and the thief would have to move quickly to catch him. Setting off down the narrow walkway, map in hand, he concentrated on overtaking his adversary. He made quick work of the labyrinth, the map leading him exactly where he needed to go. In fact, as he rounded a corner, he found himself staring at the back of Tarapak’s red robe and backtracked stealthily to avoid being discovered. They had come to the final crossroads and Darsun knew they needed to head left, but Berem, not as prepared as the assassin, turned right instead. Darsun waited patiently for him to return, quietly chuckling at how easily the “all-powerful” archsage had been conned.

After coming ashore east of Jae, Darsun had made his way back into the city. Under the presumption that he had been attacked by bandits, a kindly older woman had treated his leg and ushered him off with a fresh meal the next day. Stealing a horse from a stable near the edge of town, he road hard for Akukynd and the city of Alaja. From their, he sent a message to Garen, initiating the next phase of the plan. The Lord Archsage, who had been scrying Tarapak for days, sent him a vision of the Fire Temple and its hidden treasure, hoping to draw him there alone. The ploy succeeded.

***

Berem came around the final corner of the labyrinth and a tall onyx obelisk towered over him. The archsage speculated at the ease in which he had traversed the labyrinth. True, the maze itself was taxing, physically and mentally, but no magical creature or immortal guardian had stepped forward to challenge his progress, despite the nagging feeling that he was being constantly watched.

He approached the base of the obelisk and noticed a crack in the stone about two feet from the ground. Circling the structure and investigating his surroundings, he found nothing else of interest on the platform housing the monument. Returning to the crack, he knelt to observe it. The interior was smooth and appeared man-made. Tiny letters, etched in dwarven, spelled out two words beneath the narrow opening: ‘Koobi’s Fury.’

Mygora, Tarapak thought to himself, she protected the shard with a labyrinth and an heirloom. Drawing the sword from its sheath, still on one knee, he slid it into the crevice. It fit like a key, but nothing else happened. He waited. Still nothing. He attempted to rotate the sword, but it wouldn’t budge. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on his memories of Mygora and their training long ago.

“Why fire,” her gruff, unyielding voice floated through his memory, “because fire is the key to life.”

“Fire,” Berem spoke the single word aloud.

Koobi’s Fury burst into raging white and orange flames. The obelisk settled, sending up a cloud of dust and forcing Tarapak to stand and take a step backward. Remembering the memory Runik had shown them, he looked up in time to see Mariusz loose itself from its mooring and fall. He held out a hand to catch the falling gem, but a blur shot in front of him and nabbed it first.

Whipping his hand forward, Berem withdrew the blazing sword from the obelisk and brandished it at the newcomer, expecting to see the guardian he had long expected. Instead, he saw Darsun, his grisly features reflected gruesomely in the red blade of his sword.

“You,” Tarapak spat.

Darsun smiled his crooked smile. Raising a hand to cast a spell and retrieve the shard, Berem stopped mid-incantation when the intruder vanished. He glanced left, then right, then his left arm shot out and the thief materialized with the furious archsage grasping the hood of his filthy black cloak.

“Fade Strider,” he muttered unbelieving, more to himself than anyone, as the thief already knew what he was.

Darsun smiled his crooked smile again and a flash of brilliant white light lit the chamber. Shocked by his revelation about the thief and blinded by the magical light, Tarapak lost his grip and Darsun was gone.

CHAPTER 20: Trials

Hawken shivered and pulled Nayru closer around her. She felt sorry for the dwarf who had nothing but his tunic to keep him warm from the frozen interior of the strange tower. In the desert heat, it was probably a blessing that he didn’t have to lug his travel pack around. Here he no doubt was wishing for the warm cloak within and possibly the means to start a fire.

“We best start moving if we are to find these challenges,” the young girl stated matter-of-factly, if anything just to get moving and fight off the cold that way.

Fordar nodded his agreement, a musical clinking accompanying the motion as the icicles that had formed on his beard danced off one another. The notion would have been entertaining if not for the cold. The dwarf started toward the entwined rivers whose twisted shape resembled an elongated snowflake. His heavy boots sunk into the snow up to the ankle. Hawken followed closely behind, the icicles that had formed in her hair playing an incessant melody has they clattered together around her ears.

The snow, though it gave way marginally to the dwarf’s bulk, was so dense that the young girl could walk atop it, as if it were solid rock. The mismatched couple pushed forward, using the rivers as a guide to maintain a straight line. With no sun to indicate the passing of time, they could have wandered for hours or days, neither knew which.

As they continued and broached no opposition, they picked up speed, hoping to find an end to their misery before both froze to death. Although silence reigned between them, dwarf and girl had reached the unspoken agreement to cross over the rivers. As they reached the first intersection of the crystalline snakes, both hesitated, but a bridge of solid oak materialized before them and they rushed over, fearing it would disappear.

With their first goal achieved, they increased their speed again, emboldened by success and progress. Intersection number two approached and an identical bridge appeared. Hawken and Fordar jogged over it. The second bridge clear, disappearing even has Hawken stepped off, they slowed to assess the situation. To the left and right were matching copses of glimmering evergreens and directly before them a field of icicle stalagmites. Fordar indicated his intent to continue forward with a jut of his chin and Hawken again fell in behind him.

Snow began to fall as they entered the dangerous field, obscuring the distant trees from sight. The snow beneath their feet, originally packed tightly together, began to soften as well, until it was the same density as the powder gracefully falling from the sky. The powdery substance grew deeper as they pushed forward and Fordar, only a couple inches over four feet, was having to shovel with his bare hands to make progress, an act that was leading to reddened and raw fingers. Hawken, though short for a human, was a foot taller than her companion and making headway, until her foot hit a tree root and she tumbled forward, disappearing entirely in a blanket of winter.

A low rumble filled the air and shook the ground beneath her feet as she pushed herself back up, doing her best to dust the snow from her hair and clothes, a fruitless effort that left her more wet and cold than before. The rumble repeated and the stalagmites behind Hawken began to move. Startled by the movement, the shivering girl drew her sword and adopted a defensive stance, briefly wondering how she had failed to impale herself on ice when she fell. The stalagmites moved deftly away from her, leaving large rifts in the snow. Following the movement, she saw another group of icicles begin to rise upward out of the snow, finally revealing the source of the movement.

“D…, d…, d…,” Hawken sputtered, unable to form even a single word, partially due to frozen lips, mostly due to shock.

Standing before her, in all its horrifying majesty, was an ice dragon. She could only guess at its size, as it was partially buried in the over three feet of snow, but her best estimate was twenty-five feet from nose to tail. It hadn't been a tree root on which she tripped, but the huge white creature's long tail. Some of the “icicles” in the field where the spikes running the length of the dragon’s back and tail and the lighter snow clearly served the purpose of bedding the massive creature.

Its huge spiky face glared down at her, inspecting her tiny body and unthreatening form. Frozen, both mentally and physically, the young girl cowered under the inspection. Her grasp, however, loosened on her sword, causing it to shift a few inches before she could recover. The ice dragon, who’s cold breath and icy white fangs were mere inches from sword fighter, snapped back abruptly at the action. A thundering noise, like a tornado echoing through the mountains but amplified a thousand times, resounded across the tundra, then the enormous reptile expelled a mighty blast of freezing air directly at Hawken.

Had she been alone, the teenager would have spent eternity as an icy statue decorating the snowy expanse of the tower. Luckily, Fordar, who had been struggling through the high snow drifts, reached her at the vital moment and, throwing his aging body forward, knocked her from the lethal blast’s grasp and back into the powdery blankets of snow. The assault wrenched the sword from her shaking hand. The dragon watched it bounce hilt over blade in the opposite direction until it disappeared beneath the drifting expanse.

Hawken, mustering all the energy and bravery remaining in her small body, jumped quickly to her feet and helped the gasping dwarf up as well. Fordar positioned himself directly between Hawken and the dragon, who had reverted its attention to them following the sword’s disappearance, and placed both arms directly in front of him, palms out, as is subjugating himself to the behemoth. With the dragon making no further attempt on their lives, Fordar began to step backwards at a steady pace, using his back to push Hawken away from both the dragon and her lost sword.

“My sword,” she whispered furiously in his ear, trying to move around him.

“Forget it,” he returned, eyes not leaving the dragon, though he shifted his weight to continuing blocking the girl, “ice dragons are highly territorial and easily provoked. If we leave the sword, and its territory, it should leave us alone.”

“Should?” Hawken countered, her voice still a harsh whisper.

“Well, I don't have any experience in these matters, just the ramblings of an old mage obsessed with dragons.” The old dwarf smiled slightly despite the circumstances.

Hawken was preparing another snide comment, but as they drew farther away, the dragon lowered its head to the ground, though its eyes remained fixed upon them. Another twenty feet and the dragon closed its eyes and turned away, satisfied to let the falling snow return it to its frozen bed.

Once satisfied that the dragon had lost interest in them, Hawken freed herself from Fordar’s defensive stance and turned in a full circle, assessing the situation. In the excitement and terror of encountering the dragon, she had completely lost her sense of direction. Although the icicle field and its resident dragon were behind them, the two stands of fir trees were still lost in the snowstorm and the frustrated girl was contemplating plopping down in the snow and letting it freeze her to death. Once again, Fordar came to the rescue. Pointing just over her right shoulder, with a red and trembling finger, he indicated toward a massive structure barely visible in the distance. Hawken tried to respond, but her voice failed again, so she simply nodded and began slogging toward their new destination.

The snow beneath them became denser once more, making the trek more bearable. By the time they reached the distant object, which they soon discovered was a great stone wall, Hawken was again able to walk comfortably on top of the frozen powder. The wall, though enormous, was encouraging, for set in it was a door. Twenty feet in height, without a handle, and made of sparkling crystalline ice, but a door nonetheless. As they approached, letters began to appear, one at a time, as if being written in cold blue lettering by a giant invisible hand. When it finally ceased, the door bore this:

Bright like diamonds,
But freezing cold,
Solid as rock,
But hard to hold,
Fears the sun,
High and gold,
Yet atop the peaks,
Forever bold.

Hawken stared quizzically at the door, but Fordar laughed.

“Its a riddle,” he stated, answering the puzzled look, “ and I,” he drew himself up proudly, “am the riddle-master.”

“Well riddle-master, get on with it.”

“Step back,” said the dwarf, squinting his eyes in concentration, despite the stark clearness of the letters, even in the continually swirling snow.

There was a long silence while he thought. He opened his mouth once, then thought better of it. Growing tired of waiting, her body aching from the cold and constant shivering, Hawken reached for Fordar’s axe. If he couldn't solve the riddle, she would just knock the door down. The dwarf, as if reading her mind, held out a hand to stop her.

“Ice,” he stated simply, and stood back from the door, a mischievous glint in his gray eyes.

Another low rumbling emanated around the tower and a concerned Hawken spun around, expecting to see the ice dragon pursuing them. When she saw nothing, she turned back to witness a tiny crack, at the very peak of the door, begin to wind downward, growing thicker as it descended. The crack halted briefly in the direct center of the door, then, with a sound like a million mirrors shattering simultaneously, the entirety of the door splintered and crumbled into countless tiny shards of crystalline ice.

Smiling from ear to ear, Fordar hurried toward the now open doorway, Hawken in tow. Behind the now obliterated door was a small alcove and a set of stairs. The hard, smooth stairs wound upward for a short distance in the near darkness before the temperature rose dramatically and tiny orbs of flame popped up along the walls, like torches without sconces. The temperature continued to rise as the two ascended, promptly melting the ice that had formed on the friends’ clothes and hair. So quickly did the ice melt and pool at their feet that Fordar slipped twice on the now slick stairs and bruised his left knee. When the staircase finally ended, the stark, abrasive cold from below had been completely replaced by a dry and sweltering heat. The new floor was composed of jagged, black volcanic rock with lava streams snaking their way across the landscape. Lava pools bubbled sporadically, promising a swift and fiery death to the unwary.

Dwarf and human exchanged determined glances and pressed on. Following a deep lava stream, attempting to maintain a similar direction to the one they followed below, the two kept a keen eye on the sky, ground, and horizon, constantly tensed for their next encounter.

Not long after the staircase vanished in the oppressive heat behind them, an obsidian monolith became visible in the distance. The two unconsciously quickened their pace in its direction and almost immediately wished they hadn’t. Surrounding the monolith, which was emblazoned with a white rune, similar to the shape formed by the frozen rivers but resembling a key, slumbered a dozen lesser flame dragons. A close relative of sand dragons, they also had small wings, ill-adapted for flying, and swept back horns on powerful skulls. Unlike their subterranean brothers, they had weak fore claws, which were countered by powerful legs and tails, causing them to walk mostly upright. Hawken recalled being told once that lesser flame dragons were among the most aggressive and ferocious of all dragonKin, a fact that was easy to believe even in slumber.

“How do we get past them?” Hawken whispered, the nearest dragon snorting in its sleep.

There was no way to slip past the dragons, they were perfectly nested around the monolith and encircled by an impassible stream of lava. Fordar held up a finger and closed his eyes, thinking deeply. When he opened his eyes, he spoke in a normal tone.

“We walk through,” he said, Hawken’s eyes growing wide at the level of his voice, “sleeping dragons are highly attuned to the soft sounds of people sneaking and creeping, learned so they can discover adventurers attempting to steal their treasures, but are less sensitive to the natural sounds they would encounter while sleeping in the wild. If we move on without any overly loud or quiet noises, they should remain sleeping.”

“Are you sure,” Hawken countered, her voice still low, causing the nearest dragon to snort again, smoke billowing lightly from its nose.

“Lead on,” she managed, swallowing hard and returning to a normal tone, taking the dragon’s reaction as proof enough that Fordar was correct. The dwarf smiled as he strode past the first group of dragons, glad, for the second time in an hour, that he had listened every time Tarapak had prattled on about dragons.

They successfully maneuvered past the second group of dragons, admiring their powerful, terrifying forms, and rounded the monolith, which pulsed with unknown power. While moving through the third set of large, red reptiles, one sneezed in its sleep, sending embers dancing across the landscape. A stray ember caught the end of Fordar’s beard and immediately set it aflame. The aged dwarf did everything he could to keep from screaming and loosing the full fury of the sleeping serpents. He began to beat furiously at his face. Hawken, however, averted catastrophe and the loss of his beard by pulling the water skin from her waist and emptying it over the panicking dwarf’s head.

Fire out and entire head soggy, Fordar stomped past the last of the dragons, glad his beard was in one piece and for the oppressive heat which was hiding the growing red of embarrassment in his cheeks.
Hawken hid a smile as she followed him over a high ridge carved into the jagged, volcanic landscape, hiding the flame dragons from view. Just as the crest hid the previous challenge, it had been hiding the next. Laying before them was a chasm of nigh unfathomable depths, a faint orange glow from its bowels the only indication that magma flowed below, or that the canyon even had a bottom. Spanning the hiatus was a bridge unlike any they had seen before. It was forged completely of fire. Although it appeared solid, its railings a cool, red flame, in stark contrast to its deep green walkway, neither felt tempted to test its structure or heat at this terrifying height. White smoke rose from the center of the bridge and took loose form.

“Take heart and cross this fiery bridge,”
“For courage it will take”
“Or else a dragon’s feast you’ll be,”
“Before the clock strikes eight.”

The voice, reminiscent of the elves they met in the doorway faded away as the smoke specter dissipated.

“That doesn't rhyme,” Fordar snorted aloud, but an echoing bell toll in the distance clearly emphasized the meaning of the poorly rhymed statement.

“If you don't want to be dragon fodder, I suggest you move,” jested Hawken, although the humor did not reach her eyes, which reflected a primal fear.

A second bell chimed.

“Across that, I think not,” retorted the dwarf, his hair and singed beard having already dried due to the intense heat.

A third bell sounded in the distance.

“Would you rather be food or charcoal?” she returned, forcing a laugh that was cut short by the fourth bell. She glanced at the bridge, the ridge, and back to the dwarf, who hadn't moved.

“I am trying to decide how I would like to die,” he said in answer to her glance, running his hand over the blade of his axe.

The fifth toll sounded closer than the previous.

“Just move,” she retorted, but it was clear she was stalling too.

Chime number six.

“Ladies first,” he responded, motioning forward and taking a step back from the bridge.

Hawken took a step in its direction, but couldn't find it within herself to continue. The seventh bell sounded decidedly closer than the sixth.

Deep breathes, Hawken told herself, you can do it. Though she couldn't fully convince herself that either burning or falling into an abyss were preferable to being eaten until the eighth and final bell, which echoed through the valley below, and the roar of the first dragon fully motivated her.

Steeling herself, she placed one foot unsteadily on the flames. She found purchase. A second step and she was fully on the bridge without burning or falling to her death. She glanced back to encourage Fordar, but found that the first of the dragons cresting the ridge behind him had been encouragement enough. He now approached at a full sprint and she had to throw herself from the bridge and onto the coarse ground to avoid being trampled. Another roar and the blast of heat from a fireball, thankfully aimed at the fleeing dwarf, thus flying over her head, was more than enough to inspire the aching body to push itself back up and follow the fleeing dwarf over the magical bridge.

Finally safely across the menacing crevice, the dragons contained to the far side, they again found themselves faced with a mammoth doorway, this one of smooth, black obsidian. As they watched, neat red letters were carved into the shimmering surface, spelling out a second riddle, but in a language the girl didn't recognize.

“I don’t understand,” Hawken said, confused. “What does it say?”

“Where smithys fold,
And stories told,
Which water quells,
And timbers fell,
Light maker,
Cookie baker,
Life taker.”

Hawken raised an eyebrow at the dwarf’s response.

“It is written in dwarvish,” he responded casually, it had been years since he last used the ancient language of his race, as very few outside of the dwarven kingdom of Kyndmentunok used it on a regular basis, but he remembered his education well.

“And the answer?” she queried, hoping the self-proclaimed riddle master knew the proper response again.

A smile lit the singed face briefly, “fire, of course.”

The words had barely left his lips when a the huge door exploded into a cloud of soot, covering the shocked travelers in its black, dusty particles. Both doubled over coughing, but by the time they recovered, the cloud had dissipated, revealing another winding set of stone stairs. Thoroughly exhausted, the companions exchanged frustrated looks before continuing upwards once more.

As the staircase climbed steadily upward, the temperature dropped to a more bearable level, however, the humidity in the narrow corridor began to rise, forcing the two to tread each step with care to avoid slipping and tumbling back to the base of the stair.

Suddenly, the sweet aroma of flowers and honey, accompanied by the buzz of insects and the chirping a birds reached Hawken’s ears and she slowed further. Inching onward, one step at a time, she came around the final turn of the stair and was nearly blinded by the brilliance of the sun shining off a small pond near the edge of a broad forest. She stepped into the clear, bright sunshine, Fordar close behind. The hell of frozen tundra and volcanic crag vanished in the radiant sunshine. Birds flitted between trees of every size, shape, and color; bees and other insects danced around a myriad of perfect roses and honeysuckle; small water turtles sunbathed in the shallows of the rippling pond; peaceful woodland animals trotted and pranced between the trunks; and a couple of great spiny iguanas were chasing each other around a boulder in an open field to their left. A soft breeze wafted down from the lofty branches, cooling the young girl’s burning skin and whisking the sweat away. If heaven existed, Hawken felt she had found it. Fordar, on the other hand, sneezed violently behind her.

“Can we keep moving?”

Hawken reluctantly did so, loathe to disturb the serenity and beauty sprawled before her, but she reminded herself of the task at hand and moved on. A smooth cobblestone path lay before her, and the two, with Fordar sneezing intermittently, followed it to the right of the pond, through the wondrously maintained gardens, and beneath the lower hanging limbs of the quiet forest. They passed a grove of fruit trees. Apples, oranges, and bananas dangled just within reach. Hawken contemplated plucking one, but decided not to tempt fate. She paused suddenly as a flock of hummingbirds cut them off, hovering directly in front of the short girls face, inspecting her. As if finding her non-threatening, they disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared. The path swung left, continued on for a distance, then swung right again. As Hawken rounded the second bend, she realized she no longer heard the labored breathing of the older dwarf and slowed her pace so he could catch up.

After several more turns, Hawken began to feel lost, despite the path beneath her feet, but took heart when the path, which had been running under lower and lower hanging trees, opened into a great clearing. The entire clearing was ringed by massive redwood trees, stretching their branches higher in the skies than any of the surrounding trees, and in the center of the clearing was another rune. Designed neatly with small, white cairns, the new rune resembled an hourglass, but the swordswoman had little time to ponder its meaning.

“Which way do we go?” Fordar panted behind her, the long day, culminating in the winding walk through the allergen-infested forest, had sapped nearly all his strength. She wondered how long he would be able to maintain his bravado and soldier on.

“I don't know,” she responded, sullenly, looking for some clue in the dazzling clearing.

Carved into the base off four trees, one in each cardinal direction, were gateways. Each appeared identical, with vines, leaves, and flowers expertly chiseled into them in a precise pattern. Motioning for the dwarf to sit near the small piles of white rocks, to which he hastily agreed, Hawken began moving from gate to gate, looking for some minute difference. She began with the southern gate, the one from which they arrived, then moved to the eastern gate, the northern, then finally the western. They all looked exactly the same. Every vine, flower, and leaf in exactly the same place. How was she supposed to choose? She glanced back at the dwarf sitting quietly in the middle of the peaceful glade, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

Perhaps we should just stay here, she thought to herself. The air is rich and clear, the water is a shimmering blue, and she found herself longing for the scrumptious fruit she had seen earlier.

Suddenly, Fordar was touching her gently on the elbow, “we have to push forward,” he said quietly, “the other floors challenged us physically, but now they are testing our minds.”

Hawken blinked rapidly, then nodded in agreement, shaking the thoughts from her head. She saw movement down the western path and pointed.

“A leaf dragon,” Fordar said, responding to the gesture.

As they watched, a second small, green reptile with wings resembling leaves, thus the name, jumped from the undergrowth to play with its friend. Leaf dragons are one of the smallest dragons in the world, belonging to the genus of miniature dragons. Though they are usually harmless, their bites are poisonous and they often serve larger green dragons.

“We should follow it,” Fordar stated matter-of-factly.

The girl opened her mouth to argue with him, but refrained. The other challenges had led them right past dragons, at least these were small.

The path beneath the redwood gate remained cobblestone for a short time, then petered out into a dirt deer trail before disappearing entirely. The leaf dragons stayed within sight, however, and despite many nicks and cuts, Hawken and Former continued following them through the ever thickening underbrush. Just when she thought she might need Fordar’s axe to hack through the vines and nettles, her sword now lying somewhere buried in the snow two floors below, the trees and thicket opened into another stunning meadow.

Roses, alternating in rows of pink, red, and white, lined a white marble roadway leading to another redwood tree. This tree stood towering above any tree Hawken had ever imagined, challenging even great Tree of Time she had glimpsed in the elven forest. Its branches disappeared into the magical clouds above, possibly stretching its magnificent arms out through the top of the stone tower. The girl briefly wondered how she hadn’t seen it soaring above the smaller redwoods in the previous clearing, but the outline of a door blazed into life at the base of the trunk, and curling green letters began to spell out in another foreign language.

Not a mother, sister, or son,
Always running, never done,
To mortal creatures can be mean,
Needs a face to be seen,
Flies without wings, crawls without feet,
Spoils milk, sours meat,
Outlasts tyrants and monarchs all,
Even watches mountains fall.


From behind her, Hawken heard Fordar swear, “It’s Elvish, I can't read Elvish, we’ll be stuck in this blasted meadow forever.”

As if to emphasize his dislike of the flowering landscape, another thunderous sneeze escaped the dwarf’s exasperated mouth.
For once, though, it was Hawken who had the solution.

“It’s time,” she almost whispered, smiling mostly to herself.

A new line of brilliant green flames split the outline of the door in two perfect halves and the doors slowly creaked inwards along the crack.

“How,” Fordar managed, a mixture of shock, amazement, and wonder overtaking him, “do you speak…”

“No,” the girl cut him off, “I didn't solve the riddle of the door, I solved the riddle of the tower. An ice dragon and an ice rune on the first floor, flame dragons and a fire rune on the second floor, then leaf dragons and a time rune on this floor. It could only be one thing.”

Fordar shook his head incredulously and smiled brightly at the girl, “shall we proceed?”

Hawken nodded. Behind the door, as expected, was another staircase. The two friends sighed and wearily began another ascension. This staircase, luckily, was much shorter than the rest and it ended in a mage’s laboratory instead of another wondrous, yet terrifying facsimile of nature.

Tall bookcases, some full, others sparsely populated, lined two walls, while a far wall hosted shelves with every type of dried herb, spice, and root imaginable. Also on the far wall was a tall bay window where various unknown species of flower and vegetation grew. Finally, the wall that held the door also sported two sturdy wooden desks, both strewn with papers covered in odd symbols, strange drawings, and what Hawken assumed was more of the Elven language.

Again she found her mind wandering to menial thoughts, like which of three elves shared a desk, but her attention was soon drawn to the center of the room. Directly in the center of the room, beneath a simple golden chandelier, unlit, due to the daylight flooding through the tall window, was an elaborate oak table, clearly of elven design. The table’s six legs were carved to resembles trees, with the leaves and branches serving as the base for a marble slab to sit upon. The slab, two inches thick on all sides, had runes etched upon its entire length. Suspended beneath the table was a thinner slab of wood that served as further shelving for glass jars, mortar and pestle, strange devices, and the preserved remains of creatures the young girl was sure she didn't want to know the names of. Lying atop the oak table was Christiana.
As the two entered the study, the elf in blue turned and stared at them incredulously.

“You made it!”

Responding to the other’s voice, the elves in red and green, whose backs were to the door, turned, their facial expression matching that of their partner. Hawken returned a quizzical look, while Fordar nearly spat in rage, but no coherent words escaped his lips.

After a prolonged silence, Hawken finally managed, “we came for our friend.”

“And she is deserving of your dedication,” responded blue, speaking down to her, as if she were an infant, “we will gladly entrust our sister to you.”

The other two nodded in agreement, but Hawken barely noticed. She wasn't sure what confused her more, the casual tone with which the elves brushed off their repeated flirtation with death or the use of the word ‘sister.’ Perhaps all elves referred to each other as brother and sister. Fordar, on the other hand, knew better.

“You’re sister…” he was spitting with rage again, his red face and burnt beard creating a terrible visage, “we risked our…”

“Be calm,” the blue-robed elf interjected.

Surprisingly, Fordar did. As soon as the words were spoken, the redness drained from his face, a smile played across his face, and he relaxed so much he nearly fell down.

“Your friend should recover quickly,” the red-robed elf spoke after another lengthy silence, diverting the subject from the friends’ frustration and back to the purpose of their, apparently pointless, yet perilous journey through the tower.

“The poison is already receding,” continued the green-robed elf.

Perhaps reacting to the voices, or a touch from the elf in green, Christiana coughed and stirred on the table. The purple lines in her leg had lessened and there was no longer an ugly green swell around the entry point. The red-robed elf helped her to a seated position and she swung her long legs over the edge, blinking rapidly. She glanced around, taking in her surroundings, clearly and understandably confused. As her vision fully returned to her, she focused on the elf in red.

“Drago,” she shouted, leaping down from her seat and landing on her bad leg.

Drago steadied her and returned the warm embrace. Her leg shook violently under her and the other two stepped forward to help.

“Eli, Grache, brothers, it has been too long,” she rasped, her parched throat betraying her, but Eli presented her a cup of water from his robe, which she took in a single swig, and pulled her three brothers into a deep embrace.

Hawken watched in emotional silence at the reunion. When finally Christiana released the other three elves, she took in the rest of her surroundings and her confusion increased.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“The Tower of Ámental, our home in the Marakali Desert,” responded Eli, the elf in blue.

He seems to be in charge, Hawken thought, I wander if he is the oldest.

“Why…” Chrisitiana started, but the memory of the past few days came flooding back all at once.

“We must go,” she stated emphatically, emotion leaving her voice.

“We know,” took up Grache, not hiding the emotion in his voice, “your friends,” he motioned to Hawken, who still stood motionless by the entrance, and Fordar, whose impatience had led him to one of the sturdy wooden stools in front of the desks, “brought you here because you had been poisoned by ku'ará. We have stopped the poison, but you need to take care of that leg until the symptoms fully recede.”

Christiana nodded in response, testing the strength of the leg again and finding she could put her weight on it.

“We can provide one more thing,” Drago said, moving to the corner of the room between one set of bookcases and the desks.

Leading up the wall, to a trap door in the ceiling, was a ladder. Christiana and Eli made their way to the corner first and when Drago offered a hand to help her, she pushed him away. Hawken chuckled to herself, same old Christiana. She and Fordar followed, with Grache bringing up the rear. It was a long climb to the roof, but if Christiana could make it on a bad leg, Hawken was in no place to complain. Atop the roof, with the desert stretching in every direction, were three magnificent creatures. Their backs and tails were that of lions, beautiful brown predatory cats that lived in the foothills of the Kneron Mountains north of this forsaken desert, while the front claws, head, and wings were that of a majestic eagle. She had seen both the individual predators, powerful and dangerous on their own, but together? She never thought she’d see the day. Behind her, Fordar was equally surprised.

“Griffins,” he whispered the single word in reverence.

“To take you to Rugrad,” Eli stated.

“Thank you,” Christiana said, far less awed by the beautiful creatures, as she had grown up around them.
“We get to fly them,” Hawken said, he voice rising, excitement replacing awe.

“Yes, now hurry,” Christiana responded, ushering the girl over to the nearest griffin and helping her into the plain, brown leather saddle on its back.

She moved to the second and helped Fordar as well, before moving to hers and jumping astride with no problems, her leg almost forgotten. Grache hurried to the lead griffin before Christiana could spur it into the air.

“Wait, take this,” he said, handing her a brown burlap satchel, “it will help with the healing.”

“Thank you, brother, I am in your debt.”

Grache smiled knowingly, “and sister?”

“Yes”

“We will miss you.”

Christiana smiled back at him and waved to the other two brothers as she prodded her griffin into the air and the other two followed.

“Hang on tight and stay close,” she shouted over her shoulder to her companions as the three powerful creatures beat their wings for altitude and took to the sky.

As the tower became smaller and smaller in the distance, Hawken saw Christiana look back just one time, but as she did, the sun glistened off a single tear in her eye and she whispered to the wind, “I’ll miss you too, brothers.”
 
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Merry Xmas and a Happy New Year to you, @Patrick Haines. I'm not sure we've seen much of each other, but your story is mine to review today. I hope I can be of help. A heads up to you: I'm normally very picky about my fiction and I don't read non-pokémon content here, but I'll do my best.

I'd like to start by letting you know that the number one reason you haven't received feedback yet is most certainly because of your formatting. Each paragraph should be visibly distinct from the previous, to allow the reader's eye to rest without them losing track of their place in the story. I genuinely struggle with very large blocks of undifferentiated text, and I would normally take a glance at a wall like your first chapter and decide not to even start reading. You should do your best to imitate professional standards of presentation. Other ways you can try to attract people to read your fic include not calling it "poorly-written" out of the gate, and including a blurb of some kind to tell me what kind of story I can expect to read. Also, you said "The most graphic violence is written as a humorous" which is not a complete sentence, and also suggests a low degree of maturity about serious issues, so reducing your credibility.

Besides that, the other major issue at hand is that this is a piece of original fantasy fiction which is continually drip-feeding me bits of lore in a way that doesn't actually draw me into the world. Coupled with the formatting issue I mentioned, I found myself having to re-read paragraphs several times, and thinking "where did that come from? Was that mentioned just now?" Thirdly, you need to think through your prose more carefully and develop more attention to detail where style is concerned. Don't be too intimidated, now! You have this in common with almost all young fantasy writers. I'll go into these topics in more detail in a close reading of the first chapter, as follows:

(Meeting in the Dark, Arcadia)

Is this a chapter title, or just text to tell us location and event? If it's a title, it should be formatted as a title i.e. in bold on the same line as "chapter 1" and without "Arcadia" tacked on, if it's just informational then it's information the reader should be given in the prose itself, and cut entirely.

She clung precariously to the sheer wall, a hundred feet above the ground, but was in no danger of falling.

This is a contradiction in terms. If it's precarious, then she is in danger. If she's in no danger, it's not precarious. This should be phrased in such a way as to make it clear that it might be a precarious task for other people, or that her position might appear precarious to an observer. The absolute claim that she is clinging precariously misleads the reader, you see. We accept one thing, having been told by the narrator, only to be told that it's incorrect a moment later. This opening paragraph suggests to the reader that the prose of this story might not be internally consistent; something which frustrates many readers.

As she is on a vantage point here, it's a shame that you miss the opportunity to describe the city in some detail. As this chance is skipped over, late descriptions of the city come out of nowhere relative to your protagonist.

Above her, the five towers of the Temple of Meno'a loomed frighteningly over the dark city.

"Frighteningly" is an awkward word at the best of times. Adverbs are rarely helpful — they tell the reader how to feel about something, but not why in particular. If being dark and looming suggests that they might frighten, then that's sufficient. Also, if they don't frighten your character, then it's another false description, as the narration is relative to her perspective, or nobody's.

They were the symbol of light to the world, but their true purpose was as dark and sinister as the cloudless night Malferna found herself in.

This isn't enough information. It's not an interesting form of teasing, because it's not a puzzle piece. This sentence boils down to "people think this thing is good, but it's bad" but in order to hold my interest it needs to have some kind of follow-up to explain this, or at least to be specific about one or both of those things. You could even give less information by implying that they're sinister, but stating it outright means the reader doesn't get to think about it. "This thing is secretly evil" is a very difficult thing to swallow whole with no condiments.

Also, a cloudless night is not dark, as the stars and moon will shine clearly. To be dark, the night needs to be overcast. This makes it sound like you chose the word "cloudless" purely because you like the word, and not because it serves a useful function.

Later in this chapter you refer to "the weak moonlight shining through gloomy clouds" which contradicts that the night is cloudless. If the moonlight is weak and cannot fully penetrate gloomy clouds, then it is not shining, and if it is shining, then the night is not dark and the moonlight is not weak.

Consistency in description is very important both to clearly portray a specific scene and to not frustrate readers.

Lord Archsage had hired spies to watch persons he found to be threatening.

Lord Archsage employed a spy network to watch perceived threats. Try to reduce word bloat. i.e. if something can be said in fewer words, it generally should be.

To his credit, I am a threat, she chuckled to herself.

I personally believe internal monologue like that from a protagonist who is clearly not the narrator should be italicised or given quotation marks. The words themselves don't really make much sense to me, either. Why is it to this guy's credit that she's a threat? Do you mean that he's competent enough to know she's a threat? Or is it impressive that he's important enough for her to target?

the wall of fir trees reinforcing the iron fencing

Generally, trees are cleared around artificial barriers to prevent people climbing them as a means to circumvent the barriers. Trees don't really reinforce fencing so much as weaken it.

Technically, the library and the temple were separate buildings, built over one hundred years apart, but the seamless construction made them inseparable from one another.

They are either separate or inseparable, they cannot be both. You could just say that the one building was built a century later as an extension, and then also say which building is older, but it doesn't seem like important enough information to include.

The Temple of Meno'a was built around it to honor Garen's first wife.

I don't know who/what Meno'a is, I don't know who Garen or his wife are or were. You need to give more information so that those names are worth including, or skip the names and talk about the temple was built to honour a former queen of this country, or whoever she was. Not a fan of how it's built to honour a woman who doesn't get a name — it's in her honour, but she's "Garen's first wife, What'shername". If she's Meno'a, that's not clear, because Meno'a could be a place or a god. If she's Meno'a, and she's a god, then why is she's "Garen's first wife" and not "the goddess of x thing"? Because I can't make any meaningful conclusions, this information doesn't tell me anything about the world.

A bright orange streaked moved

Streak. Difficult for a cat to be bright in dark conditions.

the witch made to step from the shadows when the streak darting back across the rooftop.

Darted.

A cat, she sighed, dropping the spell. The small, ginger colored animal dropped from the rooftop

We know it's ginger because it was mentioned twice already, and we know it's small because it's a cat. No need for superfluous adjectives or epithets.

Try not to use words in quick succession as you have here with "dropped".

She moved deeper into the complicated backstreets that ran through the older parts of the city in an attempt to lose them. Arcadia, built just after Sereda’s War, in the early 900s had a long, but rather boring history.

I don't want a long and boring history, my guy! I want to read interesting things!


Personal taste perhaps, but I really don't like this as a name for a settlement. Presumably it was founded as a smaller settlement than a city, named "New City" quite presumptuously, and then caused much lexical confusion as people had to ask each other what the name of this new city was.

He smelled of rotten meat and, in addition to his unattractive face, he was pieces of two fingers.

He was what, sorry? From context I can infer that he was most likely missing pieces of two fingers, but you need to proofread for this stuff.

Someone having trouble sleeping.

Exhausted from celebrating the new year the previous day.

The dangers of being a butcher.

These sentence fragments don't quite do it for me, as the narrator is both omniscient and impersonal. It'd be fine if the narrator was a conversational storyteller, or inside your protagonist's head, but as it is, the fragments should be joined to the preceding sentences.

He quickly turned once more to face the terrifying woman.

Don't tell me she's terrifying, describe her terrifying features and behaviours or describe his terrified reactions.

he starred up at her with strangely bright blue eyes.

Stared. Is it really so strange to have blue eyes?

she could locate no cats. But he had just mentioned cats.

His claim is that he thought that stray cats were the source of her noise. He was wrong, it was her making noise, and not stray cats. Therefore, no cats are present. Certainly not his cats, as Malferna suggests. Your protagonist is coming off as paranoid and incompetent.

"He is positive of its affects," the witch queried, clearly sceptical.

You need a question mark, and "effects" rather than "affects". If she's clearly sceptical, don't bother saying so.

"Step one begins today at sunrise, make sure you a seen."

Are/aren't seen.

basking in the ominous night

Basking means to lie exposed to warmth and light.

She had failed to conquer her home world, but she would not fail again.

What? This is such a bizarre thing to end on. The narrator talks more at length about the construction of old buildings than about your character's most interesting and notable feature, that she is supposedly from another world and intends global domination. If that's the story you're telling, you need to tell that story!

Going forwards, some general comments.

You need to more carefully select your adjectives. You often use a great many of them, when they are unnecessary or contradictory.

You need to proofread. It's startling for readers when a sentence is missing a key word.

You need to show rather than tell. As a writer, it is absolutely your job to demonstrate to your audience the specific details from which we may conclude things.

You should get a beta reader. Someone to help iron out these sort of creases, and to offer a second opinion on things which might not make sense to your readers. Case in point, you describe a balcony built to permit servants to light candles in a chandelier. Chandeliers, by design, are lowered via pulleys to facilitate this. Perhaps they are moved orthogonally by pulleys to rest above the balcony, but surely the balcony would ordinarily be a reception area for VIPs to look over the hall, with the chandeliers lit beforehand surreptitiously. Either that, or the chandeliers would be pulled through a gap in the wall. In either case, it doesn't make any sense to build a balcony for this purpose.

You need to reconcile the conflicting information you give. You have a tendency to describe things with pairs of antonyms, specifically. On a foundational level however, your world is a world that's reputedly been at peace for over two thousand years, but it has soldiers, espionage, and an imminent war. It doesn't feel like a peaceful world. Remember that this is a really long time for perpetual global peace.

Further to that: What's changed to make war possible? Why was it at peace so long? If it's been at peace so long, what effect has that had on the world? If there's been so much peace, what are the effects on culture, for example? Does anyone know how to fight or plan battles? Is the population really high? Have there been issues with producing food for a world where there are no military die-offs? And so on. That's what I want to know about!

Lastly, you clearly have a vast and detailed world you're trying to portray. You should do more to portray it! Don't tease the reader with tidbits, actually write about the world itself and why things are the way they are and so on. What are the most interesting parts of your lore? Write about those!

I have some other pieces of advice I'd like to offer you in the hopes that some or all of them will give you a hand in improving your writing. I really hope so, of course, as this is surely a passion project for you! Firstly, try reading your work back to yourself. Like, read it aloud after not looking at it for a couple days. See how it sounds to the ear. Even better, read it to someone else, or your pet or something. Consider how you're telling it, where the breaks are, and so on. Secondly, read a bunch of prose fiction from multiple genres. Then read critique of the fantasy genre. You're selling yourself entirely on having built a world — you need to make sure you're not walking into any pitfalls. Thirdly, fundamentally change your priorities when writing to focus on what the reader wants to hear. There's almost never any point in keeping blinders on.

I wish you the best of luck in revising your existing work and in writing the rest of your story. I hope that some of my advice is helpful to you and that you feel it is fairly said. Once again, Happy New Year! And keep it up!
 
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Thank you for the great advice, it is hard to come by these days. A couple of points...

I posted extremely quickly to get things up before Christmas, so I will definitely go back and work on formatting to make it more appealing to the eye. This also is, kind of, why I have grammar mistakes. This is essentially the second draft and I didn't have time to proofread again before I started posting. Easy fixes, thanks for pointing them out.
The headings for EVERYONE/TEEN/MATURE, I have always been confused what to write, but I guess poorly-written isn't the best way to start. Awkward I suppose is a better word because romance is really beyond me.

In reference to contradictory terms, thank you for pointing them out. I miss them too often. I spend a lot of time on story continuity and contradictions within the entirety of the book and too often miss the little ones within chapters.
The backstory/lore for the world is limited in this chapter, but is expanded on further in later chapters. I try to avoid long descriptions and historical bits, as they take away from the story itself, so I try to piece together information as it appears in the story. There are conversations/dialogues that do a better job of expanding on this as the story progresses, but this is meant to be more of a teaser for the world/story, to get things moving.

Other comments: I would love a BETA reader, if you have any suggestions, I would love to hear them. No-one (except people charging thousands of dollars) is willing to read/comment on my works and it is frustrating. I got involved in the Review Game, so I hope that helps going forward.
Most of the questions you asked are also answered in later chapters. The brief answers to some of them, since you asked: Fear has kept the world at peace for so long, the world has been progressively shifting toward war and people are preparing for it, the overpopulation/feeding people isn't a problem for a combination of reasons, including a plague, all of which are explained further on.

I think that is everything I wanted to comment on. Thanks again. I hope I can get to revising this and get some more advice moving into the New Year.
 
@Patrick Haines You're welcome, and I appreciate the thanks.

Some more advice — even if it delays the work, I usually advocate always going over your writing with a fine comb and really polishing it before it goes up. People will be more likely to read it, and your feedback will be about stuff less obvious than syntax problems.

I'm afraid I don't know any suitable betas, and I certainly cannot afford to be one. Having a full time job and plenty of other obligations & interests leaves very little time for something like beta reading. As it is, I already don't feel I allocate enough time to reading the pokémon fanfics I'm most interested in. My apologies. Thousands of dollars sounds excessive, but I can see why competent betas might expect to be compensated for their time and ability.

Best of luck to you.
 
Hi! I'm here for the Review Game, looking in-depth at the second chapter. Here we go. I'm going to start off with comments on specific quotes and then review some more general aspects.

“Where is the girl,” demanded a man sitting upon a grand throne carved of the purest gold and silver with elaborate runes carved into its head.

You'll want to end questions with question marks, even when a dialogue tag follows.

The soldier’s entirely gray uniform denoted him as a common soldier with no magical ability and the lone bar on his shoulder showed his rank as lieutenant. His appearance was in complete contrast to the man seated before him.

Color-coding to distinguish magical from non-magical? Neat idea, I can see it being useful.

Garen Aercho, the Lord Archsage, ruler of Arcadia, was the picture of royalty in every way.

Well... this just brings to my mind all the deformities incest in royalty has brought, but what's likely meant is the idealized concept of royalty, so no need to dwell on that.

he grasped a staff that leaned against his throne and descended the three stairs which led to his lofty heights.

Those must be pretty big stairs for them to lead to lofty heights with only three.

“Bring the girl’s mother to me, if she resists, use force.”

This should be split in two with either a period, dash or (least recommended due to common misuse) semicolon.

“Are you in need of anything, master,” she asked quietly, bowing slightly.

“Ah, Tricia,” the old man’s face lit up as he looked down at the girl, “indeed I do.

Given Tricia asks "are you in need", Garen should respond with "indeed I am".

he finally replied, “have her meet me in the grand dining hall.”

Beginning dialogue sentences should have their first letter capitalized even if preceded by narration.

“Yes, master,” his apprentice answered,

The reveal of Tricia being Garen's apprentice is kind of odd. Her introduction makes it seem like she's just a servant, but the fact that she's actually a mage is introduced with casual epithets. Her background is then reserved a paragraph in narration only a while after anyway, so there's not much need to rush this fact in.

Tricia Jae, or TJ as most people called her,

I'm not sure if nicknames with initials are really fitting for the setting...? It seems to be a medieval one from what I've seen so far. That said, it's a fantasy one, so I can't make assumptions just yet.

Her abilities upon arriving in Arcadia were already highly formidable, far beyond that of most mages her age, especially for someone devoid of a master. The Lord Archsage had not taken a pupil in many years, but he saw a challenge in the then teenage prodigy and had never once regretted his decision to train her. In addition to being a quick, steadfast learner, she had proven to be extremely loyal and Garen quickly found many uses for her within his kingdom.

This really makes me question why such an important pupil is tasked with something belonging to servants. With such a luxurious throne room, servants sound very affordable for this lord.

Redols, who was in his mid-30s,
Over 60 years ago,
The Council of Magic conferred to her the rank of Master in her twenties and by her 40th birthday,

Writing in numerals kind of jumps out at the reader in text of this style. I suggest writing numbers as simple as these out. It's especially jarring in the last quote, where one number is written out but the other isn't.

He spent more time running errands or pretending to be invisible than commanding troops and he was charged with “protecting” a bunch of sorcerers who could kill him with a single word.

Sounds like a really poorly run system. This could be interesting to expand upon - I hope it's not just a one-off inexplicability.

and a pretty young girl who couldn’t have been much older than 20, whose name he couldn’t recall.

One odd thing is how the word "girl" is used in the text. Girl is usually taken to mean a female adolescent or child, though in casual circles, the word may be used to describe women of older age. However, this is in semi-formal narration, meaning the line between "girl" and "woman" is assumed to be around twenty years of age - and when a girl is said to be young, this makes me think of an actual child. Keep also in mind that the young in medieval times were considered mature and work-capable much earlier than in modern times - and also that life expectancies were shorter. As a consequence, I really think a female of this age in a setting like this would already be considered a woman. A young woman, perhaps, but a woman either way.

If you're having trouble picturing that: you wouldn't call a twenty-year old male a boy, would you?

Lars had but a moment to admire the beautiful curves of her body

This character had only been described as terrifying before. Is Lars just such a creep that this desire to ogle women overpowers his survival instincts? I'd get it if the character was supposed to be especially attractive and suggestively clad, but that was never mentioned when there were plenty of chances to do so.

His father had discovered him standing in that same place three hours later, as he made is morning rounds, and it took another two hours for the soldiers to free him using ice picks. Lieutenant Redols shivered just remembering the experience and wondered if the feeling would ever return to his feet.

The feeling of being cold, or the feeling of anything? Because those legs would probably have been frostbitten and amputated.

Smiling and he thanked the woman, Martha he thought, or maybe Marie, he couldn’t remember, the servants changed constantly.

So they do have servants, and many at that, but Tricia is still expected to tell people when Garen is hungry?

“It is as the Lord Archsage predicted, the enchantress Morigan has defied his order and left the city, I followed her to the gates this morning,”

I'm noticing a couple more run-on sentences like these. They really should be segmented to make reading easier and the writing more polished.

“They let her pass,” he questioned, knowing that many guards who watched the gate were skilled mages and would not let her pass without attempting to stop her.

The added explanation is really something one could piece together from context already. Also, it's really important to end those questions with question marks.

“Magic is a powerful and dangerous art,” the colonel stated the obvious to a son who had seen too much magic in his short life, “what is it Master Garen expects us to do, we can not hunt down this witch.”

This run-on sentence is split by a dialogue tag, but it's not really actual splitting when the dialogue is written as if the sentence never ended. And once again, questions need to be ended with question marks.

the younger Redols
the elder Lars

It's tougher to follow who's speaking when the same name is referred to in two different ways in the same situation. You'll want to stick to calling them both either Lars or Redols. Using names don't count towards repetition, so don't fear it.

Lindae Aercho looked bored as she glanced at the epic murals, elegant candelabras, and rich purple carpet that adorned most of her home.

The murals, candelabras and carpet have already been described in detail before, so their adjectives are redundant.

a mammoth golden dragon.

I'm assuming "mammoth" is just a synonym for "big" here, but when it's a fantasy story, one could easily mistake this for a mammoth-dragon hybrid. Which sounds cool and unique, honestly, but I don't think it was intended.

The man was an archsage, like her father, but, in her opinion, greater in every way. The art on the wall portrayed the final battle of The Second Great War, which concluded just prior to the building of Arcadia, and essentially ended the Age of Creation. Tarapak Berem was shown leading an army of humans, elves, and dwarves against the evil Nagrom Nakuda, who wished to usurp the throne of the dwarven kingdom, Kyndmentunok, and march his army of darkness across Phates Tak.

This passage works to showcase the rich history of this world, but I hope you're aware that readers will definitely forget most of this information by the end of the chapter and will need a refresher if this becomes relevant again. It's already a bit tough to pick out the names in here that matter in the scope of this chapter.

and a long, red cloaked fluttered behind him in the breeze.

cloak*

as if emitting a mighty roar, was a mighty golden dragon.

Mighty used twice in a row. I've seen a lot of different adjectives be used in this chapter, so one of these can definitely be replaced with a synonym.

When finally he had concluded his stories, the young Lindae had been too tired to stand, so he assisted her to her bedchamber and tucked her in, something her father had never done. Smiling down at the girl, millennia younger than he, he delivered a single modicum of wisdom:

It's kind of hard to see this is an inspiring moment when a strange older man tucks a young woman in when they'd practically just met that day. Feels more creepy.

Lindae had taken his wisdom to heart, satiating every curious notion she had, for better or worse.
“It would seem you are incapable of living in the present, dearest,” her father’s voice broke in on her reverie for a second time, but it was the insult of calling her ‘dearest’ that smarted more than her interrupted memories.

I noticed that, in a couple of places, a row was missing between two paragraphs, so keep an eye out for that on the next proofread.

“If the council wishes an archsage to be present, then they must hold the meeting here” he stated matter-of-factly,

Missing comma after "here".

As the girl drug her feet across the expensive carpet,

I looked this up, and "drug" as a past form of "drag" only occurs in certain dialects. In narration, the standard English "dragged" should be used. Also, the carpet really doesn't need to be specified as expensive when the reader already knows how luxurious everything in the place is. When adjectives are redundant, they lose the value they'd otherwise bring, and instead bloat the sentence and get in the way.

---

Okay, so, you can see I had a lot of nitpicks and some slightly bigger issues with this, but I do think there are ideas and concepts here that can make for a good story. The flaws I've seen so far are mostly in the presentation. There's lots of exposition, which I know is tough to bring about naturally with the sheer amount of information needing to be conveyed, but some of it doesn't really tie into the current situation and could be moved to a more relevant place in the story or, better yet, spread across it in smaller pieces. One of these is the backstory of Tricia, which is given upon the character appearing for very little reason, when it could have been brought up during the "dearest" passage.

Multiple flashbacks can also make it though for the reader to keep track which time frame each event happens in. This time, I think I did manage to piece it together correctly after a double-take or two on a few lines, but I'll still point it out as a possible pitfall in the future.

Plot-wise, not much has happened so I don't have much to comment on, but based on what I read it seems Morigan leaving is important, and it's good to have each chapter have something important. If not plot-wise, then character-wise, and I'm guessing this chapter did introduce a few new ones and perhaps flesh out some mentioned prior.

I don't know if this review is of much help, but I hope it's got at least something beneficial for you. Feel free to ask for clarification on anything. Until then, best of luck in the continuation of your story.
 
@canisaries Thank you for the feedback. I am actually interested in your fic, so I may return the favor. This story is the first writing project I ever started and I know it has a lot of problems, so all feedback is useful. Also, the little stuff, like grammar and numerals are great because I missed a lot of that stuff when I was younger.

I don't really have much more to say, haha. I agree with pretty much everything you said, I just need to go back and fix some things.

There are two things I guess I want to clarify/get further feedback on.
-1. Berem, as an archsage, is super old (2800 at this point in history), but he has the body of a 30ish year old. The scene I was going for was more father/daughter, but I guess I kind of missed it.
-2. Tricia's role is explained in greater detail later, so it comes together a little more why Garen has her do things more suited to servants. As for TJ, though the story has a medieval-type setting, it is not in medieval times. Society is well advanced and though they lack "modern technology" (which, imo, is NOT a sign of advanced society), the abundance of magic more than compensates for it.
--Technically, it is 3288 (from the beginning of society), which puts them, more-or-less, as an older civilization to the one we live in.
 
-1. Berem, as an archsage, is super old (2800 at this point in history), but he has the body of a 30ish year old. The scene I was going for was more father/daughter, but I guess I kind of missed it.

Oh, from how Lindae admired Berem, it definitely felt more like a crush. Having been a teenage girl myself, I can tell you crushes on badass grown men are definitely common, even if an actual relationship would be questionable and aspects of it even illegal. Consequently, it's hard to think of Lindae seeing Berem as a father figure, although I can see Berem having fatherly feelings. The result still is that it feels kind of creepy.

I'm not sure if there's a way to make tucking in not creepy, but there are a few alternate situations I can think of that would still kind of get the same point across. I can't give finalized suggestions, as I don't know how distant Garen actually is to Lindae, but something mundanely affectionate like saying "sweet dreams" could do.

-2. Tricia's role is explained in greater detail later, so it comes together a little more why Garen has her do things more suited to servants. As for TJ, though the story has a medieval-type setting, it is not in medieval times. Society is well advanced and though they lack "modern technology" (which, imo, is NOT a sign of advanced society), the abundance of magic more than compensates for it.

Hmm, I can buy a society not evolving technology-wise due to abundance of magic, but still evolving culture-wise. However, it could be more prevalent, as currently the medievalness is pretty overpowering and the modernisms seem very few and far between, making the latter seem unintentional rather than planned.

A way to hint at this world being medieval-but-modern would be to show some mechanisms that are analogous to modern technologies but operate on magic instead of physical engineering, or to show that people have knowledge of things and phenomena discovered way after medieval times. The first could be mass-production of something (which is something that's had a large influence on our culture) and the second a mention of microbes and how they contribute to disease and how proper hygiene is important (even royalty back then had some pretty filthy ways of living compared to our modern day standards).
 
Here for the Review Game with Chapter Three read. First, the quoted feedback:

sweet, sticky, golden honey

Try to avoid describing things in a conventional fashion. Honey is always sweet and sticky, and usually golden, for example. Describing it as such doesn't usually add much to the story, and if you do this sort of thing multiple times it'll just end up as extraneous wordcount.

dangerous coniferous trees

This I could make neither head nor tail of. How are conifers dangerous in this context?

His son, concerned in his father’s abrupt change in countenance rushed forwar.

This is rather wordier than it needs to be. That Lars II rushes forward at all would suggest concern. Certainly it doesn't need to be explicitly spelled out at a dramatic moment

deigning to meet his son

'Deign' isn't really a synonym for 'decide' or 'agree', which is the inference I got here. From the Oxford English Dictionary:

deign (v.): 1. do something that one considers to be beneath one's dignity.
2. condescend to give.

When it comes to description you tend to write like a GM describing locations for an RPG group. If this were an RPG they'd do very well as descriptions. However, as a story the effect is that you end up giving a lot of extraneous information. A RPG player will want to know what passages lead just where and what their names are: to a reader it's very much information that doesn't tell the story and probably won't be brought up again. Once you've formed the impression of what a location is like you can generally gloss over the detail later on, especially when you're really just moving the characters from one place to another.

Fantasy is more tolerant of extra words in this regard than other genres, true. People tend to both expect and enjoy more worldbuilding from fantasy. However, there is such a thing as overdoing it, and remember, people usually don't fall in love with fantasy worlds unless they're in love with the fantasy story.
 
Please note: The thread is from 4 years ago.
Please take the age of this thread into consideration in writing your reply. Depending on what exactly you wanted to say, you may want to consider if it would be better to post a new thread instead.
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