Cover art by Dale Cordes, 2024

Preview of the Witches of Serna

Prologue

Training Yards, Rykooth Castle, known as the Stone of Rykooth to the current inhabitants, in the heights of the Kaskev Mountains

By the hobgoblin calendar, 18th day of the Sixth Moon Cycle, 3113

By the elven calendar, 78th day of Spring, 18028

By the human calendar (west of the Kaskev Mountains), Fryday (8th day of the week), 2nd week of Aiz (3rd month of the year), 792

Late Spring

Morning

Sunny

Oygariyet wiped the dust and sweat from his brow as he casually dropped his spiked mace to the dirt of the courtyard. He peeled his blue lips back in a toothy, jagged grin. The sunlight shone over the walls and into the courtyard, casting light and shadow on the audience of the trial. Oygariyet drew out his long, skinning knife as he slowly strode over to Arkiban’s writhing form. Arkiban laid on his left side with his left leg bent unnaturally from his crushed knee. Arkiban shuddered with the effort to draw breath, his chest heaving strangely where Oygariyet’s mace had crushed his ribs. Arkiban looked up at Oygariyet with large, yellow eyes set back over pock-marked, blue-skinned cheeks. Even in death, he must face his foe. Oygariyet knew the kindnesses he could extend and the benefits he could reap. Considering the options as the two hobgoblins wordlessly communicated. A moderate path, then, Oygariyet thought to himself. He reached down, grasped Arkiban by one of his pointed ears and pulled Arkiban’s purple-skinned head up, twisting him so that they were both looking at the largest part of the audience.

            “By Leriyet’s holy rules, I take this head and this tribe!” Oygariyet barked in the angular tones of his language as he cut the strap holding a strip of overlapping scales protecting Arkiban’s neck. “This clan shall keep its name and serve me!” The audience murmured in surprise and Arkiban’s body sagged in relief that his tribe’s name would live on. Oygariyet jerked and pulled his long knife across Arkiban’s neck as dark red blood poured out over the blade and Oygariyet’s hand. Oygariyet worked and pulled, the skin and sinews parting and snapping. Finally, he pulled the large ear a bit more, drew his knife arm back, and freed the head from the bone with a sharp chop.

            Oygariyet wiped the blade on Arkiban’s cheek before sheathing it. He gripped both earrings on the Arkiban’s other ear between two knuckles and yanked them free. Holding the head aloft, he strode towards the audience. Oygariyet, on an impulse decided to grant one last kindness. He stuck one of his knuckles into his mouth and cleaned Arkiban’s blood off of the knuckle.

            “And I add his strength to my own and let the weakness drain away.” He announced. “I take his slaves as my due. You-” pointing to a purple-skinned hobgoblin woman that looked to be Arkiban’s Second “-will lead this tribe in my name. I name you Indariyet.” Oygariyet thrust the head at Indariyet, who fumbled to accept it in surprise. “Present this to me and you shall earn your name.” Oygariyet pocketed the earrings for after the presentation. The crowd murmured as the two tribes, Oygariyet’s and Arkiban’s -no- Indariyet’s, resumed their work. Oygariyet motioned to his Third. The Third, Oygariyet knew, would see to the quartering needs of Indariyet’s immediate household of bonded slaves and retainers, if she had any of her own, or other tribals that she chose that traveled with her. The Third would also make provisions for the smith to assist Indariyet in preparing Arkiban’s head.

            Oygariyet strode across the courtyard and seized the chain leashes for his four new slaves. Two hobgoblin females, an orc male with a wooden peg for his right leg below the knee and missing two fingers from his right hand, and a goblin male. The orc was a typical green-skin with small tusks set in a large jaw, the broad nose, beady almost-animal stupid eyes, and small, pointed ears. The coarse green hair on its scalp shaved down to stubble. Most orcs had black hair, but some had gray, red, or green like this one. Though all of their ears were pointed, it was only a passing similarity. Orc ears were different from those of a hobgoblin or even a goblin. Goblin-kind’s ears were large and protruded to the side, so they could hear better. The ears of an orc had less acute points and were smaller, almost like rounded dwarf ears.

The orc would have towered over Oygariyet by a full hand but for his peg leg. Oygariyet also noted he was missing two fingers from his right hand. Why would Arkiban keep this one? It’s a burden. He puzzled. The goblin was full grown, just past Oygariyet’s waist, his skin turned dark blue, like Oygariyet’s own, meaning that he was from the liberator side of the mountains and that he the spent much time in the sun. He had all of his fingers, which meant he was lucky or useful. Ah now, here’s a prize. Among the two hobgoblin females, one was a light-skinned gray, meaning she stayed indoors or in tents during most daylight and was from far to the left side of the mountains. She had a coarse mane of black hair with finely pointed ears jutting perpendicular to her head. The other was quite the exotic with her dark red skin. She had to come from the other side of the mountains or far to the right side, he mused. Her hair was shaved short and it lost its color, but Oygariyet could tell that it would grow in with time. There is more to her, he mused more before shaking himself out of his daydreaming. He had things to do, after all. He bade the goblin, “Get my mace.”

***

The next day brought fresh snow to Rykooth Castle and Oygariyet’s staff had closed up the windows and heaped more wood on the fires. High in the central mountains, Rykooth Castle nestled into the side of a rock face on a small plateau. The keep was built into the mountain itself with walls and turrets creating a courtyard. A cramped village of crafters, herders, and farmers consumed the remaining space. Oygariyet entered his hall. The hall had his throne as the Master of Rykooth, his map table, and his long feasting table situated around a large firepit. Other fires on the walls kept the room warm. The center fire was for roasting and celebrating. The time of celebrating the addition of Indariyet’s Okaramine tribal banner under Oygariyet’s own Zirn tribal banner was done, so the fire was low. Oygariyet’s Second, Third, and Fourth were waiting around the feasting table, as were Indariyet and her newly promoted Second. Oygariyet’s throne was on a dais, opposite the main entrance to the hall with six of his personal slaves on either side of his throne in various states of standing, kneeling, or sitting on the stone floor. Oygariyet strode past the fire, up the two steps of the dais to three kneeling hobgoblin slave women staring at the floor. He placed a hand on the cheek of one. She looked up at his face as he moved his thumb over her mouth. His favorite. She had been with him for six winters now, since he became the Master of Rykooth. The other one, the red skin, did not look up when he touched her cheek with his other hand. In mild irritation, his hand slid up and grabbed her ear, forcing her to tilt her face up, but she did not wince in pain. This was the exotic he had taken from Arkiban. He smiled at them both. Perhaps Arkiban had just taken her. She is completely untrained, thought Oygariyet. He knew he would have to oversee the training of the new ones and knowing he could depend on his favorite for most of it. He would have to see his Third about getting her the herbs to help this one’s hair grow.

            Turning, he strode toward the feasting table where the others waited silently. Indariyet stepped aside to reveal Arkiban’s head cast in bronze and polished to a dull shine, reflecting the light of the low, hissing flames in the fire pit in the center of the room.

            “I offer you this trophy, Oygariyet, Great One of Zirn, Surent, Ablar, Kilindiban, and Master of the Stone of Rykooth. May it please you to add the banner of Okaramine to yours,” uttered Indariyet plaintively. Oygariyet examined the head. This would be Oygariyet’s sixth trophy of this type and he was very familiar with the process of crafting them. The small dimples from the sand-mold casting were mostly smoothed away and it was completely unnoticeable where Arkiban’s skin had been pock-marked. Arkiban’s stern face was preserved and would show how the strength of the Okaramine would add to his own Zirn tribe.

            “I accept. Lead them well or I shall pour out your weakness.” Said Oygariyet as he reached into his pocket and offered the two earrings. Indariyet took them, clenched her two purple-skinned fists and joined her fists together in front of her as she bowed to Oygariyet.

            “Our strength united,” intoned Indariyet.

            “Let us take this feast, then,” offered Oygariyet. It was customary that the Great One of a tribe or stone would hold a nightly feast with any tribal great ones sharing the space. Oygariyet, tired by ceremony, did not want another large feast for welcoming Indariyet and her Okaramine. This small ceremony was really only a formality, since he had immediately picked her after defeating Arkiban’s challenge for mastery of Rykooth Castle.

            “Great One, I have something to ask you. It is my own matter,” began Indariyet.

            “What is it?” allowed Oygariyet.

            “The orc slave you took from the former head of Okaramine. I want to buy it,” she said.

            “Oh?” replied Oygariyet bemusedly, “I can only think of a few things you could use him for.” Oygariyet chortled.

            “Your price?” Indariyet insisted. She was not overstepping herself. New or not, any great one is still a great one and can boldly approach any other great one among the tribes for any matter.

            Oygariyet sighed, “For this? Ten mountains,” he said finally.

            “Done.” she said without pause. Coins jingled as she produced ten bronze coins with mountains stamped on them.

            The group ate in relative silence and adjourned to the map table. Oygariyet noted that one of the slaves must have put more wood on the central fire as the group settled around the table.

            “I prepared a new map with your Second, showing the joined lands and our two mines,” began Indariyet. The central fire flickered brighter for a moment. Oygariyet glanced in irritation to see which slave had fed the fire. None were near the pit.

            Turning back to the map, “There are wolves in those woods,” Oygariyet indicated a forest in a valley near one of the mines, “I want you to be able to put two full fists of wolf riders in battle, and we need to talk about how you organize your fists. No more than six hundred warriors in a fist.”

            “We don’t have enough houndmasters,” explained Indariyet.

            Light flared behind them as the fire in the central pit suddenly roared. The flames swirled in a column, as if trapped in a glass tube. Blades rasped from their scabbards as everyone whirled to the threat, Oygariyet gripped his long-hafted spiked mace with both hands.

            “Magick!” exclaimed Oygariyet’s Fourth.

            “I COMMAND THE MASTER OF THESE TRIBES AND THESE CLANS,” boomed a voice from the flames.

            “Who dares!?” demanded Oygariyet’s Second.

            Jagged lightning coursed from the pillar of flame and struck the Second, sending him soaring backwards and slamming forcefully into the wall, leaving his leather boots torn and smoking on the floor where he had stood, his blade clattering to the ground, arcing with blue bolts and sparks. The flames subsided, with a hiss leaving a glowing silhouette.

            “IT IS I,” boomed the silhouette as it strode up from the pit, “WRITER OF THE HOLY RULES.” the glow of the silhouette faded revealing a hobgoblin wearing a fine coat of mail, wearing an axe, a mace, a sword, and a dagger across its belt. A bow and a shield slung on its back. “GREATEST OF OUR KIND,” it continued. The face was unmistakable. Oygariyet and the others gasped in shock. “I AM LERIYET. I COME TO CHARGE YOU, MASTER OF THESE THE PEOPLE. YOU WILL UNITE ALL OF THE TRIBES, ALL OF THE CLANS, AND YOU SHALL UNITE THE LESSERS UNDER YOU. THE GOBLINS, THE ORCS, THE BUGBEARS, THE OGRES, THE GNOLLS, ALL THAT YOU MUST.

YOU WILL GO FORTH AND TAKE THE LOWLANDS FROM THE HUMANS. YOU WILL RIGHTFULLY EXTERMINATE THE ELVES. YOU WILL CEASE THIS SLOTH AS YOU CONTENT YOURSELF WITH PETTY HOLDINGS AND PITHY CONQUESTS. YOU SHALL MAKE YOUR NAME ACROSS ALL OF THE LANDS.

I COMMAND YOU, LEST I PUKE WITH DISCONTENT. YOU ARE THE GREATEST AMONG OUR LIVING KIND AND THIS IS ALL YOU ARE? I COMMAND YOU TO THIRST FOR GLORY AND CONQUEST AND NEVER BE QUENCHED! WHAT SAY YOU?”

            Oygariyet trembled and dropped to his knees. “Yes, Greatest One. I shall make my name across this land. By your holy blessing I will unite all.”

            “DO NOT DISAPPOINT.” He stepped back into the burning pit. “TAKE THE BLADE OF YOUR SECOND. I HAVE RIPPED HIS SOUL FROM HIM AND PUT IT IN THE BLADE. HE WAS STRONG AND THE BLADE IS STRONGER NOW. USE IT WELL.”

Leriyet began to glow from the center until he became a shining silhouette again. Flames roared into a pillar and, in an instant, he was gone.

            The silence was deafening. Oygariyet stared at the pit in disbelief for a moment. Getting back to his feet, he slapped the table. Everyone started in surprise, shaken from their daze.

            “Messengers. I need messengers to the other tribes. Send word to your outlying clansmen. Send to Garsiyet and Jolaban at Kogylar,” he said to Indariyet. Then to his Third, “You are my Second now. Make messages to the rest of our tribe and vassals. Levy the goblin tribes, they will come if we send a Fist to make it clear who they answer to.” He turned to Indariyet, “We will need to bring back the idea of clans among our own kind, like in the Greatest One’s times. It will take some hard work bringing the orc tribes to heel. We will need their numbers and we will need our own clans to lead them. I hear they have a Place, a city, in the mountains further north. If we can seize the city and force the prominent tribes there to our side, we will have an easier time bringing the mountain clans and tribes under our banner. I trust you have some contacts in this city? What did they call the place? Place-called-Baan?”

***

Leriyet, the greatest hobgoblin that ever lived, immortalized by the collective belief of all goblin-kind, written or spoken, and the legends of the number of souls he drank, stepped down from the summoning circle and cast aside the sword he had just switched with a transposition spell. Candle-sized flames flickered from the sands in the summoning circle, the glow of the runes subsided. Leriyet strode down the stairs and looked down upon the dark elf maiden reclining on his couch in his laboratory. Her supple form of jet-black skin was covered in blue and purple overlapping layers of cloth. Only her hands, feet, neck, and face were exposed. She had discarded her slippers to recline on the couch. She is a very odd princess, Leriyet observed. Her tiara glittered through the curtain of hair that spilled over the side of the couch. Leriyet had to stop his mind from wandering. He could not let himself desire her. Her eyes were totally white, which meant she had undergone some of the rites and rituals. Pairing with her in any way would bring an awful price.

            “Leriyet the Great. You make it look so easy, Seros,” she complimented. Her eyes twinkled with mirth and mischief that belied danger to those that knew her.

The image rippled before fading away altogether. Where Leriyet stood was now stood a dark elf, like her, but one a plainly dressed and more drab-looking dark elf, unlike her. Where her fine cloth and jewelry set her at a high station, his plain garb of undyed browns and grays with the occasional chemical stain working in a room like this clearly painted him as a working wizard with no affiliation to any strong house.

            “You are too kind to me, my Princess.” Seros replied with a small bow. “I am your humble servant for the duration of my contract.”

            “Your modesty is boring, Seros.” Her voice grew coy, “What if we made this a more permanent arrangement?”

            I prefer my soul and my long lifespan, thank you, Seros mentally answered. “My Lady, I do know I am quite good with illusions and charms, make no mistake. Nonetheless, I shall discharge this contract and you shall have the effect you desire. I find permanent affiliations with anyone is… unhealthy,” replied Seros as he moved over to a table laden with open books, diagrams on paper, and sealed bottles of different colored sands and powders.

            “Oh, that is boring, too” she said in her lilting elven. There was a characteristically different tonal pattern to speaking between aristocratic dark elf and low-born one, like himself. “Do not make it too easy for them, though. It would be a chore if they actually win.”

Seros looked up in mild surprise, “Oh?”

            “Oh, yes, of course!” she explained, “They will not get what they want. But I will get what I want. I always do.” She looked at him predatorily.

Somewhat flustered, “Of course, My Lady. That makes this contract easier and I will have to refund some of the fee.” Debts to you are unhealthy, he worried. “There is a lot less to do if you do not wish me to make them successful.”

            “Oh, you are boring!” She accused. “I suppose you can have your boring, safe life, then!” She huffed in exasperation. “Keep the extra fee and show me your boring list of other boring services. This is not the only little project, you know. We will not get what we want just from this.”

            “At once, My Lady.” Seros moved papers around before producing three lists of various services. “Far be it from me to question, My Lady.”

            “Hmm,” she studied the lists, “I think these three.” She indicated, “What do you think, Risiar?”

The other dark elf in the room set aside his cup of tea, rose from his seat on the other side of Seros’ table and leaned to see the items the Princess indicated.

            “That one, too,” he said flatly.

            “There now,” she said to Seros, “I can always trust Lord Risiar to catch that last thing.”

            “Very good, My Lady,” Seros said deferentially.

            “Any issues with the sword?” Risiar asked Seros.

            “No, Excellency. They did not notice the switch,” Seros said.

            “You are certain that will not notice? It would go poorly if they suspected any tampering.”

            “By the Ways, I took much care in copying every detail from the swords from Oygariyet and his close associates. They have the soul-infused blade and I have the original, here, along with the other infused doubles,” Seros said calmly.

            “Good. How soon can hobgoblins be ready, Master Seros.” Risiar looked up from the list at Seros, his gaze boring into Seros.

            Those eyes. Seros immediately dropped his gaze to the floor. Do not let him think you would be a challenge. Risiar had not undergone any of the rituals. His eyes still had their pupils and purple irises.

***

            “You are a poor host,” accused the Dwarf in his own coarse language.

            Risiar smiled, having already lowered himself to speak in this dialect of dwarvish, “So harsh, Lord Garitan. I have provided richly for you and your entourage. Be reasonable.”

            “Do not hide behind this lavish bundle of falsehoods,” replied Garitan. “Feasts and entertainment are all fine, but you send for me just to insult me? You would have me return to my king with this?” Garitan swept an arm wide in an exaggerated show of outrage.

            “Lord Garitan, please be reasonable. We have been cultivating this business relationship for the last seventeen flood seasons. We have agreed that we would buy minerals, ores, materials, and such exclusively from his majesty, the King Nerim. We have an increased need over the next five flood seasons and this is our new need.” Risiar indicated the ledger in front of Garitan as he patiently explained.

            Garitan rolled his eyes, “Yes, yes, I know that. You know that. I know you know that. You know I know that. Get to it and stop dancing around the point. You know the King’s mines cannot keep this quota,” replied Garitan irritably.

            “Oh?” Risiar feigned surprise. “The King’s mines cannot keep the quota.”

            “DON’T YOU CONDESCEND TO ME!” roared Garitan. “This is exactly the insult I mean!”

That should do it, thought Risiar. The incense should be taking its effect. He just needed Garitan to get flustered and breathe deeply. Seros would be peeking through a screen, maintaining a ward against the fumes so they would not affect Risiar or his staff. Risiar changed tactics at the cue.

            “Tell me, dear Garitan-” Risiar began.

            “Lord Garitan.” Garitan corrected.

            “-Lord Garitan, excuse me,” Risiar continued, “How is it that the great nation of Drenia, ruled by the Iron Crown, which rests upon the noble brow of Nerim, son of Neril, with all of its industrious dwarves, makers of the world as they are, cannot produce as stories have told of them producing?” Risiar gently needled.

            Garitan blinked blearily.

            “Are you well, Lord Garitan?”

            “...Yes…” Replied Garitan, blinking again and focusing on Risiar. Risiar paused. The dose should have been strong enough for a dwarf, even one with such a mature health as Garitan. Risiar had used most of the scentless powder from Seros.

            “Yes… your question… yes, because Drenia used to be larger. You would know this, I think, Risiar. Drenia lost several wars against Dranomar, Medria, and Aedon and lost some territory to the orcs around Ikria.” Explained Garitan.

            The opportunity for suggestion was very brief, Risiar knew. There were other ways to make a suggestion to one such as Garitan, but they were easier to detect by the subject and others.

            “So, I should tell Princess Erisa that she should seek additional contracts with Dranomar, Medria, and Aedon and that we cannot rely on the storied capacity of Drenia so far that we must establish contact with even those lowly creatures that infest Ikria?” Risiar broached.

            “What? No!” Snapped Garitan.

            “Then, what to do? Are you telling me that Drenia shall endeavor to reclaim what is rightly its own?”

            “… What is rightfully ours.” Garitan mused under the influence of the incense.

            “No need for us to decide right now, Lord Garitan. I appreciate you coming all this way. Perhaps you can convene with your king and his advisors on the best method of addressing the situation – best for Drenia, that is.” Suggested Risiar. That should put the seed in, firmly. To leave this unresolved and lingering with him. His only way of resolving it is through his king.

            “… Yes… the King and his advisors…”

            “And take this,” Risiar presented a brass bottle that he took from a waiting servant, “A gift that you would have bought for your king. You know how your good King Nerim enjoys a stout spirit and this is as stout as we can make them.” Risiar taking the bottle was the signal for Seros to adjust the ward from the next room. A gentle breeze blew from the door as a servant retreated with the finished meals. The breeze would be missed by anyone, but it was Seros dispersing the rest of the fumes from the incense.

            “Yes… a gift that I got for…” mumbled Garitan.

            The window of suggestion closed and Garitan slipped back into normal, curt, irritable conversation in which he informed and frequently reminded Risiar of the inconvenience that he had put him through to come all of the way to the city of Elves exiled in the darkness, Urrissio, just to go back and convene with his king with nothing to show but a souvenir. That was the confirmation that Risiar needed. Risiar knew the suggestion had taken hold and that Garitan thought of the endeavor as his own idea. More importantly, the drug in the root liquor will be hard to detect and should pass most of the drug and poison tests that Risiar and Seros knew the dwarves to possess. The only thing left to chance was the assumption that Garitan would discuss the endeavor of reconquering historic Drenia over the bottle of root liquor, making Nerim vulnerable to suggestion and Garitan as the agent. If it fails, Garitan fully believes that he procured the root liquor on his own and would bear the guilt if he was accused. The afternoon progressed and Garitan left for his guest apartment. The Princess and Seros arrived separately in the evening.

            “Oh, you are a dastardly one, Risiar!” Erisa accused playfully.

Risiar’s eyes moved to look up from a book before smiling without replying. He took his glass of wine as he got up to greet her.

            “Tricking poor Garitan like that,” she mocked, “you should feel some-” she laughed, unable to stifle her amusement.

            Risiar beheld her for a moment with a very small smile, not one of amusement, “My Princess, if I were to regret anything in this endeavor, it would be the length to which Nerim will go to attain what we suggest to him and his subjects. While they are the best agents to keep the other dwarves from interfering with what Seros has set in motion, I fear – no – anticipate that, perhaps they will do something that we have not fully anticipated. Not that we cannot deal with whatever mess they make, but it can be an awful chore.” Risiar turned and strode to the railing. The three were standing or seated on the balcony of Risiar’s manor on the outskirts of Urrissio, the great city of dark elves set in a series of connected caverns. The buildings dotted the ceilings floor of the caverns and lined the sides of stony spikes rising from the floor, some connecting to the ceiling of the cavern. It would take hours of walking or riding to reach the other side, perhaps an entire waking cycle. Small lights marked each and every building, for it never slept.

            “Oh, Risiar, how you worry.” Erisa admonished. She stared wistfully at the view, “Still, Risiar, you are the one that measures the risks. I never considered how much fun it would be to get things we want.”

            “We will get what we want, My Princess. We have paid the price and it has been a long time coming.” Risiar paused, taking in the view. Turning abruptly, he spoke to Seros, “I will have another task for you towards the end of the flooding season. I would make use of your canny skill for impersonation, but this one I say will be a challenge.”

            “A challenge, My Lord? More than impersonating the greatest hobgoblin that ever lived and convincing that entire race to descend the mountains and wage war on the rest of the lands?” Seros inquired dryly.

            “Yes, I think so. I would have you masquerade as someone known to another, demonstrate a skill, and like we did with Garitan, convince the person you impersonated that it was their own idea after you have taught them how to do it.” Explained Risiar.

            Seros paused and considered. “Those will be several additional fees, Lord Risiar.”

***

Nicholas finished studying the last ledger of the plan and tossed it on the table on top of yet another map scrawled with figures and icons of his prince’s army and leaned back in his chair, finishing his tea and setting it down a small stack of books with copies of The History of the Ancient Kings of Gersh, The Life of Achadar, and The Life of Berin the Great at the top.

            “It’ll work, my friend. It will all fall into place.” said the Blue-Eyed Man.

            “It’s awfully ambitious.” cautioned Nicholas, “Besides, the Prince would never go along with it.”

            “Oh, truly,” said the Blue-Eyed Man, patiently, “Truly. We’ll just have to wait for the Prince to be out of the way.”

            “… That could be quite some time and we could be quite old by then. I’d be ready to be a pensioner myself before he knocked off.” said Nicholas, somewhat dismissively.

            “It could be… but it doesn’t hurt to be ready. You know, just in case.” said the Blue-Eyed Man. “Ah.” he perked up as a servant approached with a tray. The Blue-Eyed Man lit up with delight as the servant placed a saucer and cup in front of him, filled the cup with coffee that appeared red as the light shone through it, but appeared black in the cup. The Blue-Eyed Man waved off sugar and cream for the coffee, but accepted two small rings of fried dough.

            The Blue-Eyed Man was wrapped in savoring the first sip of his coffee, breathing deeply with his eyes closed and leaning back in his own chair, the front legs rising off the floor.

            Nicholas chuckled, “Surely, my friend,” as he picked up an almanac of crop yields from Marin Gersh from under a ledger of criminals, thieves, bandits, deserters and such who were being held in the Yvelian prisons.

            Finishing the fried dough, the Blue-Eyed Man got up with his coffee, “Let me know what else you find. Since we don’t know how much time we have, we can assume we have the luxury of continuing to plan.”

            Nicholas shook his head, “You never change.”

            The Blue-Eyed Man finished another sip of coffee before speaking, “Of course not,” he said finally, “In this world of power, strength, weakness, uncertainty… cruelty and opportunity… you have to be able to depend on something, right?”

Chapter 1

Third Tower Library, Elven City of Ebariel

By the elven calendar, 16th day of Autumn, 18029

By the human calendar (west of the Kaskev Mountains), Sortingday (6th day of the week), 2nd week of Banreni (7th month of the year), 792

Mid-Autumn

Evening

Clear, cool and breezy

Fingers gripped and drove the pen tip across the page, bleeding words in flowing elven script. Lifting the pen tip with finality, the fingers grasped a jar of sand and shook some out on the page to aid the drying ink. The fingers wasted no time, immediately threading a needle and stitching the already finished pages together in gatherings of twenty. By the time that the hands had finished stitching the first four gatherings of twenty pages, the ink was dry on the last pages. The hands shook the pages and brushed the sand off before stitching the last seventeen pages together and setting the five gatherings aside. The hands moved forward on the desk and pulled a wooden block with a parallel arm extending over it and four cords stretched taut between the block and the parallel arm. The hands placed the gatherings against the cords, threaded a different needle and proceeded to sew the gatherings together. As the shadows shifted quietly, the hands finished the last stitch holding the gatherings together.

Pushing the block back to the edge of the desk, hands reached under the work desk, into an open drawer and pulled out a prepared leather rectangle, a small jar, and a brush. Fingers dipped the brush into the jar and painted the stitching of the gatherings with glue and placed strips of cloth at the top and bottom of the spine of the gatherings. Once in place, fingers applied more glue and another strip of cloth that ran the length of the spine before adding the last application of glue and placing the gatherings in center of the leather rectangle with glue before carefully placing the gatherings in the center and folding the cover over the newly bound book. Hands wrapped the rest of the cover around the book and tied it shut with leather cord before placing it on the block again. Hands began to stitch the edge of the binding when the shadows shifted suddenly and covered the hands.

            “Your pardon, but my light is being blocked,” stated Tyrnimar.

            “Oh.” replied the intruder. “I came to deliver this summons.”

            Tyrnimar looked up in mild irritation while putting down the needle. He pushed back the book sewing block and asked, “A summons?” Tyrnimar examined the messenger’s dusty clothing. The messenger was either a sylvan elf or a high elf by the brown hair and the bright green eyes. The messenger’s complexion indicated a high elf by its lightness, but her build told of long hours on the road and long nights in the rain, indicating the life of a sylvan.

            “Yes, from the Council of Guardians.”

            Tyrnimar’s eyebrows raised a little in slight surprise, “The Guardian Council? A summons was brought here to Ebariel from Juin?”

            “You are Tyrnimar Iquarren, studying under Under-Provost Isriaden?” she asked.

            “Yes. It is really her that needs to be seen with a summons such as this.” Tyrnimar insisted.

            “I have seen her. She appointed you to answer this,” she answered, producing the summons and a letter of appointment from a scroll tube at her belt.

            Scanning the documents, Tyrnimar said at last, “Here, no rudeness is meant. The road must have been long. Dinner and a clean lodge can be provided. How are you called?” Tyrnimar rose, shouldered a leather bag stuffed to the brim with small books, and stacks of notes loosely bound with cord, and collected his project.

            “Eevarel Mazurnine of the Western Wood.”

An hour later, Tyrnimar was serving a dinner of roasted vegetables and herbed hen with eggs from his pan over the fireplace. “Did the Under-Provost say why I am to go?” asked Tyrnimar.

            “She did not, but the summons requires an aura reader,” Eevarel answered.

            “An aura reader? Why would an aura reader be needed?” Tyrnimar asked, “Are there no others?” he muttered to himself as he finished serving her portion.

            “I cannot say really. Some requirement for the journey, I suppose,” she shrugged.

            “Journey?” Tyrnimar looked up with surprise, then realization flashed in his mind, “Oh…” he groaned quietly.

            Eevarel paused. “Did you not read the summons?”

            Tyrnimar hastily snatched up the summons and scanned the text again. His eyes reaching lower and lower in the document, eyebrows pressing together in concentration until they slackened in annoyance. “This part did not get read earlier. These lands have not been left by me before.”

            “The Under-Provost said that, too. Worry not, this will be a very healthy group of travelers,” she assured bemusedly.

            “A horse has not been ridden for fifty years, nor has a bow or sword been practiced!” Tyrnimar fretted.

            “Hmm. Sounds neglectful.” Eevarel tried teasing.

            Tyrnimar, too caught in worry, failed to notice, stared at his food for a moment. “The memory must be regained by me,” he resolved.

            “I suppose so.” sighed Eevarel, anticipating her company on the trip ahead. She tasted the roasted hen. “What did you do to this!?” she exclaimed in alarm.

            “What is meant?” he asked, taken aback by her sudden remark.

            “The taste! I watched you take the hen. You didn’t rub it with any herbs, you barely cooked it. You barely had time to slaughter it! How is it that it tastes like this?” she accused.

            “Oh.” Tyrnimar exhaled, “Some herbal and saline charms were used.” he added, “And some cantrips for the slaughter.”

            She stared at him for a moment. “You used magic to cook!?” she asked incredulously after a while.

            “Why would I not?” he asked quizzically. “A tool is there. It should be used to the fullest where there is good to be had.”

            “Do you not think that is a little bit improper?” she asked.

            Finishing his portion, Tyrnimar answered “No,” still not comprehending Eevarel’s objection. He picked up his book binding project and began to stitch the border.

            “Why do not you use magic for that?” she asked.

            “The charm is elusive.” he answered and then sighed, “and there is no point in learning it before the trip.”

            “Why not?” she asked.

            “The humans, of course, magic must remain an unreachable legend for them.” he explained patiently.

            “Yes, yes, I know.” she answered impatiently, “But we will not be around humans all of the time.”

            “Still, safer to not be in the habit of using magic so as not to slip when near humans.”

            “Do you always talk like this?” she asked.

            “Is this way always spoken by you?” he asked in return.

***

Tyrnimar and Eevarel departed Ebariel two days later to Juin and rode for nine days.

            It really has been a long time, Tyrnimar thought adjusting his seating, feeling the soreness of each day in the saddle stack upon the soreness of the previous day in the saddle. She seems quite accustomed to it, he grumbled. The soreness was creeping all over his body. Besides riding for the first time in a very, very long time, Eevarel insisted on refreshers in the sword and bow, stating that he would need them on the journey. Tyrnimar had to use Eevarel’s sword and bow during practice while she made do with a stick or her dagger for pacing his sword forms or sparring. But the practices were brief and they spent most of the days traveling at a brisk pace.

            “At least try to enjoy yourself.” Eevarel suggested.

            Tyrnimar shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, “effort is being made,” as evenly as he could manage.

            “I can tell.” She chuckled.

            Are you amused? He thought irritably. One more day until Juin is reached.

            Eevarel explained what she knew of the journey which, to Tyrnimar’s quiet chagrin he learned that he would have Eevarel snickering at him for the entire journey to wherever they were going and back, along with a small company of twelve other travelers. Tyrnimar had never left the elven lands before. He viewed himself a simple and humble gray elf, not wanting to be involved in the affairs of state or concerns of the Guardian Council. He was very content remaining in the Under-Provost’s tower, reading and writing books, studying magic. This journey was a significant inconvenience as it already was. Tyrnimar was resigned that this journey would delay his studies for over a year. Still, reluctant as he was to be involved in matters like these, he would not shirk the call of his people. He was glad that he was just finishing writing his project when he met Eevarel.

            As if she had been reading his mind, “I have been meaning to ask you,” Eevarel began as she easily guided her horse with her knees while drinking from her water skin, “what was that book about, the one you were writing when I so rudely blocked your light?”

            “My light? Oh. A small handbook. For healing incantations, herbal invocations, contracts with dryads to remove disease and infections. Things alike to that.” he explained.

            “May I read a bit of it?” she asked.

            He hesitated, “It would be my pleasure.” What will be under scrutiny now? He pondered morosely. They stopped by the side of the road where he dismounted and produced the small book from a saddle bag nearly bursting with other similar books.

            “You brought all of those?” she asked incredulously, “You know, we are going to be on the road quite a bit. There will be perils. That’s why we have a larger company.”

            “Yes, that has been anticipated.” he replied, “That is the reason these books are needed. Is it expected to be talking and conversing the whole time?”

She gave him a skeptical look as she opened the book before finally glancing down at the beginning.

            “Have you ever met a dryad?” she asked.

            She has that tone again. “No,” he admitted.

***

Tyrnimar had not been to Juin in nearly thirty years and had to stop to admire it as soon as it came into view. The great trees of Juin, trees hundreds of paces around and probably a thousand paces tall guided the road through the city lined with stone buildings nestled into the trunks of the tree. Juin rested on the River Beros, as the elves called it, with multiple stone and wooden bridges arcing gracefully over it. The horseshoes clopping on the wooden planks of the bridge were mostly drowned out by the babbling of the river, its waters still cold from their origin in the mountains to the west. As they entered the city, Tyrnimar ignored Eevarel’s smirks.

            “What are you looking at up there? You’re going to ride your horse into the river if you don’t watch where you’re going.”

            Tyrnimar looked at the apartments set in the trunks of the great trees where the wood warped into hollows large enough for families to live with openings for windows and doors. Tyrnimar knew that stairways were warped into and through the trunk, so that elves could live high up in the tree while the tree continued to thrive. “Wood magic for making the houses and apartments in the great trees has always been interesting. Never have I studied it.” he explained when he could break enough attention away from the sight.

            “I have to thank you,” she said.

            “For what?” She pulled his attention from the splendor of the blurred boundary between the order of nature and elven civilization.

            “I have never eaten so well on the road. I remember you saying that you wanted to stop using magic on the trip. It was very nice, the flavors you added to the bread and dried meat.”

            “Oh. Well... there was no trouble to it.” He said sheepishly. I mean no ingratitude, but the dried meat was bland and the same taste of the bread every day became boring.

            Eevarel led Tyrnimar to the hall of the Guardian Council. They dismounted and were admitted by an attendant wearing the purple and silver ten-pointed star livery of the Guardian Council. The hall was a functional building of stone, but for elves, function and beauty flow together. Scrollwork carved into the stone gave an intuitive sense of where visitors were meant to walk or wait, or which way was the library or administrative offices. There was a sense of security about the place. A sense that the council in this building were aware of concerns in far off places and everything was well in hand. Except that I will be part of that hand that holds everything. Tyrnimar thought anxiously.

            “The Council is ready for you.” The attendant announced.

Tyrnimar took a deep breath as he walked in flanked by Eevarel on one side and led by the attendant. The council’s audience chamber was an oval. The council members sat behind a long bench that curved around the opposite wall. There were only seven council members present. Each of them a distinguished scholar, magician, statesman, diplomat, or warrior, usually a mixture of two or more.

            Tyrnimar hesitated, “…The summons of this council is answered by Magus Tyrnimar Iquarren of the Blue Order.” He announced with a bow.

            “Thank you, Magus Tyrnimar, for your hasty answer to this summons. I am Guardian Iriaden Olari, also of the Blue Order.” replied one of the light blue-haired female Councilors, dressed in robes of silver and blue. “You are summoned here for your specific skills to perform the duties of a Traveler. There are a variety of survey requirements for the human territories west of the Kaskevs. This council has chosen to group several survey missions together, so you will have a large group of travelers with many requirements.”

            The other side of the Kaskevs!? Fretted Tyrnimar momentarily. Tyrnimar felt the anxiety of his curiosity overwhelm his anxiety at being examined by the Guardian Council, Call it a summons, call it a request, call it duty, I am being examined and this will make a mark on my record! Shot a bitter voice in Tyrnimar’s head before he blurted, “Requirements of what sort and which of the territories?”

            “All of them, good magus.” Answered a red-haired male councilor. Tyrnimar recognized this one. He was Akriun Ydren, a long-serving diplomat who had written extensively on the bloodlines of human royalty and nobility, particularly west of the Kaskev Mountains. Tyrnimar remembered him from a lecture of his that Tyrnimar attended fifteen or twenty years ago. “It is a beginning of a new cycle for a variety of survey requirements, and the requirements are quite far-reaching. We require updated information on their economic capabilities, political sensitivities, and the like. Of course, we need what you can provide. Under-Provost Kasriel tells us that you are the most talented of her aura readers-” Councilor Ydren explained.

            Most talented when there are only three in the order is hardly high acclaim, Tyrnimar mentally observed.

            “-and to that end, especially for what you can provide to this mission, we would need surveys from the foothills in the broken lands to the Tamark coast. That type of survey has not been performed in that area for quite some time, nearly eighty years.” Councilor Ydren finished.

As the audience with the Council continued, Tyrnimar had mixed dread at the prospect of being on the road for over a year, among humans, no less, warring with the excitement of performing such a broad scope of research. Tyrnimar asked questions, gradually becoming slightly more comfortable. In addition to Eevarel, Tyrnimar learned some about the other twelve companions he would have on the journey. Trinien Orsir, the attendant that had admitted Tyrnimar and Eevarel would be one of their companions. A coloring charm must be used on his hair before travel is begun by us. It should be something unremarkable to humans, like a brown or yellow hair, Tyrnimar noted. Of his future companions, only one of them was familiar to him, Irduin Usrani of the sword. Tyrnimar had heard of her because she was one of the few sword bearers that wrote books. Her specialty seemed to be herbs, roots, and fungi found in forests, though she had written quite a few books about swordcraft, sword techniques, wars, and battles, and all of that such. Tyrnimar had used some of her books on the former as research materials.

            “Who will the lead Traveler be?” Tyrnimar finally asked.

            “Holbrin Arozrien of the sword, bringing the total of you to fourteen,” answered Councilor Olari.

Chapter 2

Northern edge of the Town of Serna, Yvel Principality, Gershan Lands

By the western human calendar, Fryday (8th day of the week), 2nd week of Talinochis (12th month of the year), Year of the Reformed Church of Orneth 793

Late Winter

Midday

Sunny but cold with melting snow

            “Excuse me, master child,” the elf said to Ziek.

            Ziek looked up with trepidation from the spiced meatpie that he had just stolen. “Huh?”

Ziek was being addressed by a very tall man with pointed ears. He was leading a strong, brown horse and wore brown trousers with a blue shirt and a white cape, but Ziek could not help but stare at the ears. “Huh?” Ziek said again after realizing the man was talking to him.

            “I said, could you please direct me to the nearest inn? My companions are weary from the road.” The man said again in a voice that sounded like he never ever lost his patience or temper. Ziek noticed the man’s companions behind him standing in the late winter’s midday sunlight. They all had pointed ears like him, or their hair covered their ears. They were also leading their horses or riding them. Ziek had never seen so many horses at once.

            “Oh, uh... I dunno. I guess, um. Here! Let me show you.” Ziek struggled with words at the strangeness of these people. Ziek stashed the pie under a hand cart, prompting a raised eyebrow from the man. “It’s, uh, to keep it safe.” Ziek explained.

            “Indeed.” said the man with pointed ears.

            “This way.” Ziek offered as he set out for the center of the village. Ziek took them to the village green in the center, passing rows of one- and two-story buildings painted various colors with tile rooves.

            “This place is called Serna, master child?” asked the man.

            “Yea, sir.” answered Ziek, “That’s the Moradran Inn and that’s the Valley Spring Inn.” Ziek pointed at the two inns on the edge of the green. The inns were both three-floor buildings.

            “Thank you,” he said. Ziek stood in front of the group expectantly.

            The strange man looked at Ziek for a moment, “Tell me good master child, where can I find the lord of your town?”

            “Lord Koval? He lives in that house over there.” Ziek pointed to a three-floor manor on a snowy hill overlooking the town. “You don’ wanna meet him, though. He’s scary.” Ziek stood in front of the man expectantly.

            A moment passed as Holbrin waited for the man child to leave. It didn’t, so Holbrin decided, “One more thing, master child.”

            “Ya?” Ziek shot back.

            “There was a man watching us from the woods as we came into town. Who was he?”

            “I dunno. Some people are hunters here, so it mighta bin one o’ them,” Ziek answered.

            After a moment passed of the man looking at Ziek and Ziek looking at the man, the elf asked “Is there something else?”

            “You’re supposed to pay me for my trouble, sir.” Ziek answered.

            “Oh? Your trouble master child?” replied the man. He sounded almost amused.

            “Yea, I was just about to eat my hard-earned pie when I had to help you and your lost and wandering friends.

            “Indeed.” he replied while reaching into his pocket and pressing a coin into Ziek’s eagerly waiting hand. When looked down and looked again in surprise that the man had given him a silver mark! Wait. There’s no crown. There was supposed to be a crown! Instead, there was some bird on one side and a creepy eye on the other. It was a foreign coin, maybe from Markia.

            When Ziek, came back to his senses, he asked after the man and his companions, “Hey, sir.”

            The man looked back from leading his horse towards the Valley Spring Inn. “Yes?”

            “What kind of person are you with your weird ears? Are you like the Seven Lady?”

            “One of their tales of the fae, of the Lady of Seven,” explained one of the other elves.

            “No, sir. It’s a fairy tale about the Seven Lady. Are you like that?” Ziek asked.

            “…No, master child. We are not fae. Fairies, as you would say,” the elf replied.

            “Oh. Well, Are you from Markia, then?”

            “No, we are not from Markia, we just traveled through there a short while ago. We are elves from the other side of the mountains.”

            “Really!? From the other side?”

            “Yes, truly, master child.”

            “Why do you call me that?” Ziek asked as they made to walk away.

            “Is that not how I should call you respectfully?” answered the tall elf.

            “I dunno.” Ziek replied. Then he grinned and left to find his now-cold pie.

***

Holbrin Arozrien watched the human child go, unsure of whether he had earned or stolen the meat pie before chuckling to himself and thought, He is a bold one. Holbrin motioned for his companions to follow. Holbrin and Trinien left the reins of their horses with their companions and entered the Valley Spring Inn. It was a blocky building, a red-painted wooden rectangle for a shape with two smaller additions, a clay tile roof like most other buildings in Serna, and a stone chimney. The interior vaguely reminded Holbrin of dwarven architecture. The common room was flanked by two fireplaces on either end. It was still winter, so both fires were pouring heat into the room. The rest of the room was lit by sunlight from the windows, though the wall was lined with sconces for the evenings. Wooden tables dotted the room with three or four chairs each and a bar counter dominated the room from the other side. Cleaner than most places we see, Holbrin thought as he made arrangements with the barkeep.

            “One more thing, master Clay.” said Holbrin in the Marin tongue.

            “Yea?” replied the barkeep.

            “You say that people here speak both this language and the Eklendan language?” Holbrin asked politely.

            “Yea, sort of. Most speak one or the other, but a lot of folk speak both here. Lot of mixed blood in this area and we get a lot of travel between Yvel and Soorin.” answered Clay, growing curious about Holbrin’s curiosity.

            “And so, Lord Covendran speaks Eklendan? That is an Eklendan name, is it not?” inquired Holbrin.

            Clay, growing skeptical of Holbrin’s questions, answered, “Sure, what’s it to you?”

            “I was hoping to meet him and want to pay him the proper respect.” answered Holbrin.

            “Huh.” said Clay, “well, he’d be taking his tea this time of day. He takes most of his audiences around this time.”

            Holbrin thanked the barkeep after finishing the arrangements for lodging his companions and the horses. He left the others to put the horses up in the stables and take midday meal, taking only Tyrnimar and Trinien to the Covendran manor. They were admitted by a plump maid, bustling at encountering elves for the first time, and showed them in to a sitting room where the maid announced them to a middle-aged man already sat. Koval Covendran, Lord of Serna, black hair barely tinged with hairs of gray at his temples and lines of care etching the skin around his eyes and starting to crawl down the cheeks of in his narrow face. He wore a carefully trimmed beard, similarly barely touched with a few whiskers of gray, and seemed a bit nervous at such exotic guests and doing a poor job at hiding it.

            “You my house blue welcome greetings!” said the Lord Serna in broken, badly accented elvish while rising to greet them with an overly welcoming smile. He was taller than most humans Holbrin had met on this trip, meeting Holbrin eye-to-eye.

            Holbrin put on a small, gracious smile and replied in Eklendan, “Thank you, Lord Serna, you honor us. As we are humble guests in your town, please let us pay you the honor and speak in your language.”

            “Well… if you insist.” replied Lord Serna, returning to his seat and failing to hide his relief at further struggles in a language he did not know. “Tell me, what brings you and your fine company along this way? Fourteen in total, yes?”

            “We are merely passing through. It is customary among our people to travel the lands and see how the cities and peoples have changed. We merely meant to pay respect to you on our way through.” Holbrin explained patiently, the small pleasant smile pinned in place, as he and his two companions seated themselves on a nearby couch. The maid returned with a tray of steaming cups of tea, which Tyrnimar and Trinien took.

            “Well, I cannot have such grand travelers pass through without me showing anything short of the best hospitality. The new year is upon us. We shall have the new year’s feast a bit early! There shall be music.” Lord Serna insisted. He gave his staff a pointed glare which sent them into a flush of bows and curtsies before scurrying off to prepare for the evening’s feast.

            A younger man bearing a resemblance to Lord Serna entered the room. He was a bit taller than Koval Covendran and had the narrow jaw and brown eyes of his father. “Please, meet my son, Dareum.” Dareum Covendran was clean-shaven, red-haired man of his very early twenties, by Holbrin’s estimate, with the look of someone who spent much of his time riding or hunting. Holbrin guessed at Dareum’s age from what he knew of humans, whereas the Lord Serna seemed past forty years but not quite yet to fifty. Holbrin took a cup of tea from the maid, as did Dareum as he sat with his father and the travelers as the other family members joined. The Lady Serna, Mariss Covendran, seemed about the same age as the Lord Serna, with those same brown eyes and black hair. She looked different from Koval and all of those that shared Koval’s ethnic characteristics. Where Koval’s whole face was narrower and his skin fair, Mariss’ jaw was the only part of her face that narrowed and her skin was more olive. Trinien had told Holbrin that these were more common characteristics for humans with Eklendan blood. Holbrin thought it odd that the Lord Serna looked more Marin, yet he had an Eklendan name. Must be as the barkeep said. The blood is so intermixed that there are no clear boundaries here between them. Their daughter, Judane, joined them, who looked to be only a little younger than Dareum, with black hair like her parents.

            Holbrin and his companions maintained polite conversation with the Lord Serna and his son while finishing their tea. Holbrin found himself unable to graciously decline an invitation for a hunt with Dareum Covendran before they finished their tea. After departing, Holbrin and his two companions walked down the muddy path towards the rest of town.

            “Your manners are improving. I hardly noticed you squinting,” Trinien said in elvish, smirking with a sidelong look at Tyrnimar.

            “Concentration must be achieved to see the aura,” Tyrnimar replied while looking at the ground.

Holbrin walked ahead of them by a few paces, calm-faced. Calm on the outside. “What did you see?” He prompted Tyrnimar.

            “There is no doubt. The older Covendran is a fearmonger, the younger is a warmonger. The older was is surely awakened. Sureness of the younger man cannot be made by me. The Lady Serna is a Charmer. The aura of the daughter has not been seen by me. She is not awoken. Not yet, but the barrier is thin,” Tyrnimar replied with trepidation.

            “It makes sense. The Covendran line goes back to just before the time between the imperial succession war and the western secession wars. It is a wonder that Serna was not included in the last three surveys.” Trinien observed.

            “Yes, good work, Tyrnimar. We would have missed this place if not for your diligence.” Holbrin said over his shoulder. His face calm as morning to hide his rising alarm.

            “There is more,” Tyrnimar continued, “the aura of a firebrand, a healer and, perhaps, a stormbearer or an invisible hand have been seen here, and a few others that are mysterious to me.”

            Such a concentration! Holbrin fretted internally, “How many are active?”

            “It cannot be determined,” answered Tyrnimar, “except for the older Covendrans. They are active as was said earlier, though they do not seem aware of what they do. A thorough survey of this town and the surrounding villages is needed.”

            “We will make time for that. This evening is an excellent opportunity to expand the information you have already collected.” Holbrin said to Tyrnimar with a look that meant Tyrnimar was going to go to the feast.

            “Do not worry about the crowds, friend Tyrnimar. Eevarel will keep them away from you,” said Trinien with his smirk returning.

            Tyrnimar looked up perplexed from the ground at Trinien, “What is meant by that?”

***

Word spread through the town quickly. The manor staff sent orders for musicians, wine, mead, additional staff, and a boar to roast. Young couriers delivered the invitations, which would be otherwise considered rudely short notice except that the recipients surely knew of the opportunity that the Lord Serna sensed and dared not deprive him of it. The town was quietly bustling with the preparations and Serna’s modest elite of merchants, inn owners, craftsmen, and Elder Ereman Dum’ail from the chapel turned out for the festivities. As Buin was excitedly babbling about how he was going to earn fifteen tin pennies for helping in the kitchen, Ziek did his best to manage his smile and make it look like he was excited for his friend.

            But what Ziek truly looked forward to was, opportunity. Sunset came early this time of year, so it would already be getting dark with the beginning of the festivities. However, Ziek knew, that boar will take forever to roast through and they’ll be eating and drinking late. Ziek helped his friends with their chores and cheerily helped them along their way and bided his time, careful to avoid being seen in a place for too long. He waited until he was sure that everyone that was going to the feast had already left before moving again. He looked down the road to the manor and across the green. He saw a few shopkeepers cleaning up for the fuss of providing for the event at the manor. Ziek walked across the road in a way that was perfectly natural for someone that was doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing. Reaching the other side, he nonchalantly turned right along the front of the inn.

Reaching the corner, he turned left with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his breeches. He strolled up the alley on the side of the inn and turned left again to approach the back door. Deftly, he gripped the door handle with both hands and pushed the door up in the frame slightly to reduce the squeak when he opened it. Right, he noted the cook was at the Serna manor. Noiselessly, he slipped in and let the door close with only a small thud of the door meeting the frame. Peering around the corner into the common room, Ziek saw the aisle from the kitchen past the bar into the sitting area of the common room. To his right, past the bar was the hallway and stairway to the guest rooms. In his way was Selonikah the serving maid minding the bar in case any patrons came in while most of the guests and staff were at the celebration. She’s strict! She beat me three times before she handed me over to mama last time...

            Ziek crept low as he moved out of the kitchen behind the bar, silently behind and past Selonikah. Rounding the corner, he kept to the left side of the stairs because the center and the right side squeaked. He reached the top of the stairs and darted down the hall. Ziek was glad that Buin had told him that the elf travelers were taking all of the rooms on the second floor. He was reaching into his pocket just when he heard voices from behind one of the doors. His feet padded to a table in the hall that he crawled under to hide. The long shadows of the winter evening created a cloak for him under the table. He could very clearly hear what the voices were saying, two elf men. He just had no idea what they were saying. He listened for a long time, not able to understand any of it. Some words were repeated several times, but he had trouble even remembering how they were pronounced. The shadows lengthened before the two elf men opened the door. The closed and locked it before striding down the hall and squeaking down the stairs.

            As the sound of their footsteps faded and he heard the creak of the front door to the common room, Ziek crawled out from under the table and moved up to the door the two men came out of. Again, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a nail as long as his finger and several thick pieces of wire bent at different angles and patterns. Ziek was squinting while just inserting the nail into the lock when he heard the stairs creak. Did they forget something? Putting the nail back into his pocket, he shrouded himself in the darkness under the table against the wall and waited. Selonikah’s face emerged from the ground floor as she topped the stairs and moved into the hall. Ziek held his breath as her footsteps came nearer and nearer.

She stopped right in front of the table and paused before rising on the toes of her shoes. It seemed a very long time to Ziek before candlelight blossomed into the hall. Ziek almost let out a sigh of relief. Selonikah moved to the end of another hall where she lit another candle sconce on the wall and turned around. Ziek froze again, but Selonikah did not see him. She walked past and up the stairs to the third floor. Ziek let out his breath quietly when she was out of sight, but he waited for her to come back down from lighting the sconces on the third floor and go back to the bar before he once again emerged from concealment under the table and began fumbling with the lock and ironically glad that Selonikah had made it easier to see.

            The lock gave a relenting dull clunk and Ziek eased the door open just enough to slip inside. There were two beds in the room with two trunks at the foot of each bed, a window out into the town green, and a coat rack by the door. Two dusty travel cloaks hung on the coat rack. Next to both trunks were a pair of saddle bags. Ziek unbuckled the steel clasp and pulled back the leather flap. Books? Ziek picked one up and opened it. Ziek’s eyebrows scrunched down as his eyes tried to find anything familiar among the flowing script that seemed more like scrollwork than writing. Ziek did not know letters, but this was too strange to him. He flipped through a few pages. He stopped and looked at a diagram of a tree and a woman superimposed over it with a hexagon drawn around them and notes in that same flowing, enigmatic script at each of the points.

            Ziek was starring so hard at the diagram that he jumped from being startled at the roar and screams outside.

Chapter 3

Serna

Fryday (8th day of the week), 2nd week of Talinochis (12th month of the year), 793

Late Winter

Late evening

Clear, briskly cold

            Mkaela looked up, why is the sky orange?

            BECAUSE I HAVE BROUGHT YOU HERE, replied a presence.

            Mkaela turned around, looking in every direction, casting about. This is her town, there is the chapel, the green lined by shops and the two inns, the tannery behind it – wait – there’s no smell. Mkaela couldn’t smell anything. This was her town, though, but no people. The rows of houses, the Covendran manor on the hill, the edge of the forest close to the edge of town, everything was here, except the snow. No snow on the hill, no snow on the trees. No mud in the streets. There. A shadow moved by the chapel.

            How was there a shadow there? There are no shadows on that side of the building? She puzzled. She approached the building tentatively. There was a vague light everywhere, like it was dawn, midday, and dusk at the same time. The light cast no shadows, yet it was faint. As she drew near the chapel, the shadow poured out from the wall of the chapel and took form, towering over her, eating the faint light.

            She recoiled, “What do you want?”

            FEAR NOT, it replied, I HAVE COME WITH A WARNING.

            She paused, “A warning?”

            TRULY, TRULY I SAY. LOOK. It did not move as far as she could tell, yet she felt as if it directed her to look to her right, to the east.

            The rows of houses and forest shrank and receded from vision as she felt pulled, or was it pushed, the ground blurred under her and as the Kaskev Mountains appeared in the distance. She knew they were too far to see at all from the town, yet they loomed and grew in size. The ground continued to speed by under her and the mountains grew large. Several of them spat green fire with white cyclones forming a bridge of air between the mountains and the orange sky. Jagged bolts of black lightning crackled from the cyclones.

            “Why are you showing me this? What does it mean?” She asked, surprised by her calm as she starred at the crackling cyclone.

            A WARNING. THIS PLACE, THINGS APPEAR AS THEY ARE AND YET AS THEY ARE NOT. THERE IS A SORROW IN THE MOUNTAINS AND IT POURS OUT ONTO THE LAND.

            “What am I supposed to do about this?” She asked, again surprised by her calm.

            NOTHING. YOU CANNOT STOP THIS. BUT THE SORROW OF THE MOUNTAINS WILL POUR ONTO THE LAND.

            “What do you mean?” She asked, looking back from the cyclone. The shadow grew darker, drinking the light, threatening to erase everything in her field of view, yet it felt warm. It was the only thing here that felt like anything. The ground blurred under her again. They were back in Serna, but instead of the forest, the mountains stormed and loomed in the distance instead of the forest. The shadow stood by the chapel again. “What does that have to do with here? The mountains are too far away.”

            LOOK AGAIN, instructed the shadow.

Mkaela looked back towards the mountains. A steaming river of green with gouts of flame burst from its eddies, rushed and coursed through the town, filling the street, but nothing burned, not even singed. The green river flowed over her feet and rose up to her knees. It was not hot, only warm. She gazed into it, not understanding, until it turned red. Red like blood from a fresh cut. She looked back at the shadow in confusion.

            HELP THEM, bade the shadow. Mkaela looked at the river of blood and saw hands and noiselessly wailing faces rise to the surface of the river, reaching and silently pleading. She recognized some of the faces. But some of the faces were ugly, like monsters with huge teeth or broad heads with big eyes and large, sideways-pointing ears. She looked at the shadow. HELP THEM. I GIVE YOU THE WAY.

Mkaela started awake to the sound of screams and the glow of a large fire shining in through the window.

***

The feet beat the ground viciously in rapid succession. The feet ached and screamed with pain. The left foot viciously struck the ground, then the right. The right foot sunk into a muddy low spot in the street, snagging the leather shoe. The mud greedily engulfed the shoe and coveted it for itself, taking it from the right foot, the right foot forfeiting the brief struggle and abandoning the shoe in desperation.

Ziek staggered as he lost his shoe, but kept running for his life. He ducked under a wagon and scurried between the wheels, not daring to look back as he came out the other side and ran on, hearing screams of terror and howls of glee and rage behind him, Selonikah’s terror still ringing in his mind from just seconds ago. Ziek panted and wheezed too hard to sound a cry that would match the tears and snot running down his face as his legs pumped and burned for all they were and ever would ever be worth. He ran past other people and clawed his way past obstacles, not really seeing them, pushing them behind him in a vain effort to propel himself even just a little faster. Ziek cleared a corner and was straining his hips to get his legs to change direction when something thumped him in the back very hard, just below his ribs, slamming him into the mud on his side. At the same time, he felt the faintest prick above his belly and the fast spread of warmth. His legs were suddenly made of the greatest weights of lead. His arms seemed to be tied to where they were by a thousand invisible strings, he could barely move them with the greatest effort.

            Everything was suddenly slow and it was getting cold as winter. His eyes creaked down, rotating in his head. He had grown a horn of steel out of his belly, but it was off-center. When did that happen? He brushed his hand on it and it came away red, like the steel horn was leaking red paint. What’s this? The warmth on his skin dripped down his stomach to the ground. There was a bright flickering light behind him, shining orange light in front of him. A figure stepped into his view, orange light shining on it. It looked tall, taller than a man and thick. It had overlapping layers of hide wrapped around its waist and chest, up to the armpits. Green skin? That couldn’t be right. As it stepped closer, Ziek vaguely registered something in its hands. He tried to talk to it to ask what it was doing, what was its name. Warm copper came up in his mouth and drowned his words. The shadows became very dark and everything he could see became bright, so bright it lost its color. Ziek opened his eyes wide, he had never seen so much brightness without it hurting his eyes. Then the brightness started running away. He tried to lift his hand to catch it as he saw the figure grip the thing in both hands and raise his hands up.

***

The still, cold evening air was seared by a dozen arrows streaking like angry hornets, peppering the tall orc through its hide wrappings, two ripping through its throat, and one lodging in its eye. Every one of its muscles tensed before dropping the axe and keeling backwards. Arynn raced past the dead orc and the dying boy, closely behind Dareum Covendran whose big lumbering strides hauled his body and his longsword gleaming in the firelight. Behind her, Tyrnimar rushed to the boy with the javelin stuck through him. Ahead two buildings burned brightly, fully aflame, threatening to spread to others on either side and behind. The two raced through the streets against a sparse flow of townsfolk racing towards some perceived safety. Behind them came a crowd of tall, green-skinned orcs, bald or with coarse manes of hair, clad in ragged skins about the hips and shoulders, and bearing wide toothy and tusked grins, large two-handed, square-tipped falchions and crescent-bladed axes. Some clutched spears and javelins as they laughed and howled in delight. Dareum drew up short and Arynn knew well enough to not rush on by herself. Arynn looked over at Dareum Covendran, Will he run? The air grew faintly darker around him as his face curled into a veiny mask of rage and hate, made to look like wizened, gnarled tree bark in the firelight. He howled in anger from the bottom of his lungs. He howled from a depth of his being that stopped the fleeing townfolk in their tracks and the orcs stopped laughing mid-guffaw. Their gazes suddenly fixed to Dareum Covendran with chains of hesitation.

            He gritted his teeth, “COME ON! KILL ‘EM ALL!” he cursed at them. Arynn felt a boiling fist of rage clench her chest, coursing her blood fast. Dareum leaped at them, longsword flashing in the orange light, batting away the first axe with a two-handed grip before whipping the tip up to rip through a green throat, severing the jawbone, and tearing the mouth and nose open. The blade came away, racing past two green hands rushing up to try to hold back a flood of red and gurgling cries. One by one, the townsfolk turned around and picked up a rock and threw it or grabbed a pitchfork or a shovel from an overturned cart.

            The townsfolk formed into an angry mob and charged, shouting with raised shovels and pitchforks and hurling sticks, stones, and cookpots. Dareum’s face twisted into rage and hate as he pursued the falling, broken orc, continuing to hack at it, heedless of the surrounding orcs. Arynn fought the blind rage down as a cold lump of fear formed next to the fist of rage and she struggled to master the two of them.

            Recovering from their initial shock at actually being opposed, some of the orcs found their grins again, speartips, axes blades, and forward-curving swords raised and plunged, spraying and dripping red as the townsfolk were slaughtered on the green. Leaping in with both hands gripping the hilt of her own long-bladed, curved sword, Arynn deflected a spear coursing for Dareum’s back. She crashed into him, shoving him over into another orc who had its foot on one of the servants from the feast as he was pulling his spear out of her. The three toppled over while Arynn, finally shoving both emotions down, whirled and eviscerated the orc with the spear. It dropped its spear while falling to its knees, innards pulsing out while he desperately tried to put them back in with a panicked whine. Dareum was on his feet, kicking the head of the orc that he had fallen with. The orc starred at the sky, its neck broken, while Dareum, lost in the berserk, stomped and kicked and raged while the woman laid on the ground, moaning in pain with the spear still stuck in her.

            Two vigorous strides brought Arynn to Dareum. She slapped him across the face, “DAREUM COVENDRAN! These people need you!”

            In the light of the burning buildings, the air around him seemed to ease and the haze faded from his eyes and as he seemed to come back to some of his senses. Arynn internally breathed a small sigh of relief. She turned and rejoined the fray to keep the few remaining townsfolk fighting on the green from being cut down like so many others. She heard Dareum’s voice calling out the other townsfolk to fight as he rejoined the melee. Arynn still felt the controlled rage inside her and allowed herself to use it sparingly. More townsfolk emerged from hiding, armed with chairs, sledgehammers, frypans, fire pokers, knives, cudgels, an older one with an orc sword – however he managed to get that, and whatever else they could find, but were well-overmatched against the gleeful orcs, who were much stronger, much taller, much more used to handling weapons, and keenly enjoying fighting and killing. Arynn, Dareum, and the townsman with the orc sword were desperately fighting to hold back the tide of a complete slaughter.

            Arynn saw Dareum slip on a puddle of blood from the corner of her eye and lose his grip on his sword. She knew she could not reach him in time, but batted aside an axe and sprinted toward him, watching in slow motion as a laughing orc raised his axe. A green fist sped into her vision from her left and slammed into her face before she could change course, sending her sprawling into the bloody mud. She rolled over, her eyes darting between the orc advancing towards her with its long, square-tipped sword and the one towering over prone Dareum, raised on its toes with its axe held high.

            Time froze for an instant before the moment was broken by a hail of arrows from the direction of the firelight, riddling the front row of orcs. Arynn twisted to see her companions and a few humans with bows firing on the orcs as some humans – four of them – mounted on horses charged with swords and spears. She recognized Koval Covendran, the lord of these parts, atop a white horse, wearing a shirt of mail and hurling a spear into the cluster of orcs.

***

Tyrnimar pulled his blade from the orc’s throat, watching the others rush off in the distance. Casting it aside and silently thanking Eevarel for her insistence on training, he rushed to the bleeding child. He looked at the javelin protruding from both sides, the blood trickling out of him, and the increasing labor of shallow breath. He was already unconscious. Tyrnimar fumbled in his pockets and produced a small book while kneeling between the child and the fighting. Opening the book and frantically flipping through the pages until he found the right one. Casting around with barely controlled panic, he gasped with gratitude as there was a small, winter-bare sapling growing out of the foundation of the building next to where the child fell. Searching the lines on the paper until he found the beginning of what he sought, he whispered the incantation in the elven tongue as the sapling shined faintly green. A bright green form emerged, elbow first, then shoulder, then head. When it was out, it was a miniature, nude, elf-like creature with green luminescent skin and darker green luminescent hair. It yawned sleepily and smiled at Tyrnimar. Overcoming his awe and fascination that it actually worked, he remembered where he was and whispered the rest of the incantation. The miniature green elf whispered something that Tyrnimar suddenly knew, but did not hear. It reached towards the child and touched it with a small green glow. The blood stopped flowing from his body and his breathing eased slightly. Tyrnimar gripped the javelin and looked at the creature. It winked at Tyrnimar and he slowly drew the javelin out of the boy and marveled at the wound as it glowed green at the entry and exit. The green light diminished as the wound closed and winked out as it closed. The skin scarred in a strange way. A strange way for skin on humans or elves to scar, but Tyrnimar knew it was not skin anymore–at least not human skin. It was tree bark. The child breathed easily and Tyrnimar let out a gasp in relief. He looked at the creature one more time and he knew by its returning gaze that he had better remember his end of the bargain, accept your fate. It disappeared back into the sapling.

            Urgency is needed, he fretted as he picked up his sword while stuffing the book back into his pocket and was running off towards the fight when a soft golden glow caught his eye. It would have been easy to miss it in the bright light of the fire. Others would have seen only the faint golden glow, if they noticed it at all, and maybe dismissed it as a candle, eerily peaceful with the tangled mixture of desperation, dread, and glee a few dozen paces away. Tyrnimar squinted and almost lost the aura sight in surprise. A golden blaze of light, that only he could see with his eyes and his aura sight, shone down from amid the roofs one street away. Down the street from the fight Tyrnimar ran, darted down an alley, and peeked through a window. He was not sure how to explain what he saw.

***

Mkaela was not sure what she was doing, it just felt right. She finished pulling Seedar Torin’ail through the door, trailing blood and grime behind him. She was not breathing and had a gaping wound between her shoulder and neck, cleaving through her collarbone, blood trickling out of it, having furiously pumped just moments ago. Her arm dragged at an unnatural angle. Mkaela took a deep breath and placed her hand over the tear in Seedar’s body.

            NOW! The voice of the shadow boomed in Mkaela’s head.

            Now what? Who are you? implored Mkaela internally.

            USE MY POWER! it commanded.

            “How? What am I supposed to do?” Mkaela pleaded out loud.

            LET IT IN, YOUR FEAR IS BLOCKING ME.

            “I’m afraid, alright? Kostray, help me! Orneth, help me!” Mkaela retorted, Seedar’s blood was seeping through Mkaela’s fingers, “You said you could help,” she accused, “SO HELP!” Tears of frustration formed in her eyes as she looked at the blood, desperately wanting it to stop. Her hand glowed and she pulled it back, recoiling in fear.

            THAT WAS IT, the shadow said to her.

            “What was it?” Mkaela begged, “What happened?”

            YOUR FOCUS, THE ENERGY, LIKE YOU DID JUST NOW, DO IT AGAIN.

            Steeling herself, Mkaela took another deep breath and placed her bloody hand over Seedar’s wound and wanted the bleeding to stop. Again, her hand began to glow. She tensed, but held her hand firmly. Everything stood still for a moment.

The trickle of blood stopped. The glow grew brighter and shone from deep inside the wound. Mkaela marveled as the flesh she could see deep inside the wound knit. Like the reverse of a rope tearing, she could see strands of muscle come together and tie themselves anew. She heard a pop from Seedar’s shoulder as her arm rotated and the shoulder righted itself. The collarbone joined and reknitted itself with a small grinding sound, like scraping stones together. The air was hot and smelled of iron. The glow grew brighter as the skin closed and scarred over the collarbone. Mkaela followed the impulse to ‘push’ and the glow grew a bit brighter against Seedar’s chest as Mkaela felt her body begin to labor vigorously. Mkaela felt new blood coursing in Seedar’s veins. Seedar gasped for air and the glow faded as Mkaela breathed hoarsely. Seedar breathed easily, but in a deep sleep.  

            Mkaela fell back, exhausted. YES. NOW, DO THAT UNTO OTHERS. YOU CALLED AND I WILL HELP YOU.

            I’m so tired. Mkaela forced herself up. There was still fighting outside. She peeked out the door, unaware of the eyes peeking around the window frame on the opposite wall, and spied Damerwyn Perndran and Amryst Veradran. They’ll burn me as a witch if they find out, she fretted before darting out the door.