Forums-->Creative works-->
1|2|3|4|5|6
| Author | The Chronicles of skunder |
|---|
He looked out through the trees; large numbers had already traveled by, leaving few to guard the paths he planned to walk now. He ran;, moving in and out of tree trunks, passing by ground level homes, and expertly dodging the onlooking demons. He finally stopped, panting slightly and gauging his next run. A group of four demons lumbered nearby, eyeing the west, wishing they could join the carnage their brothers were no doubt inflicting. Despite all their longing, demons of any power were subject to a hierarchy, and ignoring direct orders from a superior was hardly ever met with mercy.
The creature’s were large, bovine animals really, though with a tendency for evil. He jumped out at them hitting the ground and continuing his sprint. The closest two turned just in time to meet his criss-crossing blades. Their throats cut, the creatures shook with terrible noises before their legs finally collapsed under them. Guilm was already on the other two, bringing his blades full across his body, slicing long gashes across the pair’s faces. He skid in the dirt, quickly turning as the two still stood stunned. He stepped into them, sabers dashing their way into the hard flesh uner their ribs. When the last had fallen, he continued on, bringing himself closer to the capital’s center.
After a dozen similar bursts of running and quick combat, Guilm rested at the base of the Arbortarium – a massive tree older then the present woods itself. It was the epicenter of their city, the major dealings of trade, communication, and government occurring within its boughs. The elves had molded an entire small city along the exterior of the tree, a whole ecosystem of wood hewn homes and suspension bridges, connecting not only the Arbortarium, but other nearby trees as well. From where he sat crouched in the darkness of one of the nearby surface homes he could see the few score structures up above, the bridges filled with red-skinned staring figures.
At the base of the Arbortarium six demons gathered, speaking to themselves in their deep gutteral speech. Two stories above them the closest tree-line defenders could be seen, a pair of spawns looking out to the battle to the west. Guilm removed his bow, once held by Janneria. He focused deep on the memories of Janneria when she had first started training in the weapon. It was as if he himself had suffered the training. He aimed high; seeking the soft spots in his foes which he knew would be killing strikes.
The first arrow raced towards its target. The second released with lightning speed before the first had even struck. By the time both arrows found purchase, the bow was on the ground and Guilm was charging the six large demons. The offish creatures looked up to see the lone elf coming towards them. They sneered and readied themselves.
The bodies of the two spawns fell from the bridge above, an arrow protruding from the neck of each of the creatures. The sound of their falling startled a few of the demons, and gave Guilm an advantage as he closed in. He ran headlong into the center of the demons standing still, once he got there, as if frozen in fear in the center of the beasts. They all eyed him now, curiously and hatefully. Then the first of the demons moved its tree trunk sized leg forward, and though its hoof hitting the ground seemed a trivial sound in the greatness of the deep woods, it sounded deafeningly loud to Guilm’s poignant ears. | He sprang into motion with both swords raised at eye level, one blade pointed arms length to his front, the other with the pommel resting just above his right shoulder, blade tip pointed outward from his back. The demon’s movement suddenly thrust him into action. His weight shifted to his back foot, and sent the blades to life. His sabers spun overhead in perfect symmetry, like a large whirling fan. For one brief second the metallic swooshing sound was heard just before making contact and in that single movement the six demons lay squirming and dying on the ground wondering in their last gasps of life what had just happened. The images replayed in their memories.
The elf had moved suddenly, his form and swordplay working together in dazzling unison. His weight shifted to his back leg, the first blade striking the demon to his rear full in the face. As the first blade started to its right, the second blade pointed forward began a wide swift arch to his left. As he did his weight shifted to his back and left, allowing him to reach further there. He tore a thin line through the throats of two demons to his left side, then transferred his weight to the right as both swords began their fan-like swing. The right blade was moving only a fraction of a second slower, allowing the second blade in his left hand to start meeting up with it. Completing the maneuver he allowed his left foot to begin to swing out, suddenly increasing his power and speed. The effect was terrifying and brutal. The two demons to his right each received a slash from his first blade followed by a more powerful fatal blow from the second. The last however caught the full brunt of his two swords as the second blade finally caught up with the first. The effect was a two handed swing that lopped the beast’s head off. Spurred by the momentum, the elf continued to spin even after the last of the demons had fallen. The sound of the elf’s footsteps taking the first few steps to the Arbortarium were the last they heard.
After his skillful blow, Guilm headed up the main stairs of the Arbortarium, unconcerned if the other guards opposed him or not. He took the stairs by three’s now, rising ever higher over the elven city. So preoccupied with the silence now from the west, those few guards still in the area seemed to not notice the lanky form pass just behind them. He headed to the council chambers, high in the boughs of the great tree, where he knew he would find Akkarin posing as some sort of king over the defeated elven people.
The thought sickened him – the depths of a depraved soul masquerading as a leader of the same people he had helped to crush. Spurred by these thoughts Guilm hastened, at last coming to the council chambers. The councilors’ chambers were set in the middle of the great tree and were by far larger than the buildings that hung upon the boughs or built from the sides of the tree. During the day, the finest of elven woodcrafters had decorated the outside with beatific artworks and designs. At this late hour though, only thin etchings of their work could be seen, highlighted by crystalline lanterns placed around the many entrances of the chambers. Strangely, there were no guards posted at this or any of the chamber’s entrances. A knot tied up in his stomach at the thought of Akkarin being elsewhere. Guilm knew he had sent many of his soldiers to die in the western front, even though he had prepared for their quick escape. Still, he couldn’t fathom losing even one to find out they had died for nothing.
Guilm approached the door. The knot loosened. He could hear voices inside, muffled but voices nonetheless. He placed his ear to the door, to hear that traitor’s words before he took his life. | There was another voice inside, deep and threatening, its sound was grave, “Emissary Kh'Everst, the elves have fallen. Their capital is overrun and its people our slaves. We don’t need this”, there was a slight pause, “fool, any longer.”
A new voice spoke now, “I assure you Emissary the elven people are not as defeated as you think. They will not remain docile and submissive without guidance.”
The first voice spoke again, “These elves which attack us now can be easily disbursed, they pose no real threat. These words are only those of a scared and frightened man!”
The second chimed in, no doubt sensing the fate of his own life, “I assure you, Emissary, though the whips and clubs of the taskmasters can bring them to their knees, it is the voice of their leader that can make the elven people bow.”
Guilm nearly fell backward from the door. That voice. Could it be? The traitor wasn’t Akkarin?
Then the third voice spoke, as threatening as the first was this voice dripped with sinister intention. It was soft yet malicious, like a snake curled up just before it lunges for the strike. “Enough!” It called out. “Dradthkin, your pettiness is apparent; you think you can seize control by killing these feeble and arrogant fools. Don’t forget that We are the ones with true power over you!”
The being known as Dradthkin tried to rebut, “I don’t need to kill him to gain…”
The Emissary interrupted, “That was neither a question nor was it open to dispute. However, we have the elves and their last Keeper. He will be enough to make the elves bow beneath us.”
There was a moment of silence from inside the chamber and then the being known as Emissary Kh’Everst spoke again, “Kill the elf.” A guttural chuckle escaped from Dradthkin as footsteps could be heard followed by the whimpering of the third being.
Guilm burst through the door, splintering it with a powerful kick. His eyes scanned the room as the three forms before him turned to see the intruder. Directly across from him he could see the traitor, though even hearing him before Guilm couldn’t believe it. Balkaan stood wide eyed with his outlandish appearance, a large Demon Lord – Dradthkin no doubt - standing before him, a black double edged axe held firmly in his hands. Off to their right the third figure had risen from one of the throne-like councilor’s seats. His thin frame revealed little under the dark hooded robe he wore; only his long fingers and sharp facial features could be seen.
Guilm jumped into action, clearing the distance between himself and the demon in seconds. The demon hefted the massive axe backwards hoping to end the unfortunate elf’s life quickly. Guilm came up under the swing, slicing the demon’s leg under the knee. The axe sunk into the wood floor with little problem, but only a second too late to claim the elf. Guilm rolled away coming up behind the demon and sliced twice across his back. Dradthkin bellowed in rage then spun around slamming the butt of his weapon into Guilm’s chest. He staggered back from the sheer power of the demon. | Balkaan realized his plight, whether by Guilm, Dradthkin, or the Emissary, he was a dead man. He turned and bolted towards the door. The Emissary however pulled a hidden dagger from inside his robes and moved to intercept him. The dagger’s tip darkened with a black viscous liquid seemed as threatening as the large axe. Kh’Everst squared off with the unarmed elf just before reaching the doorway. The Emissary swung out in a wide slashing arch, but Balkaan jumped back, keeping his hands up in front of him while shuffling back into the center of the chamber. The Emissary shadowed his movements, a smile visible from underneath his hood showing his love of the cat-and-mouse game.
As the Councilor edged back into the room Dradthkin bore down on Guilm, still slightly stunned from the shot to the chest. The axe, now held in two hands, came down again. Guilm leapt back once more, bringing his swords to the ready. The demon smiled and charged, bringing the axe around in a deadly sideways chop. Guilm maneuvered to the side, but the keen axe blade made its mark. It passed through his frail armor, slicing into the flesh of his arm just below the shoulder. His training taught him not to call out, to bear the pain. He gritted and waited for another attack.
Balkaan moved past the demon and Guilm, skirting backwards away from his stalker. He came to the edge of the Councilor’s ring of chairs, hiding behind one of the large wooden seats, ready to dodge or run if need be. Kh’Everst played along, standing in front of the chair tossing the dagger from hand to hand. His smile quickly vanished and he leapt forward, jumping onto the chair with cat-like grace. Balkaan pushed it forward, using the force to hurl himself backwards just as Kh’Everst’s blade swiped through the air nearly missing him.
Balkaan landed on the ground, his head striking the hard wood and began to bleed. He tried to move but Kh’Everst was on him already. The councilor’s head spun, dizzying him from the self delivered concussion and the blood that flowed freely now from the wound. He saw with blurred eyes how Kh’Everst stood above him, the wide menacing smile, and his large unnerving eyes. Then he felt the sting. The black tipped dagger entered his gut and Kh’Everst smiled even wider, more manically knowing the poisoned dagger would do its work.
In the center of the Councilor’s chamber Guilm continued to dodge and evade the demon’s mighty swings without making much of an offensive attack. The pounding of his chest and the deep slice to his arm made movement painful. Another sideways strike from the axe passed along Guilm’s stomach, cutting into the thin armor there and bringing a thin line of blood to the surface. Still Guilm braced himself. Dradthkin stabbed forward with his axe now, the two tips of the axe pointed and deadly. The nimble elf dodged to the right, not seeing the feint for what it was. The demon kicked forward, sending the elf sprawling into the councilors’ chairs and toppling over them. One of his sabers fell from his hand and he moved back to get it as Dradthkin neared. The axe raised and began falling, just as Guilm had hoped. He grabbed up his fallen weapon bringing both of his blades up into a ‘V’ as the axe came onwards. The sabers caught the axe just before the blade head, stopping its descent. Guilm rose from the ground pushing upward and sending the axe head flying. The affect also raised the demon’s arms high, and opened his defense for Guilm. The expert Forest Keeper turned the ‘V’ into two downward falling slashes, slicing the demon’s stomach open, and spilling the wretched creature’s guts onto the floor. | Kh’Everst heard the battle sounds from across the councilors’ chambers, and saw the fatal blow delivered to the demon lord. Guilm’s head spun towards him, turning his back on Dradthkin, even as it shook from the last pangs of death.
Kh’everst knew what had to be done. He was a statesman, trained in some battle tactics, but surely not enough to take on the demonslayer elf. His tactics were far more subtle, more ruthless, he and his people ruled out of fear and shadows. He knew this battle would end as soon as it began and not in his favor.
The robed Kh’Everst hurled the dagger towards the elf with a violent snare, then ran towards the nearby door. Guilm deflected the blade with his own saber, knocking it across the room, but the effort had allowed his enemy to move too far away. Even now he was reaching for the door. Guilm followed his attacker’s actions, hurling his own saber towards the Emissary. Blade over end the saber twirled as it made its way to its target, then slammed solidly into the hard wood just behind him, catching the folds of Kh’Everst’s robe in the wall. The Emissary yelped as he was flung backwards, seeing Guilm begin to move forward across the large chamber. In panic he pulled the robe off of him, leaving it stuck within the grasp of the saber and wall, then dashed out of the room towards safety and salvation.
Guilm stared on, stunned. The figure of Kh’Everst was revealed as he fled from the room. The image still held in his memory; pale skin not unlike his own people, but his hair was ebony black, the opposite of his golden haired brethren. There was also the symbol Kh’Everst wore under his robes; a black image like a black winged serpent, whose body curled up like a question mark. It was as if he were a separate race of elf, an offshoot or a race unknown to him, some sort of…evil and dark elf.
The sounds of Balkaan brought Guilm from his contemplations. The former councilor was against the wall, on the fringes of death. He raced to his side, seeing the piercing wound to his stomach and the sickly appearance of the cut. Balkaan’s eyes were wide with fear. He knew he was going to die.
Guilm grabbed him roughly by the collar, “Why Balkaan? Why would you betray us?”
The dying councilor spat up blood as he tried to speak, “To…survive…dear boy. It…was the…only…way. Too many. So power-ful.”
Guilm gritted his teeth, not believing that an elf much less a councilor could abandon his own people. “Where are they? Where have they taken our people, and Skyn’Da?”
Balkaan shook violently, the poisoning beginning to claim him. There was no anger left in him, only the need to try to undo what he had caused. “To their home…the caves…to the north.” His eyes rolled backward, his body shuddering. Then at last in a moment of lucidity, the elven councilor spat out, “Flee Guilm! Before the waves of darkness overtake us all!” Then he breathed his last. | Part 2
Entry 1 (Discussion: https://www.lordswm.com/forum_messages.php?tid=1847965)
Cyrallin woke with an urgent knocking at her door. She responded still half dreaming, and Meralind, her lady-in-waiting, hastily entered. “Milady, you have a visitor.” There was hesitation in her voice.
Slightly stirring, Cyrallin asked, “Well, who is it?”
“Milady, it is an…elf. He says his name is Enithian.” The question was clear in Meralind’s tone, as if to say, ‘Ma’am how do you know elves?’
Cyrallin was alert now. She had expected to hear the name of Guilm, instead it was this Enithian. She had no idea who he could be. She had only known two elves, and besides Guilm the other, Janneria, had been killed only days before. Still they had to have some correlation. “Help me to ready myself Meralind. I must go meet this elf.”
In short time Cyrallin was walking down the spiraling steps of the grand chamber, and looking down upon her visitor. The room was cylindrical, and the stairs wrapped themselves around the outer walls for the majority of the expanse. From the middle of the domed ceiling a massive chandelier hung low, fashioned entirely of a rare crystal and infused with magical power. Even in the darkest hour it managed to reflect a dazzling dancing light throughout the large room.
This light fell upon Enithian, and from three stories up he had appeared exactly as Guilm; long golden hair, fair skin, and those same deep blue eyes. She had thought Guilm a rarity, but then again her limited contact with elves meant she couldn’t base her thoughts of them on any one man.
As the princess descended the last few steps, the elf bowed deeply, his form completely bowed over and his head cast down so long Cyrallin nearly felt foolish herself. At last he rose and Cyrallin said, “I am Princess Cyrallin whom you have come for, and though I only just minutes ago heard your name Enithian, I can’t say that I know you or why you have come.”
The elf spoke in the same dignified tones as Guilm had, “I am a Captain of the Forest Keepers. I was sent here by Lord Guilm, he had said you would know him. It is by his order that I have come.”
Though she was glad to hear that Enithian knew Guilm, she still couldn’t draw any conclusion why this man stood before her now. “And what news from Guilm?”
His eyes nearly fell, only years of soldiering restrained him from lowering his gaze while speaking to a superior. “The elven people are besieged. Our lands ravaged. Demon hordes have claimed our cities and enslaved our people. Lord Guilm told me to tell you it was as he predicted. Even now he is marching to reclaim our capital.”
Cyrallin’s face fell, her eyes watering and her hands beginning to tremble. She wanted to reach out, to hold the man before her to ease the pain she knew he was feeling. Regulation and her title forbid her to do so, to never show weakness or give in to emotional whims. She had crossed that line many times before, and she knew this wouldn’t be the last. Cyrallin reached out, tenderly resting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing lightly. True hurt could be seen on her face, and Enithian knew only now that Guilm had chosen well when he sent him to this woman.
“There is more Princess. Lord Guilm has seen to it that not all of our people are lost to the demonic hordes. We have managed to gather several thousand of our people; they are waiting at the edge of your lands. If possible, we seek shelter and safety within your borders.”
Again Cyrallin was overwhelmed with emotion, though it was confusing as both joy and fear descended upon her. She was glad for those who had escaped the tortures there, but she was worried that even have coming here, putting their trust in her and her people, that they would be turned back. Despite being Princess, the kingdom was still her father’s. She would need to coax him to giving asylum to the elves.
* * * * * | “Father, they would not have come unless it was absolutely necessary. They are a good people, just looking for refuge. It wouldn’t be right for Thurlmolan to turn its back on a neighbor in need. Can’t you see that?” Cyrallin pleaded with her father, causing her voice to rise in the echoing chambers of the King’s majestic hall.
“For the last time daughter, we are not a refuge for the elven riff raff which happen to wander too far from their glade,” King Archaelum, High Wizard of Thurlmolan, declared. He appeared as most other wizards, wearing long robes and emitting a smell that reminded many of bubbling concoctions and a stifling smoke. Unlike the others however, he wore a tall crown made of crystal and topped with opulent gems. It wasn’t the arcane smells that were bothering her; in fact she herself was well trained in these arts. What was bothering her was her father’s hardheadedness that had her temples flaring and her jaw slowly grinding.
Standing just a few steps short of where he sat on his cool marble throne, Cyrallin knew had one more turn in this play of wits. She shot him an angry look, pouting her lower lip and letting her eyes grow wet. The effect was instant, cutting like a knife to her father’s heart. His puffy white eyebrows rose in surprise, his mouth slackened just enough for a small gasp of air to release. The game was over, she knew she had won, and the elves would be given refuge in the land of Thurlmolan.
* * * * *
The weeks passed as the elves made their new home amongst the humans. They were given residence in the sparse woodlands in south west Thurlmolan where rocks littered the ground making the fields hard for vegetation, and the nearly treeless landscape allowed a chill breeze which the elves were unaccustomed to. Made even more bitter sweet was that they were just a short distance from the border of the woods they had called home. This allowed them to travel there for supplies, food, or simply to refresh their longing spirits, but it also was a constant reminder of the glade and its massive trees, and that it was no longer their home.
Cyrallin visited as often as she could, helping them to settle themselves in the unfamiliar land and argue their needs to the king and other influential wizards and business men. When it became too hard for her to travel to the elves daily she had decided that an official dignitary would be required to tend to their needs. In days past, ambassadors parleyed between the nations, and they called upon the ambassador to the elves now to help tem as they saw fit, as well as ease tensions between elves and humans similarly.
Enithian remained the commander of the elven people, a sort of ambassador and leader alike. Still his loyalties were to the Council, and he often spoke of the days when they would return to power and the elves could return home once more. Others in the camp were less certain of this. | Sir Gilric had remained bedridden with the wizards during these past weeks, healing from his wounds delivered by the demon Anhkabar. Using their arcane arts, the wizards were able to do a great deal to repair his battered body. Even now though, the mended arm and two punctures made by the demon’s horns still throbbed, constantly reminding him of the danger that still lurked out there.
When at last he felt himself able to ride alone he called for Cyrallin to the medical ward. She came in as radiant looking as ever, her hair held back with a crystalline tiara, her dress a light blue, and when she moved, it spread around her with a mystical effect like clouds circling around a bird’s wings. Still Gilric saw past the glamour of the wizardly affects, he saw the beautiful woman, his betrothed.
“Gilric, you shouldn’t be out of bed!” Cyrallin called out, rushing to his side.
He chuckled, holding back her arms. “Cyrallin, I’ve been well enough to stand for a week now, and even ready to ride for a few days now.” He could see the anguish in her eyes. This would mean he would be leaving. They had spent a few good weeks together, more time than they had spent in the three years of knowing each other. Cyrallin had divided her time with the elves and duty of state, but then would end each evening at Gilric’s side. It felt surreal knowing she would not have him so close in a short while.
She stood, turning from him, hiding the tears that fell silently. Gilric came up behind her, holding her shivering arms. “It’s alright my love. I must go, but I will return. After all, your father seems to have warmed to me greatly.” She turned to find him grinning widely, his joke seemingly have worked.
“Oh Gilric you know my father only allowed you to stay because of political matters.”
“It had nothing to do with my charm? Or your own persuasion?” He said laughingly.
Cyrallin’s tears seemed to stop, “My father fears your ‘charms’ would be worked on me too freely, and therefore despises them more than your countrymen. As for my persuasion, it has only gone so far. I can’t even get him to aide the elves in reclaiming their homeland.”
Gilric grew serious, “We didn’t expect much on this Lin, defending one’s own land is one thing, but going to war for another nation, and one which neither of our people has even had an open arms policy with? I think you have done wonders alone with what you tell me about the refuge camp.”
“Is it enough? You know what’s out there now, what targeted the elves. They conquered them in only weeks Gil.”
“That couldn’t happen to either of our kingdoms, Lin. We’re too well fortified, and their element of surprise is gone.”
She wanted to believe him, but just knowing that it had happened to the elves made her feel unsafe. “Are you so sure?” | He was quiet for a few seconds, thinking, debating within himself. “If not, then even more reason for me to return home. I must go back to give further warning to my uncle.”
“So you think you might have better success than I did in persuading the king to go to war, possibly in making an alliance between Larklan and Thurlmolan?” Her eyebrows clinched together as if to argue the possibility.
He gave another laughing smile, “Oh sure, I will just flash my eyes to my uncle the king, and that will undo centuries of mistrust and border disputes of our people. Then we’ll charge forward into the elven woodlands and rescue all the people in one fell swoop.”
“Well there’s no need to make fun,” she said giving him a light slap across the shoulder.
After a moment’s hesitation, he looked deeply into her eyes saying, “You know I share the same feeling in this coming war as you do. I will do all I can to align our people and pay back what the demons have done. You have my word Lin.”
One of the medics arrived at Gilric’s door, audibly clearing his throat. It was a few seconds later when Gilric and Cyrallin finally looked his way. “Sir Gilric,” the medic announced, “your horse is ready as well as your guide.”
“Horse? Guide?” Cyrallin asked accusingly.
After Gilric remained quiet, the medic spoke up, “Yes, your Highness, Sir Gilric has expressed his wish to ride out to the elven camp before departing for his home.”
She shot Gilric an angry look, then turned to the medic, “You can dispatch the guide then, I will accompany Sir Gilric wherever he wishes to go.”
The two, escorted by a pair of genie servants, rode out to the elven camp, checking to make sure they were getting along fine. They spoke with Enithian for long hours into the night, learning what information they had in the past weeks. No news had reached them of Guilm in some time though.
After spending the night within the elven camp, they next rode to the Larklan and Thurlmolan border. To the north, rain clouds were forming. as they stood on the boundary of their two lands, Cyrallin recounted an old astrological proverb, “Premonitions of dark times to come.”
Gil responded, “They are always dark when you are not near Lin.”
She dismissed him, tears already welling up, “Now is not the time for your poetry Gil. Just be safe, and come back to me quickly.”
He tried to answer, “You know I will, I -”, she kissed him.
She pulled away reluctantly, her fingers covering his lips. “Just go Gil. I’ll await your messenger’s reply when next you will return.” She struck his horse and watched it take Gilric into the northlands - away from her. | P2: E2: (Discussion: https://www.lordswm.com/forum_messages.php?tid=1847965)
The clouds broke shortly after Gilric departed from Cyrallin. The cool rain caused the ride to go slowly, as well as further dampen Gilric’s already cheerless mood. When at last he arrived in Orborin, his home and kingdom capital, he noticed the gloomy nature of the citizens there. Even while passing the gates he noted the guards’ tense stares, their weapons had been drawn while he was still a long way off.
Gilric entered the grand hall after long weeks of absence. He sensed the bleak atmosphere; the deep tension throughout the kingdom had penetrated even here.
Hesitantly he walked through the halls feeling as if he were in a dream. The people’s long faces and somber stares told him something was amiss. It dawned on him as he looked up to find, not his Uncle sitting in the throne, but his own father, the king’s brother.
Gilric stopped, stricken with an unsearchable grief. His mouth slackened and his head wavered. He looked now to where the crowds of people gathered. A box. A coffin. His uncle, the king; he lay there with arms crossed, eyes closed. Horror filled the young knight, he ran forward, past the crowds of crying people who had come to wish their king farewell to the afterlife. He stopped at the foot of the stairs where the throne of Larklan rested. Sitting there, grief stricken, but regal, sat his father – the new king of Larklan.
“What is this father? I go for but a short time to return to this. To our king. Dead? What has happened here father? Gilric burst out in the hall, gaining the attention of the entire court.
At last the King removed his head from his hand, sunken there like a fallen ship to the sea. His eyes wavered until they at last focused on his son, the new heir to Larklan. “Gilric, Gilric, my boy, you return in dark times.”
“This I see father! But tell me, what has happened?” His face begged for answers.
“Treachery, murder, assassins!” The king exclaimed.
“But who? Who has done this?”
“None other than those who would seek to catch Larklan unaware, looking to other foes which would be only mirages. They speak lies to us to beware the West when the danger strikes from the south!” King Avrian spat. | Gilric tried to process what his father said. It seemed too surreal, too much like a horrible dream. The West could only mean the elves and it was his own message that came out of Thurlmolan to warn the king of Larklan. “Father, you mean to say that the wizards of Thurlmolan struck down our king?”
“That is what I have said.” The King sensed Gilric’s doubt, as if he would try to deny this.
Gilric sorted through it all, coming to the only conclusion he had, “This is impossible father. I was just in the kingdom of Thurlmolan. I was under no threat, no danger came of me. It was I who sent word to you, not murderers, not assassins. Something else is going on here.”
The king rose, his eyes widening. He seemed shaken deeply to his soul, the act of standing seemed to be too much to bear – or was it something else. “You? You! You were in the land of our enemy? You were the one who sent the message – to the West – when our foe rises against us from the south? You have slain my brother, the king of Larklan? You, a son of my blood, would rise against his own people?”
“There is no foe from the south father! Thurlmolan has gathered no armies, they don’t bring war upon us. You are mistaken.”
The comment seemed a stab to the new king’s heart. He bellowed, “Dare not speak such words to me boy! I know what traps are being set even now. You spend your time amongst wizards learning their tricks and black magic. You have come to dethrone your own House!”
“That is absurd - ”, Gilric shot back.
“Is it? Or are you just out of tricks wizard’s-fool? I’ll have no traitor in the halls of faithful kings.” King Avrian seemed panicked, his thoughts running only to one thing. “Guards! Seize this wizard’s-friend! Take him from my sight. Put him in the Aukzale Fortress!”
Stunned, Gilric stood in total disbelief. His mind raced, thinking, what have I done? What madness has infected my father?
The guards moved around him, grabbing him by the arms and pulling him off of his feet. The crowds of people stared on, whispers already flying amongst them. Still Gilric’s eyes remained on his father who had returned to the mourning of his brother. He was speaking, repeating the same words until it sounded as a chant to Gilric’s receding ears.
“They will pay brother. Thurlmolan will pay. I will avenge you brother. They will pay with blood”
* * * * * | Guilm strolled into Thurlmolan, his body weary but glad to find a place far from war. After leaving the Blooming Glade he brought the remnants of his army to the refugee camp. Those who survived the attack on the elven capital gathered with their families now. Proud and happy faces stared on those who returned, while other faces filled with grief continued to search the sea of faces searching for those who did not return from the battle.
The battle had gone as Guilm had wanted, a quick strike and then retreat. His soldiers had performed excellently, drawing back fast and far enough that the demon army could not catch them. It also gave him time to reach the Arbortarium and do what he needed to do. He found out about the traitor, though he learned it was Balkaan not Akkarin. He also had killed the demon and found another strange being amongst them. He was neither demon or elf, though his similarities could not be mistaken. It was this that filled his mind now.
Once again leaving the refugees in the hands of Enithian, Guilm made his way to the capital of Thurlmolan. In short time he entered the exquisite city with its tall majestic spires and strange beings which walked its cobbled streets. Those streets led him to the castle where Cyrallin and the king both lived. Having become the commanding officer of the refugee army and refugees, Guilm attended a long meeting with King Archaelum, High Wizard of Thurlmolan along with his advisors. They spoke for long hours about the state of the elven Glade, and the foe which still resided there now. Many times the conversation would return to the plans of the elven people, and Guilm’s opinion on when they would return to their own home. Each time he found no answer forthcoming. In the end he expressed his wish to speak to Cyrallin and when the meeting adjourned the two of them carried the conversation alone.
Guilm commented, “They appear ready to move my people back into the Glade.”
Cyrallin tried to assure him that wasn’t the case. “No, they are only - ”.
“It is okay Cyrallin. I understand. The cords of friendship have not been long or well tied between our people. Maybe when this is over we can find a way to change this.”
She smiled, “I’d like that. But, you did ask to speak to me privately about something more than the plans of my father and his council I believe.”
“Yes, and it’s only a small chance, but you may be able to shed some light on something that’s concerning me.” Guilm paused. “The being that I described to the King and his council, the one who the others called Kh’Everst.”
Cyrallin couldn’t see where this was going, “What exactly are you asking of me Guilm?”
“Well, I know that there has been some interaction between my people and yours in the distant past, the writing of the Chazm Daemonium is a testimony of this. It is quite a long shot, but I couldn’t help but wonder during my journey back here that maybe this Kh’Everst was spoken about in the Chazr Daemonium. Or maybe your libraries have something on him.”
She seemed dubious, and the question remained on her face for some time. Guilm stammered, “Look I knew it was a small chance, but it’s all I have to find a way to bring my people home and avenge those who have died. If there is a way I need to know, to ask - ” Tears welled up in his eyes, but he refused to allow them to fall.
Cyrallin reached for his hand, holding it tightly. “I will look Guilm. If there is anything in all the libraries of Thurlmolan I will find it and let you know.”
Guilm gave a tight squeeze to her hand while bowing to thank her, then turned to the elven camp some miles away. He made his way to be amongst his people, both joyful and grieving, to find peace amongst them for as long as time would allow. | P2: E3: (Discussion: https://www.lordswm.com/forum_messages.php?tid=1847965)
Closing the large tome angrily, a large plume of dust circled above the table. It simply stayed hovering in the stagnant air, without windows or other filter to bring relief from the dry and choking particles. Coughing, Cyrallin grabbed her lantern and headed up the spiraling stairs towards the surface level and fresh air.
The princess-wizard had worked her way through the book listings using library aides and even “Spells of Finding” to search out the description Guilm had given her and the king’s council about the strange individual – elven in build with black hair and that black winged serpent as his insignia. She had found nothing in the greater libraries of Thurlmolan. She had been forced to delve into even more ancient tomes, records dating back before current historians could readily remember, or had apparently been catalogued with their Spells of Finding. She had to seek out the Vaults deep beneath the surface.
Long before Cyrallin was born, the wizards of Thurlmolan had collected vast volumes of books, limiting their space in the surface libraries. Time passed and many of the older volumes were considered outdated and misinforming. They were removed and brought deep below the Grand Library of Thurlmolan, in what became known as the Vaults. The Vaults were a series of interconnecting passages with high arched ceilings and white stone walls. Books had been gathered in nearly every corner of the Vaults and there forgotten for the most part by the wizarding society, each book like a silent gravestone that held so much beneath the surface.
Cyrallin climbed out of the stairwell, back into the street level of the city. She took a deep breath of the night air before continuing on. She had had enough for the night, the eighth day in a row she had spent in the cold Vaults, finding neither the mysterious figure nor anything that led to his strange connection to the demons. This night she headed to do the same as the seven before. | Coming to the edge of town, she approached the gate tower. A single form marched the wall some thirty feet above her, looking to the north with only mild concern. She called out to the guardsman, instantly getting his attention. As she did, a dozen watchful gargoyles turned their stone faces towards her, their tails swishing back and forth like cats on a fence. The guard gave an order and they returned their gaze to the north as he himself began descending the stone stairs.
When he reached the bottom he bowed deeply, begging for the princess to begin. She spoke comfortably, “Good evening to you Haliferm, I trust the night is secure in your hands.”
“As secure as always - the north is quiet and the night is peaceful.” Haliferm returned.
Cyrallin had told the night guardsman, a man of forty plus years the full tale of Gilric and herself. She knew she could trust him not to leak the news that the princess was seeking word from a nobleman from the Larklan monarchy. “So, no messenger from Larklan then either?” There was still a small look of hope in her eyes.
“I’m sorry your majesty, no letter tonight either,” he saw her face fall slightly, and quickly tried to cheer her up, “but maybe tomorrow he’ll write you.”
Her face squished together in a desperate look of determination. “He may, he may not. But he’s going to hear from me first!” She said as polite a goodbye that she could muster then stormed off towards the stables. Arriving there she called for a stable boy with far less tack then she had spoken to the guardsman.
“You there!” She called out to one of the stable boys. He turned, swallowing a smile after realizing who was speaking to him. He was still stunned when she approached, speaking as she did so. “Do you serve the kingdom of Thurlmolan whole heartedly?”
“Y-y-yes yo-your majesty!” He finally answered.
“Then you will do your princess a duty.” He nodded his consent and she continued. “You will deliver a message to Sir Gilric of Larklan, immediately.” The young stable boy gulped down his nervousness, taking a letter that Cryallin quickly scribbled. “Wait for a reply, and return that to me.” Even as he rode off on one of the stable mounts, she stood there steaming inside, wondering what reason her beloved hadn’t found the time to write her in all these days. Too angry to sleep, she turned and headed for the Vaults once more.
* * * * * | Hazum, the stable boy turned courier, bounded from Thurlmolan clutching his princess’s letter with dire emergency. For some time the lights of the city led his mount along the dark, cobbled streets for some distance even outside of the city borders; after a time though he was forced to dismount, and lead the horse by foot. Resting for the night had never occurred to him, either the urgency in his princess’s eyes, or his own fear should she find out he had delayed, kept him moving northward.
When at last the night grew too dark to travel he decided he’d take a short break. Even this he had to talk himself into doing. Just before falling asleep he mumbled to himself, “Eh, besides, in a few hours dawn will come, and I can make the time up then.”
When dawn approached Hazum woke, quickly prepping the horse and mounting with the skill of a veteran knight. He spurred it on along the now dirt paths, his mission keeping him fresh throughout the long day. His horse however rode long and hard, feeling tired despite the known stamina of the sturdy beasts. Coming to the edge of Thurlmolan’s borders he could see the guard houses of Larklan, and Orborin the knight’s capital, not far behind.
He stopped at the unfamiliar sight, awed by what stretched out before him. Larklan seemed active, alive from the fields to the skies. In the grasslands far to the north he could see a long line of what looked liked provisional wagons, food and supplies enough for a large army. Legions of other footmen gathered also, though they appeared as newly drafted peasants and regular citizens. Another large number of bowmen huddled together to one side of the field, their bows slung across their backs as they moved about. Then he spotted the riders; whole formations of iron clad horse-chargers with riders atop, armed with lances and unrivaled discipline. Wonderstruck, he stared on until the next sight nearly toppled him from his horse. Squinting his eyes, Hazum could see winged forms high in the sky, their large frames sporting a wide wing length like he had never seen before, but knew of the creatures only through tale and myth.
Taking in the whole scene, he whistled and said aloud, “Well I never thought I’d see the day. Griffins! And in such large number -” Then the question hit him. “But where are they all going?” | A noise sounded to his left, something moving through the brush a short distance away. He stared, trying to see the forms that moved within the plants and small trees. Then a voice called out, more so to the other forms but uncaring whether the young rider heard, “A spy from Thurlmolan! Kill him before he escapes!” Then a loud noise and force struck him, his eyes dropping to his leg where an arrow protruded from his now bloodstained thigh.
Not understanding he called out to them, “No, no, I’m no spy! The princess sent me -” He reached for his letter inside the satchel only to have another arrow come whisking by his head. He looked up now with dreadful eyes, knowing he would die here on this foreign land.
With his one good leg and a loud shout, he kicked his horse into action, riding hard towards Thurlmolan. A dozen arrows flew out from the brush, falling around the rider without impact. Hazum sighed deeply, feeling safer but still forcing the mount faster. Then they erupted from the brush, a half dozen riders from Larklan with swords and bows alike. Hazum screamed aloud, so scared that tears began to roll down his cheeks. Through the blinding tears he could see the trained warriors were gaining on him, quickly closing the small lead he had made on them.
Hazum’s thoughts raced, the riders would soon kill him and Thurlmolan was too far to escape. If only he could go faster. And then it occurred to him. Though nearly all citizens of Thurlmolan trained in some way as a wizard, he had never been considered much of one, in all his schooling he had managed only a single spell, a simple one, rarely accepted even by wizard society. But then again, he was dealing with knights, not wizards.
Atop the horse, and through blinding pain and tears he began speaking the arcane words that would form the spell. He could feel the power swell within him even as he heard the shouts and unsheathing of the riders’ swords only a short distance behind him. He finished the Rapid spell, reaching out and touching the horse’s strong back. Instantly the animal shot forward, as if it had a full day’s rest and level ground to run. Cries of dismay rose up from the riders behind him, giving Hazum a feeling of security. His spell wouldn’t last forever, but when he looked back his attackers were far behind him and turned around shortly after.
* * * * * | Cyrallin slowly became aware of someone approaching, the rhythmic echo of their footsteps carrying through the deeper chambers of the Vaults. Still she continued her task, so deeply enraptured in her work like how her Charming spells could ensnare the mind. Wizards were not quick to believe in Luck or guidance from Above, but she couldn’t help but wonder at her chances in making this find.
When she had originally entered the Vaults Cyrallin decided to go room by room, and book by book, to search the information she sought. Without the aide of her Finding Spells she was unable to search them with her usual quickness. This became immensely frustrating for her. After taking a short break to send the messenger to Larklan, she returned to the Vaults to ease her anger as best a wizard knows how – by burying their problems in books and scrolls.
This time, instead of continuing in the order she started, she found herself simply walking through the stacks, rummaging through ancient texts, and reading materials that seemed as much interesting to her as on they were on topic. During the late hours of the night, she stumbled upon a separate room in the deepest recesses of the Vaults. Archaic books and items of a time before she could remember, lined the cobweb infested shelves. It was here that she found books which spoke of the alliance long ago between the newly founded nation of Thurlmolan and the elven tribes of the Glade. There was even mention in later additions of the Chazr Daemonium, referencing it as a historical work. It was in this book that she found what she had come for.
The words were written by an obscure author, a historian whose name had disappeared with time. She had nearly ignored the book after reading a few pages of the dry and stuffy writing. The volume was near a thousand pages of recounting stories of everything from the construction of the great Golem Guardian Statue that still stood in the courtyard outside of the castle as well as the separation of the farmlands for the people. She tossed it atop a pile of discarded books, causing the cover to flip open. Brought down by the weight of the cover, the pages began to flip open at an alarming rate. Cyrallin reached out, slamming her hand on the open book before it fell to the floor with a crash. As if guided, she began to read the words:
“This event has become known as The Separation. The division has split the elves, causing a group to splinter off from the rest, relinquishing their precious Glade and instead seeking home under the mountains of the north. Bitter resentment resides in the hearts of those who leave, while only a mourning grief bereaves those who stay behind. Their reasons stay their own, and the elves which stay speak not about what has transpired between the two factions, though I have learned it has something to do with a secret of the Lore Keepers. I fear little else will be learned of this, as both factions have separated themselves from the outside world. Those who remain behind have delved deeper into their woods, while those having left have sealed themselves under what has become known as Silent Hill.” | The words seemed to echo louder to her now than the footsteps making their way into the small room she found herself in. The constant scribbling of her quill over rough parchment remained her focus, copying over the ancient words onto one of her scrolls. Even after reading the words multiple times to herself, and even now writing them she couldn’t help but feel the joy of success, the elation of knowing that Guilm and the elves may be avenged in some small way by her find. She smiled to herself as she finished writing.
Softly blowing the still drying ink, her eyes looked up to see a form fill the passage way of her room. The figure was dressed in the customary gray robes of the librarians, and a covered lantern was held in his frail hands. Recalling his face was not a hard task, she had spoken to him several times just in the last few days.
The librarian bowed slightly, “Your majesty, I hadn’t known you had gotten so far in your studies.”
Still beaming she answered, “Oh, well in truth I decided to skip quite a few sections. But I have found what I came for.” With that she stood, rolling the scroll into a secure case and returning the book to its place on the shelf.
The Librarian cleared his throat, “Your majesty, a messenger has returned from the castle. He is awaiting you in the higher chambers of the library -”
Cyrallin spun around, startling the man, “Does he bring news? A letter?”
“News indeed your highness, I can take you to him at once.”
Too late. After finding the information Guilm needed, and now with the prospect of Gil’s response she was too overjoyed. She ran pass the shocked librarian, nearly knocking him into one of the stacks of books. She yelled back an apology as she bounded through the ancient texts and up the spiraled stairs.
When she arrived at the top her hair was thrown about, and her breath coming in large gasps. She threw open the door loudly, once again startling the nearby librarians and the young man she had sent on the mission to Larklan only a few short days before.
Walking forward, she tried to regain some of her composure, but even this wasn’t enough to hide her delight. “I was told you bring news good messenger! So where is it? Where is the letter?”
Hazum stared at her, alarmed. “Your Highness, there is no letter.”
Her confusion was evident in her face, but then quickly brightened. “A poem then that he has asked you to recount for me? Well then, go ahead.”
Hazum’s face grew red. “There is no letter your Highness, there is no poem either.”
Cyrallin began to comprehend. Her eyes scanned the messenger, seeing the bandage that wrapped his leg. Still some of the blood showed on his stained pants. She remembered what the librarian had told her, but only now questioned it. “Messenger, the librarian said you had come from the castle. What news would you bring to my father there that you can’t or don’t wish to speak to me here?” | Hazum breathed deeply before trying to explain, “Your majesty, I never made it to Larklan. I never found Sir Gilric. I was attacked at the border after seeing their armies amassing. The nation of Larklan is heading to war milady.”
“War?” The princess nearly shouted. “With who?”
Hazum didn’t have time to answer. A deafening noise sounded from somewhere outside. It was nothing more than a scream, but magnified beyond anything of a normal man. She ran to the library doors, swinging them open as others filled in behind her to see the commotion.
Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening in alarm. The figure of the Golem Guardian Statue that she had so recently read about was alive. The being, as tall as a house, let loose another terrible scream from its inhuman lips. The wizards and their servants and creations all turned to the great statue as one. The gargoyle statues lining the Thurlmolan walls and buildings rose into the air, circling like a flock of giant crows, darkening the daylight sky. The golems marched in unison towards the monstrous golem in the courtyard, their unnatural eyes never leaving his large form. Genies now appeared, their forms floating through the crowds to reach the point of summons.
Cyrallin looked to where they gathered, at the base of the Golem Guardian Statue. There, with the entire High Council, stood her father, King Archaelum, giving approval to the entire event. And then his words, amplified by a Projection Spell emitted throughout the city, louder even then the Great Golem had been.
“Gather your troops, ready your spells! Thurlmolan is going to War!” | P2: E4: (Discussion: https://www.lordswm.com/forum_messages.php?tid=1847965)
Far behind her, Cyrallin could see Thurlmolan’s capital, a distant spot on the horizon. In front of her was the elven refugee camp, which by now she could make out the small huts that they had created within the thinly growing woods. After the initial surprise of the massing wizard army, the princess had tried to speak with her father. She was however turned away while he decided the course of the kingdom to the city and then in private to his council. She knew that even she wouldn’t be able to get inside the Grand Chamber now.
Feeling useless, she turned from the city and its war. She knew that in short time the surrounding land would be swarming with scouts and soldiers in much larger number. Their job would be to make sure no one enters or leaves the city or its surrounding lands. It would be impossible for her to reach Guilm once they had locked down the roadways and other passes, so she fled at once. After speaking with the messenger Hazum, she rode off towards the west. Despite her constant watch for approaching scouts, she was unaware of the traveler which rode towards her, trying in vain to reach her before she entered the elven camp.
The elves on watch welcomed Cyrallin, taking the reins of her horse and tethering her mare in the makeshift stables they had constructed. She was led directly to Guilm whom she had indicated she needed to speak to.
Guilm had been made the official leader of the elven people as he had the respect of the elven army, as well as being the highest remaining military rank. Of course there were others, but after the seizure of the elven capital they had been killed or mysteriously taken away. Despite his influence, Guilm was neither king nor ruler. By his own choice, he required that a ruling council reside over the elven people. He sat in a crudely made hut, along with a half dozen other elves which had been told of Cyrallin’s coming. Among them were the most respected leaders of the community including Enithian, a wise elder known as Pryvius and his daughter Quetlisse an elf maiden who shared her father’s good judgment.
Cyrallin bowed deeply upon entering, a sign of great respect considering her standing. The elves bowed in return, accepting her graciously.
Despite Cyrallin’s eager expression, the wise Pryvius managed to speak first, “Welcome Cyrallin. We were expecting someone from Thurlmolan in short time. Truthfully, we’re glad it was you, someone we respect and who will tell us honestly.”
She seemed confused, “Tell you what honestly?”
“We heard the sounds of war, and our eyes are much sharper than even what the spells that wizards could provide. There is an army forming in your city. Your father has decided to remove us from his lands, hasn’t he?” |
1|2|3|4|5|6Back to topics list
|
