II. Tales from a Nagarathi midwinter's eve....

[Headshot]

Part One

Spring had come to Nagarythe. The long winter months had finally released their hold upon the countryside, allowing for the first blushes of life to return to the hills and valleys of that northern country. In the foothills of southern Nagarythe, near the borders of Ellyrion and Tiranoc, the country’s often cited epithet, the “Shadowlands” seemed belied by bucolic views of low-alpine meadows bespeckled with white and gold flowers, gentle babbling brooks, and tall stately groves of white birch and sun trees. It was said that these southern meadows and hilltops were the last remnants of a Nagarythe beyond memory; the country from…before. Before the treachery. Before the cataclysm of the Sundering. This small area of apparent rustic paradise was all that remained of what should have been.

Still, it was a good place to be to watch the first shudders of spring come to the world. And Narrin’Tim, Shadow Warrior of the Host of Nagarythe, was happy to be there. The Host, the army and retinue of the Shadow Prince of Nagarythe, the highest military commander in all the country, had come to the southern hills because of ship sightings between Nagarythe and the distant colonies; which meant that a battle with some form of ship-borne raiders could well be in the near future. But at least for a few minutes on a warm spring afternoon, Narrin’Tim smiled and enjoyed the sunny breeze, as he helped set up camp for the evening.

He had other reasons to smile; chief amongst them was slowly walking towards him. Tarabeth, youngest daughter of the Great House of the Western Peaks of Chrace, both a princess and mage of respectable potency, was coming towards him with a casual ease. This day her long flaming-red hair was allowed to fall loose about her, silky and straight, to the small of her back; except for a single braid that began at her left temple. It was warm enough that she had eschewed her customary Chracian leathers and furs, and was dressed in a long flaxen gown of creamy white, that caught in the afternoon breeze, making her seem to drift among the birches like one of the sylph-like attendants from the faerie court of the Everqueen, the near mythical co-ruler of all Ulthuan, the sacred land of the Asur.

The generous curves of her figure, outlined by the wind-blown gown, raised a heat in Tim’s blood. Narrin’Tim blushed at his thoughts. He stood as she grew near. Tarabeth seemed to notice his early discomfort; she blushed as well. But then she flashed him a dazzling smile. Tarabeth stepped close to him. “Come find me tonight. I have a special surprise for you,” she murmured as she brushed her lips across his ear, sending another flush of heat through his body. Tim nodded and swallowed.

He watched her depart, marveling at his good fortune. Why a lowly Nagarathi Roma should have caught the eye of a Chracian princess, he could not imagine. It was a mystery.

It was…

The wind shifted, tugging at her gown so that it rippled like the sea upon a shore. He had seen that same pattern before. A memory protruded. White and green robes upon a gravel stone shore. Narrin’Tim’s happiness of a moment before evaporated like mist in the morning sun. In its place, a sharp sting of irritation.

Why had she left?! Without a word! Without a farewell! Without a…anything! In that small port-town in Cothique; that rainy winter morning some months before. Anna’lis of Saphery. His friend. His… He had known her for years! And just like that, she had left the eagleship they were voyaging on from the man-countries at the first port it reached in Ulthuan. By the time Narrin’Tim had known anything she was already gone. And….

And….

And…. He didn’t know. But he did know that there was a heaviness inside of him. An emptiness that refused to leave. It kept on intruding in his life, no matter how much he tried to ignore it. No matter how much he tried to be happy. It was there… a hollow feeling of loss, the likes of which, he couldn’t understand. Or put into words.

Why?

The aged Palin’Tanith, Shadow Walker and his immediate commander, was the only other elf nearby, working the pegs on the far side of the tent he and Tim had just set up. He was - rather indelicately - clearing his throat.

“Just spit it out, old crab,” Tim mock-groused. Tanith came out from behind the tent and sat down upon one of the bedrolls stacked to its front.

“Mind your tongue, boy,” he said in his distinctive gravelly voice. “Or I’ll pull it out from that ugly Romani mouth of yours, and then slap you down the hillside and clean out of this forest ‘til I’ll be rolling you into the sea!”

Once Narrin’Tim would have been in terror of Tanith. Palin’Tanith was of the Sea Folk, the hardy Nagarathi nomads who lived among the islands in the northern seas. Too close to the cursed Altar of Khaine, and always the first to bear the brunt of any sea-borne invasion, the Sea Folk were considered hardy and draconian amongst a folk widely considered the same amongst the elves of the southern lands. And Tanith seemed to be an exemplary of a will to survive: his face and arms were crisscrossed by numerous savage looking scars, including one bright red one that cut across the entirety of his lower throat. Tim knew that many of those scars (most definitely including the latter) were from a horrible time spent in captivity in Naggaroth, the Land of Chill, under the cruel ministrations of the Druchii Khainites, sadists and sybarites all, who derived particular pleasure in the inflicting of pain on their one-time kin, the Nagarathi. That, and with his silver hair tied into a wild gangle of braids, made Palin’Tanith a fearsome sight. If nothing else, it was well known that he was the oldest of the Host - a warrior, and trainer of warriors, from a time long before Narrin’Tim was even born – which made Tanith a respected, and occasionally dreaded, figure amongst the soldiers of the Shadow Prince’s camp.

But many things had changed since Tim had come to the Host some four years before. Narrin’Tim had responsibilities now. In the wake of the casualties suffered in Brettonia, a whole new crop of Nagarathi recruits had been taken in. And to his surprise, Narrin’Tim found himself for the first time in his life in the role of ‘teacher’. He had spent months showing the new archers stalking and communication tricks that the Host’s Shadow Warriors use; the proper way to set up a picket; how to ration one’s arrows, and produce new ones quickly; the best place to lay a bedroll in unfamiliar terrain. Now, Tim wasn’t even the youngest member of the Host anymore! That dubious distinction lay with the younger of the Aveyn brothers. Tim would watch him stumble around the camp, both hands white knuckled on his longbow, eyes searching every bush as if a Druchii quarrel was going to fly out at any moment, and couldn’t believe he had ever been so young and naive! Again, much to his surprise, Narrin’Tim was considered one of the ‘veterans’ of the Host: he had fought in battles; he had faced numerous enemy forces; he had the trust of the Shadow Lord. And consequently he had worked close with old Tanith. They were friends now.

“We both know that you are not going to have any peace until you say what you have to say,” Tim offered as rejoinder. “So just go ahead and get it out!”

Tanith glared a little longer, but then gave in. “Fine. You want me to speak. I’ll speak. Boy, have you given any thought to what you are doing?”

Tim knew immediately what Tanith was talking about. It was an uncomfortable subject. He gave a noncommittal shrug.

Tanith snorted in reply. “Yeah, I thought so. Look, you know it ain’t about her. I love her to bits. She’s a great sweetheart and a well-meaning girl all the way around. But look, there ain’t no easy way to say this, but she’s not from your world!”

“Just because she’s from Chrace isn’t any reason to stop,” Tim muttered.

“That’s not my point,” Tanith snapped back. “Though I wouldn’t be too quick to dismiss those differences either. I’m talking about her station, boy! She’s a princess from a Great House!”

“So?” Tim snapped in turn.

“So?! So what do you get when you take the ‘great’ out of ‘Great House’?” Tanith glowered. “Yeah, that’s right. You get ‘small house’. The likes of you and me!”

He continued. “See, when her ancestors were standing shoulder to shoulder with Aenarion, the ancestors of folk like you and me were manning the walls. Or feeding the horses. Or shoveling the dragon dung!” Tanith finished with another snort.

“I don’t see why that should matter,” Tim groused.

“Well, it does,” Tanith spoke with finality. “It matters to awful powerful people too. What do you think her brother is gonna say if he finds out that his baby sister is shacking up with some Romani dirt farmer?! Huh? You know what he’ll do! He’ll issue an honor challenge! And then, there ain’t nothing that nobody can do about it. Not me. Not the Shadow Lord. Not nobody!”

“I can fight!” Tim said with a glare.

Tanith shook his head. “Now ain’t the time for false bravado, boy. I’ve seen her brother fight. And if he comes at you, we’ll be pulling pieces of you from out of the trees!”

Tim glowered for a few long seconds. But then glanced down at the ground with a frown. “It shouldn’t matter if there is love,” he grumbled.

“Well? Do you?” Tanith barked back.

“What?”

“Love her, boy?”

“Ugh. I…. Ummm… Well, I…” Tim stumbled for a bit.

“Un huh,” Tanith said with another shake of the head. “Boy, sometimes I love you like my own son. And then sometimes I’d swear that you are the dumbest elf in all Nagarythe!” The old scarred warrior stared at Tim while a sardonic smile played across his lips. “You are willing to risk a Chracian battleaxe to the forehead for an ‘ummmm…well, I….’ are you?”

Tanith’s laughter echoed in Tim’s thoughts for the rest of the day.

***

That evening Tim found his ‘surprise’. Lying there covered in a sheen of sweat in an isolated tent off in the forest, Tarabeth sleeping peacefully beside him, was a moment of…confusion. He felt spent, exhausted, and wonderful. It had been a while since….well, since that festival night in his home village. And looking at Tarabeth’s form, outlined in the soft moonlight…. she was a vision of elvish perfection. The lines of her figure. The creamy complexion of her flawless skin. Even the way her long scarlet hair draped across his arm, and fell over her shoulder. She was a fantasy of beauty made soft, warm flesh.

And yet…. something felt wrong.

I should feel lucky! Tim thought to himself. Look at her! I don’t deserve her. Back home I could never imagined ever finding someone like her!! And yet…. No! I do feel wonderful!!

And yet…. Was it even possible for someone to feel equal parts wonderful and miserable? Tim would have thought it impossible before. Now. He wasn’t so sure.

What’s wrong with me? He wondered in the privacy of his own thoughts. I have everything I could have ever desired, and yet, it just doesn’t feel…complete.

I should just be happy. And stop being stupid. I should just…. I don’t know….

He stared at the moon-glow seeping through the top of the tent. Suddenly the thought of a two-handed Chracian war axe fixed his attention.

“I am so dead,” he whispered to the night.

***

The next morning Tim and Tarabeth found themselves strangely shy around each other at breakfast. But following that they took a walk together, hand-in-hand, around the perimeter of the camp.

“Spring is really upon us now,” Tarabeth was chattering gaily. “It’s going to be a lovely time now!”

Tim nodded. The princess continued, “And I was thinking, well, it’s such a good time to travel that maybe we could take some time to head back home! To Chrace!”

“Ummm….” Tim said, with typical elegance.

“You could ask the Shadow Lord for time to travel,” Tarabeth continued. “And then we could book passage on a ship. Or! We could just take Swift Talon! Oh that would be wonderful!! I’m sure the passes between Nagarythe and Chrace will be clear of snow soon. We could travel just the two of us across country until we get to my castle! Wouldn’t that be wonderful?!”

“Ummm….” Tim repeated with a nod. Somehow the words ‘my castle’ - so casually thrown into the conversation - had fixated him.

Tarabeth was looking at him now with a slight frown on her face as they walked. “But I don’t suppose we could do something about your hair on the way,” she mused.

“My hair?!” Tim asked with a start. He reached up and touched his head, clean shaven, except for the braided strip that ran from forehead to the back and ended in a long queue. “What’s wrong with my hair? This is the way the Nagarathi Roma have always worn it!”

“Oh, and I love it, dear!” Tarabeth said with a pat on his cheek. “But it’s just not very....Chracian. It would be such a shock for my family when you meet them! I could just see my mother’s face!! Oh that would be awful! Hmmm….” she frowned. “I don’t suppose you’d have time to grow it out by then. No. Perhaps you could wear a hat! At least at first. Until they get to know you. And maybe….hmmmm, maybe at first I should just introduce you as a friend…. Or perhaps an attendant! Of course, just until they get to know you better…..”

She continued for the better part of an hour, when Tim was (gratefully!) called away to patrol duty. The patrol carried him far and wide through the forest hills. He didn’t return to camp until late that afternoon. He made report with his Shadow Warrior brothers, and then sought solitude in the forest outside camp.

Coming upon one high overlook, with a view that stretched all the way to the western sea, he sat down.

What am I going to do?

He liked Tarabeth. He liked her a lot. But going back to her…castle! That had never been a part…. Well, he had never even thought about it. How had things rushed so far out of his control?

He thought back to last year the same time. The first of spring. They were in that tiny mountain village in eastern Nagarythe, he remembered. That small tavern, in the common room. Tim remembered he had been playing with that new deck of cards. Anna’lis had been there then, of course. She had always been there. Ever since he first joined the host. Anna’lis had come from the White Tower in distant, near fabled, Saphery just a few days after he had been recruited from among his people in western Nagarythe. It was his skill with a bow that brought him here. Her skill with spellcraft did the same for her. And they had joined just in time to witness the Host’s trial against the undead forces in the northern isles, so near to the Altar of Khaine. His first battle… Well could he still remember the terror he had felt….

But that spring day, Tim remembered playing with his cards, while Anna’lis lay on a window-lit bench on the other side of the tavern common room, her nose buried in some book. Tim had gotten bored, so had tried to get her interested in a game. That was impossible, of course; once she got started on a book it was impossible to pull her out. So he had tried flicking the cards across the room, to see how many he could land in her lap (he remembered actually getting a fair few; just like with archery, he was always good with his hands and eyes). Until she had lost her temper and used her magic to transform his entire deck into moths. Oh, he remembered how angry he had been. His new deck! Gone from his hands in a creepy, flutter of white wings. But thinking back on that memory now, Tim found himself smiling.

She had always been there….. He remembered his first birthday after coming to the Host. A terrible lonely time it was. And only Anna’lis and the Shadow Lord had given him anything (a new quiver from the general; Anna’lis had given him some small book…it was still in his pack…somewhere….). And he remembered their smiles on the voyage back from the isles and Bretonnia. Her stories of Saphery, and growing up in the shadows of the mythical Avelorn forest….

Suddenly a whole medley of memories flashed through his mind. He saw her face, the concern written clearly in her eyes after that battle in the human Empire with the foul beastmen. Her touch upon his arm as he hurried to help the Shadow Lord in the terrible conflict that followed. Her whispered, “Be careful…”. He saw her face as she looked at him with a tenderness…. And then he remembered, the cold blackness that he had sunk into after that quarrel had struck him through. The dark blood. And then the sinking into the stone floor, until all was night. He had heard her voice in that place. Anna’lis calling to him. And he had felt a warmth reach out to him, like a gentle hand, pulling him back, out of the evernight.

It hit him in the chest then. A blow. Her face. Her eyes. The crooked smile she would sometimes flash him. And suddenly he knew where this emptiness he had felt these past months had come from!

Something had been torn out of him that day in Cothique. Not by witchcraft! Not by violence or danger! Just a silent parting….

Narrin’Tim stood up with a moan, hands on his face. How could he have not known?! Why was he such a fool?!

“What have I done?” he whispered aloud.

He heard a soft tread approaching. Turning, he saw Tarabeth walking towards him carefully. A small frown on her face.

“You are not coming with me to Chrace are you,” she made it a statement, not a question.

Tim, sadly, shook his head. She stood there, in her lovely white gown, looking regal, and yet vulnerable at the same time. So beautiful. And yet…Tim knew where the sadness inside him was coming from.

“You are thinking of her, aren’t you?” Tarabeth challenged. “Don’t lie. I’ve seen you…before.”

“Yes,” Tim answered, quietly. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?!” she scowled. “So…what was I then?! Some sort of plaything for you?! Some toy??”

“What!” Tim started. “No! I, ummm… I just, you are so beautiful! And, ummmm, I-“

And then there was the crack of bone, and Narrin’Tim found himself stretched out upon the forest floor, blood pouring out of his nostrils, in between spurts of sheer agony. His nose was throbbing like he couldn’t believe; feeling all twisted, and just wrong!

He blinked against the tears of pain, and looked up to see Tarabeth standing over him with her hands on her hips. The expression on her face was one that Tim couldn’t imagine being far off of that upon a Hag Queen of Naggaroth!

“I’m no man’s play thing!” she snarled. She pulled out the long hunting knife that Tim had given her the year before.

“Whoah!” Tim raised his hands.

With a flick of her arm the dagger flew, and buried itself – to the hilt! - in the ground just between Tim’s legs!

And with that, the princess from Chrace turned and stalked off.

***

“Kreyshia sans isha’ben non pelli,” Tanith said with a cruel smile, as Tim sat in front of him. It was the old Nagarathi saying: ‘Pity the man who marries a Chracian!’

Tanith eyed his bloody face clinically. “Well boy, it’s a nice break. And this is gonna hurt something fierce, but its gotta be done,” he added with another smile.

Tim moaned.

Tanith reached out and grabbed his nose between two fingers..and jerked! Tim gave out a mighty scream!

“Oh quit your bellyaching,” Tanith muttered once Tim had stopped. The old warrior was rinsing a cloth in a basin. “Just think if she had’ve hit you in the mouth! You don’t want to see my dentistry.”

“Is it bad?” Tim asked tremulously while Tanith held the cold cloth up to his nose.

“Nah! You are still as ugly as ever!”

“Oh,” Tim moaned.

***

Later that evening, Narrin’Tim came up to the brown silk pavilion that the Shadow Lord used. There was a bandage on his nose. And his nostrils were stuffed with little bits of linen that had been destined for his bowstring. But that wasn’t important now. He knew what he had to do. He cleared his throat at the tent entrance.

“My Prince, may I enter?” he called out.

“You may,” he heard from within. Ducking, Tim entered the spacious tent.

The glowworm lamps were already set up, filling the interior with a blue-ish light, that was contrasted strangely with the russet and golds of the evening sky filtering in from the open tent flap. The Shadow Lord was seated on a low, folding stool, to one side facing a similarly low, folding table with a large sheaf of papers on it. At his side was a chest, that was jammed with even more leafs of parchments. Narrin’Tim always marveled at how much paperwork was required to keep an army in the field: requisitions for supplies, disbursements, and letters of all kinds. The Shadow Lord had once quipped that in the Host of Nagarythe he spent more time on his penmanship than on his swordcraft.

Narrin’Tim stood tall at a respectful attention. His longbow was strung upon his back, and his short falchion was sheathed at his hip. Under his arm he carried his bedroll and satchel; the entirety of his meager travel gear.

“Shadow Lord,” he began. “I would like permission to take a short leave from the Host.” That wasn’t enough; and Tim knew it. He hated to say what needed to be said, so he waffled. “I need time for….a personal matter.”

The Shadow Lord looked up at him with that inscrutable face. Though Tim thought he caught the hint of a twinkle in his eye.

His voice, however, was serious. “You know the oaths that you have taken. To me. And to Nagarythe.”

“Yes, Shadow Lord,” Tim had prepared for this. “But just this one time,” he wheedled, “I think I can serve Nagarythe better by going away, than by staying here.”

The Shadow Lord looked at him for just a half a heartbeat more, and Tim could almost swear that he saw the smallest of smiles play across the elflord’s face, but then the grave prince turned back to his paperwork, and said, “Permission granted. Take the time needed for personal matters. Write upon your planned return.”

“Thank you, Shadow Lord,” Tim turned to leave.

As Tim was exiting the tent, he heard the Shadow Lord say in a nonchalant voice:

“By the way, Narrin’Tim. It is a short walk from here to the Eagle Gate.” Looking back he could only see the Shadow Lord’s outline as he wrote upon his desk. The prince continued.

“From there one could head due east to Tor Elyr. Once there, I imagine that one could find any number of ships that were bound for fair Saphery.”

He dabbed his long white quill into an ink bottle. Then added,

“If that was where one was bound, of course….”

***

Happy Halloween!!

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

It's all saints day here, and you sir should be sainted ^_^

[Elithmar]

Oh dear. Well, she was quite right, she's not a plaything, but there was no need for breaking his nose. Really, Chracians...

It's good to see you back again, Headshot. I was wondering the other day when you'd be back.

I certainly wasn't expecting that, but it's good to have a surprise every now and then. 'Twas a bit sad when Anna'lis just wandered off like that.

Ah well...

Looking forward to the next part!

Tiralya, yes, indeed, All Saints. It was a very enjoyable mass that I went to this evening...

[Malossar]

I refuse to read this until all the parts have been posted so i'm not left wondering when the next update will come.

Damn you and your talent damn you i say!

[Headshot]

Part Two

Rain fell upon sea and stone. A thick fog curled its way around the shore, wrapping its tendrils about the thick groves of evergreen and the sea-lashed stones alike. What little could be seen of the sea was iron grey, like the fog; but here and there, jagged protruding rocks loomed in the fog like black sentinels standing a cold vigil. The morning sun was hidden behind thick blankets of cloud and mist, so that the light was a wan, pale shimmer that seeped past the rain.

Two elves waited upon the shore. They wore long wax-cloth capes grey-green in color with hoods raised in a vain attempt to ward off the weather. Moisture beaded upon the capes, like dollops on leaves; but they were helpless to stop the wet from reaching skin and seeping through layers of clothing: the water spit off the rocks and shore with every wave hit; and the mist itself was heavily laden. It was a miserable morning to be out, and yet the two stood there, stoically, waiting, with eyes roving across the mist covered sea.

There! A shape in the fog. Their vigil was rewarded. The elves watched the shadow draw closer to the beach, revealing a small ship’s runner: a light craft barely a score of feet long, pulled across the waves by the work of a matching pair of oars. The two elves waited with obvious anxiousness as the craft came closer and closer to where they stood upon the beach. It entered into the shallows with a final rush, and the scratch of wood on sand and gravel. Piling from the front of the craft were three elves dressed in long black scale cloaks; they hit the beach with a poise attesting to long experience, short crossbows in their hands, leveled at the two waiting figures. Both elves raised empty hands. One said:

“We greet you in the name of the Witchking!”

The crossbows remained pointed at their hearts, but one of the newcomers gave a terse nod in recognition.

A fourth figure clambered out of the boat. An elf, like the others, but so unlike in appearance as to seemingly be from another species. The fourth figure was not wearing the sea cloaks of the others, but was dressed in long black silken robes, cinched at wrist and ankle; the cut of the hem was such as to allow ease of movement. A variety of length of blades sat snugly in a belt about his waist. More rode a sash over his shoulders. And still more were girded to thigh and forearm. But it was his physical appearance that truly set him apart. Whereas both the black cloaked boatsmen and the two waiting watchers in grey were dark of hair and pale of complexion, this newcomer was crowned in a luxurious length of white-blonde hair that fell loose about handsome features that were ruddy in tone. He surveyed the surroundings with steady pale blue eyes. Seemingly satisfied he approached the two elves in grey, while his companions returned to steady the craft.

“We greet you Brother Night,” one of the watchers called forth with a salute across his chest.

The newcomer eyed him coldly and then said, “I have received my temple-name. I am now Elthion Strangler.” The two in grey gave curt bows. The blonde newcomer continued, “What of the watchers?”

One of the waiting elves reached for a sack at his feet. From its bowels he produced a pair of bloody black scalps. “Two Nagarathi Wardens were claimed by the Shades. None more are in these forests.”

“Good,” the blonde said. “And the Host?”

“At your command,” the one with the grisly trophy replied, “We dispatched three Corsair ships to the south, to prey upon the vessels between Nagarythe and the colonies. The fool Shadow Lord took his force there to intercept.”

The blonde nodded. “Did you procure the goods I demanded?”

The other of the watchers produced a large satchel, set it down, and began unpacking its contents. While he did so, the newcomer, Elthion, stripped himself of all clothes and accoutrements. Soon he was standing before them in naught but a loincloth. His tall figure revealed a chiseled lithe muscularity, that was covered with white scars, and more forebodingly, black ink-drawings of Kaela Mensha Khaine, in all of his many manifestations: images of Khaine as the black executioner were intertwined with Khaine, the poison chalice, or Khaine the silent needle, buried into heart or throat. But more so than any other was the icon of Khaine the Strangler, hands clasped about the throat until the last air of the supplicant was squeezed forth betwixt thumb and forefingers.

Elthion passed his many knives and weapons belts to the elves in the boat. Keeping only one thing: a short length of silver-cord, wrapped about a pair of stocky ivory grips. He tested this, his favorite tool, and with a snap the cord stretched between grips; the silver flashed in the morning light.

Another nod.

The two watchers handed him the satchel’s contents: white and brown robes; sturdy leather boots and belt; soft and supple gloves. And lastly, a long fur cape, of the brightest white.

Elthion dressed. In moments the skin-writings were safely concealed. And before them stood….

“Brother Strangler, you could pass as one of the hill barbarians!” one watcher marveled.

“That is the plan, fool!” Elthion snapped. He adjusted the lion’s cape, so that the head and mane set comfortably on his shoulder. Then he secluded his garrote into the Chracian belt. Lastly he ran his fingers through his long platinum locks, untying the few braids there. The hair fell loose about his shoulders. He stood erect.

“We also claimed this.” The watcher offered a mighty Chracian war axe. Elthion took it. He gave it an experimental swing.

“The weight is different from the Draich,” he mused aloud, thinking of the great executioner blades favored at his temple home. “But I will become accustomed soon enough.”

Elthion looked up and surveyed the forest next. “What news from Anlec?”

“We have traveled as far as the entrance,” the watcher answered. “One tunnel remains as of yet undiscovered by the traitors. It will lead to the secret pass beneath the Annulii.”

“Good,” Elthion said. “Give me a map and guidance.”

“We will not be coming with you?” one watcher queried, confused.

“No. Wait on the ship with the Corsairs. Keep watch for the agreed upon signal,” Elthion instructed. “I will travel alone, and with haste, to the inner kingdoms.”

“There will be no problem unto Anlec. The Shades guarantee it,” the watcher added.

“Excellent,” Elthion said with a smile. “Speed is of utmost demand now. The Witchking is wroth to have his property returned….”

***

Narrin’Tim waited in the small white cell nervously. He could scarce believe he was here: the fabled White Tower of Hoeth itself!

He had followed the Shadow Lord’s suggestions. A few days of travel - first through the monumental Eagle Gate, with its garrison of thousands of warriors, gathered from throughout all of Ulthuan; a force so large as to dwarf the Host! Then across the rolling plains of Ellyrion, and he had finally set foot in Tor Elyr, the legendary “City of Bridges”. Its silver arches linked the islands that formed the foundation of the great city network, and connected the bastions, lofty towers, and slender multi-storied houses of the elves that lived there. It was another childhood fantasy of Narrin’Tim’s, a place that seemingly came from the dreamworld, made real in blue and white stone. There was nothing to compare in Nagarythe. Only the ruins of Anlec could compare in size. But that place was cursed; the Nagarathi avoided it.

Narrin’Tim had gawked like the provincial he was as he walked those picturesque avenues, admiring the glass work in the arches and shop windows, and marveling at the slender white vessels that prowled the canals. The two days he had spent there had been a spectacle of the senses. It had been so strange to be in a place surrounded by fellow Asur, so similar in so many ways, and yet they spoke strangely, ate strange food, and gave bows from the waist with some sort of flourish of the wrist that he had never seen in Nagarythe. All very odd! But at least they had been polite; and after a short jaunt in a seaside tavern he had found passage on a merchant’s vessel plying across the Sea of Dusk and Dreams.

That had been another marvel! His cold northern eyes were used to seeing a harsh sea; a grey sea; a storm lashed cold leviathan, that could at any moment unleash the force of war and pillage. But the Inner Sea was so unlike as to scarce deserve to share the same name! The waters were placid and calm, mirror-like in its reflections and shine, and, for the most part, still as glass. The inner sea had a beautiful azure crystal color to it that took the breath away, and was so transparent that he could see the colorful fish and coral below, bedecked in a fiery array of hues, that seemed to glow through the water. One night they did glow; and as the merchant’s ship passed overhead, it seemed as if it was gliding over the silent panoply of an unearthly fireworks display, flashing and bursting in the depths below. He had leant over the rails for hours that night, just watching the schools of glowing sun and moonfish dart left and right; the long slender luminescence of the gold eels - nearly draconian in size – glide through the arches of the reefs below, like fiery streams of lava passing through stone and vale. And then the following morning they had passed through a part of the Sea of Dreams in which the still surface of the water, for as far as the eye could see, was covered by tiny white flowers set upon emerald green pads. The ship carved through them like an ice skimmer from Cothique; except the weather was warm and soft; a luxurious spring day.

The captain, an elf from Lothern, had occasionally shared the deck with Narrin’Tim. At those times he was wont to point to spots upon the horizon and tell him things like, “There lies the Gaen Vale; the Home of the Everqueen.” Or, “That is the northern coast of the Isle of the Dead, and that shimmer you just see above the black, the Vortex!” Narrin’Tim could scarce believe that he was selling through legends! To think that that one dark smear upon the horizon, represented the hope of all life! That without it all the mortal realms, as surely as all the works of Asur, would fall into the nightmare abyss of Chaos…. It was more terrifying than he could imagine. Especially since… it was right there! Just a tiny spot on the horizon. Not a story told by one of the elders across a midwinter’s campfire; but a real, solid place, that he could just about make out, if he squinted hard enough. It made him feel very fragile and small. And humble before the awesome might of his ancient forebears.

And then on the fourth day out he had spied it – the White Tower of Hoeth; the gleaming pinnacle that was the home of the most potent wizards known to the world today – piercing the sky like a great pike, firmly planted in the earth. It had just seemed a white line perpendicular to the horizon at first. And then they grew closer. And the sheer size of the spire, climbing upwards past cloud and eagle wing, until it seemed to brush the very rays of the sun itself, dawned upon him! Anna’lis had told him about it, of course. But her stories, back in Nagarythe, had just been a place in his imagination. ‘Tall’ and ‘mighty’ had just been words. But seeing it for himself he felt a dread sense of the awesome sorcerous powers at work; the force of will and magical skill that must be involved to raise, and keep aloft, such a monument of stone and crystal!

He had left the ship at a port that seemed to lay at the foot of the tower, only to be told that actually it was still some hours walk further inland. The townsfolk had warned him of the forest and gardens that surrounded the base of the tower. The powerful enchantments that would turn the unwary away. They had told him that he must be pure in his intent to travel to the tower, or the very trees would reshape themselves until he was turned about and found himself once again at the edge of the wood. So he proceeded carefully, and cautiously, his mind constantly set on the white pinnacle that he knew towered above the leafy canopy, until some hours later he had stood at the base of a gorgeous multi-tiered garden, its many levels linked by white marble steps, and at its center, the tower and its golden gates. Up close Narrin’Tim had marveled anew at its size; before he had thought of its height, but at its base the width of the tower drew his breath in astonished gasps. It was hundreds of feet across! And with its height… All of Nagarythe could be housed within! He realized in astonishment.

The swordmasters at the door had passed him within, to the care of a series of young administrators and assistants. And now he waited, with baited breath. Narrin’Tim had told them that he had traveled to see the apprentice Anna’lis. They had looked at him confused. He had repeated the name a few times; finally writing it upon a piece of parchment. With that they had led him aside to this small waiting chamber, equipped with cushioned divan and table set with fruit and flowers. And Tim had waited, nervously pacing the room at first, his stomach a knot of excitement and emotion. It had been nearly six months since he’d seen her! He couldn’t believe his own torrent of feeling and anxiety. He felt like a caged lion.

But an hour had passed, and he had finally settled to rest upon the divan, when the door handle turned. Anna’lis came in, dressed once again in the long flowing white and green robes of an apprentice of True magic. Her face and figure was just as he remembered: tall and lithe, like one of the graceful river birds of Nagarythe; her hair was short and sun-touched blonde, with just a hint of wispy curls; her face beautiful, with high cheekbones and deep blue eyes and dark full lips. The only mar, a slight white line across one cheek; a memento from that dreadful day in the evil forests of the human Empire….

Narrin’Tim burst into a heartfelt smile and leapt to his feet.

“Anna’lis!” he greeted, still grinning from ear to ear.

“Annalyth,” she corrected coolly, her face not showing any emotion except a slight pursing of her lips. “Why are you here, Narrin’Tim?”

“I….I….I,” Tim floundered, looking for the right words. “I came to see you!”

“Why?” she challenged.

“I…I..I just,” Tim flustered; his thoughts ascatter like the butterflies in his stomach. “I just wanted to see you!”

Anna’lis frowned. “That is foolish. To come all this way for so little purpose.” She crossed her arms across her chest, and added, “You have wasted your time.”

Then she turned and moved to the door, and said, “And now you are wasting mine. Good day!”

And with that, she was gone, leaving Tim gaping at the empty place where she had just been standing.

***

For some reason Narrin’Tim had always believed that it would never rain in Saphery. Now he knew otherwise. He sat under the talons of a tall gold griffon statue at the base of one of the flight of steps leading up to the Tower, and felt the cold rain pelt down upon his head and face, adding a cold dampness to his utter misery.

I am such an idiot! he thought, and not for the first time. The scene from the waiting room kept replaying itself in his mind: her cold, haughty expression; his fumbling for words. What should I have said? What could I have said!?

She looked at me like a stranger! Tim thought, and felt diminished. The years of living so close together…. Just gone! In a few months time. What should I do?

He hadn’t a clue. So he sat there, growing ever damper in the modest shelter provided by griffon’s head and beak.

“A Nagarathi? Beneath Tiralya? Now that is something one does not expect to find,” a voice mused aloud.

Not wanting to deal with the world just yet, reluctantly Tim cast a shy look up and over to the stairs. He saw a tall elf in burgundy robes, with long hair, loose and frost-white. In his hands he held the strangest of things: a parasol. Stretched white canvas formed a tent against the rain above him. Tim gave him what he hoped was a polite nod, and then returned to staring at his boots.

“Not a student by the looks of you,” the stranger continued. “If you would pardon my curiosity, I would wonder what brought one of the People so far from home?”

Tim looked up again, feeling a hint of irritation. He wished to be alone with his misery. He said shortly, “I am not a student. I came to visit….someone.” And then turned back to staring at the spot of earth between his feet, hoping the strange elf would take the hint.

“I see,” the elf with the parasol answered. “I come out here sometimes in the rain to watch the rainblossoms bloom. They are part of the enchantment of the labyrinth.” He explained. “And then I spied you yourself here. Again, forgive me, but it is such a curiosity I had to investigate. This of all places!”

Despite himself, Tim’s curiosity piqued. “Why is this place special?”

“Oh, just because this statue is avoided by all the students. They call it ‘Tiralya’ because they say the griffon has Loremaster Tiralya’s nose. And no one wants to be under Tiralya’s nose,” he added with a sly wink.

Tim looked up above him. “I guess it isn’t a good spot to sit.”

“No, that my young friend, we can agree on. But I do know a good spot, inside, out of the weather. Come! Lets you and I sit in the warmth and converse for a little while. It has been a great deal of time since I’ve had a chance to hear the elvish of one of the People,” the white-haired elf said with a gesture towards the golden gates above. “And I certainly couldn’t leave one of the People outside in the rain! Narrith less kynn’barr and all that…”

Tim started. It was the old Nagarathi dialect for “never leave a brother behind”. He stood up. “You are not Nagarathi….”

“No, my friend that I am not,” the elf said while offering the parasol up. Tim stepped beside him. They started walking up the stairs together. “But many years ago, more years than I care to think about, I went there as a young apprentice. I spent several years there…happy years, living among the People…” he said with a fond smile. “But I am from Yvresse originally.”

“I am Narrin’Tim, of the People of the Wind,” Tim introduced himself.

The white haired elf smiled. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Narrin’Tim. And I am Tiralya….”

***

Twenty minutes later and Narrin’Tim was walking down a corridor, high up in the Tower. Very high up! It was an amazing thing. He had followed Tiralya up a short flight of stairs and through a door, but when he had stepped out, he knew immediately that he was now standing somewhere at a much greater altitude. Tim had spent most of his childhood living amongst the Romani of the floating isles of Nagarythe, and so had a sense for this sort of thing. He could feel it ‘in his ears’ like they said back home. And then when he had passed an open window and saw the mighty pinions of a great eagle flash by, only a few arms-reach away, he knew it for certain. Of course, it was the magic of the Tower. Or of Tiralya. Tim had concluded, and it made sense for elves living in such a place. But for the first time in his life, Narrin’Tim felt a slight pang of jealousy that the blessings of Isha had never shown themselves in his family.

“Ah, I see that Lord Gallus has returned,” Tiralya said.

At the end of the corridor was a modest wooden door. And standing to its side was a Chracian warrior. Tim recognized that he was of Chrace immediately: he wore the white furs and carried the axe of one of the woodsmen warriors of the highlands there. But even without those obvious marks of status, he was fair of hair and complexion, and tall and broad-shouldered like most of those people. The warrior nodded to Tiralya as they approached. Tiralya responded with a smile and wave. Tim and he passed through the door and entered the office beyond.

It was like no office Tim had ever seen, or imagined. The room was filled to the brim with pots of soil - large, small, and all sizes in between. From the pots, plants of every shape, color, and texture sprung forth. Tim recognized the black leafed Shadowland’s Fern, as well as Skystone Moss (growing upon a small floating skystone that hovered over the desk buried amongst the greenery). But there were dozens of flowers, shrubs, nettles, and desert cacti that he had never encountered before. Beyond the desk, and off to one side of the room, was a wide passage to an open air balcony; well, it should have been open air, except someone had enclosed much of it with a makeshift wooden frame and glass, turning the once spectacular vantage point into a mini greenhouse. Rain pattered along the grey-streaked glass. And on the other side of the room was a tall, vaulted arch window. In it stood a magnificent Wing-Brother – one of the Great Eagles of Ulthuan – twice the size of any elf, and many times the strength, the avian watched the room with a brilliant, gigantic, golden eye of incredible intelligence. Tim gave a quick bow when he saw the creature.

The eagle just stared back, unblinking.

“Warm tea, Lord Gallus?” Tiralya asked as he made his way about the room, dodging plant and leaf with a show of long familiarity.

“No. I can never understand why you favor that barbarian concoction,” a voice said.

Tim found the speaker almost immediately. An elf in grey robes and silver armor sat in one plush chair near the desk (and partly under a potted pine). His hair was long and black, and he was pale of skin, like the majority of the Nagarathi. But it was clear to Tim that he was not of the People. His dress, manner, and speech were all foreign. Still, it startled Tim to see his coloring, because he was beginning to think that all the elves of the inner kingdoms were of fair complexion. The most remarkable feature of the elf was the black leather eyepatch that covered his right eye.

“It is not just the barbarians that drink it, Lord Gallus,” Tiralya continued from where he was pouring a pot into small serving cups. “Many of our brethren in the colonies of the east now take it with their meals. I understand they even trade for the herbs with the men of Cathay.”

“Be that as it may,” the one-eyed elf lord answered, “I will not partake. Thank you.” His good eye was roving across Narrin’Tim. “Who accompanies you?”

“Ah, yes. Narrin’Tim of Nagarythe,” Tiralya said warmly as he passed the small saucer-cup to Tim. “I’d like to introduce you to Patriarch Gallus, an Archon and Speaker of one of the Great Houses of Tor Yvresse. I am helping him with an expedition he is planning.”

Tim gave a short bow in the Nagarathi style to the elf lord. The lord watched him with a curious expression.

“You are no apprentice,” Gallus observed. “Your manner is that of a warrior. Of Nagarythe?”

“Yes,” Tim answered. “I am a warrior of the Host.”

Lord Gallus literally sat up with that remark. “Of the Host? The Shadow Prince’s Host? You are a Shadow Warrior?”

Tim nodded. The elf lord smiled. “It is pure serendipity then that I stopped here one last time to visit my friend before travelling onwards…Narrin’Tim, was it? Perhaps I could convince you to join in my venture.”

Tiralya laughed good-naturedly. “Gallus, you know no end to greed for your expedition! You have already claimed two apprentices! One of my own and most dearest, I might add. And now you are trying to steal my new friend as well? The gall!” The old elf shook his head ruefully. “It won’t work. The Nagarathi care not for Yvressi silver.”

“The Shadow Warriors are the greatest scouts and trackers in all Ulthuan,” Gallus replied. “Those skills would be invaluable to where we are going. And the reward would be a small fortune.”

Tim was already shaking his head. “I’m sorry, my lord. I have duties in Nagarythe. Which I must return to…shortly.” He finished with another pang in his gut, as his memory flickered back to that morning’s meeting.

Tiralya spoke, “There. Didn’t I tell you? You will just have to be satisfied with Annalyth, and the other apprentice. Oh, and yes, before you ask, I had Gwynnrith herself,” he said nodding at the eagle, “deliver the message. My contact will be waiting for you.”

Tim couldn’t believe his ears! “Anna’lis!” he blurted. “Ummm, Annalyth,” he mouthed the awkward foreign pronunciation, “the magus, will be going with you?”

Lord Gallus eyed him curiously. “Yes, the Saphery girl. The journey we embark upon poses some danger, and perhaps, magical…obstacles. So I sought the aid of the Tower.”

Two heartbeats passed as Tim stared back at him. The word ‘danger’ kept rushing through his mind.

“I will come,” he said quickly.

Lord Gallus smiled. Then Tim added:

“Where are we going?”

***

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

Well played sir, my Prince Elessehta must have borrowed the idea of that statue for when he named his griffon in the forests of Yveresse. I also like the 'Yvressi', I may have to borrow this...
You do now have three forks in the story, you love the challenge?

[Headshot]

@Tiralya

Oh no, it isn't a challenge! The stories are Narrin'Tim's; I just write them down.

Please feel free to use or ignore any of the stuff he tells me about your side of Ulthuan. (Just make sure Aussies in your neck of the woods know how to spell Nagarathi!! ).

Thanks for being a good sport for the character!

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

It's probably more like Elessehta visited Hoeth to see his old tutor, and someone made a statue copy of his griffon, young mages these days playing with geomancy =P
I rep Yveresse, but respect my brothers from the other side of the island.

[Headshot]

Part Three

Narrin’Tim slumped down at the end of the dock, his back against the final post, and faced the village. Behind him the Sea of Dreams was lit with the eerie green and blue bioluminescence that helped to give it its name. But Tim ignored it; his eyes fixed on the village. It was beautiful; a tapestry of white glows and gentle rustles in the night breeze, surrounding the small cove and its dock. Actually the dock itself was the largest wooden structure in the village. The houses of the town were made exclusively with a brutal frugality when it came to wood; only the frames were occasionally of wood, sometimes metal. The walls were lattice work, upon which was stretched a curious silk-like textile the locals made from glowworm pods. Here, at the northern end of the Finuval Plains, trees were a scarce commodity….

Well, in a sense. Tim looked to the north. There across the river, lit in the spectral blue on blue reflection between sea and star, he could see the towering shadowy outline of The Forest: the border of Avelorn. Yet, even so close to that massive woodland, no elf would consider crossing the river for the sake of something so plebian as timber. Avelorn was beyond sacred. The home of the Everqueen…was the place that many considered the birthplace of the elder race. Its verdant woods the cradle of the life of all the Peoples….

Tim’s eyes returned to the village. The strange silk-walled houses glowed in the night with flickering yellows of homefires, or dull blues of glowworm lamps, presenting a muted pastel of color. Each house became like one of the colorful globular paper lanterns the villagers liked to festoon the streets with in long lines of swaying spheres of incandescence. And behind them, to the distance, towering above all, the tall manor house of the mage-lord Anurion the Green, and its many terraces teeming with flowers and plants of all kind.

It was gorgeous. And it was Anna’lis’ hometown. Both facts should have made it a place of joy for Tim. But he watched the town with a mixed feeling of irritation and bitterness. Two days out from the Tower of Hoeth by Hawkship had brought them here. And in those two days, Anna’lis had scarce said two words to him. In fact when she had first learned that he was to be accompanying the mission, she had shot him a look of venom and disdain. Tim had wanted to explain things to her; to just speak with her. But she had avoided him the whole time on the ship. Preferring to spend it with the other apprentice.

Which was another problem. Tim’s eyes narrowed. The other apprentice, newly come to the Tower, was from Caledor, and according to Gallus, already considered a savant in pyromancy. His name was Calossar; the nephew of some Caledorian High Lord. And he wore robes of red and gold, with fancy high collars and long sleeves beset in gems and jewels, flaunting a wealth of cut and make. He also happened to be regal tall, of long blonde locks and square-cut good looks.

Tim didn’t like him. Not one bit. He didn’t like all the time Anna’lis spent with him on the ship. Didn’t like the way she laughed at his witticisms, or the way they had stood on deck, huddled together, sharing confidences. Tim especially didn’t like the way, that morning, the tall Caledorian had helped Anna’lis off the vessel with a casual hand resting on the small of her back.

Tim’s eyes narrowed even further. Yes, he didn’t like that at all.

And now the two of them were off somewhere in the town together. Visiting her home, she had told Lord Gallus. While Narrin’Tim was sequestered away at the small portside inn….like some hired hand!

Tim seethed.

Of course, perhaps that wasn’t fair. Tim tried to calm himself. The other members of their small expedition were also staying at the inn. Besides he and the two apprentices, there was also Lord Gallus and his three Chracian bodyguard attendants. Cut off from the apprentices’ conversation, Narrin’Tim had tried to find some comradeship amongst them. But Lord Gallus kept his own confidence, and rarely spoke, except on expedition matters. The Chracians, as loud and boisterous as any of the highland peoples, still were a closed group and grew cool at the Nagarathi’s approach. So Tim had spent most of the time on the vessel speaking with the final member of the expedition, Gallus’ grown daughter, Nevernili. She was tall and dark like her father. And at first had been aloof to him. But the close quarters of the ship, and the long hours of their journey north, had gradually driven them together. They had pondered the meaning of the strange quest they had set out upon together.

It was all about a plant. Tim shook his head, as his thoughts flew back to that meeting in Loremaster Tiralya’s office. The loremaster had shown him a tuber, brown and unassuming, except for a set of four growths that sprung forth from its body like limbs.

“The Dragon’s Tooth,” he had explained. “Sometimes called, mistakenly I might add, the ‘mandrake’ by the men scholars. It is an incredibly rare specimen. One that was long thought extinct in Ulthuan…. But this one here was sent to me by one of my contacts in Avelorn. Quite a find!”

Tim had frowned at the tuber. He had asked, “Why is this so special? Is the plant valuable? A medicine?”

The old scholar had smiled at him, and said, “For me, life finding a way, here through all the aeons, is enough a matter to rejoice. But I’m afraid that Lord Gallus has more practical reasons to be undertaking this expedition.”

Gallus had nodded at that. “There are legends from the time of King Aenarion, in the First War with Chaos, that says that these plants were a gift from Asuryan himself. Sent to us at the time of our darkest hour to aid us in our plight.”

Tim must have looked skeptical as he stared at the little brown tuber, because Lord Gallus had hastened to add, “I have investigated this issue myself in the libraries of Tor Yvresse, as well as here in Hoeth. And all the accounts of the peers agree, that these plants were used to seed a great magic.”

“What was it?” Tim had asked.

Lord Gallus had turned then to Tiralya. The loremaster had said, “Legends say that once, when the Phoenix King was beset by the foul Brass Legion of Chaos, at a time when he was alone and cut off from all aid, he had summoned his power and waved his hand across a field of Dragon’s Teeth.” The loremaster had paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. “And the legends say that from the Dragon’s Teeth a Host of fell warriors of potent skill and ithilmar arms and armor had arisen to fight at the King’s side.”

“And,” Lord Gallus hurried to add, “the legends also say that these warriors went on to aid Aenarion in some of the greatest battles of the war. Furthermore, that after the war, it is said that some of these spirit-warriors took wives from among the Asur, and formed houses of their own.” Gallus smiled. “It has long been said of my own house in Tor Yvresse, that we are descended from one of these arcane champions.”

Tim looked back at the dirty brown tuber, eyebrows arched. Tiralya laughed. “Yes, it is quite a feat from such a humble beginning, is it not!” Then the loremaster’s face had turned more thoughtful. “But that does not make it untrue….”

Then the ancient elf had said with a shrug of the shoulders, “But what is certain is that it was an act of magecraft that no one has since repeated. Not even Loremaster Teclis.”

“Because the Dragon’s Tooth was thought lost!” Gallus had said.

“Perhaps,” Tiralya had conceded.

“So you wish to travel to Avelorn,” Tim had wondered. “To see if you can find more of this plant? To do what? To summon warriors?”

Lord Gallus had leaned back in his chair at that and eyed him with a cool expression. “You say that as if it is some small thing. I would have thought a Nagarathi warrior could appreciate the magnitude. But no, you are not from Yvresse,” he had said with a shake of his head. “You have not seen the empty houses, manors, and wards of Tor Yvresse. Have not seen the garrison thin upon the walls! A city built to house tens of thousands, now scarcely harboring a tenth of that! We cast our net far and wide in the East to fill our citizen levies. It becomes harder with every passing year. Some have even proposed calling up from the womenfolk! Not just the exceptional commoners, or the shieldmaidens of the noble houses, but training even the ordinary daughters and sisters in warcraft, just like the levy! As if we should return to the barbarian ways before Asuryan’s blessing!” he had finished with a scoff.

Tim had thought of Nagarythe. Most of the women of the Romani were skilled in weapons of war, the bow and the knife. Every hand was needed to defend a village or camp from a raider attack. And any isolated traveler could become victim to seaborne violence; especially an Asur woman, the likes of which the Druchii Corsairs valued more than all others. Still, while some of the finest practitioners of the bow and spear in his home village had been women, few made it into the Host. They were considered just too valuable to the People….

At least that was what the elders had said. Though Tim had sometimes wondered if the real problem was that it reminded them too much of the old ways of Nagarythe…and the modern ways of their wretched northern kin.

“But imagine, if the Dragon’s Teeth can be found….” Lord Gallus had continued with an eager light in his good eye. “If the spell can be recast. A host of noble Asur called forth from the Beyond to join their brothers once more in our time of need!! Once again the walls of Tor Yvresse would be crowded with mighty warriors, clad in silver ithilmar….”

And so they had set out for Avelorn. This small village – Anna’lis’ home – was their final stop before crossing the great bridge, and entering the Old Wood. To find...Lord Gallus’ dream of a new Host.

Tim fixed his mind once again on the dreamlike village glow. He should return to the inn, and get some rest. The next part of the journey would be on foot, Lord Gallus had told him. Until they met Tiralya’s contact beyond the river.

But still…. Tim hadn’t seen any sign of the Caledorian returning to the inn.

Maybe he should just go… and check. Yes! Just go and check to see if Anna’lis was alright. Tim stood up and hurried into the village.

Tim found her small house easily enough. (He had surreptitiously watched the two make their way through the village that evening.) Using his skill in the shadow-craft, Tim slipped into the small, enclosed garden. Anna’lis’ home was single story and long with two perpendicular wings which formed the rear garden. In it was a small grove of fruit trees. Tim sequestered himself into their shadows, while his eyes searched the flickering silhouettes outlined through the cottage’s silk walls. He found the two easily enough standing and talking in one of the wings. In a moment, one of the wall screen panels slid to the side, opening the interior room to the night. Tim saw Calossar standing there, looking just as proud and handsome as ever (the bastard!), his eyes probing the night. For a moment it seemed as if the Caledorian’s eyes met Tim’s, and a slight smile seemed to tug at the corners of his mouth. But that was impossible. No stupid Caledorian apprentice could penetrate a Shadow Warrior’s stealth! Then the Caledorian turned into the room and called out something to Anna’lis, who seemed just about to part. The tall girl hesitated at the door to the room. Calossar stepped forward, and then….

And then he kissed her! Full on the lips!!

The bile filled Narrin’Tim’s throat. A murderous rage filled his breast. He turned his head so that he wouldn’t do anything rash. And in an instant fled the garden.

***

She dug her fingers into the loam of the forest floor. She paused for a long moment to allow the soil’s warmth to penetrate her flesh. She could still feel it: the anger; the outrage. In the soil. In the wood about her. The trees straining to whisper along the wind; to call to each other. But she had been careful. Very careful. She had slept for a century; hiding herself beneath rock and root. And in that time she had wandered these glens only in dreams, stretching out with her thoughts and desires until she was able to find the song between the roots. The voices of the trees as they whispered to each other….and beyond. They were so old. But she was careful. And once she found the song, ever so slightly, in her dreams, she had sung to them too. Softly at first, but with ever greater command, until finally she had been heard. One or two had started to join her then. A few more she tricked into somnolence. And then, with ever greater care, she had left her forest tomb to scry the woods with her own eyes. To study its contours and ways; to know its life and motions. To hunt between its boughs and brambles under the moonlight. It hated her, and yet, thanks to her caution, it now knew that she was a part of it. Her allies were there for her to call upon.

And she would make more. She needed more. For her protection.

She started scraping at the soil, until a small hole was formed. She reached into her bag and pulled forth the seed. It was ancient. More so than even this forest. A gift from the Lizard Gods, she had been told all those centuries before by her first master.

She placed the strange shaped seed into the hole. Its magic would take root in the soil, mixing with the life of the world. But first it needed form. It needed shaping. It needed direction, before left in the earth womb to germinate. This too, her first master had taught her about.

She drew forth a small knife, and drew a cut across the palm of her left hand. Clenching it into a fist, she let the blood dribble down past her fingers, slowly falling into the soil, and upon the body of the seed.

“Know me,” she whispered. And then covered the hole with the soil…. Just as the dread necromancer had shown her. Just as Nagash himself had performed the ritual all those eons ago in the sands of Nekhara.

Yes, soon, soon she would never have to fear again. Soon this land, all this land, would know her….

***

“The river has many names. But most around here just refer to it as the River Avelorn. Obvious as it marks the end of Saphery, and the beginning of the Everqueen’s domain…. Isn’t it magnificent?!” Nevernili said with a smile from the peak of one of the arches of the massive bridge. She was leaning on the railing facing the downstream of the river as it flowed out towards the sea. They called this the “Dragon Bridge”, because of its long shape of arch after arch as it ran the near half a mile to cross the mighty river. It was a beautiful and elegant structure; crafted just as much with an eye towards the aesthetic, as for allowing for the river’s many permutations.

“Un huh,” Narrin’Tim muttered.

“You aren’t listening Tim,” Nevernili said with a sad smile. It was true. Tim and she were walking at the front of the party as they all crossed over the bridge. But Tim’s eyes kept sliding to the back of the party, where, past Gallus and the sturdy Chracians, he could see Anna’lis, walking hand in hand with… that Caledorian!

Nevernili laid a reassuring hand upon his arm. “She’s just in pain, Tim,” she said.

“Huh?” Tim looked back at her. “What are you talking about?”

Nevernili blushed a bit. “I have watched her. And you. On the ship,” she explained apologetically. “I can see she is hurting. She needs time. Maybe you do too.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Tim turned and walked further along the bridge. He could see the far side now; he quickened his pace.

The bridge ended and Tim stepped off. His first footsteps on sacred Avelorn soil. It was a momentous occasion – something he had thought he would never do – and yet his mind and heart were in such turmoil that he could barely appreciate it.

What’s the point of traveling so far to experience the miraculous if my heart isn’t ready for it? He thought. And immediately felt foolish. Forget her! He walked further on.

There was a clearing at the end of the bridge and in it were set up a mixed array of tents, pavilions, tables, and shelters. It was a trade fair; busy under the morning sun. Many of the elves Tim saw moving about were from Saphery; he could already recognize their robes of bright white and grey, with splashes of blue or green. But there were others there trading with them. These elves were different. They were especially tall and fair – their hair running in a pastel wash of light browns, greys, or white-blondes. Without exception they wore their hair long, and in intricate braids. In that way they reminded Tim of Chracians. But whereas the Chracians were tall and broad of shoulder, these elves were whippet thin. Tall like rapiers. And they dressed in cloth of greens and browns; and occasionally tight leather wrappings: bracers, halters, or breeches. The most startling feature was that many had ink writings on their skin. That was rare in Nagarythe. It was once a common custom, and a few of the mountain tribes still practiced it, but because of the popularity of the art amongst the Druchii, it had fallen out of favor for much of Nagarythe. However, the Druchii use inks black and silver, drawn from the beasts of the sea; these elves had skin writing of delicate blue, depicting swirls and shapes that were strange to Tim. Some even had drawings upon their faces.

“Avelornians,” Lord Gallus stated the obvious. “I will get the last of our supplies here. Then we will pass along the main trail there.” He pointed. “Tiralya’s contact is supposed to be waiting for us further in. I will meet you at the trail head.”

Tim nodded. He was in no mood to shop, so walked deliberately over to the edge of the trail. The path wasn’t very wide, and it was untreated – no paving, no cobblestones – just a hint of crowning of packed earth. It was also barely wide enough for three to walk abreast. And the forest! The forest began to bloom with a vengeance, just at the edge of the clearing. It surged up towards the sky with a verdant energy that Tim could scarcely believe. The trees were tall, and of huge girth, caked in moss and fungi. Ferns bloomed between their roots, and formed carpets in the shady spaces between trunks. Here and there were brambles and growths of younger copses. Vines and green fronds, rich in sapphire, ruby, or emerald bright blossoms dangled from the canopy. Strange birds, of bright yellows, or blue with long lilac combs, and crystal-flashing dragonmoths, fluttered between the growth.

Amongst all that, the trail resembled more of a tunnel, lit in subdued greens, punctuated by the occasional golden streamer, where a sun’s ray found purchase through the foliage. The air of the trail was thick with floating seeds and petals that danced upon the breeze. And the smell! The scents of the woods were nothing like the sturdy pine forests of Nagarythe. The sweet smell of the flowers was mixed with the damp mustiness of moss and toadstool; the acrid tang of dead wood merged with strange scents carried upon Spring breezes that shifted through the lofty boughs above.

“That is why we are not bringing steeds.” Nevernili was standing next to him again. Tim blinked at her. “You asked earlier why we didn’t have any steeds for the expedition,” she explained. “There are few places within Avelorn where even the hoofs of the Asur horses can ply at anything more than a careful walk.”

“Have you traveled here before?” Tim asked.

The dark-haired girl flushed and shook her head. “I am not many decades out of my childhood,” she said. “But I have so longed to visit this place! I have read every book that I could find in the libraries in Tor Yvresse. And in the White Tower.”

Tim nodded. “Were you an apprentice then?” he asked, and tried not to think of Anna’lis.

“No. No. Much to my father’s disappointment Isha’s grace did not find its way into me like it did my mother and grandmother,” the girl said. “But my father liked to bring me along on his business trips… to show me a bit of the kindgdom. And…” she stopped suddenly.

“And?” Tim prompted, curious.

“And…well, a daughter of a Great House has responsibilities. To the house. Alliances. And well, my father wanted me to be seen,” she said, flushing furiously.

“Ah,” Tim didn’t know what to say. His thoughts strayed to Tarabeth. Another unpleasant topic.

Loec has been playing games with me, he sighed in the silence of his own mind.

“Come!” Nevernili pulled on his arm. “My father is an Archon of Tor Yvresse, which is another way of saying he is a trader at heart! He spends hours haggling in the assembly with the other Houses. You can believe he will haggle over every silver here! And I have always heard that Nagarathi longbows are the most deadly bows in all Ulthuan,” she said. Then she added with a sly smile, “Of course that could just be the boasting of young boys. Or are you afraid to try your skill against my little bow?” she nodded to the short, recurved bow she wore across her shoulder.

A few minutes later they had set themselves up in a clear space not far from the trail entrance. It was obvious they were not the first to have that design here: a few old bales of hay had been set up at the base of a tree, and were riddled with the puncture marks of arrow tips. Narrin’Tim watched Nevernili shoot first. The bow she used was not dissimilar from the one the Sea Guard used. Except the carvings, and lacquerwork was strange. It was a lush rosewood colored wood that he wasn’t familiar with. The arc of the arrow flight showed that it had much less force to the string then his own longbow. But Nevernili fired the arrows at the higher arc with speed and skill, hitting the target on nearly every try.

“Alas my father was denied another son,” she said after her last shot, a light sweat showing on her neck and brow. “So our swordmaster had no one else to train. But I have been practicing with the bow for as long as I can remember.”

“You have great skill,” Tim complimented.

She smiled at him, with a coy wink. “But how am I to know what to make of that remark, Master Archer Narrin’Tim? Since you have not shot. Should I be flattered under the eye of a bow veteran? Or feel insulted by the mockery of the pretender?”

Tim laughed and in one smooth motion unshouldered his longbow and released a shot. He had carved his bow himself, some ten years before, from the lightning trimmed limb of a Nagarathi black yew. Working and bending the wood, over and over, until his father – and more importantly, he – had been satisfied. The pull of a Nagarathi longbow is famous for its weight: 70 pounds was common. Narrin’Tim’s bow was considered ‘heavy’ amongst the people of his village. And only muscles and fingers accustomed through long use could have hoped to pull and release the weapon with such dexterity. The arrow flew straight, and buried itself in the center of the bale.

Nevernili was smiling and flushing. “I see the skill of the Shadow Warriors is not mere boast,” she said.

Tim turned to her with a smile.

Suddenly, an arrow flew right past his lips, streaking through the air, to bury itself right beside his!

Tim gasped, and turned with a scowl, still feeling the sting of the fletching upon his nose. “What was that?!” he glared.

Standing some ten yards behind him was an elf woman. She was as tall as he; with a long and willowy figure. She was dressed in little more than leather breaches and corset. Her long platinum hair was pulled tight into a series of interwoven braids that cascaded across her back and shoulders. A blue swirl tattoo covered the left half of her face. And she held a longbow – as white as Tim’s was black, and of the same length! – in her left hand. She looked at him without expression.

Lord Gallus was standing to her side, with the remainder of the expedition party. He was slowly clapping. “That,” he said. “Was Avelornian archery.”

“Shadow Warrior, may I introduce our guide, Inira.”

***

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

A challenger appears!

[Elithmar]

Poor Tim, he can't get anything right, can he?

I wonder where that Druchii got to? Is he one of the Chracian bodyguards, I wonder... probably not!

So when's Tim going to send an arrow straight for the Caledorian's head? I suppose Annalyth would heal it, anyway...

[Headshot]

Part Four

Standing at the edge of the wood had been an experience. Yet, actually walking through the forest – brushing past fern and bramble – with the stately canopy of green and gold overhead, was far beyond anything Narrin’Tim could have imagined. The life of the forest had been noticeable at a distance; but here, among it, it was palpable in the very air and soil. Insects, beautiful and incandescent, as well as hideous and chitonous, crawled, flew, or squirmed through the soil and along the grooves of trees. Deer, white of tail, and long of antler would leap into the shadows ahead of them. Small forest dwellers – martin, fox, rabbits, stoats – and other species Tim’s quick eyes didn’t recognize, scurried into the undergrowth. Yet it was the trees themselves that produced the most awe. At the edge of the clearing, the forest had been relatively new; relatively young. As their party probed further and further into ancient Avelorn the forest seemed to age around them, giving the journey the odd quality of feeling like passing through time; each step forward, also appeared to take them a step back into Ulthuan’s past. Into a time when the world was young. The trees grew! They became so tall that Tim could no longer make out their highest branches; so wide that he couldn’t see the end of their circumference. The shadows deepened in the wood; and even though he could still feel the warmth of the sun, slowly pushing its way past the foliage, the undergrowth was transformed into a spectral twilight wonderland. The mushrooms and toadstools that grew about the tree trunks glowed in pale whites and blues; as did many of the insects. The dragonmoths, of fine crystalline wings, not only reflected the luminescence, but matched it with glowing red eyes and antennae. Glowworms and their cocoons grew in patches on trees, or in knots within, giving each one a distinct outline in blues, greens, or oranges; sometimes making faces out of a tree’s knotty holes and protuberances.

The only respite from this world of eternal twilight was when the forest opened up to make way for water. Lake, stream, or river would allow for a confluence of game trails, and a peek of sun and sky. Here the party could rest, feeling sun on skin, and survey a bit of the world around them.

For the first few hours it was all quite frustrating for Narrin’Tim, as he found the woodcraft that he had learned and lived in Nagarythe to not match the sights, sounds, smells, and rhythms of this new land. He walked up front, as was custom of a Shadow Warrior, scouting the path ahead, but found that too many sounds were unknown to him. Too many plants were foreign. The marks upon the forest soil did not reveal to him their secrets. So he was reliant upon Inira, who could match him stride for stride along the trail. She knew the forest as one born to it, and, once Tim had swallowed his pride, would patiently explain the meaning of things around them. On that first day she would huddle next to Tim and show him how to mark the age of the various members of the elk herd by the size and shape of their spoor; or would show him how the change in hue of the mushrooms’ glow would tell the observant eye how far in time before the fungus had been disturbed by careless passers.

Oftentimes Nevernili would join them. Asking questions about whatever was before them, as curious as Tim was to learn. The whole experience was exhausting and exhilarating for Tim. Surely there was no end to the wonder of Asuryan’s design! All his life, hunting and stalking through the rocky Nagarathi mountain pines seemed to be a quite barren experience compared to the lush bounty of Avelorn.

“But where are the people?” Nevernili asked. They were setting up camp with the evening sky darkening overhead at the end of the first full day in Avelorn. The camp was set at the edge of a small lake and stream, giving them a bit of fresh air outside of the heavy presence of the wood. Tim had just finished gathering dead brush for the fire, and threw himself down on a log next to her. He could see Lord Gallus in conference with his Chracian guard. And somewhere, past the fire, the two apprentices sat together, hand in hand. He didn’t want to watch, so turned his attention to the two elf maidens.

“We have already passed three hunters’ marks, and one old camp,” Inira said with a smile. “Don’t you remember? I showed you the signs.”

“Yes, but,” Nevernili looked exhausted, and stretched out on her side on the ground. “I mean, the people. The communities. All the elves! The Everqueen and her court. They don’t always live in the wood do they?”

Inira laughed, in a deep unabashed voice. “More often than not,” she answered. “The Court travels at the Everqueen’s whim. And she goes to see frost or fir at her desire. So you could find them anywhere in the Great Wood. But,” she added as she played with a bit of stick, working it into the ground. “We do not all live the nomad’s life. There are villages of shape and design that fit the particular clan. I am taking you to my own, near the northern mountains. You will see it soon enough.”

“Oh,” Nevernili said. “Is that near where the Dragon’s Tooth was found?”

“Yes. I found it. And sent it to Tiralya. He has always done good by my family in the past.” She added with a shrug, “And he is always interested in the things of the Forest.”

Tim was once again watching Lord Gallus giving directions to the Chracians.

“That is quite an escort for a simple trip to a village in the Inner Kingdoms,” he commented.

Nevernili scowled. “It is my father’s vanity,” she said. “The Archons of the other Great Houses in Yvresse sometimes employ Chracian bodyguards. It is a sign of status.” She frowned. “I think it is disrespectful to the Phoenix King!”

Narrin’Tim watched the three burly elves for a few seconds. It suddenly occurred to him that he knew very little of what life was like in Chrace. Despite the fact that Tarabeth was always talking about it (Always! He rolled his eyes at the memory.). What did the hunters do when they weren’t hunting?

“I suppose it is a good job. To be a guard for a noble,” he mused aloud. Nevernili shrugged.

Inira looked at him curiously. “Isn’t that what you do?”

“Huh?”

She put down her stick, and started to examine the arrows in her quiver. “They tell me that you are a Shadow Warrior. That you are in the service of some prince of distant Nagarythe.” She looked up at him. “Doesn’t that make you a bodyguard?”

Tim started to laugh so hard that he almost fell off his log. When he had gotten control of himself, both elf maidens were looking at him with rather severe expressions.

“Sorry!” he apologized. “It’s just that…me?! Guard the Shadow Prince?!” He gave another burst of laughter. “Trust me, he doesn’t need a bodyguard.”

After a dinner consisting of waybread, and a soup that Inira prepared from local ingredients, Tim opted to take first watch and set himself up on a bit of deadwood just outside the camp. One of the moons was a sickle overhead - its silver glow was perfectly mirrored in the lake – giving plenty of light to see by. While the others settled into their bedrolls, Tim kept an eye on the trail they had come by as well as the edges of the lake.

Anna’lis was over there shaking out her bedroll next to Nevernili. In the moonlight, her long slender neck, and the outline of her face…. It hurt him to look. At least that bastard Caledorian wasn’t sleeping next to her, Tim seethed. He was over there near one of the Chracians. The other two diced. It seemed like every time he looked today though, he had been standing next to Anna’lis, talking to her, making her laugh, holding her hand….

Tim’s thoughts found themselves contemplating the damage a Nagarathi bodkin tip could do to a Caledorian face at close distance. It was a very pleasurable reverie.

Then Inira came near. She sat down and began to unwind her bowstring from her belt coil, checking it with an expert’s eye for any nicks or tears in its length. The stave was propped against the tree next to them, already strung with a spare string.

“Your heart belongs to that woman,” she made it a statement. Tim started.

“I…I, I don’t know what you are…” he fumbled, feebly.

She looked at him sharply. “Oh, so you deny it to yourself? No? Then you admit it.”

Tim shrugged and looked away. Inira returned the string to its coil pouch, and stood up.

“Then in that case, why would you let another man touch her?” she asked, and walked off.

Tim stared.

Then he muttered to himself, "That is not helping.”

He spent the rest of the evening thinking of poison toadstools smeared on arrowtips, that somehow managed to fly straight into the Caledorian’s face.

***

The next day passed much as the first. Nevernili and Tim tried to learn as much about the ways of the forest as possible from Inira. Tim was impressed by the speed with which Nevernili learned; she had an amazing memory. Inira would only have to tell her the name of a plant or blossom once, and it was fixed. (It usually took Tim two to three times to get it right!) Still, there was so much to learn! Tim could see that it could easily take a lifetime just to learn a small part of the Great Wood’s secrets.

And the forest had many faces. Over the course of the second day the wood became more broken. They were passing out of the ‘lowlands’ as Inira called it, and heading into the craggy hills that eventually became the mountains of the north. A few times, in the gaps between the trees, Tim could make out the distant, white-capped Annulii mountains.

Inira also began to tell them of the forest’s dangers. Pointing to the hunting tracks of the giant white wargs; or a tree scratch of a recently aroused cave bear; or the dark moist holes most likely to contain the blue vipers or poisonous razor wings.

“It’s hard to believe there are so many dangers here,” Nevernili had said. “I always heard that Avelorn is a paradise for the Asur!”

Inira had shaken her head. “It is a wild place. A true place. It has its own designs and purposes, and not all are what we want them to be,” she explained. “The Children of Isha have spent a long time cultivating allies here. But their favor can be capricious… It is best to be wary.”

That was the other odd thing: Inira always spoke of the “Children of Isha”. Nevernili had asked about that as well:

“Don’t you consider yourself Asur? Like the other kingdoms of Ulthuan? Under the Phoenix King?” she had asked.

Inira just shrugged, and said. “We are here. We have always been here. We obey the Everqueen. We are what we are.”

At least all the learning and travel kept Tim’s mind occupied during the day – no time to fret about the things to say, or not to say, to Anna’lis. And no time to watch that…Caledorian!... talking to her. But as they arranged to camp for the evening…it was hard not to see. Tim secluded himself at the edge of the camp once his duties were done, trying to keep his mind on other things. And yet…his eyes wandered across the camp to where Anna’lis lay upon her bedroll, an open book over her nose.

“She is quite an attractive little waif of a girl isn’t she?” a voice said from his shoulder. Tim turned with a glare, surprised that Calossar had been able to creep up on him unaware.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Tim said with a grimace.

Calossar gave off a short, almost musical laugh, and brushed the edge of his lustrous, rich robes.

“Oh don’t deny it, Nagarathi,” he said with a smile. “I can smell your envy on the other side of the camp. I see you watching her. With hunger.” The Caledorian turned his eyes towards Anna’lis. “As well you should. She does have a certain…delectable elegance, about her, doesn’t she?”

Tim turned and started to walk away.

“Yes. Her slender figure. Her fine features,” Calossar said to his retreating back. “I suspect to receive some measure of pleasure when I bed her tonight. Peasant though she is…”

Tim snapped. He spun about and flung himself at the mage, bringing his right fist around in a hook that would fell a boar.

But the Caledorian mage moved with surprising speed. Tim’s knuckles only grazed his cheek. And then Calossar’s knee came up and struck Tim in the belly, sending him reeling, and gasping for breath. He glared back at the smug-looking mage and prepared to leap upon him again.

But suddenly Lord Gallus was there grabbing onto one arm, a Chracian onto the other. Anna’lis put herself between him and Calossar.

“Tim!” she barked. “What are you doing?!”

Some small part of him felt some relief at that. It was the first time she had called him ‘Tim’ since he had come to the Tower….

“He! HE! Uggh…” he didn’t know what to say.

“There will be no brawling in this camp!!” Lord Gallus bellowed. “We will have peace among us!”

“No, Lord Gallus,” Calossar said rubbing his bruised cheek. “There can be no peace. This peasant has dared to strike me. To dishonor the scion of the line of King Caledor! I invoke the right of a Great House! As nephew to a High Lord of Caledor!! I will have my honor avenged!”

“Cal! No!” Anna’lis said. “He didn’t understand! He’s just-“

“Fine!” Tim shouted. “Anytime. Anyplace,” he hissed.

“Then tomorrow at dawn. We will settle this with the blade,” Calossar said, and strode off.

Lord Gallus shook his head. “Foolish. Foolish….”

***

“Tim! Why do you have to be so stupid?!” Anna’lis was standing there, hands on hips. Tim tried to ignore her as he practiced with his falchion in the clearing he had withdrawn to. He swung the blade in front of him, sparring with the star shadows of the trees. Still a few hours til dawn….

Anna’lis stepped forward and grabbed his sword arm. “Will you listen to me?!”

“I’m not being stupid,” Tim said, and freed his arm. “I’ll just gut your pompous boyfriend. And then we can continue. We don’t need him; you can protect us with your magic.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Anna’lis said with a scowl, arms once again folded. Tim felt a surge of pure joy at ‘not my boyfriend…’

“Tim, you idiot!” Anna’lis caught her second wind, and started in on him again. “He’s a Caledorian Prince! He’s already fought a half a dozen duels!”

“I don’t care,” Tim grumbled, and swiped the air with his trusty falchion.

“And he’s a bright mage! He was recruited to the Tower of Hoeth this year because of accounts of his prowess with the Flame Blade!!” she shouted. “He’ll scorch and disembowel you!”

“Not if I get him first,” Tim said, staring down the length of his blade.

“Just apologize!”

“No!” Tim shouted. “That I will not do!!”

Anna’lis grabbed him. “Why not?? What could he have possibly done to insult you so much? That you would risk your life?!” She stood in front of him, breathing hard. “You Nagarathi and your stupid pride!”

“It’s not about me!” Tim snapped back. “I don’t like what he said… About someone else,” he finished in a mumble.

Anna’lis stepped away. “Oh, let me guess! You are defending the honor of whom? Nevernili? Your new ‘friend’?! Or is it Inira? Your other special new friend?!” She glowered at him.

“No!”

“Oh, then who?! Your Chracian Princess Tarabeth?!!”

“No!” Tim shook his head confused. “No! I didn’t like what he said about you!!” He shouted it out.

And then the two of them just stood there, both breathing hard, staring at each other.

“Tim,” Anna’lis said softly. “Don’t do this. Please. He’ll kill you.”

Tim looked up. The dawn’s light was peeking through the trees. It had come so quickly! But it didn’t matter; it was time.

“I’m sorry Anna’lis,” he said just as softly. “It will be okay,” he tried to sound confident.

And then, Narrin’Tim, Shadow Warrior of Nagarythe, turned slowly and walked into the forest, heading to the appointed meeting ground, ready to meet his fate.

***

[Prince of Spires]

shame on you Headshot for not propperly informing me sooner that Tim was back

Great read, as always. I love how it's even more about the characters. I can't wait to see the next part. Although I do feel sorry for the poor caledorian. Rousing a true shadow warriors wrath. He'll be lucky to be able to walk afterwards... If Tim doesn't trip first of course

Keep it comming.

And of course, Go Tim! We're cheering for you.

Rod

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

Ye gads....

[Headshot]

Sorry Rod. I guess this section is the 'dusty attic' of the forum.

Announcement now placed along more traveled paths!

Headshot

[Elithmar]

Myeh, it'll all be fine. Tim'll win, he has to!

Excellent writing, as ever. Please try to get a game in somtime though, I want to see the Shadow Lord in action again!

Well, at least Annalyth is talking to Tim again. I bet she liked him all along and was just getting her own back at him for the...buisiness with Tarabeth.

By the way, I like the bit about Cal too, being of some relation to Malossar and thelordcal.

[Headshot]

Please try to get a game in somtime though, I want to see the Shadow Lord in action again!

You and me both! The plan is, as soon as I finish up this tale, to try to find some time to run over to UB and get another game in! It's been too long.

Headshot

[Elithmar]

I'm always looking for games on UB. I'll give you one with my Woodies sometime, if you like.

[Headshot]

Sure, Elithmar! You're on.

Wood elves would be a great challenge for my army. And I think I have a pretty good story for the battle. Hmmmm. Just let me finish up this tale and then we can set up a time to slay each other.

Though I should warn you: the current version of my list includes a metal mage. Just FYI for treeman, etc. The reason why the mage switch? Well, you will just have to keep reading!

[Headshot]

Part Five

Narrin’Tim entered the clearing on the far side of the lake from the camp. A thick mist hung over the small body of water, obscuring the other side. The dawn’s light was just beginning to glimmer in the trees to the east, too feeble to dry out the moisture. The mist wasn’t limited to the lake’s surface; it also seeped through the trees, and covered the mossy ground of the clearing, curling about elvish ankles as it did so.

Already the Caledorian, Calossar, stood waiting at one edge of the clearing. And to one side, the witnesses, Lord Gallus and two of his Chracians, stood and watched. Anna’lis was there as well – she had somehow outpaced Tim to the clearing.

“Please, stop this!” she called, turning from Tim to Calossar. “Please somebody….” She tried to step into the clearing center, but Lord Gallus laid a firm hand on her shoulder and pulled her back.

“It is their right,” he said simply.

Tim took off his bow and quiver, and set them down against the base of a tree. He pulled his hunting knife out of its sheath and presented it to one of the Chracians. The man examined the blade, and then handed it back. Tim repeated the practice with his falchion. (The Asur were not Druchii; poison was not tolerated in bouts of honor!) Out of the corner of his eye, Tim could see Calossar mirroring his actions with the other Chracian guard.

That part of the ceremony completed, Tim returned to the center of the clearing, about five paces from Calossar. His knife was in its sheath, but the falchion was naked in his right hand. Calossar faced him and held a long, slightly curved saber in his own. A crimson light gleamed from a ring on his finger. A blue-white flame ran down the length of his blade.

Tim swallowed a bit. And narrowed his eyes, watching the swordmage’s face carefully.

“Lord Calossar,” Gallus began, “as grieved party you have the right to choose the terms of defeat.” The one-eyed Archon sounded vaguely hopeful. “To first blood? Or…to the death?”

The Caledorian, seemingly perfectly at his ease, just smiled at Tim, and said, “To the death.”

Lord Gallus nodded. He pulled from his tabard pocket a piece of cloth. “Then when this kerchief touches soil…you may begin.”

Tim kept his eyes fixed on the Caledorian’s. But just in the periphery of his vision he could see the white cloth. Calossar was just standing there, seeming for all the world amused. Tim’s own face was grim and set; his knuckles white upon the handle of his sword.

Relax. He told himself. You have no chance if you lock your muscles! You must be fluid. Remember what the Shadow Lord showed you!

Lord Gallus’ hand opened. The white cloth started to flutter to the ground.

Tim’s legs began to tense, while at the same time he tried to relax his shoulders. He had to stay limber to swing and parry. Ready. In a second….

But the second never came.

Suddenly, a flurry of black barbs streaked out from the trees. One of the Chracians was struck immediately; a black arrowhead clean through his shoulder. He turned about with a howl, and drew forth his great axe. And then Tim saw a monstrous mass of chiton and bristles, driven forward on too many thrashing legs. It leapt through the air with a dexterity unbelievable for a creature the size of a small house, and came down towards him, venom dripping mandibles and stinger poised to strike!

Without thought Narrin’Tim dove for his most trusty weapon: he rolled and caught up his black bow! Arrow on string, still on one knee, he turned and fired!

Over a hundred pounds of pressure was placed on one, highly sharpened, point – the end of the Nagarathi bodkin tip. Tim could almost see it press up against the soft covering of the orb of one of the great spider’s eye – just for a moment! – and then the arrow, fletching and all, disappeared into the gooey mass of the monster’s innards. The thing threw itself on its back in a series of mighty convulsions!

“Goblins!!” he heard Lord Gallus roar. There was the sound of fighting all about him. And as if summoned by the word, Tim could see one of the red-eyed humanoids pulling itself out from under the giant spider. Without hesitating, Tim dropped his knee upon its chest, and drew his knife across its wiry throat. The thing died spitting at him.

Another spider barreled past him, sending Tim sprawling to the ground. The goblin on its back, like elf on horseback, released his bow at Tim as it crashed past. Fortunately, the shot was ill timed and slid harmlessly into the earth. But Tim had lost his bow in the confusion. He looked around – there! The falchion he had discarded. He staggered up and ran! But the spider flung out one of its legs. It was like being hit by a tree limb: Tim flew threw the air and went sprawling on the far side of the clearing, the breath knocked from him.

Narrin’Tim looked up, gasping for air. The spider was charging at him while the goblin took aim. Tim reached for his knife… No!! It was gone! He must have dropped it at the first charge!

The arrow flew. Tim tucked and rolled to the side. The spider was almost upon him now…

He looked about. The arrow! He pulled the black barb out of the ground, just as the spider lunged above him, its belly stinger poised to strike. Tim struck upwards with the arrow, burying the barb into the beast’s soft belly. The black gore of the monster’s blood mixed with a green slime that coated the tip of the arrow. The insect leapt back hissing and spitting, and then threw itself into a shuddering ball, thundering into Tim. It suddenly went still. But the monster’s weight pinned Tim’s legs beneath it.

The goblin slid off the dead thing’s back, a heavy tulwar blade in hand, and came at Tim. Tim snarled at it, and clutched at the dirt on the ground. The only weapon in reach.

One step away, it raised the blade…. But suddenly, its head flew from its shoulders! The work of a two-handed Chracian battle axe. The elf warrior reached down, and helped Tim to stand.

“Thank you, brother,” Tim said, and meant it.

Lord Gallus stomped over. “Grom’s foul brood! No matter how many times we hunt them, still the vermin cannot be eradicated!! They hide in rock and hole, cave and tunnel! And it seems now even fair Avelorn knows their unclean touch!!”

Calossar stood behind him, his own rapier smeared in blood, scowling. All thought to the duel between them now forgotten in the face of the common foe. The other Chracian was laying upon the ground.

Where was…? Tim looked about.

“The others! The camp!! We must hurry! Now!!” Gallus shouted.

And there was no time to think. Tim grabbed his blades and bow, slung his quiver over his back, and took off at a run behind the others. He soon easily outpaced them, and reached the clearing on the lake’s far side.

But his speed was for naught. There were three more dead spiders and goblins strewn about the camp. Inira was waiting for them with arrow on string. Nevernili came out of the trees nearby as soon as she saw who approached. Elf lord gave a fierce embrace to his young daughter.

Tim came to a stop in front of the Avelornian scout. She gave him a nod. “I was afraid of this,” she said to him. “The goblins have made common cause with the spiders. Foul creatures from the deepest parts of the Wood; they are no friends to the Children of Isha. And possess a low, but cruel, cunning. We must leave now. Before other hunting parties arrive.”

“Gather the things,” Lord Gallus instructed. “Where is everyone?”

“Corin, went to tend to his brother,” Calossar said, pointing back the way they had come. Tim was ashamed that he had yet to learn the elf’s name; until the same day he saved his life. He vowed to be more friendly to the people of Chrace in the future.

“The other didn’t return from watch this morning,” Inira said coolly. Everyone looked about.

“Wait!” Tim exclaimed, looking to and fro. “Where is Anna’lis?!”

***


An hour later, Tim had circled the entirety of the woods around the lake, but had found no sign of the Saphery mage. His search hadn’t been completely in vain. The elves of the party now stood over the body of the third Chracian bodyguard, lying dead at the base of a tree.

“Poor Garrith,” Gallus said. “The goblins must have took him unawares before setting upon the rest of us.”

Tim was frowning at the body. “What is it?” Nevernili asked.

“No arrows. No blade marks. No sign of spider’s sting,” he answered. He knelt down and looked closer: the body was completely undamaged. Except for a slender line of blue and purple that crossed his throat. Narrin’Tim looked up at Inira.

“The Shadow Warrior is right,” she said. “This is not goblin-kill. They had venom and arrows. Why strangle?”

“Perhaps for the silent kill. Perhaps for pleasure,” Lord Gallus answered. “I have seen the beasts strangle before. I fought them when they first arrived to our shores. They are mad, and vicious beasts, given to all manner of violence.”

Tim looked down again at the precise nature of the bruise. Neat. A single, unblemished line of dead flesh. It was hard for him to believe that a crazed goblin warrior could do such a clean kill.

“It doesn’t matter. You said yourself we must depart. Let us carry our wounded and make for your village,” Gallus added. Inira nodded.

“Wait! What about Anna’lis?!” Tim challenged.

Lord Gallus looked back at him with a sympathetic expression. “If she is not here, then she is dead, Shadow Warrior. We must tend to the living.”

“No! We must search more!!”

“Don’t be a fool!” Gallus growled back. “An entire war party could be bound for this area! These things breed like flies! Asuryan alone may know how many dwell within this wood!”

Tim looked about the party, his eyes fell on Calossar. “We have to look!” he repeated, beseechingly looking at the Caledorian for support.

Calossar returned his gaze coolly. “No. Lord Gallus is correct. The girl’s loss is…regrettable. But we have more important things to attend to.”

Tim looked from face to face. The emotionless Caledorian. Nevernili frightened and concerned. Inira just coolly appraising him. And Lord Gallus, determined and set.

Anna’lis has no chance with them, he thought.

“I do not,” Tim said calmly. “I came for her. And I will leave with her. This is where we part ways.” He looked Lord Gallus in the eye.

The Elf Lord slowly nodded. He reached out his hand. “Asuryan watch your step, Shadow Warrior.”

Tim clasped his arm, and then set out alone, looking for the spider’s trail.

***

Annalyth came to. Or at least she thought she came to. Her mouth tasted like paper; her head felt like it was stuffed fully of cotton; and everything about her was pitch black. She winced and tried to focus; but her eyes felt swelled shut with pus or blood. She tried to move; but her arms seemed trapped behind her, and her legs felt limp.

It was then she started to panic: she didn’t like close places, and it felt like she was buried! She struggled, and felt a dizzying movement all about her. Suddenly, a limb prodded her back. She froze, in absolute terror. A second later, and there it was again – sticking into the small of her back, just like a gnarled finger!

She wanted to scream, but couldn’t get her mouth or throat to work. She felt even more dizzy, gulping in air through her nose, but it didn’t seem to be enough. The limb prodder her again, this time more gently. It was near her hands. She grabbed onto it! And then realized it was wood, barky wood, like the limb of a tree.

Where am I? What is happening? She wondered. Using the wooden limb as purchase she started to struggle to move her hands, up and down. Yes! She could feel her wrists freeing up! She kept rubbing her lower arms upon the limb, until she was able to free her right arm enough to move it around. She reached forward and felt at her face….

She wanted to scream again! She couldn’t touch her face; she couldn’t feel her fingers. All she could feel was a silk-like gunk, that revolted her skin, sending shivers down her spine. She started to panic, but this time pulling at the discussing stuff, digging towards her face!

Asuryan’s Light! Suddenly her fingers touched her cheek, and fresh air billowed into her mouth. She scratched more, and her eyes were free. She looked about.

At first it seemed no different: everything about her seemed midnight black. But slowly her eyes adjusted to the dim. She almost wished they hadn’t. She was in the forest, except the trees here seemed dark…and dead. Starlight twinkled through barren boughs. And a hint of a night breeze stirred dead limbs. All about, strung from branch to branch, tree to tree, canopy to ground, were great streams of white webbing. The cords of an individual strand being as thick as her finger.

Suddenly she remembered: the fight. The screaming. The rush. She had fallen. And then the pain in her back! And she had known no more….

Annalyth looked some more. She was moving just slightly. And then she realized she was some ten feet above the forest floor; suspended by disgusting web streamers from the limbs of one of the trees. It was a lower branch, jostled by her earlier movements, that had allowed her to free herself. At least partly.

Then she noticed, in front of her, only about five feet away, a large, ovoid sac, the size of a cow’s belly. It was…shifting… No throbbing! Little bumps under its surface were swimming around its skin. Suddenly a tiny tear appeared on its surface. A furry arachnid leg, the width of her hand slid out. It jerked, and then a spider, the size of a house cat, pulled itself free.

At that point she did scream. She couldn’t help herself. Her one good hand worked frantically trying to free her other arm. As she did so, she could see the first spider joined by a second. They turned on each other. Biting and stinging. Then the winner began to devour its clutch-mate….

But more were pouring out. A lot more. Dozens! And they all seemed voracious for prey. They started to clamber up the strands of the pod, connecting it to the tree. Her tree!

The branch at her back snapped, and Annalyth screamed again. But thankfully! She felt a piece of the wood still stuck in the webbing around her. She clutched at it, and used its sharp edges to saw at the webbing stringing her other arm. Both were free! With a grunt she reached over her head and started to saw at the strand connecting her to the branch above. As she did so she could see the spiders slowly, but certainly, crawling down the same strand, towards her….

She was screaming in terror. She couldn’t help it. The wood was an awkward knife. And her hands still felt numb. She pushed and pulled, and prayed to Asuryan. Please!

The strand snapped! It flicked about like a string of rubber. She plummeted to the earth with a thud. The breath was knocked from her with a grunt. Her eyes winced in pain. But then immediately snapped open again: she could see the little spiders now crawling down the tree-trunk towards the forest floor.

Yet her hands were free now! She brought both of them up into a familiar arcane shape, calling upon Asuryan’s Flame. The flame responded – a great pillar of fire erupted, consuming not only the egg sac, but nearly the entirety of the dead tree! She kept her fingers in position, glaring, long enough until the last hint of movement was still, all the while silently thanking the many days she had spent practicing with Master Tiralya, after she had returned to the Tower!

She released the spell. The tree continued to burn, casting a flickering light about the dead wood. She could see other movement now in the forest. The glare of firelight upon glassy eyes that numbered in the dozens. She grabbed the stick again, and sawed at the webbing between her legs.

Hurry!! She sawed.

A bristly shadow detached itself from a tree nearby. Quickly she formed the symbol and uttered Asuryan’s secret name. The flame returned, scorching the giant spider and a swathe of forest floor about it. The burning creature dashed back into the wood, scattering more flame as it ran, and sending its fellows reeling.

The strands snapped. Annalyth stood up. She looked around. Unsure where to run? Where were the others??? Where is safety?

And the spiders were coming back through the trees. Big as bears, knocking over dead falls, and pushing aside slender saplings. There was nowhere to run.

So she attacked! A third time she summoned Asuryan’s flame, and with a snarl on her face, she put all of her rage and concentration into it. The forest in front of her erupted in a great flash of flame. An inferno engulfed the trees and spiders; the fire burned so fiercely that it clambered up the tall dead trees to lap at their upper branches.

She stopped herself then; suddenly fearful of the damage she could do to the wider wood. The spiders were gone behind the wall of flame. She turned the other way and took off at a run. One direction was as good as another when she didn’t know where anyone was.

She ran as fast as her feeble legs could take her. Wondering…. Where are the others? Are they alright? What happened to everyone?

Narrin’Tim’s face leapt into her mind. Suddenly, a terrible thought occurred. She stopped and looked back towards the flickering fire. What if the others had been captured….

What have I done!? She wondered. Could I have…? Should I go back?! But the fire was still spreading. It wasn’t the magic now… the magical spark had set off the dead wood like flint to tinder, and a forest fire was now roaring out of control. There was nothing she could do. She had to find safety! She had to find water.

She started running again. And hoping. Please let the others be safe. Please.

Then the most welcome sound in the world: she heard the babbling of a brook. Up ahead the trees were green with leaves, but also more open. There! Past a small rise, a narrow stream chewed its way through root and ridge. She scrambled down the dirt-clogged slope, and splashed into the brook. With her little remaining strength, she pulled herself up the ridge on the other side, dragging herself over the lip, she collapsed, and knew darkness once more.

***

I was always more of a hobbit guy myself....

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

I was always more of a hobbit guy myself....

Rep that! So we know where the Dark Elf assassin went, but still not who the actual target is.

[Prince of Spires]

I still think Tim could have taken him. Lucky caledorian...

Nice twist. It's always great to head off in an unexpected direction.

My bet is that the DE is after the plant thingy too.

Keep the stories comming. Don't fall for all that "playing a game" or "fighting a battle" stuff. Just keep writing

Incidently, where are you located? I'd be interested in a game on UB too, depending on timezone of course...

Rod

[Elithmar]

Sure, Elithmar! You're on.

Wood elves would be a great challenge for my army. And I think I have a pretty good story for the battle. Hmmmm. Just let me finish up this tale and then we can set up a time to slay each other.

Though I should warn you: the current version of my list includes a metal mage. Just FYI for treeman, etc. The reason why the mage switch? Well, you will just have to keep reading!

Great, looking forward to it.

I don't take Treemen anyway, and I was already thinking about not taking many Treekin.

Don't worry, I'll definitely keep reading!

That last part was excellent, and had an unexpected twist.

Lucky caledorian...

Lucky, indeed!

As great as the Lord of the Rings is, I still prefer the Hobbit.

[Headshot]

Rod,

It would be my pleasure!

Though as I am located on the west coast of the colonies (san francisco), timing might be tricky....

Headshot

[jwg20]

Gah! Just saw that you were working on another story! Why was I not informed earlier!?! Hahaha.

Tim needs to watch himself, or Kurnion will have to have words about how to treat his sister properly! Loving the story so far, I can't wait til the next installment!

[Headshot]

Why was I not informed earlier!?!

Is it my fault that burly Chracian princes have no interest in literature?

(Too busy combing their lions or something....)

Tim needs to watch himself, or Kurnion will have to have words about how to treat his sister properly!

What, you think that Palin'Tanith's warnings about Chracian axes to the face, or Tarabeth breaking his nose, wasn't lesson enough??



Headshot

[Prince of Spires]

Yeah, sounds like the timing might be a little on the tricky side (seeing as I'm nowhere near any colony). We'll have to see sometimes if we can arange something...

Gah! Just saw that you were working on another story! Why was I not informed earlier!?! Hahaha.

I completely agree. This is basically the dusty corner of the forum (for me anyway), where you only end up if you know something is happening there. Headshot did finaly post a message in a normal part of the forum (being the battle reports section) though.

I agree that Tim needs to watch himself. Although at the moment the things to watch out for is big scary spiders wanting to eat him and his girl burning down the forest he is currently in. Only worry about a Gracian ax if it can hit you (as the saying goes....)

Rod

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

I lurk here a lot ^_^

[Prince of Spires]

I lurk here a lot ^_^

I get the impression you lurk everywhere a lot...

Rod

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

I'm a semi-pro lurker, if I had that certificate I'd be pro =P