by Dan Zangari
The stranger quietly watched Gregan and the elves, the expression on his chiseled face solemn. The stranger had wavy brown hair, eyes that matched his hair in color, and a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache. His thin lips were drawn to a line and he rarely blinked while studying the jovial drinking match. There was something about the man’s gaze that Cornar disliked. Cornar could sense when there was something wrong about a person. That uneasiness drove his next action.
Cornar strode across the tavern to the man—no the elf… Cornar hadn’t seen his pointed ears. How had he missed them? And an elf with a goatee? Cornar had never seen an elf with facial hair.
The dark-haired elf eyed Cornar, completely focused on him. The elf’s brown eyes quickly scanned him, probably sizing him up as a potential threat. Was he like Cornar—an adventurer, a warrior?
Cornar thought it wise to lighten the mood. Two men—or rather an elf and a man—sizing each other up in a bar never led to anything good.
“So, how many did you have?” Cornar asked, and leaned against the wall beside the door.
“None,” the elf said. His voice was deep and that single word didn’t show signs of an elven accent.
“Just like to watch, huh?” Cornar asked.
The elf didn’t respond. He seemed to keep one eye on the others and one on Cornar. Who was this elf? Cornar studied the mysterious elf for a moment, but then returned his gaze to Gregan. The drunken warrior struggled to finish his stein. The elf who had challenged him, however, steadily guzzled his drink.
“Ah…” the elf said, taking in a deep breath. “That was good. I will do another.” He smiled wryly, watching Gregan.
Come on, Gregan, Cornar thought. You got this…
Gregan kept drinking, slowing each passing moment. Eventually he set his empty stein on the table. Gregan shook his head, breathing slowly. The elves applauded and cheered.
“I suppose this is yours,” the challenger said, sliding the coin to Gregan.
Gregan nodded and took the coin, but didn’t speak. He looked pale. Gregan’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward, vomiting all over the floor.
The elves laughed again, more hysterically than before.
Poor Gregan, Cornar thought, walking toward the man. The dark-haired elf peeled away from the door, disappearing down a lantern-lit hallway. Where are you going?
Still wondering about the elf, Cornar reached Gregan and grabbed his shoulder, attempting to steady the drunken warrior. Gregan vomited again.
“You’re done,” Cornar said, urging Gregan from his seat.
“B-b-bu-but...” Gregan complained.
“No, you’re done,” Cornar said. “To bed with you.” He bent down, pulling Gregan’s arm over his shoulder.
Gregan stood at Cornar’s behest but dropped the tingarn. Cornar didn’t care to pick up the coin. The elves continued laughing as Cornar pulled Gregan across the tavern. Damned pointed ears, can’t they see he’s helpless? Cornar had dealt little with elves, but most of them were civil. This group, however, was downright despicable.
Soon, Cornar and Gregan were out of the dining room. “What room are we in?” Cornar asked. Gregan groaned something incoherent and gestured to his tunic. Cornar felt the spot, and his hand slid the jagged outline of a key. That works, he thought, and reached into Gregan’s tunic. The key had their room’s number etched upon its wide end—twelve.
* * * * *
Cornar awoke late the next day and resumed his search for Krindal, but the man was nowhere to be found. Krindal’s satchel with all his coin, however, was back on the Promised Maiden. The satchel had somehow appeared in Captain Salisar’s cabin. Cornar deduced that Krindal had returned it after his hasty flight from the inn. But there was no note. None of the crew had seen Krindal either.
Cornar decided to gather the supplies himself, since he knew what they needed. Before lunch Cornar met with those who had stayed in Kretin; they had all returned to the Promised Maiden at his request. Cornar didn’t trust meeting elsewhere. Krindal’s disappearance made him leery.
Five other men stayed behind besides Ordreth, Sharon, Nordal, and Gregan: Cordel, Shen, Markin, Brendar, and Hem the illusionist. It was sometimes confusing having a man named Hemrin and Hem among their band. Luckily, Hemrin never went by a shorter nickname.
“We have some work cut out for us,” Cornar said, setting the satchel of coin on a table in the mess deck. “We need to rent some wagons and horses first. Then we can round up supplies.”
“How many are we going to need?” Cordel asked.
“We need to outfit an expedition of roughly six hundred,” Cornar said.
Shen gasped. “Six hundred!” His green eyes widened with surprise. Shen was excitable, especially when it came to large things. The size of the expedition was no exception.
“So, how many wagons will that require?” Brendar asked.
“I’m thinking twelve to fifteen for the food,” Cornar said. “But that depends on the size of the wagon beds. There’s a river along the path we intend to take to Klindil, so we should be fine with water. But I wouldn’t mind getting a few wagons to carry some barrels. We will get a few today, and reserve the rest to pick up later in the week. I think we should have everything prepared before the Mindolarnians arrive.”
“We’re going to need more people to drive the wagons,” Brendar said, pursing his lips.
“We’ll see,” Cornar said. “Hopefully Krindal will show up with Jahevial and Deglin.”
“Where did they go?” Shen asked.
Cornar shrugged and spread his hands. “Hopefully, he’ll turn up.”
“He was unnerved by those elves,” Nordal said. “What was so frightening about them? They seemed fine. Not the best drinking partners, but not the worst either.”
“Krindal acted like he’d seen a monster,” Ordreth said. “I’m betting he went invisible with the other two. Uncle Cor and I looked everywhere. We couldn’t find them.”
“That’s… odd,” Shen said.
“Who were those elves, anyway?” Brendar asked.
“Mainland elves,” Nordal said. “From someplace outside Merath. I don’t remember the name. They seemed like decent folk.”
“Really?” Shen asked. “Why would Krindal run away from that?”
That was an answer Cornar wished he knew. Krindal obviously intended to hide. The warriors debated what they should do about the matter. Cornar worried that searching for Krindal was not the correct course of action. But why? Krindal wasn’t hiding from those elves, was he? What reasons would he have for that? It didn’t make any sense. But every time Cornar thought of sending Sharon out with her lenses, he got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Cornar knew to trust those instincts.
“We’ll wait for him to show,” Cornar said. “Krindal wouldn’t abandon this quest now. I say we get what we need and meet up with the others. Three of you should go reserve supplies, the usual things we take with us on adventures. Gregan, are you up for doing that?”
Gregan nodded. He looked hung over, and rightly so. He had drunk like a lunatic last night.
“Good,” Cornar said. “Markin, Cordel, and Shen, help Gregan. Pair up so you can cover more merchants. Ordreth and Sharon, join me in fetching the wagons. Hem, Brendar, and Nordal, the three of you go figure out where the others settled.”
Everyone nodded in compliance.
“We’ll meet at Heldergan’s Flower tonight.”
* * * * *
Kaescis settled into a battle stance within the observation room of the Executor’s Breath. The ocean view was clear, and the horizon sprawled in every direction. His left leg slid forward, his torso angled in a line between his feet. Kaescis flung his right hand aside, uttering an incantation as fast as he could.
The black particles of the Ko’delish misted from his palm, forming a blade composed of the dissolving particles. The blade was shaped like a thick doubled-sided claymore, patterned after the weapons from that millennium-long war between the gods, th
e sha’kalda. The weapon was nearly as long as he was tall.
This weapon was not what he was used to summoning. His other weapons composed of the Ko’delish were barely two phineals long. This one was almost five.
“Practicing, Kaescis?” Bratan asked, his footsteps echoing into the observation room.
Kaescis turned, still clutching the newly formed blade.
“That blade seems a tad long,” Bratan observed. “It’s a good thing that such weapons are not inhibited by weight.”
“That’s why I’m practicing with it,” Kaescis said, sweeping his sword. He lunged, executing a flurry of slices. His moves were precise. Kaescis was an expert at this method of swordsmanship.
Bratan leaned against the wall, arms folded.
Kaescis executed another succession of sweeping strokes. The blade came close to cutting the glass on the floor-to-ceiling windows. He pulled the last swing perfectly; the misting particles of the Ko’delish almost touched the windows.
“Impressive,” Bratan said, clapping. “Very impressive!”
Kaescis reoriented himself, facing the opposite direction. He executed several more stroke combinations, each different from the ones he had performed earlier. Kaescis moved partway across the room, swinging his blade, and then reoriented himself again. He continued drilling techniques with the large blade. His arms didn’t tire since there was no weight behind his swings. He swung magic, not metal.
Wielding a weapon composed of magic was harder than it looked. When swinging an actual sword one could feel the course it would take. There was a resistance to each movement. Yes, one could encounter resistance with a magically composed blade, but it was only against other forms of magic. That was a different sensation than striking a solid object with a metal sword. For one, there was no reverberation. Magic clashing against magic was like being stopped mid-motion.
Kaescis continued drilling his sword techniques, increasing the speed of his swings each time. More footsteps echoed into the observation room, but he didn’t turn to see who was there. Kaescis was focused on more important things.
“He’s still practicing, huh?” Laeyit asked, directing her question to Bratan.
“Yes,” Bratan said, “Kaescis is doing quite well with that large blade.”
“Of course he is!” Laeyit exclaimed, laughing. “He’s not some simpleminded footman.”
Laeyit and Bratan continued talking while Kaescis resumed his drills. Sweat beaded on his forehead and soon trickled down his face.
“Kaescis,” Laeyit urged. “Why don’t you take a break?”
A break? Why? Why on Kalda would he want to rest and relax? Did she not realize what awaited them on Klindala?
“You don’t look pleased,” Laeyit said.
Kaescis glimpsed Laeyit pouting. “No,” Kaescis said, stopping mid-motion, then recoiling to unleash a flurry of blows while standing still.
“I think you’re obsessed,” Laeyit said.
Obsessed? No… he wasn’t obsessed. He was enraged. The closer they got to Klindala the more anger he felt toward the enemies of the empire, particularly the Sapphire Guard.
Kaescis resumed swinging his black blade as his anger boiled. He imagined the ranks of that accursed band falling to his every stroke. It was like he was back at the last shrine. Kaescis stood alone, surrounded by armor-clad foes. He would kill them all before he let them take what rightfully belonged to the empire. The Isle of the Ancient Ones was his to claim and none else. Kaescis would heed the words of that stranger at the Feast of Sorrows. For the glory of Mindolarn, he would seize those tevisrals and bring order and servility to the world. Only the might of Mindolarn could bring peace and vanquish their ancient enemies once and for all.
“Kaescis!” Laeyit shouted, jarring him back to reality.
Surprised, Kaescis pulled his swing just before slicing through a pillar near Bratan and Laeyit. He was back in the observation room… Had he lost his focus while dwelling on his enemies? His technique had been perfect, but had his rage made him lose a sense of his surroundings? That had never happened in all his years.
Kaescis looked from his blade to the pillar. The black mist had eroded the polished finish and was now dissolving the wood, turning it to gray ash.
What was that sensation? he wondered. It was like an uncontrollable bloodlust.
Death… the word hissed in Kaescis’s ears. Destruction.
Where was it coming from?
Kill. The word sounded like an echo.
Kaescis looked around, searching for the source of that strange voice.
Give us death… the words hissed again, this time sounding like several voices speaking in unison.
“What’s wrong?” Bratan asked, sounding concerned. He only spoke like that during dire circumstances.
“Do you hear that?” Kaescis asked, scanning the room.
“Hear what?” Laeyit asked, sounding perturbed.
“The voices…” Kaescis slowly crossed the observation room.
“See,” Laeyit said with exasperation, “his obsession is driving him mad!”
Bratan sighed. “Calm yourself, Laeyit.”
“They want death,” Kaescis said. “Could it be…?”
“Are you referring to the prophecy?” Bratan asked. “When the souls of the forgotten would speak to the Harbinger?”
Laeyit grunted. “That’s a crude translation. Why would you consider a hiss’thrak to be a soul when every legend describes them as insect-like creatures? There’s even a children’s story about them.”
“Because those forms are only metaphors,” Bratan retorted.
Laeyit and Bratan argued about the nature of the hiss’thraks, the beings responsible for manifesting the Ko’delish. Hiss’thraks produced those black particles of magic—how, Kaescis didn’t know.
Kaescis ignored the argument and looked at his weapon, which was still misting. There was an otherworldly pull drawing him toward the blackness. Kaescis heard voices coming from the mist, like faint echoes bouncing off a cavern’s walls. The words were not clear, but he sensed a commonality.
Death.
* * * * *
“This is madness, Krindal,” Jahevial groaned.
Cloaked in an invisibility spell, Krindal ignored the man and peered around the corner of the alleyway. He had to be careful to remain unseen with them around. If not, he was doomed.
“We can just settle into a place,” Jahevial said. “There’s no point moving every hour.” The damned fool didn’t know what he was talking about. Of course they had to keep moving. It was the only way to stay ahead of them.
“Are you even sure they’re part of the Sapphire Guard?” Deglin asked.
“Why else would elves be here?” Krindal whispered.
“Plenty of reasons,” Jahevial said.
What do they know? Krindal thought. They aren’t adventurers. Of all the people to get stuck with, Krindal had to be stranded with these idiots. Did they not know of the Sapphire Guard’s reputation? Had they not listened to his tale of the encounter at the last Keepers’ Temple? Krindal had told them yesterday. What were they, senile?
“It’s clear,” Krindal whispered.
“Wait,” Jahevial said, agitated. Krindal paused and crept back into the alley. “How long are we going to keep doing this?” Jahevial demanded.
“Until the prince arrives,” Krindal said. “Then we can join the others in that village outside Kretin.”
“That’s asinine!” Deglin almost shouted.
“Quiet!” Krindal chided through clenched teeth.
“You can keep on hiding,” Jahevial said, and dismissed his invisibility. They had each cast their own concealing spells. “I’m going to find a place to rest.”
Krindal panicked. “But—”
“No,” Jahevial interrupted, “they don’t know me. For Kalda’s sake, I doubt they even saw you! You really are paranoid, Krindal.”
Jahevial wouldn’t have said that if he only lived through the horror of
what had transpired in the Igeacean Sea.
“I agree,” Deglin said. “I appreciate your concern for us, but I don’t think we’re in any danger. We’ll help Cornar gather those supplies.”
“Fine,” Krindal whispered. Perhaps it is better this way… He could more easily sneak about Kretin alone. But if he got tired… No! He couldn’t sleep, not until Prince Kaescis arrived.
Jahevial and Deglin exited the alley without any further acknowledgment of Krindal. They mingled with the sparse traffic, making their way back to the docking district.
Perhaps I should find an attic or cellar in which to squat, Krindal thought. He could sleep there. He needed sleep. It was getting late after all. Dusk had already settled and nightfall would soon be upon Kretin.
“The Grand Oracle and the Unspoken One shall meet. Their encounter will herald the beginning of Cheserith’s return.”
- Prophecy of Soron Thahan
Everything was peaceful in the village of Klarin, the settlement where Igan and the band had decided to stay. Klarin was one of four villages on the outskirts of Kretin, the farthest away from the city. Kalder had thought it a wise position, and Igan agreed with the warrior. Kalder was a wise man—he had been raised by Cornar, after all. Cornar’s wisdom rubbed off on anyone who spent a great deal of time with him. Even Igan felt wiser for being Cornar’s friend.
The place Kalder chose to take up lodging looked more like a farmstead than an inn. Igan had learned that the inheritors of the farmstead had turned it into an inn about forty years ago. They made some additions and turned the barn into another wing to accommodate more guests. The inn wasn’t large by any means. It wouldn’t accommodate everyone from the Promised Maiden, so some of Cornar’s men pitched tents in the pasture behind the inn. There was one more place that they could stay, but Kalder didn’t want them spread across the village.
The past few days had been uneventful. Each day, Igan had sat in a rocking chair on the inn’s side porch. It allowed a view to the pasture and the nearby forest. This was a particularly good spot for quiet contemplation, despite the warriors practicing in the pasture.