“I’m not sure,” admitted Mirien, lips pursed in thought. “They seem well-used to the dangers of the Elder Forest. I would guess they have been in these woods for a very long time.”
Kyran nodded. It matched his own assessment. “Do you believe they are pledged to any of the gods?”
“I don’t think it likely, not with those amulets. And I saw nothing to indicate any of them are champions or vassals.” She looked questioningly at Kyran.
He shook his head. “None of them are players,” he replied. He had applied insight to each elf to make sure. “And they know the undead,” he murmured.
“Yes…” said Mirien, her brows furrowing. “Do you believe them?”
“I do. Gayla’s message could only have come from Aveyad.”
Mirien sighed. “That means they have likely been here a very long time. Possible even since the fall of Crotana.” Looking troubled at the thought, Mirien lapsed into silence.
Kyran glanced at Mirien in surprise. “That concerns you?”
“No,” said Mirien, shaking her head in immediate denial. Then she stopped, sighing. “I don’t know. Maybe. It should be cause for rejoicing. To think that some of Crotana’s people survived its fall.” She fell silent again.
“But?” asked Kyran.
Mirien took a deep breath. “But from everything I’ve been told about the kingdom’s fall, all who remained were slaughtered. Cleansed by the gods’ crusade. There were no survivors.” Her eyes dropped, hinting at some hidden shame. “Except for those who fled,” she added in a whisper.
Ah, thought Kyran, beginning to understand the animosity he sensed in the elves towards Mirien. “Your ancestors were from Crotana?” he asked quietly.
“My grandparents, actually,” replied Mirien. Seeing Kyran’s surprise, a smile flickered across her face. “Elves live a long time. My grandparents… abandoned Crotana before the crusade, believing it necessary for at least a small part our family to survive and retain some hope for the future. In all that time since, none of my family has returned. I, like them, believed there was no one left to save.” Her voice turned bitter. “Now I wonder why I did not return to the forest sooner.”
“And that is why they seem to hate you? Because your family abandoned a dying kingdom?” he asked.
“There is more to it than that,” admitted Mirien. “But that is the heart of the matter.”
Kyran nodded slowly, then frowned. “But how did they know you are a descendant of Crotana?”
“Exiles,” replied Mirien softly. “We call ourselves exiles. And they know, because I am a high elf.” Kyran stared at her blankly. “High elves are few and far between, and most breed true towards their ancestral line. And my line, the Tolyrandils, has always been distinctive.”
Kyran recalled his long-ago conversation with Gaesin about Mirien’s origins. “So your family is famous?”
Mirien’s eyes regained their twinkle. “Moderately so,” she replied with a smile.
He let the matter lie there, not wanting to pry too much. “Do you think we can trust them?” he asked, returning the conversation on course.
Mirien’s smile faded. “I don’t know, Kyran. I hope so.”
Kyran sighed. “Well for now at least we seem to have no choice in the matter.”
✽✽✽
Hours later, Yiralla stared off into silence as the troll captain and his scouts finished their report. Finding the free agent’s trail in the snow-covered mountain had been a near impossibility, yet the trolls had managed the feat.
Her troops had found not only her two missing scouts—dead and frozen from the storm—but the escarpment path up which the free agent had ventured and the trail of the dwarven warband that seemingly followed in his wake. The path’s sheltered nature meant that despite the layers of snow covering the rest of the mountain, it had retained evidence of the elves’ and dwarves’ recent crossings.
The news was uniformly bad, and now she had no choice but to contact her god. Breathing in deeply, Yiralla reached out into the ether. “Divine, I need you please.”
“What is it, Yiralla?” asked Xetil as his presence settled back in her mind.
There was no use being coy now. “The storm has ended, Divine, and the scouts I have sent out have returned. The free agent has escaped the inner mountains, Sire.”
Stark silence greeted her words. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, Milord.” Yiralla paused. “There is more, Sire.”
“Go on, Yiralla.”
“A band of dwarves are on the free agent’s trail. The scouts believe they are following the elf.”
“I want his head.”
“Whose, my lord?” asked Yiralla confused. Did Xetil mean one of the dwarves?
“Your captain’s,” was the curt reply.
Yiralla swallowed, but offered no dissent. Irrational though Xetil’s demand was, there was no saving her vassal now. “Yes, Milord,” she replied meekly.
“You will deliver me the free agent’s corpse and any you find with him. Do not fail me again, Yiralla,” warned Xetil, his voice cold and controlled.
Yiralla shivered. All the rage and fire she had been expecting in Xetil’s voice was absent. Those emotions, she understood and could contend with. The frozen anger gripping her god now was something foreign to her. Never in her long life had she witnessed him in a mood such as this.
Yiralla bowed her head in acquiescence. “Your will, Divine.”
Chapter 21
06 Novo 2603 AB
All devices that impair divine sight or conceal a citizen’s identity must be stringently controlled. Their uses are confined to military and intelligence applications, and only with prior approval from a senior champion. All agents are cautioned to treat any such items with care, and to keep in mind that with time and effort any skilled enchanter can duplicate these devices for their own nefarious ends. —Corin Mislav, Iyra hound.
The next morning, Kyran awoke to Gaesin’s startled cry.
As he jerked upright from his pallet, Kyran’s head whipped around in search of the source of the youth’s distress, but saw nothing that gave cause for alarm. The elven camp was quiet, with only a few figures up and about in the grey dawn of early morning.
Gaesin was staring in the direction of the elves, and suddenly Kyran realised it was the elves that were the cause of his alarm. “Gaesin, it’s alright,” he said to the half-elf whose mouth was working without forming sounds. “The elves are our… friends.”
Gaesin’s head swung his way. “Kyran!” he exclaimed, his voice still strained. “What happened? The last thing I remembered was pain…” He peered down at his chest and tentatively raised his hand to touch the closed wound. “I was struck by an arrow I think…” Horror filled his face as the memory resurfaced. “Goblins! I was shot by a goblin! What happened to them?”
“The goblins are gone. Defeated,” replied Kyran. “And everyone is fine.” Gaesin’s shoulders sagged in relief. Kyran rose to his feet and moved to Adra’s sleeping form. She was stirring already. Reaching down, he shook her lightly.
Her eyes snapped open, focusing first on Kyran’s face, then Gaesin’s, who was hovering over his shoulder. “You saved him,” she breathed.
“I did,” he said, smiling. “Now come, there is much I have to tell you both.”
Thirty minutes later, Adra and Gaesin were all caught up on events and the party’s reunions were completed. Both the wolven and half-elf were sceptical of Mirien and Kyran’s belief that the elves lived in the forest. The pair’s own harrowing journey through the forest made them aware of just how difficult such a feat would be, but both accepted his assessment that travelling north together was in the party’s best interest.
The party and elven company broke camp soon after. Just like the previous day, Talien and Gayla had little to say, exchanging only perfunctory greetings with Adra and Gaesin before hurrying the company on.
Yet despite the pair’s apparent determination not to speak further to
the party, the elves’ curiosity was evident in their darting glances and many whispered conversations. Time and again, Kyran overheard his name and Mirien’s mentioned with—surprisingly—equal frequency.
The day progressed remarkably without incident. Both Adra and Gaesin were unable to conceal their surprise at the elves’ proficiency in avoiding the forest’s denizens, and it put to rest their doubts about the elves’ ability to survive in the Elder Forest.
Kyran himself was shocked at how quickly the elven rangers traversed the forest. Yesterday—even with Gaesin and Adra stretchered—the rangers had covered more distance than the party had managed on their own since entering the Elder Forest. And today, the rangers looked set to exceed that. He shook his head in amazement. Whatever else resulted from the party’s encounter with the elves, he was thankful for how much the elves sped their progress through the forest.
Kyran attempted to put the days spent travelling to good use and train his civilian abilities, yet the rangers pushed too hard through the forest for him to get much in the way of practice. He spent the nights studying the Champion’s Handbook with Mirien, this time focusing his research on the civilian classes.
He discovered the whiesper was a quick study and devoured the book’s knowledge nearly as rapidly as he did. She provided some keen insights into the choice of his second class, too.
The civilian classes available to him were more restricted than the combat class options he had had, a result of his smaller pool of civilian skills. The classes that sparked his interest included the administrator, ranger commander, portal master, and battle lord. Of the four, the portal master appealed to him the most.
The portal master’s class traits doubled a player’s travelling and teleport spell distances—and also made telekinesis a class skill. The class ability, mind gate, allowed a journeyman portal master to create a specialised portal between two points in the ‘real’ through the mindscape.
Gates were a smaller and less powerful variant of world portals. Like world portals, they allowed instantaneous travel, but unlike world portals, a gate—powered only by its spellcaster’s essence—was restricted in both the numbers it could transport and the distances over which it could be formed.
Mirien argued that he didn’t need the portal master class ability. At adept rank and travelling skill of sixty, he would be able to learn ether gate, an ability similar to mind gate, but one that worked through the ether and over larger distances. Instead, she advocated for the battle lord class.
That class doubled the range and size of his battlegroups and added fire magic to his repertoire of class skills. Furthermore, its class ability, captains, allowed him to designate his vassals as captains and give them the ability to form their own battlegroups. This, Mirien argued, was crucial once the size of his party grew to the extent that his vassals began operating independently of him.
There was merit in what Mirien advised. But it was also a huge advantage to be able to move men and supplies instantly over greater distances. In the end, he decided to leave the choice until later. He would ponder further on both options and make his decision after he reached the journeyman-rank.
The third day of the party’s journey with the elves went much like their second, the only exception being the weather. Staring up at the sky as they passed through one of the infrequent forest clearings, Kyran beheld blue sky for the first time in days.
The storm that had been raging for the last week had finally cleared, and while the party had felt little of its effect in the thick forest underbrush, it seemed from the sudden explosion of small creatures that the weather had not gone unnoticed by the forest’s denizens.
On the morning of the fourth day, the party was intercepted.
Two hours into their journey, four figures dropped down from the trees, barring the passage of Talien and Gayla at the head of the procession.
It took Kyran a moment to realise that the four were not part of the company of masked archers. For one, they were unmasked. For another, they were dressed in darksteel chainmail armour. Each figure had a sheathed longsword at his hip and a round shield fastened across his back.
Their narrow faces, and pointed ears marked them as elven, yet their faces remained hard and their eyes narrowed with suspicion as they studied the company.
“Commander Talien, why have you brought outsiders to the refuge?” demanded the oldest of the four.
Kyran studied the speaker surreptitiously. His hair was stark-white and his face seamed with age. Despite his advanced years, the armoured warrior’s spine was unbowed, and his movements smooth. He bore himself with authority, and clearly expected obedience. The three warriors at his back, while not as ancient as the speaker, also appeared to be older than the rangers that escorted them.
“It is at the dowager’s command, Protector,” replied Talien, undaunted by the warrior. “As you well know.”
The protector folded his arms. “The council did not agree to this,” he said sternly.
Talien shrugged. “Take it up with the dowager.”
The protector rested his hand casually on his sword. “Show some respect, Talien.”
Talien smirked. “Take it up with the dowager, then, Protector Lothar.”
“One day that attitude of yours is going to get you in trouble, Talien,” Lothar said. The protector’s eyes slid beyond Talien to the party beyond. His gaze rested briefly on Kyran before moving on.
His gasp on seeing Mirien was unmistakable.
The old warrior’s eyes flew open in shock and his stern demeanour vanished entirely as he stared at Mirien in open-mouthed wonder. He took a halting step forward, then wavered, his age suddenly betraying him and causing him to falter. “It cannot be,” he whispered. “Talien, is that…?”
“I don’t know,” grunted the scarred ranger. “Maybe.” A flash of sympathy darted across his face, but it was gone so quickly Kyran was sure Lothar had not seen it. “I think so,” he added, sounding reluctant.
The three warriors behind Lothar shifted uncomfortably, their gazes pinned on Mirien too. They also appeared disturbed by Mirien, reverence and even awe seeming to peek through faces they struggled to keep impassive.
Kyran glanced at the whiesper by his side. Mirien’s hands were trembling and she chewed nervously on her lip. She, too, barely clung to her composure. Just who are the Tolyrandils? he wondered.
After regaining control of himself, Lothar strode forward with stiff dignity. Talien and Gayla silently gave way as the old warrior walked past them and stopped before Mirien.
Kyran, next to the whiesper, watched Lothar scrutinise Mirien’s face, gaze flicking from her raven-black hair to her pale skin and emerald-green eyes. Concluding his study, the old warrior pronounced, “Milady Tolyrandil.” There was neither question nor doubt in his voice.
“Just Mirien,” she replied, her eyes brimming.
Lothar dropped to one knee and the three other protectors at his back followed suit. “Milady, I never thought I would live to see this day,” said the old warrior, tears flowing unchecked down his cheeks as he looked up at Mirien. “To see a Tolyrandil return to the forest and walk beneath its trees.” He bowed his head in shame. “Forgive us, Milady. We did not know that the family survived, or we would have come to you.”
Gaesin gasped loudly.
None of the elves glanced at him. Their eyes remained fixed on the tableau of Mirien and the kneeling Lothar. When Kyran looked the youth’s way, Gaesin’s face was reddened with embarrassment.
“Now I remember why the Tolyrandil name seemed so familiar,” he said excitedly. “Tolyrandil is the elven high family that ruled the Elder Forest in an unbroken line since before even the Gods’ Game.”
Kyran exchanged a troubled glance with Adra. Mirien was… royalty? “We’ll talk more on this later, Gaesin,” he replied and turned his attention back to the whiesper.
Mirien’s hands reached out with tenderness to the old warrior’s bowed head and rested on it lightly. �
�No, Lothar, it is you who must forgive my family,” she whispered. “We did not know that any survived the cleansing.”
Lothar raised his bowed head. “Then more of your family survives, Milady?”
Mirien nodded. “Yes Protector,” she replied, smiling crookedly. “I have a whole clutch of cousins, sisters, and brothers back home.” Her smile faded. “Our exiled home. Many pine to return to the forest, but most did not think survival here possible.”
Talien snorted. “More likely, they’re unwilling to give up their lives of pampered luxury to rough it out in the wilds.”
The sounds of three blades unsheathing was unmistakable. Talien spun around to see the protectors at his back had drawn their weapons and were glaring menacingly at him.
“Lothar has warned you once already, Talien,” said one of the three. “Learn some respect. Ridicule the protectors all you want, but do not mock our charge.”
“Your charge?” Talien sneered. “Already?” he exclaimed incredulously. He swung around to point at Mirien. “That scraggly girl? You can’t be serious!”
The protector, his sword clenched in a white-knuckled grip, advanced on the defiant ranger.
“Stand down, Larien,” ordered Lothar from where he still knelt before Mirien. “And that is enough from you as well, Talien. You embarrass the dowager and yourself with this childishness.”
The two elves, still scowling, stepped back from each other. Lothar turned back to Mirien. “Milady, forgive us this unseemly behaviour. The protectors will pledge ourselves to your service.”
Mirien crouched down on eye-level with the old warrior. “Rude as he is, Talien is right,” she said gently. “You do not know me”—she swallowed uncomfortably—“or what I have done. I am not the eldest of the family, nor the marked heir. The protectors’ loyalty belongs first and foremost to the Warden.”
Lothar shook his head in protest. “Nonetheless, Milady, you are the first Tolyrandil to walk these woods in six hundred years. We will honour our pledge.”
Sovereign (The Gods' Game, Volume IV) Page 31