by P D Dennison
The table had been set with many delicious savoury foods. There were minced meat pies and turnovers filled with sweet potatoes. There were various little breads and rolls served up with nice soft goat’s milk butter, rich and creamy. There were cakes and pastries for dessert, all served with a variety of fresh wild berries and loads of fresh heavy cream and sugar. Everything was so tiny and delicate-looking. For a gnome, a full pie they would serve to a family of six was but a tartlet to a man.
Manya, being half-elven formed quite a dainty little silhouette. Even still, she’d grown no less tired of dried venison than her companions and the surprise of such a feast happened to be a welcome change to the menu. They feasted and laughed into the night talking of their adventures and trials to the Lady of the Wood. They told her of Graxxen and of his terrible plans for the Southerners and Northerners. They talked of his plan to build a road through her wood to reach the South with his army. She took particular note of this as she didn’t intend to let any goblins pass through the Danthar wielding fire and axe.
The hour drew late. The singing and music died out along with most of the gnomish hospitality. Many had gone off to their little huts to sleep for the night. The fire dimmed and the forest creatures all lumbered off sleepily back into the deep of the Danthar for their evening naps. All that were left were the companions and Nyxia.
“I want to talk of your boon owed to me for your passage through my woods.” The magick of her charm she’d long since lifted from the men as she deemed them all to be of good character. “I understand your cause for passing through these lands is a noble one. However, I plan to hold you to your debt to ensure you understand the importance of respecting the lives of the peoples and creatures of the fae realm....”
Manya cut her short. She stood and took up her staff in her hands and with great pride, she introduced herself formally to the good Lady of the Wood.
“Begging your pardon, good lady. I am Manya Silverleaf, Elemental Sorceress of the High Tower of Sorcery, an apprentice to the Great Rostioff Fastelaine, Arch Mage of Elemental Mastery. I am also named by the god Krigaar himself as Drake Vardar, steward of the dragons in Land of Shaarn, and am so named by Adder, king of all dragons. Now pray tell us what you would have us do for safe passage through your wood and we’ll decide if we are able to help you. As we have already told you, we are on a quest of great importance for the safety of not only you and your people, but all the living things in the Land of Shaarn and we simply must return to the Tower of High Sorcery to find my master. We must ensure that he and the dragon eggs are safe.
“If we can help we will, but you must first understand we are in service to the Land of Shaarn and to the gods, and to the king of the dragons himself. These priorities come first. I’m sure you can grasp that we must not tarry in the execution of this service for fear that not only the Danthar would be lost, but the whole of the lands south and also north of the Mystpeak Mountains should we fail. I mean no disrespect for your position of stewardship over this ancient forest, dear lady, but you must hear me when I say we have purpose righteous and true already, so please let us know how we can commit our already precious time to you further.” Manya made it quite apparent that aside from her very gracious hospitality, she’d not been pleased with the Lady of the Wood thus far, nor would she be intimidated by her in spite of their vulnerable position.
Nyxia rose from her seat. She’d been insulted enough by Manya’s brash behaviour.
“What I ask of you is to make a stop for me. Not actually for me, but for the gnomes here. It is somewhat out of your way. Travelling any distance is a great deal more difficult for them than for you. They are so tiny. They’ve lost contact with their kin to the east and want a message taken there.”
“As I’ve said, we can help you and intend to. However, it may not be with the haste you had hoped for as more pressing matters require our attention first. Now sit yourself back down before you get yourself into a mess you can’t get out of.”
Liv Givare gave her the great advantage of no longer requiring spell books to be at her side. The Lady showed kindness, but Manya had no intention of becoming this woman’s messenger. She could sense Nyxia was of good character and would soon see their quest far outweighed the penance she requested.
Nyxia stared at Manya for several long and uncomfortable moments. Manya glared right back at her as she weighed her options and calmed herself.
Nyxia could sense them to be good and honest people. She had a gift for sensing evil as all beings of the fae wyrld of Aalfheim did. She took up her cup and downed a long swallow of the mulled mead while she contemplated, looking around the table at the men present. The big one had obviously bound himself to this girl by love and would not part from her for even a moment. The next man appeared to be her brother as both were half elf and they shared the same eyes and smile. The next fellow, the Ranger, she had seen him in these parts before gathering herbs and such. He‘d never done any harm to the Danthar and had always passed with the utmost reverence and respect for the wood. Perhaps he could carry the message of the gnomes to their brethren in the east when next he was out that way. The people of Shaarn told stories of the Tower Garrison of Rangers travelling the the land far and wide in search of the rarest of herbs, animals, and minerals for the magi to perform their arcane research. No doubt he would be east at some point in the near future.
Postgaar, tired of the women fighting, rose to his feet to speak. “Mah’ lady, I’ll do it. Ye needn’t put yerself’ out by askin’ the Ranger. His duties are bound to the service of the Tower whereas I’m a free man. I’ll need a few things. Such as provisions and I’d also ask ye’ that I be able to take with me two of your wolf companions there. Their sniffers and their fangs’ll be a great boon to a lonely dwarf on the road. Are they tame enough for such a thing?”
The lady smiled at him broadly and nodded. “They are. If I command, they will do exactly as you tell them. They understand every word.” She called two of them over with a whistle. “This is Klo. She is a female and a strong den mother, the most intelligent of her pack. Her cleverness and wile are without a match in these woods. She is the most capable and wiling among her kin to help when called upon. This is Huggtand. He is second in command of the pack. Lieutenant, if you will. He is the strongest of their kin, sly, quick, and silent as they come. I have seen him knock a hill giant to its back in one pounce and they stand almost thirteen feet high, but that was a very long time ago. They are precious fae creatures, not average wolves. They have lived for thousands of seasons. They‘ll be your eyes and ears in the night and will help you find your way. Please be as swift as your little legs will allow, good dwarf, and there will also be rewards for you when you return.”
“Rewards?” Turynn perked his head up when he heard this. “If I might be so bold as to ask, what sort of rewards, mah’ lady?”
“Oh, so now it would seem I have two champions at my service.” She smiled. “If it is reward of gold and silver you seek for your services, Turynn Silverleaf, then that is what I offer. I have much and have no need for it other than times like this.”
Turynn nodded. “Alright, I’ll go with Postgaar then, and we’ll take those wolves too. We’ll be just fine the two of us; won’t be gone long at all. I expect we could make it there and back within two-seven nights. Postgaar, have you any objections to my accompanying you?”
“Nay. Now let’s go to bed. All this jabberin’s made me sleepy.” He downed the last of his gnomish ale, wiped his beard with his arm. He hopped down from his chair, let out a thunderous burp, and headed over to the nice camp that the gnomes had made for them.
“I thank you all,” said the lady. “Especially you, Master Postgaar.”
He was already halfway to the stable and simply waved his hand back to acknowledge she had spoken to him.
The rest of the companions shook hands and said their goodnights to the Lady of the Wood before heading off to bed.
Chapter 19
T
he Best Laid Plans
Graxxen sat enraged in his icy throne deep inside the spine of the wyrld. He fumed at the loss of so many eggs, but the acquisition of the Fulcrum Orb made all the difference. He wore it proudly around his neck on the very same chain Rostioff had made for it.
His ghouls had made the ice caves of the Spiral of the Serpent quite comfortable for his new base of operations. He planned to have the goblins move into Dragon’s Maw Keep. From there they would hold the road to the South that they now worked so diligently to clear. Those wretched men had fouled the keep with their stink and worst of all the stink of a woman, a half-elf no less! It would take days for the reek to be gone from his nostrils.
He picked up the Fulcrum Orb and looked into it. He understood fully the power of its scrying abilities where Rostioff had only just begun to scratch at the surface of the orb’s power. He gazed into it deeply and looked upon the Copper Dragon of Danthalas’ staff as it now lay locked away in a strongbox within the Tower. He also gazed upon the Blue Dragon Orb, kept by the elven king of Rowendale, Cariuus II as the King himself gazed into his. He’d seen these orbs in the first age. He knew of their whereabouts. It was the others he’d yet to behold and so it would be a challenge to find them.
The Fulcrum Orb’s design allowed it to control the other orbs and to find them in the Ages of the future should they become lost to time or ignorance. The wielder must’ve seen the orb he wished to view with the Fulcrum Orb in order for the portention to work. He possessed two others as well, the Black Dragon Orb and the Silver Dragon Orb. The Silver Dragon Orb held the power of polymorphing the wielder into any person, creature, or object the wielder had knowledge of. Graxxen had a sense of the power, but since he was evil and the magick of this orb rooted in the realm of the light, he had trouble controlling and understanding it. It was of no consequence; so long as the magi of the Tower did not get their hands on it he’d be satisfied.
Soon he would be hatching eggs and once they grew, he could begin his creation of the Dracolich. He laughed wickedly aloud at the thought of his armada of Dracolich sweeping across the land covering it in shadow and despair with their dark choking breath.
In the distance of the dim and icy cave, the ghouls completed their preparation of the site for the eggs during incubation. Graxxen stepped over to begin his ritual casting for the day that would keep them warm and nurtured. He took his seat back on his icy throne once he’d completed his chore and summoned one of his right hand ghouls.
“Fetch my pipe, rotter!” He gazed into the Black Dragon Orb now, which he used to communicate with the goblin chieftains. Their witchdoctors scryed using water with cursed blood. It allowed him to communicate with his underlings freely. The image of one of the witchdoctors soon appeared.
“Summon your chieftain at once, dog!”
His ghoul reappeared with his pipe loaded and ready to light. He used a simple cantrip to do so and a small flame jumped from his fingertip into the bowl, bringing the sour black smoke to life. Graxxen smoked regularly. Not for enjoyment, but to maintain his physical substance and grasp on the land of the living. The magick herb within aided in the preservation of the physical self long after death. An image of the goblin chieftain now appeared in the orb Graxxen’s ghoul slave now held out in front of him while he smoked.
“Your day is at hand, goblins! As I speak, your troops take their final positions, prepared to strike the North and take down the horde. Their water supply has been poisoned with charms of dark Blood Magick for a seven night now. They will fall before your numbers and break against your might like delicate crystal! Once their witchdoctors carry out the final stages of the curses we have set and they begin to believe their hardships are due to the wicked Southerners, our war will be made and we can simply sit back and wait for our dragons to be born into the wyrld. By the time they are done fighting one another, their numbers will be too few to resist us. We shall spread darkness throughout the land!”
“Yes, master,” came the reply from the Dark Fang chieftain of the Goblin Kingdoms. “But we’ve been considering outcomes and we stand to face massive losses. We’re the superior force by numbers, but the horde can be considered two to one when up against our folk and in some instances, we’ve seen a single Barbarian take out several of us in one rage filled fit. Morale is shaky at best among the troops as they know what they face.”
Graxxen nodded in recognition. He did not care for the statistics of goblin strategists. He knew the outcome would not be favourable for either side of this bloody affair. What he did know is the goblins would prevail through sheer numbers alone and their fallen would be re-enlisted into his horde of ghouls as undead soldiers to execute the second phase of his terrible plan.
“You needn’t worry. You miscalculate the awesome power of Blood Magick over the horde! My curse on their people’s might is subtle, yet powerful indeed! It will go unnoticed completely by the savages. A slip of the foot here, a poorly placed blow exposing a weapon arm there. It is a magick refined and sleek. Something I don’t expect you and your kind to understand, but I do expect you to believe in it. You shall be victorious and you shall take control of the fertile northern farm lands you seek! A just reward for a battle hard fought!”
“Yes, Lord Graxxen!” The goblin chieftain bowed and the image began to fade again.
It had worked. In his reply, Graxxen detected the air of confidence on the words of the goblin chieftain and that seed of confidence he had planted would now grow within the chieftain’s troops, carrying them through this battle to the meagre victory that Graxxen sought.
He needed the hordes enraged against the South. He needed their numbers thinned and their confidence shaken by a defeat at the hands of a lesser force. He needed the bodies of the fallen Barbarians and goblins to pad the ranks of his ghoulish army of the dead. He needed the defeat of the Northerners as the final chink in the armour of men that, when coupled with the terrible curses placed upon the horde over the last couple of moons by their own witchdoctors, would incite them to war with the South, allowing Graxxen time to foster his dragons to a ripe age and turn them into Dracolich. The complexities of the plan were many, requiring much planning and patience but things began to fall into place and Graxxen revelled in it, in spite of his minor losses. It would seem each time he took a step back, he then took two steps forward. Always the men and the living gave him his push, unknowing and ignorant to his vision and the plans of his dark mistress. He placed his jagged and curvy pipe between his teeth, rubbed his hands together like an old miser with his last coin and belted out a dark and insidious cackle.
Rostioff had regained as much of his composure as could be expected after the loss of his life’s mentor and his most powerful magickal artifact. He’d been chosen to replace Danthalas as Arch Mage of the Tower and assumed the role immediately as he felt any delay might result in tragic consequences now that Graxxen had the Fulcrum Orb and as many dragon eggs as he did. Rostioff had sent many a young mage into the libraries to study the ancient Annals of Dragon Husbandry in order to begin the fostering and rearing of the eggs to a hatching prior to Manya’s return. He knew it to be a race and only a matter of time before Graxxen would hatch his armada. He would come for the Tower and all the people of the South.
Rostioff rose from his desk to poke at the fire as he thought about what might happen if he failed further. The fire crackled and snapped as he gazed at it not seeing flame but recalling all he’d done thus far. He’d been busy the last few days. Letters sent via pony couriers out to all the kingdoms of the South rallied them to the banner of the Tower in Stromsgate to ride against the coming attack. He’d sent out teams of two, War Mage and Ranger of the Garrison, into the lands in search of the remaining five Dragon Orbs. These would garner him a great deal of power that needed to be matched. Rostioff still had Danthalas’ Bronze Dragon Orb staff.
He wandered over to the window and looked out over the sea toward the Midgaard Isles. The water raged in high tides. He watched it c
rashing on the rocks in the bay. The sky had come alive with shades of blue and purple fading then to pink near the horizon as the last rays of the day’s light slipped into the night. He found himself truly at peace for a moment enjoying the sea air and the beautiful little pink and purple clouds. All too quickly reality set back in and his day dream turned to thoughts of a sky black with the smoke of war, air thick with the stench of death. There would be no peace again in the Land of Shaarn for some time and not at all if he faltered further in his duty.
Rostioff poured himself a glass of Elven Bourbon from Danthalas’ private reserve. He took a long sip and thought of the Silverleafs and the great sacrifice they’d made for his cause thus far. He thought of them as good people, even though they remained youths in the elf world on account of their ages. For an elf, they’d hardly lived a day yet and had their whole lives ahead of them. Manya ‘s rewards demonstrated the thanks offered by the god Krigaar at being appointed Drake Vardar. She’d be back soon and the eggs would stand a much better chance than they did in the hands of untrained apprentice magi. She was his last hope for this phase of the plan. He prayed to the gods that Hengaar made it back to Stonehammer to muster the dwarven armies. He’d even sent small skiffs out to the Midgaard Isles and the Realm of the Sea Elves.
His assistant entered the room to announce the arrival of his council. He ordered them sent in and seated himself at the meeting table.
“Gentry of the Tower Council, dark days are ahead of us. The hour of truth is at hand for us to prove our great worth to the good people of Shaarn. Our enemy is now preparing an army and a war to bring into the south. He employs goblins and wakes the dead from their graves to serve in his ranks. I have seen with my own eyes the dead walk and smelled the terrible stench of decay on them as they tried to take my life from me. We must now prepare the forces of the Tower to march to war. We must strike first and show this foe, this lich, that men do not bow down to evil tyrants. We must act swiftly to prevent his terrible plans from coming any closer to fruition.