by RG Long
Perhaps not everyone in the city was as difficult at that pudgy dock master, Wisym thought.
***
“YOU WILL HAVE TO EXCUSE the Red Guard for how they handle the docks of Beaton," the man who had introduced himself as governor said as he invited Wisym, Finwe, and Ithrel into the captain's cabin of his ship, The Heart of Beaton.
"In fact," he said as he motioned for them to help themselves to refreshments, "You'll have to excuse the Red Guard for many of their activities."
Wisym was less concerned about who the Red Guard might be when she saw the fabulous spread out in front of her.
There were several different types of bread as well as fruits that she recognized and others that were new to her. There was turkey, venison, fish, and other food laid out on a magnificent table. The hungry elves loaded their plates while doing their best to remember their manners. Having nothing for the last two days save for moldy bread, however, can cause one's table manners to be a little less than desirable.
The governor of Beaton was not perturbed by the ravenous sounds the elves made as they ate.
After having taken a dozen bites of whatever food was within reach, Wisym looked to the man who was their host, and apparently the leader of the city of Beaton.
He was an older gentleman with gray hair and beard that was well groomed. His blue eyes were not faded with age and showed the kindness that was inside of him. He was not any taller than Wisym but she knew that he was tall for a man. He was not skinny, nor was he heavyset, but instead his frame showed that he was a man not given into indulgence but also not familiar with the pain of hunger.
Seeing how his guests ate, Wisym saw him signal for a servant who stood nearby.
"If this is any indication as to how hungry the rest of the elves on board their ships are, please send rations to them immediately. I will not have guests of my city going hungry."
The servant nodded and then hurried out of the room.
Turning his attention back to the three elves sitting at his table he spoke directly to Wisym.
"Tell me your story," sister of Talgel.
He placed an elbow on the table and his head in one hand as he looked into the eyes of what Wisym knew must be a very tired looking elf.
She sighed deeply and then began to relive the events of the past month that led her to the shores of the Red Sea.
***
WHEN ALL WAS TOLD, the governor shook his head.
"I have heard of trouble brewing in the goblin lands as well as down in the Southern Republic. But I had no idea that it had come to war."
Finding within herself a renewed strength from the much needed food and renewed hope from the warm reception she had received from the governor, Wisym made her plea.
"Please Governor," she begged. "You have heard our tale and so I am sure you know how desperate our situation is. We need aid. Whether it is armies or supplies or a place to call a safe haven, we are at your mercy."
The governor leaned his head back against his chair and took a deep breath. His expression changed from one of sympathy to that of a helpless onlooker.
"My title may be governor, but I'm afraid my powers here in the city are few and limited. Every action I take must be tested against the Red Guard's wishes."
He cast a glance out of the window of the ship towards the walls of the city. He spoke more to himself than to the elves at his table.
"Many years ago when I was first elected governor, crime and evil were rampant in my city. I was desperate for anything that could rid us of the terrible blight that was plaguing us. When I was promised that justice could be restored if I handed over some of my power to the Red Guard, I was quick to agree. Perhaps I was more concerned with being reelected and pleasing the people than I was about my ability to lead on my own."
He looked back at the elves with a very sad expression on his face.
"I will do what I can to lobby for you so that aid may be sent. But I fear there is much red tape we must pass through before I can get authorization for such a venture."
Wisym felt deflated. At first she had such high hopes that the governor of the city would be able to help. Now she was being told he was little more than a puppet. Her current experience with the Red Guard and their dock master did not bode well for getting aid quickly.
"What I can offer is rest for you and your people, though I know it is not everything you desire."
As he spoke the doors of the cabin opened and two young men walked in. Wisym noticed that they were dressed finely in maroon and gold. Neither of them looked to be more than thirty human years.
"Ah," said the governor. "If I am limited, perhaps these men may be able to better assist you, Wisym of Talgel."
He stood to his feet and gestured to the two men with his hand.
"May I introduce to you: the princes of Thoran."
42: The Northern Wastes
Ealrin had been walking for a solid week. He had been following General Verde for a month, ever since he had seen him venture into the Northern Wastes from Beaton. Ealrin was also keenly aware that the general was on a mission. He stayed as far back from him as he dared, merely following the tracks and trails of travel, as Holve had nearly a year ago when they tracked a thief together.
Why the general had Holve's spear, Ealrin couldn't be sure. He did know, however, that the necklace he carried looked extremely similar to the one that belonged to Blume. That he intended to get it back and return to its owner. He prayed that Blume had indeed been transferred to the magical college in Irradan and spared the war ravaging the south.
His thoughts lingered on his adopted daughter as he followed Verde. It gave him hope and warmth as he pressed on. To think that, though there was a great evil in the world, there could shine a light of hope as bright as Blume Dearcrest surely was a sign that all was not lost, that evil had not triumphed.
Ealrin also pondered the odd series of events that had led him to the Northern Wastes to follow Verde in the first place. Blume’s fate. Thoran’s current struggles. He shook his head clear. He needed to focus on tracking Verde, and not of thinking of the past.
As Ealrin followed the general west, he began to wonder what quest he might have been sent on. What would have been so pressing that one of his best generals, and most loyal supporter, should be sent to the Wastes? Perhaps he had somehow fallen out of grace in the last month. Perhaps now that the south lay in his grasp, he sought something to help him acquire Thoran. Though, in reality, with the south under his rule, conquering Thoran should not prove to be difficult. This also drove Ealrin to follow Verde: to see if there was something Androlion sought that he might steal in order to disrupt the Merc leader.
On this day, Ealrin followed Verde closer than he had before, making sure to keep him in his sights. The blizzard was worsening and the wind blew against him. He felt that if he were to lose him in the snow, he might be lost as well. He had not yet made himself as familiar with the territory surrounding the inn, as he would have liked. Unlike Holve, he was not keeping at least a hundred maps in his head at once. Instead of tracking him in the snow, and because he was dangerously close to him, Ealrin kept inside the forest that had appeared around midday. While Verde hugged its border, Ealrin tracked him from within.
As they approached a hill, though it was hard to tell in this blinding snow, Verde stopped suddenly. Ealrin just barely had been able to make out something flying through the air at him. Then, as swiftly as a fox, someone jumped from the woods and wrapped themselves around the general. Ealrin saw the blade drawn from the sheath, and the unmistakable slice of Verde's throat.
Ealrin dropped to the ground in order to not be seen. The killer had crouched down over his body and was now picking through the belongings he had on him.
So this is how one of the greatest generals is defeated, he thought, by a simple thief.
But there was something more to this thief. Something that was both familiar and strange. Ealrin noticed the wolf skin lay on their back a
nd the mask of a white wolf that covered their face. He saw the strikingly silver hair that was long and braided and now fell over her right shoulder. The thief was a woman. And not just any woman, nor truly a thief.
Ealrin had heard the stories of this woman from those who stayed at the inn. She was deadly, swift; a bounty hunter without comparison. She was exactly what Ealrin needed.
A plan was forming in his head as he boldly came into view on purpose and walked toward her. He knew that if she desired him to die, he would be dead within a moment's notice. Ealrin also knew that, somehow, the fates were not done with him yet and that this would not be his last day.
He hoped his feelings were not wrong.
The wind changed and he knew a hunter as skilled as she would detect him. And indeed she spun on her heel and raised her sword, ready to strike at this newcomer who had invaded her capture of a bounty.
Ealrin was shocked as he approached her at her beauty. The hard life that she must live had not affected her radiance. And though the face that she gave Ealrin surely bespoke of a quick and efficient end, her eyes betrayed something that Ealrin had learned to look for in others:
Beauty.
He made no sudden movements towards his own weapon that remained at his side. She looked as if she could strike at any moment and indeed, Ealrin may very well have already been dead had her knife not been currently residing in Verde's heart.
He spoke loudly, boldly, and with as much courage as he could find within himself, for he knew that if he were right and the plan he had in his mind would work, that the senseless war in the south could reach an abrupt end. But this would be the first step of many. The first part of a long journey that hinged on the answer he now sought from a skilled assassin and bounty hunter.
He was surprised at the calmness in his voice as he yelled over the blizzard:
"Silverwolf! Hunter of the north! I am Ealrin, knight of the sword and servant of those who wish to keep the continent of Ruyn in a state of peace."
The assassin hesitated. She lowered her blade a fraction. Yes indeed, the fates were not done with Ealrin. He then said the words he would remember for the rest of his life:
"I have a job for you."
Magic of Ruyn
The war of the races has begun.
Ealrin made his decision. He’ll give his life to protect the peace of Ruyn.
Finding companionship in his newfound friends, Ealrin has more reason than ever to defend the kingdoms of Ruyn from destruction.
But goblin armies march north. Can Ealrin and his friends unite the fractured realms that remain in the wake of a growing army of hate?
The companions each embark on a quest to plea with the lands that remain untouched by genocide. But have they left in time?
1: Felicia Stormchaser
The morning dawned on the thirtieth day after Felicia Stormchaser woke up on the shore of the Southern Republic bruised, battered, and water logged. Beautiful rays of orange and yellow broke through the dusk and chased away the stars from the previous night. As the two suns began to rise, so did the former captain of The White Wind.
She stood, stretching her back to try to relieve the pain that came from sleeping on the beach for half a month. Though never one to complain about her accommodations, she was growing weary from traveling so slowly. She preferred the half broken beds and constantly swinging hammocks of a broken down ship to sleeping on the ground. Sleep, however, was the least of her worries. Her constant companion, Urt, was struggling to keep going with his broken leg.
Urt was a Skirlx. Though he stood and walked much like a man, his face was catlike, with pointed ears on the top of his head, and a tail that flowed from underneath the tattered and sun bleached clothes he wore: simple breeches and a shirt. His normally pristine gray fur was matted and sandy.
Felicia looked down at her first mate and sighed.
When the goblins had attacked their vessel a month ago, the pair had fought like mad to save their ship and their crew. A goblin shaman’s spell had torn the vessel in two and arrows had done in the rest.
As far as Felicia knew, she and Urt were the only survivors.
They had leaped from the ship as it tore in two with a green blast of raw energy. By grabbing onto the pieces of the shipwreck that remained, they had been able to float to shore. Since then they had lived off of whatever fish they could cook over fire created by gathering driftwood and beach grasses.
Though they had walked past two settlements as well as the river that lead to Conny, the capital of the Southern Republic, the two had continued to trek south.
Merc raiders roamed the countryside and with them came the rumors: fires in the woods of the elves to north. Death in the mountains of the dwarves to the east. Felicia knew what these tidings meant: a change in the attitudes of men towards the other races was coming.
Seeing as Urt was one of the last of his dying race, as well as her closest friend, Felicia dared not take him to any town or village.
And so the two had walked south, slowly, but still, they had walked. Urt’s leg was bound between two pieces of their former ship with cloth from their old sails to allow it to set and eventually, heal.
Urt stirred in his sleep and Felicia’s brow furrowed.
His fever had started two days ago and had yet to subside.
Because of his condition, they had traveled even slower than they normally did. Felicia could only offer him so much support before tiring. Urt stood seven feet tall and was ripping with muscles. Underneath his bulk, the captain found herself worn out by the end of each day’s travels.
Still, she knew they must reach Sea Gate.
For in that city at the very southern tip of the country was her home.
Or at least the closest thing she had ever known to one.
Abandoned at a young age by parents who could not support her, Felicia had been raised by her aunt. The woman was as poor as dirt when she accepted Felicia into her home, but had since made a living in politics. Or so Felicia heard.
Though Felicia had willingly helped around the feeble house with the day-to-day chores, she found them dull and boring. She had always longed for adventure and new horizons. When she came of age at 18, she had fled the mundane life in order to sail the seas.
When she was on a boat she was no longer an orphan whose parents hadn’t cared enough about her to keep her. She was no simple child, performing mind-numbing tasks in order to “keep house,” or whatever her aunt had called it.
She desired more.
It was in the sea air that she breathed in life. It was in the roll of the ocean tides that she felt alive. It was at the helm of a ship that she felt like she belonged.
Felicia looked out over the sea as the twin suns of Gilia rose in the east behind her and cast light over the sea before her. After weaving her hair into a single braid, she allowed her shoulders to droop.
A sign of weakness she would never have allowed herself in front of her crew.
Felicia Stormchaser was a feared captain and a skilled sailor, a commander of men when other women were too afraid to venture out on a rowboat.
But here, on land with an injured friend and first mate, Felicia felt like a little girl again.
Rise. Walk. Eat. Walk. Eat. Sleep.
And then do it all over the next day.
There was no adventure in the slow trek they had before them. And Felicia’s heart was heavy for her friend.
How long could he endure the fever before it broke? How long could they travel before they had to stop and finally get help? Swords and daggers could spear fish and bring down birds to eat. But they could do nothing for a fever.
Felicia turned again to her companion as he rolled from his back to his side and onto his elbow.
Urt’s eyes came open in the first true light of day. The yellow eyes found Felicia’s green ones quickly.
“Sleep well, friend?” she said as she stooped to put her hand to his head.
His forehead was still wet
with perspiration and hot to the touch.
“We’ll need to find something for your fever soon or we’ll be...”
But whatever it is Felicia may have thought they would do if medicine were not found soon was lost.
She looked up over the dunes and saw five Merc raiders come riding towards them on horseback, swords drawn and cries of battle in their mouths.
2: Fern's Rest
Ealrin Belouve sat at the wooden bar, slick with lacquer and the years of spills from former patrons, waiting out the winter storm that raged outside. The wind and snow whistled through the windows and the cracks in the stone walls of Fern's Rest, the last civilized inn before the wilderness of snow and pine that stretched on for miles to the north.
At least the fire from the stone hearth and the company of ruffians, travelers and locals kept him warm.
Plus, whatever it was he was drinking seemed to help as well.
Ealrin sat and watched the other patrons of Fern's Rest eating their meals in relative quiet as a lone musician played a lute in the corner. Either the instrument was poorly made or out of tune. At least that's what its holder claimed. No matter how long he tried to play the wooden pipe, no decent sound escaped it.
Then again, with snow piled up as high as Ealrin stood, there was none better to replace him. Nor was anyone in the mood to kick him out into the weather from a second story window.
Ealrin had half a mind to learn to play just to offer some solace to the irritated guests as well as clear his own head.
As he took another small sip of his drink (he had learned not to gulp whatever the bartender served him), he caught a glimpse of himself in a dirty mirror on the wall of the inn.
The events of the past year had certainly aged him. The youthful look he had had when he left Good Harbor was gone. In its place were the bags of weariness underneath his eyes and the scruff of stubble on his face.