by RG Long
His hair was still the same dark brown and his eyes still shone with their hazel color. Yet there was some age to him now. The beginning of a wrinkle was forming over his brow. The bags under his eyes had nothing to do with a lack of sleep. The stubble on his face was due to the lack of a sharp razor.
Still, considering all that had happened to him, he knew he was lucky just to be alive.
He supposed that this was what growing up looked like. Now if only he could know for sure how old he was.
Ealrin had washed up on the island of Good Harbor a little less than a year ago. The remains of what must have been a ship scattered the beach around him as well as the crew he had sailed with. Ealrin was the only survivor.
He was taken in, nursed back to health, and then found himself involved in a war that threatened to consume a continent.
A man named Androlion Fellgate, once an elder and leader of the Southern Republic, had gathered around him an army known as the Mercs. Wherever there was a man to listen to his hate filled rhetoric, Androlion would push his prophecies of doom that could be forestalled only if the entire continent were cleansed of all races except for men.
The thought turned Ealrin's stomach.
Because of that hate and violence he had watched many friends die, and not just dwarves and elves, but men as well.
People whom he had respected and considered friends.
Like Holve.
Ealrin shook himself. He knew that those who had died for the cause of peace on Ruyn would not want him to dwell on their untimely death, but rather do something about the violence and hate that was escalating around him.
That was the reason he sat in the northern inn during this snowy day in winter.
To be honest, Fern's Rest was more of a city than a single bed house. The structure that was the inn was four stories tall. From outside appearances, it was quite the feat for it still to be standing, being so old.
Whatever the original structure's intent was, it certainly wasn't an inn.
The legend passed down through local gossip and the current owner of the inn, Saldrao Aleward, the tower like stone building was meant to be a passage from one great country in the north to the southern lands of Beaton. And true, to pass into the frozen wastes one had to walk through the large oak gate on the southern end of the wall that surrounded the compound and come out through an identical door to the north. To bypass this would add three weeks to one's journey through treacherous mountain terrain.
But why anyone would desire to travel north now was beyond Ealrin's comprehension. The only thing that was north of this stop, nestled between two mountains, was snow and secluded elves.
And neither of those welcomed strangers, as the stories went.
Inside the wall were two or three houses, depending on what you might define as a livable dwelling, as well as two or three sheds, again depending on one's preference for four complete walls that lacked major holes and manageable repair jobs.
All of the structures were made with the same dark stones taken from the mountain used to construct the inn. Three flanked the major building's right and the other on the left, creating the impression of a road that may have once meant to travel kings and dignitaries. Now the cobblestones were worn and overgrown and the stone road that lead from the southern door to the northern one was all but consumed by dirt and time. All of the buildings here shared the same type of roof: wooden shingles across sturdy beams of oak that could support the weight of heavy snows.
These roofs could sustain even the current storm.
Ealrin took another sip of this beverage and set the mug back down on the counter. He had been snowed in here for a week and unable to travel back south with his new companion.
Well, perhaps companion isn't the right term, Ealrin thought. More like business associate.
And as his thoughts turned to the one he would travel with, she sat down beside him and ordered her own drink.
She spoke to the back of the bartender without even acknowledging the presence of anyone else at the bar. Ealrin cast a sideways glance at her direction, not so much to confirm that it was who he thought it was, but because he was still mesmerized by her beauty.
He had learned very quickly, however, that to stare meant pain that was dealt out quickly and lasted far longer than the recipient cared for.
The last man who had allowed his gaze to linger too long sat in the corner of the eating area with a bandage still wrapped around his eye. He dared not glance their way.
The overweight bartender turned his bald head slightly to nod his acknowledgment and began preparing her beverage. As he turned to set down the concoction in front of her he blew some of the long hairs from his mustache out of his mouth. Ealrin was sure that this was an unconscious action on his part, but knew that it also meant that he expected payment for his services.
The silver haired female who sat next to him dropped two coins on the counter, which the bartender quickly slid into the pocket of his apron.
"So, tell me again about the man you want me to take care of for you," she said as she brought the mug to her lips.
Ealrin sighed deeply as he remembered the journey and purpose that had brought him here in the first place before retelling his story.
“I told you of our retreat back to Castle Thoran,” Ealrin began. “My journey here started soon after we returned from the battle...”
3: Strategy
A Month Previous
The mood in the castle of Thoran was in stark contrast to the vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows of the forest that surrounded the mountain city. Though outside its walls trees exploded in color and painted a beautiful picture with their hues, inside the stone walls the mood was gray and bleak.
The king of their great country was dead.
Ealrin hated that he was the one that had given the news to Teresa. Though he knew her to be a stout warrior on the battlefield and as fierce as she was beautiful, she had loved her father the king with all of her heart.
The news of his defeat had stolen the fight from her.
In her two brothers' absence she was now the sole ruler of the country of Thoran.
Though she had aids and countless subjects at her side at all times, there was not an advisor or counselor or even a friend who could ease her suffering.
Ealrin noticed that Teresa rose late and excused herself early every day. Perhaps she thought sleep would dull her pain. When she was present, her face was downcast and sullen.
He had no words that he could think of to comfort her with, so he turned his attention to the task he knew was at hand: defending the realm he now called home.
Unfortunately, most of the country's best generals, strategists, and tacticians were dead. Those that remained now sat with Ealrin around the table he had once shared with the deceased monarch.
Gorplin, the leader of a remnant of dwarves from The Southern Republic, sat or stood on one of the chairs and busied himself with a map and a large mug of ale. He was mumbling on about how the men who had made the maps failed to properly label "the older roads." Having trudged through one of those roads, Ealrin knew that the dwarf was referring to large and long underground tunnels that passed underneath every mountain on the entire continent. Dwarves had lived on Ruyn far longer than any man or elf had and knew much more about the mountains and the earth underneath them than all the rest could ever hope to know.
Ealrin was thankful for the young leader of dwarves.
Well, young in dwarf years.
Of all the races that lived on Ruyn, men were the shortest lived. Both elves and dwarves could live on for many centuries, while a man could boast only if he reached one hundred himself. By that time, however, most men were withering away. They would be too frail to boast long about anything other than being able to independently relieve themselves.
Gorplin just celebrated his one hundred and twentieth birthday (making him comparable to a young adult in the years of men) last week, though the celebration was a lo
w-key affair.
He, Ealrin, and Tory Greenwall sat around this very table and shared stories and ale until the morning suns rose.
Tory sat to Ealrin's right. If Teresa were the one who felt the sting of the previous month's battles and defeats the worst, Tory was a close second.
The night Tory had arrived to defend Ealrin and two others from Merc Raiders his best friend was killed by a man named Rayg, one of the generals of that terrible force from the south.
The Mercs.
Tory had so much stolen from him by these usurpers. All anyone knew a year ago, the force of thieves and mercenaries known as The Mercs, or sometimes called The Raiders, were wiped out by the combined forces of Thoran and the Southern Republic several years beforehand.
What the continent was unprepared for was the swift reorganization of the army of thieves by a man named Androlion Fellgate. Androlion had rallied men to aid by spreading word of a prophetic vision he had seen that would spell the doom of all of Ruyn. A doom that could be forestalled if all races save for men were wiped from the land.
A vision that he nearly accomplished.
Reports have come from the south that Androlion had now taken complete control of the southern country of Ruyn and either killed most of the dwarves and elves there or caused them to flee to the north. The Southern Republic, once a testament to the great accomplishments of a unified country of diverse races, was now a place only for men.
The man with the white griffin banner had poisoned the minds of many into believing that their country was now a better one, now that it was rid of any race other than man.
And, when the demons rained down from a dark comet that had been in the sky for a year, it seemed that at least some of his predictions were true. More and more men rally to his banner to aid in “saving” the land by fighting against the real threat of these demons and the perceived threat of the other races.
Tory’s brother, Cory, being one of them.
Ealrin still had visions of Cory Greenwall single handedly slaying the dwarves who remained after a fierce battle with the Mercs. Dwarves who were from his own country. Dwarves with whom Tory had marched with and fought beside not a day before. Cory had joined the usurper, Androlion, and betrayed his own country. His brother being the first to feel the brunt of betrayal. Tory had managed to find his way back to castle Thoran on top of a stretcher, held up by four dwarves. One of those dwarves was Gorplin.
The troop of survivors that numbered no more than fifty souls had hobbled back to the castle two weeks after the battle outside Loran, beside the ocean. How they had managed to keep Tory alive was beyond Ealrin's reasoning. Using more tunnels underneath the ancient mountains of Ruyn, Gorplin had led what was left of the army of Thoran back to the castle. They had been able to travel without being seen by Androlion's scouts or the purple flamed demons that roamed the land, bringing with them ruin and destruction.
The beasts, called demons for lack of any better term, appear in different forms, but all are covered in a purple flame. Rumors spread of their numbers. Some said there were thousands of them who walked during the night, spreading their purple flame. The reports Ealrin believed put the official count at nine, but he could see why people could believe that they were many more in number.
The demons could travel vast distances in a short amount of time. They seemed to be immeasurably strong and moved with great speed.
But the company that surrounded the table inside castle Thoran knew something others could hardly believe: the beasts that could destroy an entire village in an evening could be defeated.
They had seen it.
Holve Bravestead had given his life to kill the one that had landed in the middle of the battle that had sent the army of Thoran retreating back to its castle. Ealrin had watched the man who had found him washed ashore on a beach, nursed him back to life, and then allowed him to be his traveling companion. Ealrin's memory of his life before the shipwreck had washed away with the tide. Holve had been his constant in the months that followed. He was rough and hardly ever in a good mood, but he hadn't made Ealrin feel like he was a child or that his memory loss was an impediment.
Holve was the closest thing Ealrin had to family.
But now he was gone along the demon he had slain.
A crater was all that remained when Holve stabbed his spear into the beast on the battlefield.
And now that spear was in the hands of the man who controlled the south.
Thus their meeting today.
It was the first day since the survivors returned that Tory felt like even getting out of bed. They gathered around this table to discuss their options and the best strategic moves in the days that would follow.
Ealrin, Tory, Lote, and Teresa were the surviving members of the King’s Swords, a special fighting force formed by the last king of Thoran to be a small army of fighters that fought to keep peace with the smallest number of fighters possible.
With Teresa depressed at the loss of her father and king, it seemed that number had dropped to three.
Gorplin was the leader of the dwarves of the south, all thirty of them that remained. Having met with the dwarves of Thoran, the scant few that were left, they had agreed to let him speak on their behalf. The King’s Swords had employed several dwarves before. It seemed like they could use a few more now.
Lote was the slender representative of the elves. No reports had come from the two cities of elves from the south. For all they knew, every last one of them had been wiped out. Lote had been a hard read to Ealrin after the battle down south. As with Teresa, she kept a stern look on her face and her emotions to herself. At one time she had been almost jovial. That part of her seemed to have vanished with the end of the great battle.
But there was no other elf Ealrin had seen that could rival her shot with a bow. She was deadly accurate.
He didn't know much else about her background. She had not discussed her history with him at any length nor had he had a reason to find out about it.
Looking around the table now, he was curious.
The mood around the table was certainly somber. The meeting had not yet started because they were waiting on the last living member of the Kings swords. As they waited, Ealrin busied himself by looking out the window down upon the city when he wasn't observing everyone else.
The city below was a beautiful one. Houses made out of the hewn rocks that came from the mountainside dotted the valley in which the capital city rested. One main road ran from the castle itself down through the wealthier houses and into the marketplace before reaching the gate that had provided some measure of protection for the vast city.
Ealrin moved from his chair to get a better look down through the giant windows that looked out into Thoran and remembered the words of the king.
"I never want to eat a meal without first thinking of the people I serve," he had said the very first time Ealrin had met him.
What would he say now about his people that remained?
Most of the city's original inhabitants had marched out with the army in an attempt to aid the Southern Republic in removing the threat of the Raiders from their lands once again. Most were slaughtered by the very country they had sought to protect.
The city's numbers had swelled in recent weeks but not from survivors returning from the battle. Refugees from smaller settlements and towns without proper defenses had fled to the great walled city in hopes to find protection there.
Instead of knights in armor ready to defend the weak and helpless, what they found were other scared refugees wearing whatever scraps of armor they could salvage from the already picked over armory and holding weapons too old to do much good.
Though the walls of the city were strong and stout, the hearts of those within were fearful.
And if he was being honest with himself, some of that fear came from himself.
A door opened to the great Hall and all eyes turned in its direction.
Teresa Thoran, ruler of the once great cou
ntry, stepped through the door. Behind her was Gaflion, with whom Ealrin had shared only a very few words. Looking at Teresa, Ealrin could tell that she was still weary and saddened by the loss of her father. And yet in her eyes gleamed a fight that he had not seen in several weeks.
"Goblins march toward the city from the south," she said with a voice of authority that Ealrin had only known her to use on the battlefield. "We have less than a week before they get here. It's time we devised a strategy."
4: The New Goblin Doyen
Stinkrunt was beginning to get the hang of this being in charge thing. For starters, he always had a good sharp knife beside him. It was a nice, long, pokey thing he had taken off a soldier once. Though he forgot if it was from one of the men he was working for, or man he was fighting against. It didn't really matter.
What he did remember was that the man was still technically alive when he took it. Stinkrunt had taken care of that.
On more than one occasion the knife had proved very helpful in developing his leadership skills. With it, he was able to convince all the other goblin doyens, or leaders, that he was the one who was best suited to be in charge of the combined might of the goblin tribes. It also came in handy for taking care of those who disagreed with him.
Grayscar would've been proud of him, if he hadn't been killed a couple months back.
Grayscar was the old leader of the tribe to which Stinkrunt belonged: the Sharp Claws. He was the one who had convinced all the goblin tribes to sail east in order to claim new lands. Even if it meant taking orders from humans for a little while. Of course, Grayscar had seen this as a temporary arrangement and would have willingly stuck his own blade into the man in charge if he had actually gotten the chance. Unfortunately, during the first battle that required his involvement, the army that came against him beat him soundly.
Which, in turn, gave Stinkrunt incentive to be in charge of everybody.
Stinkrunt was not the biggest goblin, nor was he the strongest. Perhaps he had himself done a poor job of commanding an army to smash a city, but the first time as always for practice. As he climbed up the ranks of goblin leadership, he found out that he was a goblin who greatly desired to keep living. And for one of the gray-skinned, that generally meant making sure other goblins didn't outlive you by whatever means necessary.