by RG Long
Bertrom tapped Ealrin on the shoulder. "None of those options sound all that great, do they?" he pointed out.
Ealrin agreed.
The elves began to deliberate among themselves. Silverwolf shrugged her shoulders.
"Politics really bore me," she said. "I'm going to get some air."
As she turned and walked out, Ealrin looked down at Wisym, who was in heated conversation with Finwe and a few others.
"This isn't our decision to make," he told Bertrom. "Let's go with her."
The two followed her out into the light of the afternoon suns.
THIS PART OF THE CITY must have, at one time, been a prosperous area. For whatever reason, however, it fell into disrepair and was abandoned.
Every now and then, Ealrin saw a beggar or some other ragged looking individual milling about. As soon as they saw him, however, they darted inside an abandoned building or down a crossroad.
They walked briskly to keep up with Silverwolf's pace.
She took no turns or back alleys. Instead, she walked directly towards the wall that separated this district from the next. An ancient guard tower rose up before them. Cracked and crumbling stones lay on top of one another and vines grew up the sides, threatening to bring the whole thing down.
Its spiral staircase was just past the only door they could see in the wall: a splintering, faded thing that may have once been a sturdy entryway. It fell into the tower as Silverwolf pushed on it. The trio climbed up until they found themselves on the balcony of the decrepit structure.
Bertrom took a few uneasy steps out towards the railing.
“Think this'll hold us?” he asked tentatively.
“Who cares?” Silverwolf answered, leaning against the rotted wood that separated her from a hundred foot drop.
“I can't tell if you're daring or if you lack sense,” Ealrin offered as he approached the same railing, but decided against resting on it.
Silverwolf didn't respond. She only looked out across the plains of Beaton.
The sight was beautiful from up on the guard tower. Fields upon fields lined the countryside beyond the city. Even with the smoke still rising from several fires, the Glorious City was still a splendor to behold. Three and four story buildings shot up from every district, even the Lower Docks.
Ealrin was in awe that so many could live in such a city.
And a small part of him began to wonder where he had grown up. What had his city looked like? Was it large and intimidating like Beaton? Or was it small and quaint like Liaf? His mind wondered as they stood there, overlooking the city.
“What's that?” Bertrom asked, breaking the silence. He pointed out past the city and even beyond the fields. The river connecting the city to the sea ran lazily from the Red Sea all the way out to the sea that separated Thoran from the Goblin Maw.
“That's called a river,” Silverwolf said mockingly.
“Yes, I'm aware of that,” Bertrom replied, ignoring her rudeness. “But beyond that.”
He continued to point out past Beaton. Ealrin tried to follow his finger.
Then he saw it.
White sails on the horizon.
Hundreds of them.
“That,” Ealrin said, “is something we should inform Wisym of immediately.”
“I really wish I had gotten paid today,” Silverwolf lamented as they raced down the stairs and back to the chamber where the elves were meeting.
From that vantage point, though the ships were still far off, Ealrin could see that each of them flew a green flag with a splash of white in the middle.
Androlion's banner.
10: Invaders
“If we do not give allegiance to one of these groups, they will all come for us. And we will not be able to stand against them!” Wisym argued and threw her hands in frustration.
The talks among the elves were not going smoothly.
Roughly half of those who had come from Talgel wanted to stay out of the conflict all together. It was said that the elves must look out for their own interests and should not get involved in the fighting of Beaton.
Wisym didn't think they would be able to avoid conflict altogether.
The other half of the elves thought they should align themselves with the Silver Suns, as they were going to be the obvious next leaders of the city. It was thought that if they pledged their allegiance to them, they could, at best, be left alone.
A handful thought they should throw their lot in with the governor.
It was not a popular decision.
“Our choice here, now, will have a lasting impact on our survival and determine whether or not we are going to survive these difficult times or not!” Finwe shouted. “We must make the best choice available to us.”
“And what do you think that is?” Wisym countered.
The elves around her fell quiet. Finwe put her arms across her chest.
For the past few moments, she had not made her decision known.
A heavy tension hung in the air.
“I believe,” she spoke with authority after considering. “Our best course of action is to be loyal to ourselves. This city has given us dirt and rocks. I say we strike out from here and find trees. We should return to the land our elders blessed. Perhaps not Talgel. But certainly not Beaton! We should head north to the lands of our brothers and sisters.”
A good number of elves cheered her.
Wisym approached and spoke in measured tones.
“You would leave with our people? At the onset of winter? You would abandon shelter and provisions and see what the wilderness holds?”
She looked at her smugly.
“I've survived worse,” Finwe said, with a penetrating stare.
Backing away several steps and raising her hands for all to see, she shouted above the noise.
“It is time to make your voice known!” she called. “We vote to decide the future of the Elves of Talgel!”
Chills rang up and Wisym winced. It didn't feel right.
“Ithrel,” she said to her closest friend as the hall echoed with an excitement she didn't share. “What if we choose wrong?”
Ithrel looked down and crossed her arms.
“May the stars guide us now,” she said quietly.
Finwe had made a circle around the bottom floor of the chamber. She now returned to stand in front of Wisym.
“All who favor to stay and see what fate may come in the city of Beaton, let it be known by a show of salute!”
Wisym watched the room.
A handful made the elven sign: they balled their right fist, put it against their chest and bowed.
Fewer than fifty.
Finwe looked triumphantly at Wisym.
“And all who favor leaving Beaton behind in order to find trees to call home again, let it be known!”
Every other elf Wisym saw made a salute towards Finwe. They cheered, as they knew the decision had been made.
“Then now is the time!” Finwe called, fist in the air. “Let us take what provisions we need and be done with this place!”
Wisym set down on the very first row of stone seats, defeated.
She had done her best to lead her people well. Perhaps she was a better general and warrior than politician.
Looking around the room after the sound of receding elf feet faded, she saw a few less than fifty elves who were unwilling to leave the city.
Among them was Celdor.
"Were you not swayed by Finwe's reasoning?" she asked the remaining elf commander.
"She and I have never seen eye to eye," he said kindly as he walked over to Wisym and lifted her to a standing position.
"We are all still with you," he said as he indicated those who had remained with his hand. Some of them saluted her.
"You are still our general."
Wisym was thankful for the show of support. There was still so much she had to learn about how to lead well, especially in the face of such adversity.
"We are so few," she said, fighti
ng back against tears of pride, confusion, and sadness. “What can we do?"
Ithrel spoke up.
"Wars have been won with fewer."
Sounds at the entrance of the chamber took Wisym's eyes off of her supporters.
Ealrin, Bertrom, and Silverwolf burst inside.
"Woah," Bertrom said as he looked around. "Where did everybody go?"
Ealrin jabbed him in the stomach with his elbow.
"There's something you need to see," Ealrin said as Bertrom nursed his bruised belly.
"What is it?" Wisym asked.
Silverwolf bit at one of her fingernails.
"Oh, you know," she said as she gnawed one of her cuticles free. "Just your typical marauding army with an accompanying armada."
WISYM, EALRIN, BERTROM, and Silverwolf ran through the streets of Beaton.
Behind them came a column of fifty elves.
More than a few heads turned at the sight of a troop of fully armed woodlander elves at full sprint.
They were making their way back to the fountain where the Council of Seven had demanded control of the city. As they approached, more and more masked Silver Suns walked openly in the streets.
No longer were they a gang that operated in the shadows.
"Bold as brass now, huh?" Silverwolf mused as they began to slow their running. The fountain was coming into sight.
"I imagine you'd feel the same way if you just took control of a city," Ealrin responded, looking to his right where Silverwolf was.
And where she stood no longer.
"Hey, where did she go?" he asked, looking in all directions.
"Did you expect her to hang around?" Wisym asked irately. She hadn't seen the assassin dodge out of sight and was glad to see her go. Something about her irked the elf.
Not the least of which was the way that Ealrin's eyes followed her wherever she went.
"Looks like the council is still waiting," Bertrom said as they approached the fountain.
Up on top of the bowl stood seven prominent figures, with a few others sitting around the edge of the water holder. They stared down at the crowd along with the dragon statue.
Alric was still among them.
"Where is Folke?" Ealrin asked as they walked towards the fountain.
Wisym wondered the same thing.
While his brother made a bid for power and threw his lot in with the Seven, it seemed that Folke was keeping hidden and out of the spotlight.
Whether or not that was a wise decision was yet to be seen.
As they came closer to the edge of the water, Bryne held out her hands towards the advancing elves.
"Well this is a strange sight in Beaton!" she said loudly, gaining anyone who hadn't already directed his or her attention to the large gathering.
The crowd made space for the group. Some jeered. Others simply stared, having not seen that many elves in one place in a long time.
Beaton was, for all intents, a predominantly human city, though sparsely populated by the other two major races of Ruyn.
"What can the Council of Seven do for such a large contingent of elves?" she asked smugly.
Wisym knew that Bryne was not interested at all in what the council could do for her. This was Wisym's chance to show Bryne what they could do for her, instead.
She stood on the rim of the fountain, above her comrades and the people around her.
Yet still very much below those who were trying to wrest control of the city.
This was her chance to lead her people well. Even if they were fewer than before.
"Bryne," she said loudly and with as much authority as she could muster. "We are the elves of Talgel. We come from a land plagued by war and hate. The Southern Republic stole our homes from us. They forced us north. Here we have a made a home for some months. We only desire peace."
She hesitated, knowing how delicate her next words would be.
"We attempted to work with the governor and the Red Guard. We have found both lacking in their ability to ease our suffering."
Bryne interrupted her.
"You need fear no more from either party," she said maliciously. "They have both agreed to hand over control of the city to the Council of Seven and the Silver Suns!"
With this proclamation came a great cheer from the crowd gathered around the fountain.
Wisym was caught off guard. That was not what the governor had told her was his plan when they had left the mansion, not five hours before. Her hesitation must have made her confusion evident.
"You didn't know?" Bryne asked with a smile. "Here, ask the general and the good governor yourself!"
Two objects fell from the fountain and into the pool surrounding the dragon statue.
Wisym recognized both faces as they floated in the water, though they were now separated from their bodies. The sound of Bertrom gagging came from behind her. Ealrin must have been hitting him on the back, as several thumps rang out, followed by someone retching.
She forced herself to look away from the heads and back to Bryne.
"If the council is now in control of Beaton, you ought to be aware of a new peril that exists," she said, though she felt like vomiting herself.
This was no peaceful transition of power.
"What peril can befall the Council of Seven and the Silver Suns!?" Bryne shouted down to the crowd and pumped her fist into the air.
More cheers came.
This was followed by another sound.
A cry rang out from below.
A bell was ringing in the distance.
Stillness fell over the crowd as the bell tolled out again and again. It was Beaton's warning bell, typically manned by the Red Guard who stood on the wall, guarding the Glorious City.
Wisym wondered who was ringing the bell now.
Several people looked around, trying to figure out what the noise was and where it came from.
Wisym looked down to the elves as well as Ealrin and Bertrom.
One was pale and ashen, wiping his mouth with the cuff of his jacket. The other seemed unsure.
"That's the city alarm," Wisym said in answer to Ealrin's confused look. "Something's happening outside the walls."
Wisym looked back up to the top of the fountain.
Bryne's face of triumph faltered. Apparently, something was happening she hadn't planned on.
The bell tolled once. Twice. Three times.
Wisym looked down from Bryne and to the group around her.
Her voice was even. The mark of a general.
"Invaders," she said. "They're here."
11: King Thuda's Throne
The prince of dwarves stood anxiously in the ancient hall of Gran-dun Krator. In all of his travels, after facing demons, armies, goblins, and trolls, nothing had yet made him uneasy.
But this place was starting to.
Gorplin was the son of a great dwarven king. His father had helped rid the eastern side of Ruyn of goblins nearly 100 years ago. It was common for a dwarf to live for many centuries. An uncle of his had lived to be five-hundred.
His father's life, however, had been cut short when an army from the Southern Republic invaded their mountain and burned every living thing inside.
Gorplin had managed to lead a small group of refugees from their southern mountain strongholds up north through ancient dwarven mining routes.
"Bah. We are a stubborn lot," his father had told him as he dressed for battle in the middle of the night. "Given the chance, we would defend this mountain down to the last living soul."
He picked up his mace and inspected it thoroughly.
"I'll not have my line and legacy end with the words 'and they all died in that mountain.'” he had said.
Several other dwarven soldiers had gathered in his chambers to attempt to repel the attackers.
“Take as many as you can through the tunnels, son. Head north to Thoran. This republic of ours may be crumbling around us, but King Thoran still has some sanity in him. Help him in whatever way you
can.”
And with those words, King Thorplin of the Southern Dwarven Holds had gone into battle.
That was the last Gorplin had seen of his father.
In the middle of the night, he had led a group of three-hundred from the mountain through ancient dwarven tunnels and caverns. He had, in fact, met with King Thoran and offered him his help.
But now the king was dead and Gorplin was fulfilling his father's last wishes by helping Thoran's daughter, Teresa.
Their master plan was to gather as much aid from the northern kingdoms as possible to assist Thoran in fighting back against the Southern Republic and their plan to eradicate all non-human races on Ruyn. Since he was a dwarf, Gorplin had naturally offered to come and speak to the dwarves whose kingdom separated the country of Beaton and the expanse of land most knew as “The Goblin Maw.” The Maw was the home to most of the gray-skinned monsters who, on occasion, wreak havoc on the more civilized races of Ruyn.
The last Gorplin knew of the goblins of the west, they had sailed to the eastern continent and began to aid the Southern Republic. For what reasons, he was unaware.
So when they had come to Gran-dun Krator, he was shocked to see the remnants of a mighty battle between dwarves and goblins. Weapons and bodies from both sides had littered the steps of the great entrance to the dwarven hold.
It was with a slight hesitation that they allowed Gorplin entrance and granted him an audience with the king.
“Mister Gorplin, sir,” Jurrin said as they stood waiting for the king in the throne room of the mountain. “Are all dwarves this late, sir? We've been standing here half an hour, by my reckoning.”
“Yup,” Jurgon added simply.
Gorplin looked to the two halflings and smiled.
Of all the surprises during his journey from the farthest south tip of Ruyn to here, these two had been the most pleasant.
While journeying through the woods between Thoran and the Mountain Gate, their group had accidentally discovered a halfling community, hidden for hundreds of years. Though most had spurned their talk of war and violence, these two had followed them out and offered to help.