by Ryan Cahill
Therin paused, taking a long, deep drink of mead from his tankard.
“However,” he said, as he dragged his sleeve across his mouth, wiping the leftover droplets from his lips, “he did not take kindly to the company of others. He preferred solitary study. Fane confined himself to the darkest corners of the illustrious Ilnaen Library, where he researched the histories of all magic, from the archaic magics of the Blodvar and the mythical human druids to the twisted ways of the Urak shamans. By the time he was only twenty summers old, Fane was considered one of the most powerful human mages in The Order – and the most ruthless.”
Therin cast his gaze over the crowd. His voice adopted a deeper tone.
“Fane slowly became enamoured with power, as most in his position do. He was driven by his need to test his abilities and to prove his strength. He challenged other mages to duels, binding them by honour to accept. But Fane did not simply want to beat them; he wanted to break them.”
Therin crouched down at the edge of the stage. He went silent for a few moments, his eyes closed, locked in concentration.
“Fane was not content with just reading of the archaic magics of the past. He wanted to feel them, to wield them. He delved into the minds of his opponents, warping and twisting them to his will, pushing at the boundaries of convention. He wanted to prove that he was without equal. Although most in The Order did not approve of his methods, there were those who stood in awe of him. In every task he was set, Fane returned successful. In every battle, he was victorious. And with every victory, his following grew.”
Opening his eyes and rising to his full height, Therin glared into the onlooking crowd. His all-knowing eyes glowed an incandescent orange as the candlelight shimmered across his face. His sequin-silver hair sent light dancing across the room, illuminating the faces of the awe-struck villagers who packed the inn like grains of rice in a sack.
“However,” Therin’s voice boomed, “there was one who openly challenged him at every turn, unyielding: the Archon of the Draleid, Alvira Serris.” It was as if a gust of wind had somehow entered the room at the mention of her name. The candles flickered, and every hair on Calen’s body stood up. He glanced at Dann and Rist to his right, then at his father to his left, all of whom were entranced, their eyes fixed on the elf.
Therin placed his tankard on the stool to his right.
“She was strong!” He gracefully swept across the stage, curling his arm and tensing his bicep towards the crowd. “And quick-witted.” He tapped his index finger sharply against his right temple. “She could wield a blade like a gust of wind sweeping leaves off the forest floor, such was her skill and grace.” Therin swung his arms from left to right, as if slicing a sword through the torso of an unseen enemy. A lash of air seemed to follow the arc of his arms. Calen’s hair was blown off his face, and with it, he thought he heard the shrieking wail of a blade as it cut through the air.
What is in this mead? Calen stared into the mellow liquid, his mind seemingly playing tricks on him.
Therin took a deep, longing breath. Calen saw a sense of pride on his face as he described Alvira. It was as if she were his closest friend or a long-lost lover. “But even she, in all her wisdom, could not imagine the depths of Fane’s ambition.”
Suddenly, the light in the room seemed to dim, as if swallowed by the shadows. The only thing that Calen could see clearly was Therin, now perched on the stool that had previously held his tankard. “Through his unwavering dedication to the pursuit of knowledge and his raw magical Spark, Fane’s magical abilities far surpassed his peers’, but it was not enough. Fane was enamoured with the Doom at Haedr. The sheer power required to cause such an atrocity was almost romantic in his unique mind. This kind of power was everything his wildest dreams had imagined, but he did not know—” Therin’s words dropped to a captivating whisper. “He did not know the poison that is blood magic.”
Gasps of shock and muffled whispers followed as people searched the room for the presence of empire soldiers, as if the simple utterance of the words “blood magic” could summon them through walls.
“Hush!” Therin boomed, his voice like unbottled thunder. An absolute silence fell across the room. Nothing could be heard but the beating of hearts and hushed breathing. Therin folded his arms, a look of disdain in his eyes. “In his relentless, unwavering search for power, Fane heard whispers of a shaman that resided in the mountains of Mar Dorul, revered among Uraks for his knowledge and skill with blood magic.
“The journey from Ilnaen to Mar Dorul took only a few weeks, but Mar Dorul is a vast landscape, devoid of life and leaf. Its ominous peaks, as ridged as a dragon’s back, seem to pierce the sky itself. It could have taken years to search, but to Fane’s surprise, the shaman was waiting for him in plain sight, where the Naiwell Woods met the snaking legs of the mountains. Nobody truly knows what happened on that mountain, but Fane left Mar Dorul that day a different man than when he entered.
“Upon his return to Ilnaen, he spent two years spreading the seed of corruption within The Order, meticulously selecting those he considered weak of mind. He whispered in their ears, promising them their deepest desires, preying on their darkest fears. His serpentine words of power and glory twisted their minds and bent their will. Men, elves, and even giants succumbed to his malevolent manipulations.” Therin’s voice dropped to a melancholy requiem. “Most fatally, however, he wormed his way into the minds of many Draleid. He told of how The Order was corrupt and how it needed to be destroyed from the ground up and reformed. He picked at their minds, planting the seeds of betrayal.”
Calen thought he saw a fire begin to burn in Therin’s almond eyes.
“Among the Draleid that turned to support Fane’s cause was one of the most powerful in The Order: an elf by the name of Eltoar Daethana. He was the first sword of Alvira Serris and bonded to the largest dragon in all of Epheria: Helios.” Therin stood from his stool, his mouth set in a hard line and a longing in his eyes.
“It was the year 2682, after Doom, on the eve of the Winter Solstice, when Fane’s plans were set in motion. Once he gave the orders, his followers silently murdered the guards on duty at the castle walls. They moved with ruthless efficiency, using knives and magic to quietly send the guards into the void. As planned, when the Blood Moon was at its highest point in the sky, the traitors opened the gates of Ilnaen. Urak war horns were heard for miles. Under cover of night, nearly a hundred thousand had gathered close to Ilnaen. Never before had a single force of Uraks so large been assembled.”
The room was consumed by silence. Not a whisper was heard while Therin wove his engrossing tale.
“The Order never stood a chance. Betrayed from within and surrounded on all sides, they were butchered as they slept. The Draleid and their dragons were slain in the ensuing chaos. Alvira was betrayed and murdered by Eltoar, one of her closest friends, who was twisted by the deceitful machinations of Fane’s lies.” Therin’s voice caught in his throat as pain cut its way through his face.
“Fane stood atop what is now known as the Dead Tower, surveying the madness he created. He watched the city smoulder from a safe distance. And from his perch, Fane sent a message to all those still loyal to The Order. With the twisted, dark magic behind him, he unleashed a magical detonation of fire and wind that eclipsed even the Doom at Haedr. The flames engulfed Ilnaen in seconds, spreading to the foothills of the Lodhar Mountains in the west, and Mar Dorul in the east. They raged for days, fuelled by the power of blood magic. Whatever deal Fane had made with the Urak shamans did not protect them; their usefulness had ended. When the flames finally died out, all that was left was stone and ash.”
The absence of sound in the room filled Calen’s ears.
“Fane returned to Al’Nasla and assumed power over the Lorian Kingdom. King Eric was burned alive by Helios as Fane took his place on the throne. Eric was a conspirator in The Order's tyranny, or so proclaimed Fane. Over the ensuing months, Fane and his followers rooted out and eliminated those w
ho remained loyal to The Order. The temple at Dracaldryr was laid waste, as was the giant city of Ölmur. Nearly all the dragon eggs perished in the carnage, and those that survived were hoarded away in the vaults of Al’Nasla. Not one has hatched to this day.
“The Order had fallen; Ilnaen, Dracaldryr, and Ölmur were nothing but rubble. Fane laid waste to elven and giant cities across the length and breadth of Epheria. Though, he dared not attack the elves in Eselthyr or Caelduin. He knew the forest of Lynalion was laced with wards and traps, laid over a millennium, but he also knew that he need not fear them. Their fabled protectors – the Draleid – were dead, their dragons slain, and their power broken. The elves would not dare emerge from Lynalion, not in force. They could not face the might of the newly formed Lorian Empire. The giants were all but eradicated, and the dwarves burrowed themselves in their mountain kingdoms. He had won.”
The room erupted in a thunderous cacophony of cheers and shouts – more for the weaving of the engrossing tale than its conclusion. The dark oak floorboards creaked and groaned as the crowd fervently stomped their feet and clapped their hands. Amidst the celebration, Calen thought he glimpsed an emptiness in Therin’s face, an unequivocal sadness. A moment later, it was gone. He bowed, grasped his mead with one hand, and made his way off the stage, disappearing into the mass of people.
“Well, brother, I think that was his best yet!”
Calen nearly jumped from his seat as a pair of hands clapped down on his shoulders. “Ella, get your hands off me!” he groaned, swatting her away as if trying to bat a fly.
“Get over here,” chuckled Vars. Rising from his seat, he pulled his daughter into a tight embrace.
Both Dann and Rist had made more than a few comments about Ella over the years. Most of it was teasing. They enjoyed winding him up and watching him lose his temper. But at twenty summers, Calen was acutely aware that there were more than a few young men in the villages vying for Ella’s attention. She had the same blue eyes as Freis, and her hair was the same colour their mothers’ must have been when she was younger, a shimmering golden-blonde.
“Come on, Calen. I owe you a drink from the last Moon Market.” Ella tugged at Calen’s hand, dragging him towards the crowded bar. “Your hunt went well?” The crowd seemed to part around her as she glided through the mass of people. Calen followed in her wake, and they managed to arrive at the time-ravaged wooden countertop with surprising ease.
“Yeah, but we found…” Calen’s voice trailed off as he caught a young man staring Ella up and down with a wanton look in his eyes. Calen did not recognise him, but he had the sallow skin and brass nose rings of Salme. Calen glared at him before he turned back to Ella, who had just collected two tankards of mead from Lasch with a grateful smile on her face.
Ella laughed as she noticed Calen’s change in demeanour. She gently placed her hand on his cheek. “A little protective, brother? Don’t you worry. I am well able to take care of myself,” she assured him. “I think you might have someone more interesting to talk to anyway.” Ella nodded over Calen’s shoulder. She pushed both tankards of mead into his open hands, taking advantage of his surprise to slip away into the crowd.
Anya Gritten’s ember-red hair tumbled down over her slight shoulders, highlighting the gleam in her emerald eyes. Just like Calen, Anya had seen nearly eighteen summers. She had a slight, svelte build. Her high cheekbones, dotted with numerous freckles, framed a face that had often left Calen searching for words. He had always had a soft spot for Anya. Maybe a little more than a soft spot.
She waved at him as she approached.
“That was amazing, wasn’t it?” Anya always smelled of sweet flowers; her mother, Verna, was a soap maker as well as a village council member. This night, Anya smelled of cherry blossoms.
Calen wanted to say something witty, but his mind went blank. All he could manage was a muffled “Mm-hmm” as he offered Anya the second tankard that Ella had given him. He made a mental note to thank her later.
“Aw, thanks, Calen,” Anya said, scrunching her shoulders together. “I don’t know what it is about him, but when he tells his stories, they always feel so real. I do hope he comes back soon. My Pa said that he saw Dann, Rist, and you dragging a gigantic stag through the gates earlier. That’s great!”
Calen struggled to suppress a slight swell of pride in his chest. “Well, there was a bit of luck, but—”
Dann came stumbling in on top of them. He wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders, and a gleefully drunk smile spread across his face.
“Are you talking about the stag? Not like Calen had anything to do with that. He couldn’t hit a barn door if—” Dann let out a groan as Calen jammed an elbow into his ribcage. “What? I was just telling Anya—” Another swift elbow to the ribs ensured Dann never finished his sentence.
Anya started laughing. Calen thought he noticed a smile sent in his direction, although that was interrupted by Dann losing strength in his legs and nearly taking Calen with him. Calen grabbed tightly onto Dann’s hip, righting him as best he could.
“I think it’s probably best if I get this idiot home,” Calen said, apologising with his eyes.
“Hey—” Dann let out a loud hiccup. “Don’t you call me an idiot.”
Calen said his goodbyes to Anya, then found Vars and Rist to let them know that he was bringing Dann home. He made his way out of the inn with Dann wrapped around his shoulder, using him as a walking stick. “You have terrible timing, you know that?”
Dann didn’t even look at Calen. Not that it would have mattered if he did; his eyes were barely open. With a hiccup, he drew his mouth up into a dopey grin.
Calen couldn’t help but laugh. “Just try not to fall over, yeah?”
The streets of The Glade were dimly lit by the gentle glow of candle lights emanating from the windows of the surrounding homes. Celebrations from the Moon Market had died down a bit, although the hum of nearby music and drinking could be heard from within The Gilded Dragon and from the campfires of the travelling merchants who had set up at the edge of the village.
As he glanced upward, Calen caught sight of the full moon resting in the darkness. Its pearlescent hue gave the sky an ethereal look.
Something heavy crashed into Calen’s side, sending him and Dann spiralling to the ground. Calen’s back ached as he pushed himself to his knees. He tried to shake the dizziness out of his head.
“So, you two little shits think you’re funny, do you?” Calen recognised Fritz’s voice in the darkness. He tried to stand up, but a boot crashed into his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs. A pair of hands grabbed him on either shoulder. A hard punch to his jaw sent stars flitting across his eyes. A second punch drew blood; he felt it trickling down his cheek. “Thought you would take me off guard with that punch, did you, Bryer?”
A third hit landed on his cheekbone. The strength in Calen’s legs gave way as he fell to his knees. He heard blows being thrown beside him. No doubt, they were laying their boots into Dann’s chest while he lay there, drunk.
“I think you boys need to learn your place,” said a deeper voice. Kurtis.
Blow after blow landed into Calen’s chest. A pair of hands held him upright. He was beginning to lose consciousness when he heard a low grumble. The grumble rose into a steady growl, joined by the slow padding of feet as it got louder. A gust of air blew by Calen’s face, and the crashing sound of wooden barrels being smashed to pieces filled his ears. A loud snarl was followed by shouts.
“It’s the fucking wolf! Get him off me!”
Calen felt Faenir’s snout nuzzle against his temple, followed by a low whine. Then darkness.
CHAPTER 3
Ella
Ella weaved through the crowd in The Gilded Dragon. She pushed open the door of the inn and pressed onward into the brisk night air. As the door closed behind her, the cheers of merriment dimmed and turned to echoes. There was a still serenity in the night, occasionally broken by drunken chants of merchants, but only
for seconds at a time.
Ella adored the Moon Market. The storytellers, jugglers, and merchants gave the village folk a feeling of excitement and adventure, a taste of what lay beyond their small circle. There was so much to see, so many places to go. She knew she could not stay in The Glade forever, and Rhett knew that too. She had never known anyone like him. Ever since Haem’s death, he had always been there for her. He was her rock.
She said she would meet him by the outer edge of the town, by the large green tent with the golden trim and a snow-white cap. It skirted the low wall of the market square, where the merchants had pitched.
Ella heard the crunch of freeze-dried leaves beneath her feet as she made her way through the streets. She cursed herself for not bringing her long cloak as she rubbed her hands up and down her arms. As she turned the corner around Iwan Swett’s butcher shop, the white cap of the tent came into sight, followed by its murky green canopy.
“I was worried you had decided to stay warm by the fire.” Rhett smiled as he strode over to Ella, not waiting for her to come to him. He was tall compared to most in The Glade, with a strong chest, thick arms, and jet-black hair that was uncommon around the villages. Rhett Fjorn’s parents had come from Berona when they were only teenagers, to build a new life for themselves.
He traced his fingers along her cheek. The callouses at their tips felt rough against her skin, but not in an unpleasant way. There was something uniquely comforting about the feeling.
She gazed up at him, taking a moment to admire how handsome he was, then placed a gentle kiss on his lips. “There are other ways to keep warm.” Ella gave him a wry smile before wrapping her arms around him.