by Logan Petty
“Mother, guide me with your light.”
To his surprise, the little lion grew warmer and began to glow with a gentle blue light. Though dim, it was enough to allow Sawain to see. He smiled as he let the totem dangle at his chest.
You really are here, too.
He stepped forward into the depths of the tower as Axel’s voice laughed behind him. “Still full of surprises, eh lad?”
They made their way down for several minutes. The stairs eventually ended and opened up into a large chamber divided by barred cells.
“This must have been the prison,” Sydarion mused as he stepped forward.
A flurry of arrows darted from the darkness outside of Sawain’s light. Syd dodged many of them while the others clanked off Axel’s thick armor. Sawain ducked a few, but took one to his wooden leg, right where the gap between his boots and greaves opened. Sawain raised his hands, calling out.
“We are not your enemies! We come in the name of Vaskar, Crown Prince of Jordborg! We have been sent to restore Giltglim!”
Silence answered Sawain. He waited a moment, relieved that at least they did not answer with another volley of arrows. Six gaunt soldiers clad in rusted steel plate and wielding splintering bows drifted into the pale light of the totem. Four of them were human men and two were elves, one man and one woman. None of them looked as if they had seen the sun for many months. Their eyes sank into their bony faces, a hunger glinting in them that bit deeper than a physical lust. The man in front, a gray bearded veteran with a jagged scar across his left eye limped toward Sawain. He squinted while he leaned on his longbow, running his finger along an arrow in his other hand.
“How did you get in here? All our ships rest at the bottom of the bay and the waters are infested by that foul Skibrjotr. No one can get in or out of the spire.”
Sawain grinned, placing his fists against his hips. “That toothy mass of squid parts? I put him in his place, cut through him easier than Axel cuts through a pork roast. You are safe to leave now. Anyway, we’re here to reforge the legendary blade, Giltglim, and to speak to the master of this tower on Vaskar’s behalf. ”
The man grimaced, appearing more irritated than Sawain expected. He pointed the arrow in his hand at the half-elf.
“Do you know where you are, boy? Any thief can do their research, say the right things to the right people, and walk out richer. Why would Vaskar send three soggy vagabonds from the sewers with such a claim? What proof do you have to back your words?”
Sawain pulled the wrapped shard from his belt and let the cloth fall open in his hand. The blue light shone around it, as if the metal absorbed it from the air. The soldiers murmured among themselves as the leader of the group gawked at it.
“By Iorsmir, there’s no doubt. The missing shard of Giltglim! But how? When Hervorth was defeated in battle, the foul clerics of the tyrant sealed part of his soul within the shard and stole it away. How did you get it?”
Axel twirled his throwing hammer in his hand anxiously. “We were given it by a friend. A friend who, like you, wants to see this evil driven out of Jordborg.”
Sydarion nodded. “That’s right, we are all striving for the same goal.”
The armored man raised an eyebrow. “Odd. Three companions. One with a Caer accent, one Jordborgan tinged with elven, and an Anvilheimite tinged with a northern accent. Quite the motley crew our benefactor has sent to us.”
Irritation stirred in Sawain’s mind, and he grit his teeth to focus his attention elsewhere. He wrapped the shard back up before speaking again.
“Yes, we are from all over Hammerhold. Our forces represent the entire continent, not a single nation. Everyone is banding together against this common foe. Heroes of Anvilheim, Alfhaven, and Jordborg at this very moment are locked in combat on the surface, trying to wrest control of the city from the Grey King’s hands. It is a dangerous fight, but one we can win if we come together. We were sent as envoys of good will to earn the trust of the master of this tower and ask him to aid us in the liberation of Jordborg. My friend Axel,” he nodded at the dwarf, “is a master smith. He trained me when I was younger and I know he is capable of restoring Giltglim. With your master’s sword at his side again, surely we can rise up and take the city back!”
The sullen man’s countenance fell further. He took a breath, held it a moment, then spoke as though he had not slept in weeks.
“Walk with us. Allow me to explain the situation here and why your task is not what it seems.”
The pale knights turned and walked back into the shadows. Sawain bent over to pluck the arrow from his wooden leg before following. The gray bearded man spoke to the newcomers as he led them down corridors of cages, all empty.
“My name is Jashr. My companions are Mrena, Iles, Hov, Qarth, and Bal. We are part of a small fragment of soldiers who belong to a special order called the Spirar.”
Axel nodded slowly while he sauntered behind the others. “Pleasure to meet ye, I am Axel Rimebeard, and my companions are Sydarion and Sawain. I’ve heard of the Spirar before. Jordborg’s peacekeepers. Yer the ones who enforce the law and keep the streets safe.”
Jashr remained silent a moment before answering, “Those were our core duties, aye, before the fall of the Segrammir. Now, we hide in the dungeons of the spire like cowardly rats. Do you know what happened the day Jordborg fell? There was no siege. Not even a bit of resistance at first. The gates opened wide by order of the Segrammir and those giants . . . those giants and their army of gnolls and corpses walked into the city. It was that wretch, Xifrieg, that corrupted the king’s mind, whispered dark lies in his ear.”
Sydarion nudged Sawain. “That’s not the first time we’ve heard that name. Jashr, who is Xifrieg?”
Jashr shook his head. “Who he is, that’s a hard question to answer. Rumor has it he came from the north roughly a decade ago. He joined the Chandler’s Guild during the war with Anvilheim and served as the Segrammir’s personal bodyguard. That’s how he grew close to Lord Skirndolg. After the queen died, Xifrieg consoled him privately. The Segrammir was never the same after that. His disposition toward his son changed dramatically. He blamed Vaskar for his mother’s death. His accusations forced the prince to flee. That was three years ago, not long before the Grey King began his campaign.”
The party turned a corner and met two more Spirar who stood guard at an iron door. They unlocked it and allowed the others to pass through. Sawain had so many questions that he struggled with where to begin.
“So, why didn’t the Spirar step in to stop Xifrieg?”
Jashr laughed for the first time since they met. “You speak as a Jordborgan, yet you do not know our customs? The Spirar are guardians of the law. Did the order like or trust Xifrieg? No, of course not. Master Hervoth distrusted him more than any, but Xifrieg held the station of the Segrammir’s adviser. We were bound by law to respect that station. If we lashed out, Xifrieg could turn the king’s wrath upon us, claim we’d staged a coup. He would have routed us from the city sooner. That’s not to say we stood idly by when he let the dead walk our streets. Hervoth was furious. He gathered the Spirar and marched us to the palace. Naturally, the usurper awaited us with an army of his own. Dozens of cloaked priests of the Grey King’s cult and hundreds of our ancestors’ defiled corpses fought against us. We fought valiantly, but the priests’ magic overpowered us. Wounds tore open as if invisible blades bit through our armor. Our brethren who fell in combat rose to fight against us. We were routed within the hour. Master Hervoth made a bold stand against the hordes of the dead. He broke through and charged Xifrieg. His engagement against our enemy distracted the grey forces, giving our shattered army a chance to retreat. During their battle, Xifrieg, a giant of a man, overwhelmed Hervoth and shattered Giltglim, the mighty sword that stood as a symbol of our order for centuries. He cleaved the blade and cursed our master to undeath. Now, Hervoth serves as Xifrieg’s bodyguard while he rules this new domain as the Grey King’s governor to the southern region of Hamm
erhold.”
Jashr reached a stairwell that curled downward deeper into the earth. He led them down the twisting flight as Axel spoke up next.
“If Hervoth is dead, then how are we supposed to restore him?”
The end of the stairwell opened into a wide chamber full of ragged soldiers. Their hollow eyes settled on Jashr and the newcomers. Sawain guessed their number to be around 40, give or take a half starved living skeleton or two. He wondered how these listless warriors would ever be able to hold their own in a fight.
“The moment Giltglim shattered, the other half flew from his hand, landing near my feet. I received many grievous wounds and lay dying as the dead closed in on me. Hervoth looked back at his blade and then at me. I saw despair deeper than any chasm on Hammerhold in his eyes that day, yet there remained within a spark of hope glinting in those depths. I don’t know why, but I knew that hope was Giltglim. I grabbed the broken blade and found new courage in my bones. I managed to cut my way out of that grim battlefield, where I fled with the others. We returned to the Seawall Spire and barricaded ourselves within. We’ve been struggling to survive ever since. The spire is easy to defend, with only one entryway by sea and two upper doors that don’t connect to the floors below. Xifrieg has attempted to route us several times out of spite, but we remain vigilant. That said, our stores are running dry. We can’t hold out much longer. If it’s true what you say, then perhaps we don’t need to. If you can restore Giltglim, then we could have a fighting chance, especially while the armies outside clash. They will not expect an assault from within. Better yet, the Spirar will manage to keep our sacred vow to never leave the city. Quickly now, follow me. Giltglim’s other half is at the end of this chamber, in a treasury room.”
He stopped at the door in question, where a guard sat on a wooden stool, leaning against its metal frame. He stood up and kicked the stool aside as Jashr approached. The guard saluted and stepped out of the way. Jashr turned the heavy handle and pulled the door open. It grinded loudly against the stone floor, causing Sawain to flinch. Jashr stepped inside and the triad of heroes followed.
The treasury did not have much treasure in it. A few sacks of coins sat in a corner, along with some supplies and a few rusty weapons. One item in the middle of the far wall stood out. The hilt and shattered half of Giltglim’s blade hung on a plaque of brass. The blade still shone dimly with traces of an enchanted aura. Sawain had no idea a broken weapon could still hold an enchantment. He instinctively reached for the other half of the blade that he had tucked away earlier as Jashr reached up to retrieve the hilt. He handed it to Axel, who turned it over in his hands, analyzing it thoroughly.
“Hmm . . . beautiful craftsmanship. Gold inlay on an ivory base. Is this pommel stone Jasper? That’s an awful rare stone for these parts. Blade’s made of some sort of alloy I’ve never seen before either. Looks like elven make. Not like those shoddy blades from Alfhaven. Not even of yer tribe’s make, eh, Syd? True, quality craftsmanship. I don’t believe I’ve met an elven tribe that can craft this sort of beauty from here to Caer Teallagh. I dare say it could rival Dwarven smiths.”
Jashr nodded, “Legends say Giltglim belonged to an elven prince from a far land across the sea. He visited Jordborg one fateful day, around the time of its founding, while the sea wall was but a master artisan’s dream and we were but a small fishing village. He fell in love with the natural beauty of the land and decided to settle here. The riches he brought with him helped expand the town into a powerful Hold. The prince, an elven man named Tyraiq Nalm, set himself up as the first Segrammir of Jordborg, borrowing the title from Anvilheim’s Hero-King. His son, Hervoth, founded the Order of the Spire to bring law and order to the savage wilderness of Hammerhold. We have upheld his beliefs for centuries now, even after his father died in the first war with Anvilheim two hundred years ago. Hervoth is a noble soul, and does not deserve the fate Xifrieg’s curse has forced upon him. Please, I beg you. If you are the heroes you claim to be, restore the blade, and set our master’s soul free.”
Axel eyed the fractures in the blade. He turned it over again and again, humming to himself as he tested the blade’s structure.
“Hmm, yes. I believe it won’t be too difficult to rework, but we’ll need a hot flame. Something more than a regular bonfire can give off fer sure. What about that brazier at the top of this tower?”
Jashr stroked his beard. “Aye, if you could ignite the Spire’s Eye, it would certainly give off the heat you desire, and there’s a forge up there the master smiths of the order used to forge weapons similar to Giltglim, but it’s a dangerous task. Even if you managed to make it to the top levels, fight through whatever monsters await within, and reach the Eye, you’ll still have to manage the heat its flame gives off. All our attendants have always been specially trained and have had magical protection during their shifts.”
Sydarion nodded backward toward the room full of soldiers. “Well, do you have any mages still in your employ that could help us avoid combustion?”
The elven woman appeared behind Sydarion, nudging her way into the room, brushing slowly past him. She flicked her straight black hair and batted her silvery eyes as she spoke.
“I can do it, Jashr. I am trained in abjuration, after all.”
Jashr nodded slowly. “It’s true, Mrena is a skilled abjurer. She can weave the enchantments that can protect you from the heat. But that still leaves the issue of how to get you to the upper levels. We no longer have a mage trained in transport.”
Mrena waved nonchalantly, leaning against Sydarion, who awkwardly shifted away from her. “Nonsense, Jashr, I can weave a simple teleportation spell. I can get them straight to the top without a problem.”
Jashr shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. You are talented with magic, but your training is in protective spells, not teleportation. You might overshoot the spell and send them falling to their doom. Or worse, you could get them stuck inside a wall. No, there has to be another way.”
Mrena stamped her foot, frowning at Jashr. “I can do it! I’ve been practicing! I’ve stuck to my target eight times out of ten. And only once did my target meld with a wall. But that was my first try! I can do it. Really! Just give me a chance. It’s not like we have the time for a leisurely boat ride across the bay and a stroll along the Sea Wall.”
Jashr hesitated a moment, then glanced at Axel. “I say let’s leave it up to our guests. They are the ones with the most knowledge of our current situation. What say you, master dwarf. Will you walk or take the fast route?”
Axel turned his gaze to Sawain and Sydarion, who responded with grim nods. He sighed and returned to Jashr.
“We don’t have time to lose, I’m afraid, so we’ll take the fast route.”
Mrena clapped her hands rapidly, a grin on her thin face. “I’m glad you lot can see reason! Very well, we don’t have time to waste. Come into the hall so I can weave my enchantments.”
The companions followed her out of the room and into the larger chamber, where she situated them in a wide triangle. She began with Sydarion. He squirmed uncomfortably as she pressed her armored chest against his and whispered an incantation in a low, dark voice. She pricked her thumb with a dagger and ran her hand across his face, smearing blood on his forehead. He glanced nervously at Axel.
“Umm, I’m no expert on abjuration, but how come Kyra never gets so touchy feely when she weaves her magic? I’m just asking because Sawain wanted to know.”
A laugh half escaped Sawain’s throat, turning into a chortle as the elven woman continued to weave her spell around Sydarion, running her hand along his stomach. He jumped suddenly as her hand roamed across his backside.
“Okay, I think I’m enchanted enough. Woah! Hey, I’m not going to be sticking that near the fire! Ugh, isn’t it someone else’s turn yet?”
She frowned, slitting her eyes at him as she finished the incantation. A glowing aura wound itself around Sydarion. He looked relieved that the rite had concluded. She did not spend
nearly as long on Sawain or Axel as she applied formulaic runes in her blood on their foreheads and armor. Her hands did not roam nearly as much on the other two. Sawain shot a sideways glance at Syd, who avoided his eye contact. Once everyone’s enchantments activated, she pulled them closer together.
“Alright, these enchantments will protect you from intense heat, so the Eye theoretically won’t turn you to a pile of cinders as soon as you light it. Just work fast, because the enchantment will fade after a few hours in that heat. I’d give it three tops. Also, lighting that thing might draw attention to yourselves, so watch your backs out there. I’ll get the rest of the Spirar ready to move out. We’ll try to protect you while you work, but there are a lot of the enemy and few of us, so . . . just work fast, okay?”
Axel nodded, “Ye can count on us. I’ll have Giltglim shining and whole again soon. Ye just hold down the fort.”
She smiled as she began to weave the teleportation spell. A circle of light glowed around them as she muttered the incantation. Jashr appeared from the treasury and tossed a small pouch to Sawain.
“This is all we have left of the concoction used to ignite the Eye, so don’t lose it. Sprinkle this into the oil in the Brazier before lighting it. If you do it backwards, it won’t work.”
Sawain nodded as light filled the room. Suddenly, Sawain’s organs contracted as his body tore out of the physical realm. He looked around, only to see light and shadows. He thought he could see the figures of people engulfed in the brilliance. A moment later, the light faded and he could breathe again. He felt his body to make sure everything was in place. Axel and Sydarion did the same. They stood in a dark room, illuminated only by the totem’s glow. Sawain scratched his head.
“I don’t think this is the top of the tower.”
Sydarion’s hand slipped over Sawain’s mouth immediately. The elf pointed at something in the corner. Sawain could only make out some sort of mass that pulsed and throbbed like an oddly beating heart. Sawain shone the light on it and wished he had not.