Shadows of the Great Forest (Realm of Arkon, Book 4)

by G. Akella

  "I doubt that a Nightcrawler captain should wish to join one of our clans, Yssair," sounded a low, mocking voice that came from the door.

  "A Nightcrawler captain?! But..." the quartermaster's face showed surprise and... fear? Subduing his emotions momentarily, he bent his head low in greeting. "Quel andune heru."

  We're probably mere years away before they start communicating wholly in that melodious language, Max thought as he examined the elf standing in the doorway. With an open face, long black hair, a steadfast gaze and a white scar across his left cheek, he looked just like an action hero from one of the latest blockbusters. And then there was his level 421 and the name floating above his head, leaving no doubt as to the elf's standing at the very top of the High House of Marten. Max quickly decided against worrying about being exposed for the simple reason that it wouldn't have made any a difference anyway. Thankfully, the elf didn't seem aggressive; quite the opposite, the prince was studying him the way one might study a wallet chanced upon on the street. In broad daylight. Amid a sea of pedestrians. And stuffed full of crisp Benjamins.

  "I am Orwil, head of the Umber Tails clan, and second son of the Great Prince Goherym," he spoke after a curt nod of his own. "What brings you under the arches of our House, warrior?"

  At that point Max felt a sting of panic. What if he had violated some local customs by entering the territory of the High House of Marten without identifying himself? After all, presently he was being addressed not as a regular warrior, but as a representative of the High House of Nightcrawlers. Though he had been accepted into the clan—and not as a rank-and-file member, either—no one had ever explained to him proper etiquette for this kind of situation. It was only in fairy tales that characters could ignore social conventions and customs, and communicate with the powers that be as equals, and this game felt nothing like a fairy tale anymore! Max wasn't worried for his own safety, but he desperately didn't want to let down his friends, both old and new.

  "I am Max, Night Shadow of the Night Hunters clan," the warrior greeted the prince, lowering his head. "I come of my own initiative, seeking to unload certain war trophies."

  "The heads of Gaerryon and Agralon," Yssair confirmed in response to the prince's inquiring glance.

  "I see," Orwil spoke slowly. "And since when do the Nightcrawlers share such trophies with us? Or are you in urgent need of money?"

  "Probably since our High House ceased worrying about representation on the Council of Branches," Max replied, matching the prince's tone. As he said the words, he caught a shadow of either chagrin or regret flicker across his face. "And, sure, we could use the money," he added. "There's plenty of undead still roaming the forest—we could always get more."

  "I'd like to speak with one of your commanders, warrior."

  "I'm afraid that's not possible," Max said. "It's just me here in Ellorian, and I haven't been granted the authority to conduct negotiations on behalf of my House. And I don't know yet when I will be able to return to the Wild Wood."

  "Oh right, you're a two-lived... But perhaps that's a good thing—I'm not so sure your kinfolk wouldn't misinterpret my meaning," the prince drew a sigh. "Nevertheless, we need to talk. This conversation would be in the interest of both High Houses," he added in a tone that would see no objections, then turned to the quartermaster. "I almost forgot about the purpose of my visit. What news of the armor for Little Star?"

  "Cedyn assures it will arrive by noon tomorrow. Shall I have it delivered to you straight away?"

  "No. If it's tomorrow, the lady will pick it up tomorrow herself," said the prince. "Come, warrior, we have much to discuss." With a motion to follow him, the elf exited the treasury.

  Max allowed himself a sigh before following. Could he have refused the invitation? Probably, but why mar relations with the Martens? And besides, such conversations quite often concluded with the assignment of some epic quest. Finally, the prince had clearly implied that there might be something to gain by both sides.

  They crossed a wide courtyard, ornate with flowerbeds and statues, drawing curious glances from high-level players training or going about their business, and walked into the main building of the consulate. Crossing a spacious hall with parquet floors bearing all manner of strange art, they passed four level 250 guards standing watch at the staircase entrance. The prince led the way to the third floor, then down a wide hallway, and into a high-arched door.

  "Is father in?" he nodded to the secretary who jumped to his feet to greet royalty.

  "Yes, master, he's talking to Lady Ailene right now," the latter bowed his head.

  "Excellent," the prince said, and motioned at an ottoman by the wall. "Wait there for five minutes, Max. I need to speak with the head of the House," he added, and made for the tall beige doors.

  Two truths would be revealed to Max in the next ten seconds. The first was that even wooden benches may prove to be unexpectedly soft. And the second was that Bonbon had been right in his assertion that one needn't be a virgin to approach a unicorn. As the prince got to within a foot of the main chamber, the doors flung open, and out came the same long-haired girl the party had encountered on their way to Ellorian. There was no question as to her relationship to the prince—the way he looked at her, you simply didn't look that way at a friend or sibling.

  "Saesa ometien lle," the red-haired beauty said with a smile.

  "Aaye melda," Orwil replied, bowing his head. "Some business came up, so you're going to have to dine alone. Oh, and armor for Little Star will be delivered tomorrow, so please pick it up when it arrives."

  "All right. If you need me, I'll be at the firing range," with a warm nod to the prince, the young woman exited into the hallway.

  It was quiet in the antechamber, and serene. Max counted four plants—none familiar to him—growing right out of the floor, and scenting the air with a subtly sweet aroma. Having no clue as to the purpose of his being in the holy of holies of the High House of Marten, he was content to just sit there and admire the beautiful furnishings and artwork. One painting in particular invoked an involuntary smile: Ivan Shishkin's Morning in a Pine Forest. He was hardly an art connoisseur, but this particular painting had been etched into his memory as the one he'd had to do a report on back in high school. He even remembered that the bears had been painted by Konstantin Savitsky, whose signature had been subsequently effaced by Pavel Tretyakov after purchasing the piece. Mirror image of this world, eh? Max chuckled to himself. And this piece of art is totally original—but of course! According to Donut, the Realm of Arkon abounded with such "fillers." There was a time when the developers had devised hundreds of quests aimed at searching for pieces of art. What boy hadn't dreamed of trying on Indiana Jones' legendary hat? Some would lose that desire with age, but where there's demand, there's supply. In some random prince's palace you might stumble upon Venus de Milo collecting dust alongside the Mona Lisa, or discover the fabled Amber Room in the residence of some dwarven thane up in the Kraet Peaks. Completing these quests typically required inspecting the art piece up close, which sounded easy but would occasionally be as difficult as putting down a big bad raid boss. Take this waiting room, for instance. In the history of its existence, how many players had been inside its walls—a hundred, if that? For the dark elves, a great prince was the rough equivalent of a governor back in the world of flesh-and-bone humans. There were two main distinctions between the two: first, a great prince answered to a king and not a PM or parliament; and second, a great prince wasn't slave to the soul-crushing bureaucracy and red tape encumbering virtually every branch and level of government. In his High House, a great prince was king and god in one, his decisions final and unquestioned. Back in his former life, the highest authority figure Max had ever met was a lousy deputy prefect, who had actually ended up being a decent dude despite various rumors swirling around the county. This guy, however, was the equivalent of the mayor of Moscow, so it was natural to feel a little anxious. Then again, Max wasn't some lowly foot soldier anymore.
He had been marked by Great Essences, which stood well above even elven kings on the local hierarchy. Max smiled at the thought, then looked over to the secretary. Level 200, dark skin, slightly slanted eyes on a dispassionate triangular face. Max had seen and studied enough of his new kinfolk to realize from the occasional nonchalant glances in his direction that the fellow was burning up with curiosity. And who could blame him? Here was a random noob in nondescript steel armor awaiting an audience with the Great Prince himself! Curiosity, pride, courage, cunning... Despite the developers' best efforts, all of the races inhabiting this world had inherited many of the traits inherent to their progenitors, becoming very much human as a result.

  "Come, warrior. Father is ready to speak with you," said the prince, appearing in the doorway.

  Following Orwil into the office, Max gazed around and sighed. Of course, all executive offices had to feature some identical elements. A work desk, a conference table, art on the walls, and a rest area in the corner. Thankfully, that was where the similarities ended. Besides art, the walls boasted magnificent weaponry, while the bookshelves held gorgeous leather-bound folios. And then there was the construct in the corner assembled of bent metal tubes the purpose of which Max couldn't begin to fathom.

  Great Prince Goherym looked to be the carbon copy of his son, only slightly aged by the streaks of gray in his hair and missing a scar on his cheek. Otherwise, the two might as well have been identical twins. Sitting in a plush armchair next to a coffee table, the prince studied the new arrival with interest. Suddenly his brows arched as Goherym leaned forward and asked with surprise:

  "The Two-Faced Goddess has returned to our world?"

  "Greetings, Your Highness. If you mean Kirana, then yes," Max nodded—there was no point denying it. "However, she doesn't wish to publicize her return just yet."

  "Greetings in return, Nightcralwer," Goherym said, indicating the armchair across from him. "Things are even worse than I'd thought," he said, turning to his son. "Merdoc had predicted the return of the Two-Faced Goddess on the eve of the Great Invasion. We can keep burying our collective heads in the sand, but I fear that will only hasten the inevitable."

  An elf female walked into the office, and the set the table with elegant wooden cups of smoking coffee and three bowls filled with cookies, and left without saying a word. The prince waited for the girl to do her duty and leave before turning his gaze to Max.

  "Coffee has been brought into our world by your people. Nobody had suspected that this plant could produce such an interesting beverage—our alchemists have only slightly altered its composition. But this is just one minor example of the great changes that all those who have arrived from the beyond have wrought, whether directly with actions or indirectly with customs, transforming our peaceful way of life beyond recognition," he said contemplatively. "You are weak, and only a few of you will ever achieve true greatness. And yet, the hermit contends that you and you alone, meaning elves with the souls of humans, can avert the impending Darkaan Invasion."

  "I know nothing of the invasion you speak, Your Highness."

  Max waited politely for Goherym to take a sip from his cup, and only then picked up his. He had never had coffee like this in his life. While the taste and the aroma were indistinguishable from its Earth counterpart, the classic coffee from his old life had never given him this light sense of euphoria. Nor had it boosted his spirit and intellect stats by five percent for two hours, as the system log had dutifully informed him after the first sip. Not that it did much good for Max's character—his warrior wasn't exactly a brilliant intellectual to begin with.

  "Would you cut that out?" the prince said with a grimace. "I realize that few of you are familiar with our customs, so you can call me Aratat Goherym, or simply aratat. As to your question, let me try to explain everything from the top." Putting his cup on the table, the prince folded his arms as he fell back in his armchair. "I'm not going to ask how you wound up under the canopy of the High House of Nightcrawlers. Nor will I inquire about the marks left on you by the Great Essences of this world. But I will ask you this: have you ever been to the Wild Wood?"

  "No," Max replied honestly. "Everything happened rather suddenly for me."

  "All the same, your blood will help you to cross the misty border, which means you can help both us and your people."

  "Could you explain what exactly that help would entail?"

  "You must report to the head of your House about the forthcoming invasion of the Dark Empire."

  "But—" Max began to speak, but the prince didn't let him continue.

  "Two moons ago several of Morrigan's ghosts appeared on the border of the House of Morning Dew. They said that the Ancient Gods had been awakened in Darkaan, and a large invading army is brewing for a campaign west." Noticing Max's blank stare, the prince proceeded to explain further. "Morrigan is the goddess of stealth and military cunning. All of our scouts lavish her with gifts, and happy is he upon whom she bestows her mocking gaze. Those who are ordained into her service are commonly referred to as her ghosts, for they are capable of infiltrating places no one else can, and returning with the necessary intelligence. The goddess favors the Ruling House, which is why her servants have warned us of the looming trouble. This information matches a two-hundred-year-old prophecy of Merdoc's when, by the will of the gods, Prince Anaryon had made it to the hermit's abode. At the time we knew nothing of the aliens the prophet spoke of, but it's clear now he was talking about your kind." The prince paused for a few moments, then continued. "The Ancients... also called Titans by some... What do you know about the Dark Empire, warrior?"

  "Nothing," Max shook his head. "Only that it is home to humanoids with the heads of dogs."

  "Not just dogs," Goherym said gravely. "What I'm about to tell you won't be for any personal gain. In fact, I would much rather not say anything. But I need an informed envoy, and not an ignorant errand boy. Should you lose my missive, you will need to relay the message orally. So, listen carefully and commit to memory as much as you can. The Dark Empire spans a quarter of the continent's landmass. Several millennia ago it was home to races typical of our world. But then, roughly three thousand years ago, three terrible beasts appeared on the southeastern edge of the continent. Valeph, Vaepar and Halephos, whom our people have dubbed the Ancients. Their magic had warped a huge chunk of the land, transforming its inhabitants from sentient creatures to ghastly monsters. The gods of this world were still young then, and too weak to prevent the Ancients from taking over Darkaan. However, within five hundred years of their arrival, a giant army of the transformed was repulsed on the edge of the Great Forest." With a heavy sigh, the prince reached for the cup on the table. "The united army of elves, humans and dwarves, bolstered by the gods, suffered massive losses but succeeded in defeating the transformed in the momentous Battle of Siruat Heath. The elves were a united people then, and we had the Mallorn trees, too," he gave a bitter chuckle.

  "So the Ancients were killed?"

  "I told you, at the time not even the deities were powerful enough to dematerialize them," Goherym shook his head. "But something must have gone wrong for the Ancients in that battle. While on the verge of routing the united army, they beat a sudden retreat—actually, it looked as if they fled in panic. Nobody bothered to give chase—our forces were barely enough to defeat the remnants of the transformed left over from their masters' sorcery..."

  "Our forces?!" Max's jaw made an involuntary crawl in the direction of the parquet floor.

  "Aye, our forces," the prince nodded. "In that battle I commanded a century of Wind Talkers. My father and my father's father both perished in that same battle. Our lives are long indeed, Max, and sometimes the Creator grants us a rebirth. More often, however, death is irreversible. But I digress. From the captives we learned that the Titans had arrived to Karn from Lemuria, the location of which is unknown even to the gods. But the most important piece of information was that the death of one Ancient weakens the others tenfold. Not that
it could have helped us in that battle—the Titans were virtually invincible, and we were too weak to give pursuit when, inexplicably, they fled the battlefield," Goherym said, his voice laden with sorrow. Then he got up and walked along a wall lined with portraits, hands clasped behind his back. "Roughly half a century later we learned that Valeph, Vaepar and Halephos had immersed into a strangle, slumber-like state. The transformed had erected three cyclopean pyramids at the mouth of Styx, that's in the southern part of the continent, where they lay their sleeping rulers. No one, not even the gods, were capable of infiltrating the walls of those structures. Their slumber spanned two and a half thousand years..."

  "Why haven't all of their followers been destroyed in all that time?"

  "The Titans have fallen asleep, but not their magic," the prince shook his head. "No ruler likes putting his people at risk. And who would you propose invade Darkaan? With the elves mired in fratricidal wars, Torgar threatening Erantia from the west after unifying the free orcish clans, spiders encroaching toward the Kraet Peaks, and the gods with their eternal quarreling... And then you have Velial's armies that had invaded Karn one and a half millennia ago. To be sure, some of the gods made attempts to get into the pyramids, but, alas, they didn't succeed."

  "And, as I understand it, the Ancients have recently awakened?"

  "Aye, either on their own or at somebody's behest. I can't begin to imagine the power it must have taken, but it can no longer be disputed that an enormous army is gathering in Darkaan as we speak."

  "But why do you think that this army will target the Great Forest?"

  "Because that was what Morrigan's ghosts said, and neither the king nor I have grounds to doubt the goddess' messengers. A month ago I dispatched a truce envoy to the misty border in hopes of locating at least some of your kinfolk, Max. But I haven't heard back from them since."

  "So now you want me to deliver your message to the head of the High House of Nightcrawlers," Max said with a nod. "But what is your true motive? I've lived too long and seen too much to believe in noble intentions unencumbered by personal gain."