Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
About the Author
Pearls of the Elf Lords
Richard E. Saunders
Stonegarden.net Publishing
http://www.stonegarden.net
Reading from a different angle.
California, USA
Pearls of the Elf Lords Copyright © 2010 Richard E. Saunders
ISBN: 1-60076-265-4
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
StoneGarden.net Publishing
3851 Cottonwood Dr.
Danville, CA 94506
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address StoneGarden.net Publishing.
First StoneGarden.net Publishing paperback printing:
December 2010
First StoneGarden.net Publishing electronic edition:
December 2010
Visit StoneGarden.net Publishing on the web at
http://www.stonegarden.net.
Cover art and design by Peter Joseph Swanson
For Teresa
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank Mitch Jones and Tony Rudder: My brothers-from-other-mothers, for introducing me to the world of sci-fi fantasy; To Junior, Charlie, Conrad, Dennis, and Paula; for your countless hours of playing the games, and for your inspiration.
Special thanks to my mom: Edna Mae Saunders, for everything; and to my wife Teresa, for your continued love and support.
Chapter 1
The cold, heavy rain drenched the mud-filled streets of Birhirm. Despite the chilly, wet autumn weather the city was bustling with activity as merchants and travelers huddled together in the shops, inns and taverns, seeking shelter from the weather as they endeavored to complete their tasks in hopes of being ready to move on once the rains ended so that they might reach their destinations before winter set in. With a war occurring in the northern kingdom of Alexon, cities like Birhirm—which had been virtually untouched by the recent conflict—were more appealing for traveling merchants and the like. Still, no traveler desired to be trapped in the mountain city for the winter.
Unnoticed by the few who still hurried about outside, a lone figure, hidden beneath a saturated green cloak with his hood pulled up over his head in a vain attempt to keep dry, made his way down the street. The only thing making him stand out amongst the few other soaked pedestrians was the ivory colored bow and quiver of arrows that was slung across his shoulder. He made his way gingerly through the puddle laden streets. In the distance the Birhirmian Mountain range could barely be seen above the rooftops of the more distant buildings through the heavy downpour. The traveler plodded onward, observing that little had changed since the last time he had visited this town. Midway down the street he spotted a freestanding building with a wooden sign hanging by a pair of rusty chains. The sign depicted a silver-colored fox holding a mug: The Silver Fox Tavern. He approached the door, doing his best to scour the mud from his deerskin boots on the well-used boot scraper provided next to the entrance, before opening the door and stepping inside. He closed the door behind him as he attempted to brush the mud off of his cloak while adding to the puddle of muddy water that had collected in the doorway from the many patrons who had entered before him. He withdrew his bow and arrows and pealed off his cloak, draping it over his left arm as he effortlessly swung the bow and quiver back over his shoulder. His grey tunic and black trousers were not much dryer than the cloak that had been protecting him from the elements. A short sword hung at his left side. He shook his head, tossing back his damp, shoulder-length brown hair. His mixed-elven features—a long thin nose, high cheekbones and eyes that slanted downward closer to the nose—were evident enough to reveal that he was what the humans called a Half-Elf or Half-Breed. His slightly pointed ears were well concealed by his long hair. The half-elf was well aware that his heritage could put him at risk in some places, especially due to the war being waged in large part by a race of elves; known as Snow-Elves, from the White Wilderness to the north. Because of this many humans in Westland were adopting age old prejudices and becoming distrusting of all elves.
His oddly mixed eyes—a mixture of brown and green in uneven shades in either one—scanned the crowded room taking in every detail as he glanced about. They came to rest on a table near the back of the inn. Sitting at the table were two men engaged in conversation with an elderly dwarf.
The dwarf’s thick, muscular back was to the half-elf. At a height of four-feet it was difficult to tell if the dwarf were sitting or standing, until the half-elf came close enough to see his thick legs dangling in front of his chair. Though considerably shorter than all of the men in the room, his stocky dwarf’s body was as broad, if not broader, than most humans. Dwarves had evolved with a shorter frame that permitted them to traverse underground caverns more easily. But their muscles were dense and powerful, providing them the strength they needed for a life-time of digging through rock.
“Are you the dwarf that made this shoddy excuse for a dull, cracking blade?” The half-elf bellowed as he stepped behind the dwarf.
Weslocke Blademender spun around in his seat, his callused hand falling at once to the ever-present axe at his side as he looked for the person who had insulted his craftsmanship; for the Royal Smith of Birhirm prided himself on making the best blades this side of the Shale Mountains. His ruddy, fire-burnt skin belied his age. Only his heavily graying beard gave any true hint to his elder years. At first sight of the half-elf a smile becomes apparent through his thick, chest-length beard as he jumps from his chair to greet the newcomer. “Landis, old friend, come back to visit finally, what has it been, two years?” The dwarf secured a vacant chair for the half-elf.
“Just about,” Landis replied, dropping his wet cloak onto the floor beside him as he accepted the offered seat.
“What brings you back to Birhirm?” Weslocke asked, ignoring the two men sitting across the table from him, “And what happened to the pretty blonde lass that was with you the last time you passed through?”
“Katryn and I had to part ways nearly a year ago,” Landis began. Seeing the look on Weslocke’s face he added, “No problems between us, old friend. It is just that
our roads had to part while she completes her training. She cannot have a bard tagging along to distract her while she goes through her secret initiations.” Landis accepted a mug of ale from a passing barmaid. Refusing Weslocke’s offer to add it to his tab he dropped a coin into the girl’s hand. He took a sip from the mug before continuing, “I am here because my father summonsed me to meet him in this tavern tonight. I do not see him anywhere, but thought that you might know where he is.”
Weslocke shook his head, “I have not seen your father in years, Landis. And why would he be here in Birhirm while war rages in Alexon? He sold his sword to the King of Alexon before you were born.”
“True,” Landis agreed. “But from what I understand the war is little to be concerned about. The Knights of Alexon supposedly have the Snow-Elves on the run. No one really knows what brought them out of the north to begin with.”
“Makes no sense to me either; they have never attempted open warfare on any kingdom outside of the White Wilderness before. Up until now many of the humans in these parts would have considered them a myth. It was foolish of them to attack the strongest kingdom in the Westland when totally unprovoked. As for your father, I have heard nothing of him coming to Birhirm. So what have you been doing these past two years?”
“Traveling mostly,” The half-elf began, “I spent some time in the Shale Mountains helping to hunt down orcs—there was a pretty good bounty on them for a while—then I wandered around some of the cities bordering the Eastland, gambling and performing in a variety of taverns after Katryn departed. I spent some time back home with the elves in Delindea before moving on to the Free Cities along the southern coast: That is where I received my father’s message.”
“How do you suppose he tracked you down there?” Weslocke inquired.
“The Birhirmian Network I would guess.” Landis explained.
While the free city of Birhirm made most of its profit from mining, it had a lucrative underground society that served the kingdom by gathering knowledge and information from anywhere in the East and Westland. It was often said that nothing was unknown to the Birhirmian Network.
Whatever the half-elf was going to say next was abruptly cut short by a pair of hands slipping over his face covering his eyes. “No time to greet an old friend, Landis?” A female voice said from behind him.
Landis grabbed the arms, briskly pulling the woman around where he could face her. “Jandelie!” Landis spoke with excited surprise, “I would have never thought to find you in...”
Jandelie, a dark-haired and well endowed, beautiful young woman dressed in a tight but revealing blouse and matching black trousers, fell into the half-elf’s lap, stopping anything else he was about to say by pressing her lips against his. The two ended their kiss only after Weslocke slammed his mug to the table, calling out, “Are we going to make love right here or will you two save it for later?”
Landis laughed at the old dwarf’s comment. Jandelie leaned over to give Weslocke a kiss on the cheek. “I have not forgotten you, Wes. I just saved the best for last.”
The dwarf blushed, first at Jandelie’s remark, then even more so when she handed him his own money pouch that she had just lifted from his belt. Weslocke grabbed the pouch from her hand. “Why you little thief, I see you have not changed your ways in the five years since I saw you last.”
Jandelie chuckled. “Of course not, Wes, why give up such an easy way to earn a living.”
Weslocke ordered a cup of wine for Jandelie, who unlike Landis, readily agreed to the dwarf’s offer to pay for her drink. He then turned to the two young men who had been sitting in silence, observing this reunion of friends. “Watch your belongings around this lovely thief, boys. She’ll steal your heart and gold at the same time.” He warned.
Jandelie put on a mocking hurt look before allowing her attention to return to Landis. “Have you seen Diabolis in your travels?” She asked.
“Not since the three of us were together in Chyclesberg.” Landis replied, feeling a sting of pain at the mention of the name. The three of them had been partners in the past: All good thieves, although Diabolis’ specialty was killing. The primary reason for Landis’ friendship drifting apart with the assassin had been their mutual love for Jandelie; along with the way that she would so willingly play the two against each other to get whatever she wanted.
“I have heard rumors that he has attained a high rank in the Stalkers.” Jandelie informed him.
Landis shook his head slowly at the mention of the Assassins Guild. “He has the talent—and the drive—for rising in their order. It is just a shame that he has to use his talents on anyone just to put gold in his pouch.”
“We all have to make a living.” Jandelie continued. “So, Landis, why has your father sent for me? And how did he know that I was in Blakesburg?”
“My father summoned you too?” Landis asked. “I was beckoned here by him myself, and only arrived this evening.”
The dwarf frowned, “This is getting interesting. Who else might your father have invited to this reunion, and where is he?”
The noise of the crowd came to an abrupt halt as the door to the tavern flew open with a crash and a black robed man entered the doorway. As he pulled the door closed against the wind a distant roar of thunder could be heard outside, accenting his arrival. The man tossed his wet hood back, revealing a rugged face that was partially covered by short, thick black hair and a beard. Weslocke looked bitterly at the newcomer. “I thought that he’d be in the pits of the Abyss by now, the black hearted devil.”
The man made his way through the parting crowd towards their table as Landis rose to meet him. “It is good to see you again, Natis.”
Weslocke took another drink of his ale adding, “Aye, and its good to see the face of demons too, Wizard.”
Landis gave Weslocke a sharp look silencing him at once. It was obvious that there was no love lost between the dwarf and the mage. Even Jandelie seemed to back away from the sinister looking man. Natis joined them at the table, taking one of the chairs that had been quickly vacated by the two men who had originally been sitting with the dwarf.
“I am glad you came. I knew that I would find you both here.” the mage said as he sat down.
“It looks like part of your mystery is solved.” Weslocke spat.
“So, did my father summon you too?” Landis asked.
Natis shook his head. “Not exactly, I have been in communication with King Jobez who had asked for my assistance in the same matter that has brought you here.”
“What for?” The half-elf inquired.
The mage accepted his mug of ale from the barmaid, waiting until Landis dropped the wench a copper coin before continuing. “All in due time, Landis, it is not my place to provide any information, especially since I am not fully aware of all of the details. So we will have to wait for your father before discussing this. Until then, let us just reminisce about old times.”
Landis realized that he was not going to get any answers from his old friend. Frustrated, but knowing how the mage could remain evasive until he felt the need to reveal his secrets, he let the subject drop for the time being. When nobody else spoke he turned the conversation back to catching up on everyone’s activities during the last several years. Natis soon became bored with such trivial details. Pushing away from the table he arose and addressed them before leaving. “I must take care of a few things, my friends. Besides, you know how I dislike being in crowds. I will catch up with you later when we have more time to talk amongst ourselves.”
His last sentence appeared to be directed more at Landis then at the group in general. The half-elf thought for a moment that he should join Natis, if only to learn what his old friend was up too. He caught a quick look of disapproval in the mage’s eyes, as if he already knew what Landis was thinking. Reluctantly Landis settled back in his chair as Natis turned to leave, finding his way unblocked as most of the patrons quickly stepped aside to allow the mage to pass by undisturbed. When Natis had
left the room Weslocke turned to the half-elf. “Watch yourself, Landis. He’s up to something. And there will more than likely be more danger involved then its worth.”
* * * * *
The three of them shared a few more drinks over the next hour or so while reminiscing about past adventures. Landis looked at the door every time it opened, expecting to see his father enter each time someone came or left. In doing so, he spotted a teenage boy entering the tavern and looking about the room anxiously. It was obvious that he was not used to such environments as this one. He was wearing a heavy brown cloak and as he approached their table Landis could see what appeared to be a uniform beneath the cloak as it parted.
“Pardon me, but are you Prince Landis?” The young man asked.
“Someone’s in trouble now,” Jandelie teased the newcomer, “I’ve never heard anyone call him Prince and get away unscathed.”
“Better run while you can, boy.” Weslocke smirked.
The half-elf observed the boy’s kind face. His brown hair was neatly trimmed and he was clean shaven. His clothing and body both looked and smelled recently bathed. It was obvious that this was no regular inhabitant of the city. The pommel of his sword slipped into view verifying Landis’ observation. “Are you a guard?” he asked.
“Prince Landis, I am a squire in the Knights of Alexon. My name is Jordan Jarobohim, and I have been sent by your father to ask you and your lady friend to come to the palace to meet with him.”
Elf Lords: 01 - Pearls of the Elf Lords Page 1