A Flutter In The Night (Kyrn's Legacy Book 1)

by Michael S. Gormley

  Elrich had yelled at her, arguing that the glowing fire may give away their safe hiding. And it was not that the young noble was wrong; however, there had been no commotion from outside for so long now.

  For assurance, Elrich dragged one of the wooden chairs from the council table closer to the door, and, standing upon it, he peeked out the window. The guardsman, Lodan, still sat atop his horse. Now, he seemed slightly more at ease. He held his bow loosely in one hand at his side, and in his other was a torch, ready for the return of Iafi at any moment.

  Elrich gave up his arguing with Abellia. He returned the chair to the great long-table and studied the armor and swords hung upon the walls. Even though they were cleaned daily, they looked as if they hadn’t been used in hundreds of years.

  Abellia noticed Elrich’s amazement and laughed. “I remember my first time in the High Council,” she said, admiring her little brother’s sense of wonder.

  “It’s sad,” he muttered.

  “What do you mean?”

  Elrich brushed his hand over a large, wooden shield that had been scarred badly in a distant war. “It’s as if they’re only memories, slowly fading from our minds. What if there is no one left to remember?”

  “That’s why they’re hung high,” she said, and she stood from the council table and walked closer to her brother. “They’re here to keep us from forgetting.” She rested her hand upon his shoulder. “And to keep us from making the same mistakes we once did.”

  “If I must,” Elrich began, “I will use them to protect us.”

  Abellia smiled down at him. She loved him, and it was indeed for reasons such as this, but her smile was still forced. “Let us hope that it does not come to that.”

  ***

  Abellia and Elrich nearly fell from their seats at the council table, almost an hour later, when the door was flung inward with a crashing bang.

  Iafi rushed in, his steel armor clanking and grinding with each hurried step he took. “Be needin’ me damned axe,” he growled, looking more furious than anyone had ever seen the old dwarf.

  “Iafi,” the king called to the dwarf, as he followed him into the chambers. “They are all relics now, not to be used again.”

  Kyrn quickly bounded into the chambers, from the darkness outside, to see the unfolding events.

  “And why be they relics, me King?” Iafi spun back towards Ulzrich and growled up to him.

  “Do not patronize me, my friend.” All within the room could feel the king’s rage, but Ulzrich was well-versed enough in the dwarf’s attitude to keep his tone calm when trying to reason with a battle-enraged Iafi. “Leave the axe be. It served you well in the Great War. It needn’t come to that again.”

  For a moment, Iafi stood calm, pondering his king’s words (more so, his dear friend’s words).

  The rest in the room sat silent.

  Then, Iafi began again, more quietly and calmly. “If what yer sayin’ be true…”

  “We’ll discuss that,” Ulzrich interrupted.

  “Be it true?” Iafi shouted, so deep and low that his armor rattled.

  The king stood still for only a moment. Iafi had become one of the king’s closest companions, and he didn’t want to be forceful with him. “I fear it is.”

  “Agghhh!” The dwarf’s growl was low but loud indeed, and matched with a grin beneath his black beard, as if that were the answer he’d truly wanted. He spun back and snatched his old axe from the wall.

  Ulzrich moved forward, lifting one hand to stop the infuriated dwarf, but thought better of it. They truly did have much to discuss. And Ulzrich hoped that, as they talked, Iafi’s rage would slowly die down.

  “Ah, yes,” Iafi muttered to himself, as he held his axe. How many years it had been! “Best be some goblins left over by the time we’re out of here.” As he spoke, he slowly waved the axe in front of his face, and the edges of the axe were trailed by the faintest line of fire in the air.

  The door to the High Council opened yet again, and entered Celri Delmont, followed by the elder Northal, and they quickly slammed the door behind them.

  “Thank Lodan for his quick bow,” said Celri with a wavering laugh. As he turned, the light from the fireplace sent shadows dancing over the man’s pudgy body. He was short for a man (still taller than Iafi), and his hair had almost all receded, leaving only a few patches of brown hair on the sides of his head. “What in the gods’ names is this?” he said, his face scrunched in outrage as he saw the magical flames of the axe twirling through the air.

  Iafi, though, noticing Kyrn and his brother’s wonderment over the magical weapon, merely continued making the flames dance in front of him.

  “These are sacred weapons, Master Butcher,” Celri continued, resting his hands upon his spherical gut as he waltzed forward to the dwarf.

  The king raised a hand, halting the round man from continuing.

  “My King,” Celri said, outraged, but respectfully. “These are relics of the Great War…”

  “Still me axe,” Iafi interrupted.

  “Powerful artifacts,” Celri continued, “never to be…” He stopped, feeling a gentle hand upon his shoulder.

  Northal was close behind Celri. The elder’s long, white beard nearly touched the floor, running down his brown robes like a frozen waterfall. His blue eyes were calm—weathered by all too many years of knowledge—and he smiled at the upset councilman. “Let us hear what our king has to say,” he said. “We will learn of these strange events unfolding, and then, possibly, we can understand more clearly.” He shot a quick wink to the dwarf and made his way to the council table, taking his seat beside the young Elrich.

  “Yes,” Celri stammered, cooling himself. “Yes, perhaps you’re right.” And he, too, took his place at the table, forcing himself to break eye contact from the powerful magics of the axe.

  “Course he is,” Iafi said, and he gave the axe one last, more powerful, swing, sending such a flame that all in the room could feel the radiating heat, and, with a proud smirk, sat at the table. “Shall we be gettin’ the talkin’ over with now?”

  ***

  By the time the four members of the High Council—Celri Delmont, the elder Northal, Iafi Delashev, and Abellia Fellenor—were seated quietly at the table, the streets of Grimmrich had slightly calmed.

  King Ulzrich paced, only a little, at the head of the table, and Lodan had switched his post from outside of the High Council chambers to right inside of the door, away from the nipping winds that had taken over the night. Had his king bid him to remain outside, Lodan would have; however, the rest of the guardsmen seemed to be handling what little remained of the goblin forces outside, and it would take much more than a few goblins to break through the ranks of Iafi and Lodan.

  After a few moments of preparing his own thoughts, Ulzrich spoke. “For now, until we have found out more than mere speculation, no matter how correct we may think ourselves to be, we must keep what we hear within the likes of the High Council.” He rested his hands upon the wooden table, careful to look only in his sons’ direction. “And only within that of the High Council.”

  Elrich looked at his older brother, who was already rising, admittedly disappointed, from the table, and back to his father. “No,” Elrich argued. “We can help. Tell him, Kyrn.”

  Kyrn, knowing their father was kind and generous, was not one to be disobeyed, especially in the company of half of the members of the High Council, rested his hand upon his younger brother’s back and led him to the door.

  Lodan, standing from his lean against the wall, readied himself to escort the young nobles back to their chambers, provided they were safe.

  Elrich tugged free from his brother’s grip and turned back to the table. “And what of the witch that captured me before the attack on the city?” he shouted.

  Ulzrich spun round, face reddened with anger. “Kyrn,” he began, his anger starting with his dark-haired son, though Kyrn had done nothing to provoke the outburst. “Re-take your place at the table,
for I have already come to a conclusion of where you are to help; one that I am not fond of whatsoever, though it is truly necessary.”

  Kyrn made his way back to his seat beside Abellia, proudly, despite his father’s anger.

  “And you,” the king continued, glaring upon Elrich until his son dropped his eyes to his small boots. “You may be seated as well so that, in time, we may hear your story.” King Ulzrich noted the spring in his youngest son’s step as he returned to the table, and added, “And so that you may not be a further burden. You have no measure of how grave the situation we have found ourselves in truly is.”

  Kyrn glanced at the elder Northal, hoping for a friendly wink, or words of his calm wisdom, but Northal’s face was vacant of all emotion, deep in thought behind his long, grey beard and pointed brows.

  “When will the others be arriving?” Celri asked, cutting the tension of the silence, referring to the rest of the High Council. “We have waited far too long.”

  “We will keep this between the eight of us in this room,” answered Ulzrich. “Those which we may trust, that is, until we know exactly our situation.”

  Finally, Abellia spoke up, not of ignorance, but of confusion as to the heaviness of so many of the hearts within the room. “It is no small concern, not in the slightest, though, weren’t we only faced with goblins. Surely it’s not the most uncommon trial?”

  “If it were only that, my dear.” Ulzrich took his seat at the head of the table. “I arrived home from Stalholm with a heavy weight upon my heart, hoping that what I had heard during my journey had not been truthful.” He turned his attention to young Elrich, fiddling with his hands beneath the table. “But first, we must hear what Elrich has to say.”

  When all eyes had been drawn on him, Elrich no longer felt as if he wanted to share his tale, no longer wanted to recall what the wicked woman had told him; he wished he hadn’t mentioned the woman with the red eyes.

  ***

  When Elrich finished recalling the events leading up to his capture by the witch, a silence unlike any before had fallen over the room. There was no commotion on the streets outside, no staggered breaths at the table (though Northal had gasped, quite dramatically, when Elrich had told of his turning around to meet the gaze of the witch), and the only sound came from the crackling of the fire.

  “Conduits of the darkness,” Ulzrich muttered to himself. “What you’ve said only gives unfortunate proof to my thoughts.” He sounded greatly like he was still trying to disprove himself. He turned about, breaking himself from the dark veil of the group. “Lodan, stoke the fire, will you?”

  Northal raised his hand. “No bother!” And with a quick snap of his fingers, the flames rose viciously and burned anew.

  Kyrn and Elrich eyed one another. They had heard rumors that Northal was over two-hundred-years-old, that it was by ways of magic that he had remained so, yet they had never seen him perform a spell, not even one of such simplicity.

  Ulzrich merely gave him a brief nod and continued.

  “When first I had arrived to Stalholm, the city seemed abandoned. Even of beggars and merchants. Few wandered the streets, and fewer still were in the taverns.” He stroked his short, blond beard, fingering perfectly each streak of grey, as if he had careful studied each day of his new-found age. “It didn’t take long, even with hardly anyone to tell, to hear of these witches roaming the dark city streets. That is, not until I found Malhaim.”

  Iafi raised his eyes from the axe he had laid before him on the table, counting each second that passed, in hopes that he would soon be able to once again use the finely-crafted dwarven weapon. “Me brother?” he asked, surprised. “He lives?”

  “He does,” answered Ulzrich. “Though, I began to learn quickly that it seemed as if he wished he didn’t. He was hiding, wasting away, in an abandoned shack near the docks of Stalholm. I never would have found him, had Braeli not stayed in the city.”

  Again, Iafi twitched in his seat. “Braeli always bein’ the good one.”

  Before his father began again, Kyrn leaned into the burly dwarf. “I didn’t know you had brothers,” he whispered. He’d spent so much of his childhood with Iafi, yet he’d never learned as much as in this room.

  Iafi grunted, staring at the axe upon the table. “Ye’ve got a good family, kid,” he said. “I chose yer’s over mine a long time ago.”

  When Kyrn looked back at his father, Ulzrich had been eyeing the dwarf with a smile so slight that only Kyrn had noticed.

  “Malhaim told me many tales,” Ulzrich began. “A simple mining expedition, he kept repeating. His band of miners were attacked deep underground. Creatures he said no one had ever seen the likes of.” Ulzrich rested his head in his hand. “To tell you all, honestly, I thought old Malhaim had lost all of his wits.”

  “Happened long ago,” Iafi interjected, drawing a laugh only from himself.

  “The last I saw of Malhaim,” Ulzrich went on, “he was assured that he was sailing west, leaving Einroth.”

  “And ye believe him?” asked Iafi.

  “Yes, now.” Ulzrich looked around the table, wished his sons were not there, wished he’d taken Malhaim’s offer and sailed west. “A great fog fell over the city, slowly at first, but surely. I had been assisting our guardsmen load supplies at the docks. ‘Of course, you will not work yourself,’ Baron Vougn yelled at me, but I could not handle more of his round tables.” Ulzrich looked back at Iafi. “And truly, I wanted to see if your brother really was leaving for good. Then the screams came from deep within the city: deep, bellowing howls and piercing cries. Wicked, black, furless beasts attacked, clawing down anyone in their way, and we fought for the docks for what seemed like days.”

  Ulzrich unbuttoned his tunic, revealing scars that seemed to have healed, but lightly illuminated a deeper red than the scar tissue itself.

  Abellia gasped, covering her mouth to not interrupt.

  “But you defeated them!” Elrich could no longer hold in his pride and excitement.

  “No,” Ulzrich said, his voice low and quiet. “We did not. We were tiring, many of us wounded, even more defeated. Warriors in black metal had come, instructing the vile creatures, striking down the villagers and guards they hadn’t finished themselves. From behind, a great ship rolled from the fog, tattered sails, blacker than the night itself. Just as quickly as it began, the black warriors left.”

  “Why flee if they were victorious?” asked Kyrn.

  Northal stood from the table and walked closer to the fire. “Flee they did not,” he began. “They are simply regaining their power. I fear your father’s assumptions are correct. The Dark Ones are returning.”

  “The Dark Ones?” Elrich whispered to himself.

  Northal continued, “An enemy older than the Great War, older than most that walk Einroth today.”

  “Most?” asked the king. “We cannot count on the elves. There will be no one else.”

  “You forget that my father still lives, Ulzrich,” answered Northal. “Much older than I. Much older indeed.”

  Ulzrich stood with the elder. “Then we can start with him. Perhaps he can aid us.”

  “No,” Northal snapped. “In time, he will. We will require much of his memories; however, we must find the long-hidden elves. Their king will surely already know of the Dark Ones’ return, and, if he does not, he surely must.”

  Kyrn, growing impatient, stood from the table as well. “The kingdom of the elves has been lost for centuries. They didn’t even reemerge for the Great War. How are we to find them?”

  Ulzrich closed his eyes and let the heat from the fire lick his face. He’d been hoping to avoid this, all of it, but there were no other options. “That, my son, is where you earn your place among the High Council.”

  “And of me brother?” Iafi asked, referring to Malhaim. “He’s gone?”

  Ulzrich nodded. “To the Westlands.” He raised a leather-bound book and slid it to the dwarf. “His memoirs, they further prove what is yet to come.”


  “If they be true,” Iafi scoffed. Yet, he opened the book and, like a curse had taken over, he began to read Malhaim’s entry aloud:

  ***

  I have long believed in the Old Gods. Luck is not a strong enough entity to have lasted long as it has for a bottom dwelling, thieving old dwarf like myself. For some unexplainable, perplexing reason, the love of the Old Gods graces me. My baby brother, Iafi, denies their existence, but he’s been a sour dwarf since that cruel sickness took our mother too soon.

  I have surely and strongly believed the Old Gods for centuries, but it was not until the last few months that I believed in the demons and wicked beasts that fought and tempted our mortal beliefs. Any priest, whether from the streets, the slums, or preaching to the rich and wealthy, will tell you of the monstrous evils that will drag a soul to the depths of hell. I was always sure they wanted to fear people into following their faith, to interrupt the common man from straying the path carved by the Old Gods.

  I was exceedingly wrong. I have seen these vile demons, wicked beasts alike. They walk and breathe in our own world. I cannot say if they always have, but they do now, whether hell itself overflows, or the end of time has come. The appalling demons are more present now than the Old or New Gods themselves.

  I planned an elaborate heist not many months ago. A group of dwarven miners obtained a small grant from the city after stumbling upon a rich iron mine a few miles outside the slums.

  Bolgor, a young dwarf passionate only for increasing the size of his coin purse, came to visit late one night. After waking me from a drunken stupor with a bowl of water to my face, he eased my swelling rage with his brilliant plan.

  The young dwarf and his loyal mining company had discovered an ancient, abandoned catacomb with vast tunnels expanding underneath the entire royal district of Stalholm. Of course, as Bolgor mentioned through his discussing his elaborate plan, if pulled off successfully, our entire group of scheming dwarves would be forced to retire as far from the city as we could make it.