by Rex Jameson
“We have to get out of here,” Ashton said. “My heart cannot stand another minute.”
Clayton nodded and proceeded toward the front door. He opened it, and his shoulders sank. As Ashton caught up, the overwhelming scent of charred death assaulted his nostrils. He grabbed Clayton by the bicep and dragged him through the portal.
“This place is not for us anymore,” Ashton said, surveying the buildings as if he had never seen them before, as if they held no special place of love in his soul.
He headed east to avoid the main square, and he kept going past the gate in the picket fences. Clayton shuffled closely behind, his head scarf made from dead bandit’s shirts coming looser with each step. The smell of older decay mingled with the fresher charred scent, and Ashton welcomed his friend’s undead fragrance over the tragedy of the main square. Anything to mask what happened to Riley. Anything to help him forget what he had caused. The next time she assaulted him in his dreams, he would welcome it. She deserved her retribution, and no collection of morning glories from a wall of darkness would soften what he had done.
He turned to look at the village of Perketh once more as he climbed a nearby hill. Clayton too watched the sunset over the village. When the bright orange dipped below the shale houses, a dark orange turned to red and pink. Like flowers on the horizon.
Ashton sobbed as he returned to the King’s Road. Just north was the town of Alefast, famous for its bitter brews. Ashton could think of no better place in the world to be. Perhaps he’d get lucky and drown in one.
5
Word Reaches the King
King Aethis Eldenwald sat on a red royal pillow in a high-backed marble chair in Kingarth, the capital of the great human kingdom of Surdel. He was bedecked in a black and purple tunic and a white tiger’s fur on his shoulders. Around his neck hung a four-point, golden holy talisman supposedly cut from a falling star and given to his family by the monks of Mount Godun, the mountain at the center of his kingdom. His hair was still mostly blond, despite his fifty years, thirty five of which had been spent ruling amidst the politics, wars, and schemes of the four lord governors of his realm.
His gray, wisened advisor Jurgen Drodd sat in the right-hand chair, one step lower. Jurgen was balding and his body weakened by old age. Aethis’ wife Shea sat to his left. She was bedecked in a tight-fitting, purple dress with a black cloak wrapped around her shoulders and down the length of the stone chair and the five steps and red carpet at their feet. Below him and along the walls were his Royal Guard in polished silver plating, led by the capable, highly decorated Lord General Godfrey Ross who stood off to the side, looking over his men. Lord Ross’s plumed helmet was tucked under his arm. His face was stern, clean-shaven and with a brushed back, ear-length, wavy gray-and-blond hair.
Along the walls behind the King were the princes in their finest armors. In the back corner behind him, a man in dark brown leathers and a simple cape and hat leaned against the wall. His spymaster Theodore Crowe.
An ambassador from the dark elves bowed below the King and Queen.
“King Aethis,” the elf said.
“Welcome back to my court, Valedar.”
“Your Highness is too kind,” Valedar said, his bright green eyes glowing unnaturally in the slight darkness of the chamber. His crimson cloak spread across the floor around him as he kneeled. “I wish I were here under better circumstances.”
“You speak of the necromancer?” King Aethis asked rhetorically. “She is of no concern to the dark elves. My people tell me that she is dead, burned at the stake in Perketh.”
“Prince Jayden does not believe the matter is resolved,” Valedar said. “As you are aware, we take the charge of necromancy quite seriously.”
“As do we all,” Advisor Jurgen noted in an aged, raspy voice, “but the necromancer is dead.”
“Your kingdom forgets,” Valedar said. “We dark elves deal with this menace every day.”
“We remember our legends,” King Aethis said, “and we sit in the shadow of Ul Tyrion. We remember enough and well. There’s a more pressing matter in your visit. I find it hard to not take offense that a royal prince of Uxmal would visit my kingdom but not my capital. What was he doing in Perketh?”
“We sensed a person with magical gifts,” Valedar said. “Our prince investigated. He found a boy with such gifts but was nearly lynched by your people.”
“Are you to tell me,” Advisor Jurgen said, “that a dark elf prince was scared of a mob of common humans with sticks and stones?”
“The prince was being diplomatic,” Valedar said in his measured, well-educated accent. “We have known peace with humans for over ten thousand years. For two thousand years, our cities have fallen, one-by-one to an alien menace. We fight off a horde while you enjoy the freedoms and tranquility that come with our vigil. From King’s Harbor in the west to Edinsboro in the east, from north-most Nortown to southern Sevania, your people number in the hundreds of thousands and in dozens of cities and towns. We have but one city left. Uxmal. In all honesty, Great King, we would not risk the slight to your powerful nation. Our friendship is too direly needed.”
King Aethis was taken aback by the envoy’s honesty. He looked along the wall at his three sons Magnus, Ragnar and Olaf, all clad in the finest armor he could buy. His wife had also borne him four beautiful daughters: Helen, Janis, Ellen, and Cassandra. They were not present in the throne room. They had their own games and duties to perform. Two were in Visanth. Helen and Janis wooed princes there to keep the peace. Ellen had married Brandon Crayton to reward Lord Bartholomew Crayton for the strength of the bond with the lord of the prosperous northeastern territory. Youngest Cassandra stayed in the library with her books. She refused every suitor her parents sent her way. Aethis doted on her most because of her rebellious spirit and beauty. Shea told him so every day.
The ambassador from the dark elves was right to envy Surdel’s prosperity, but the King was not at fault for the dark elves’ plight. They claimed to fight demons. According to them, their doom started thousands of years ago with the fall of the one true god and the unleashing of hordes of demons and undead from the underworld. The Creator was gone now. The elves claimed that he no longer answered prayers. He had been banished somehow, long ago.
At least, that’s what the dark elves claimed. Aethis knew it only because they insisted he know it for diplomatic relations. He had never seen a demon. He had only heard about them from his spymaster when given reports of whatever random imaginary things the common folks were panicked about this week. Vampires in the mountains. Three headed rodents that breathed fire in the northeast.
“You speak plainly,” Aethis said. “So ask me plainly what you want from me.”
“Make sure the necromancer is dead,” Valedar requested.
Advisor Jurgen guffawed. “The King has already told you she’s dead. That should be the end of it.”
“You’re not magically attuned,” Valedar said. “If I were to tell you to test someone for sorcery, you would put them to the fire. If I told you to rid us of a necromancer, you would throw them atop the same flames. We believe you’ve burned the wrong person. We sense someone else, and if a grave was disturbed in your realm, then we cannot afford to risk a third front opening up to us.”
“We have our own issues with the orcs to our southeast,” Advisor Jurgen said.
Valedar scoffed similarly to how Jurgen had done earlier. “You are protected by the Southern Mountains. They trickle into your land like ants through a straw. Besides, orcs are not necromancers. Orcs are not sorcerers. They are brutes who showed up alongside the demons beneath us. They raid your villages, and you deal with them with conventional arms. Knights, footmen, and archers. Perhaps you ask the Wood Elves to aid you if you want to lessen your losses. You have allies who come to fight your battles with metal and wood.”
“Do you mean to insult me in my chamber?” Aethis asked. “Our friends in the woodland realm honor our call because we are allies. Ask for ou
r aid, and we too would honor your call!”
“I do not mean to offend you or your people,” Valedar said, shaking his head. “I mean only to explain why we take this necromancer seriously. We fight only demons, beasts with fiery fangs, claws and eyes. We battle unnatural creatures with control over the undead and terrible magical destruction. Our fight is rarely with sword or lance or mace, unless they are imbued with unnatural properties. Our fight is with magic, and there is no other force we know of in all of Nirendia that we can call to. You have outlawed magic for millennia. What force would you send to help us? The paladins are no more.”
“Do not ask me to reform the paladins!” Aethis said. “It is forbidden!”
“Then please,” Veledar said, “if you do not wish to offend me just as I do not intend to offend you, do not offer us military aid when you know you have no useful aid to offer,”
The court gasped.
“You mentioned aid, and I am simply trying to convey what we, the remains of the Etyria Empire, need,” Valedar clarified, his glowing green eyes darting around the room at the agape mouths of the court. “Our fight with the underworld is ours, for now. What will help the dark elves stand for another thousand years is peace and stability in the world above. Protect our backs while we fight in the underworld. Do not allow this necromancer to take root. Find him. Stop him. Kill him. Do this, and we will hold our lines in the darkness for as long as we can. Do this, and the loss of our sanctuaries from Shamat to Daydira will not have been in vain.”
The King rose from his throne and walked to the north window. He gazed up at the ruined fortresses of the dark elven capital of Ul Tyrion. In the legends, its spires were white and hundred foot pennants snapped in the wind, displaying the pink and gray colors of the strong, ancient magical kingdom of Etyria. Now, the crumbling façade was black and almost blended into Ordang Mountain. According to their own histories, Ul Tyrion had been over twice the size and population of Kingarth and capable of magic defenses. Now, it was an uninhabitable ruin.
The dark elves claimed to have detonated the lower chambers of the city, sealing their adversaries in. They had similarly caved the great northern cities of Shamat and Xhonia. Tens of thousands of years of history, gone within a hundred years. A strange blue rock coursed throughout the cities now, barring any entry into its past and secrets. According to the elves, the demons took longer to move east along the northern borders, or perhaps, the dark elven defenses had been stronger there and less prone to surprise attack. But in the histories, Phiol fell five hundred years later. Chejit and Daydira fell some time later, without even a footnote in human history. In truth, the dark elves only appeared before him with bad news. Without constant contact, even close allies could be forgotten.
“Your cities have been gone for a thousand years,” Aethis said, “and not once have you tried to reclaim them.”
“You go too far,” Valedar said, lowering his head and clearly getting emotional. “Each city was fought to the last man, woman and child. A generation of my people were lost trying to reclaim Daydira alone. People who I knew. Great men and women. My master and trainer. Family. Friends. All gone…”
The King turned back to the window and the shadow of the dark elf civilization. He summoned a shadowy figure from the corner of the room. His chief spy and assassin Theodore Crowe walked over and kneeled before him.
“My Lord,” Theodore said.
“This quibble over magic with the elves ends now. I want you to go to the southern lands, near the village of Perketh. I want you to look for this necromancer discretely. Find out if he exists. The southern lords Mallory and Vossen are already bitter rivals and taken to petty hostilities too easily. I do not want there to be any misunderstandings about my involvement in their affairs, so you must not be detected.”
“I understand, My Lord,” Theodore said. He bowed and nodded.
“There,” the King said. “Mr. Crowe has been on hundreds of missions. Not once has he failed one of my orders.”
“We have heard of Mr. Crowe,” Valedar said. “Even amongst the dark elves, his elimination of the Visanth King is the stuff of legend. I’m sure he will find the necromancer, if he still exists, as you say. Thank you.”
Theodore nodded ever so slightly toward the elf before disappearing back into the shadows.
Valedar began to rise from his knees, but the King waved him off from the window.
“One last thing,” the King said.
“Yes, Great King?” Valedar asked.
“The next time your prince is in my kingdom, I expect him to come to me at once.”
Valedar gnawed at his lip and busied himself with re-spreading parts of his cloak. “It is not my place to command our prince.”
“Then frame it as a request,” Advisor Jurgen suggested.
“That I can do,” Valedar said, bowing. “It will be done.”
“Perhaps tempt him with meeting my daughters,” King Aethis said. “Three are of age and unwed. Hearing of your nation’s woes, I cannot help but feel a betrothal may be best for both of our ancient houses. Uxmal cannot stand for long with just Queen Jayla and Prince Jayden in the line of succession. You need royal heirs, and ours is a fine stock.”
He pointed to his sons and his beautiful wife. “A breeding stock.”
“You are too kind,” the elf said, bowing deeply. “Tell me, do any of your daughters perform magic?”
The King’s lungs emptied abruptly, as did those of his princes and wife and advisors and courtiers in the room. A murmur spread throughout the room in the corners and shadows, among the nobles. Of course, the elf knew that magic was forbidden.
Advisor Jurgen twirled his white beard and adjusted his pointed purple hat. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “The King’s daughters are not proficient in magic.”
“What of his sons?” the elf asked without a trace of sarcasm. “Perhaps my Queen may discuss taking another husband. She’s been widowed over a thousand years. Her period of mourning is long over. A magical son may bring us prosperity and hope. Our empire is in dire need of another capable wizard who might help us hold back the tide.”
Whispers echoed across the stonework in the throne room. A prince wielding magic would have been a scandal.
“No,” Aethis replied simply.
Valedar sighed.
“I will tell Queen Jayla and Prince Jayden,” Valedar said, “of your request for suitable marriage. I am sure that the next time our prince comes to the land of Surdel, he will make his presence felt at your court. I offer you my humblest apologies for his absence. I will assure Prince Jayden that no mob will be waiting for him when he returns to your lands. Perhaps, when next he visits, he might visit with your princes and princesses.”
“We will reaffirm to our lords,” Advisor Jurgen said, “that no dark elf will be harmed under penalty of death, unless in lawful provocation. Will that ease your mind and that of your Queen and Prince?”
Valedar bowed deeply toward Jurgen, the King, the Queen and each of his sons.
“We are most grateful for your hospitality,” the elf said.
“Feast with us tonight,” the King said. “Tomorrow, we will send word to the southern lords that a suspected necromancer is loose and that we expect them to aid in our search for this man. We will post rewards on posters in public gathering places. Theodore will conduct his own investigation.”
“Thank you, King,” Valedar said before bustling out of the chamber.
The court caller announced that all official business was concluded for the day, and King Aethis motioned for his advisor, spymaster, and his three sons to join him in the antechamber where court business was really done.
The King entered first, followed by his oldest son Magnus, already a twenty-three-year-old man, then teenage Ragnar, and the youngest boy Olaf. Advisor Jurgen hobbled into the room as he supported his seventy-year-old frame, and Theodore Crowe closed the door after Queen Shea and King Aethis kissed each other’s hands and waved goodbye.
>
“So,” the King said to his advisory panel. “What do you really think?”
His valiant son Magnus, already a well-regarded war hero from his exploits along the orcish border at the most recent battles of Dragonpaw and Hell’s Gate, spoke first. “He seemed honest.”
“Bah!” Jurgen said. “You’re just a boy!”
Magnus’s broad shoulders sported the same size adult male tiger head and coat as his father. He appeared non-plussed by Jurgen’s insult. Aethis grabbed his son by the shoulder and smiled, letting him know that he felt the same.
“The southern lords are growing restless,” Theodore said. “Our spies in Mallory Keep tell me that Mallory has been funding bandit parties all along the forests between Alefast and Perketh in the west. They are explicitly tasked with raiding Vossen’s tax payments.”
“That makes it the King’s business, doesn’t it?” Magnus asked. “Should I lead a party of knights down to clear them out?”
“Why is Mallory preventing my tax payments?” the King asked. “My son is right. I cannot let this stand.”
“I can assure you the tax payments are being made,” Advisor Jurgen said.
“Indeed,” Theodore said. “Vossen has begun sending two separate tax shipments to Kingarth: one along a westerly route through King’s Harbor and Deacon and the other through Alefast and Foxbro. The Foxbro dispatches are being intercepted one out of every two times, off the King’s Road. The payments through Deacon are taking weeks of additional travel time but are more reliable. I’m surprised he’s not just shipping them across the lake. As far as I know, there are no pirates there to be paid by Mallory. At least, not yet.”
“Vossen must have the patience of a saint,” Jurgen noted.
“He’s a better man than most,” Theodore said. “However, he’s at his limit. I have a man in the lower court at Vossen Hold. Vossen’s youngest son Elliot was captured in one of the latest raids near the King’s Road. The ransom was apparently quite high. Vossen knows Mallory is behind it. He’s almost ready to send troops.”