The Alterra Histories: The Fire King

by C S Marks

  The third was filled to bursting with a pale, rotting giant. Its eyes, clouded over like dead moons, held no expression whatever. Its massive muscles flexed beneath decayed, stinking skin of mottled grey.

  The fourth portal showed a robed, hooded figure shrouded in black. Only its skeletal hands were visible, sending forth tendrils of mist. The Elves could hear shrieks and moans of agony around it, as though from a thousand unhappy victims.

  Finally, the fifth portal was only darkness, but that darkness held both intelligence and awareness that could not be hidden. Whatever that black, featureless thing was, it was most definitely alive. Alive and hungry. Aldamar and Asgar dreaded the thought of approaching it.

  Aincor spun on his heels, regarding each fearsome vision in turn,then threw his head back and laughed aloud. “This is what you send to face the mightiest of all warriors? Some dragon-thing, an impotent Bödvar, and the Mother of all Ulcas? THIS is what you send to face me? Where are you hiding, Black Flame? I will waste no more time with underlings. Come forth! Come forth and face me!”

  He looked around at the walls of the chamber, which now appeared to be rippling as though with searing heat; any object reflected in them was grotesquely distorted. He wondered whether any of the creatures looming within the portals were real. The dragon-creature certainly seemed lively enough as it expanded painfully lean ribs, drawing a deep breath and erecting a bright scarlet frill on its neck. It let out the pent up breath in a long, menacing hiss. A fetid, reptilian musk rose above the pervasive reek of rotting flesh and brimstone.

  “Here I am, Mighty Fire-heart!” cried a voice reminiscent of a nail scraping across a metal plate. A brief vision of Lord Wrothgar appeared amidst the central flame. “Come and get me, if you dare,” it taunted. As Aincor turned to face it, the dragon-creature charged.

  Aincor’s blade passed harmlessly though the illusion of Lord Wrothgar, but the dragon-creature’s blade was real enough as it swept toward the King’s neck. Aincor leaped sideways, startled by the sound of clashing blades behind him, turning to behold his son Asgar deflecting the very blow meant to take his head. The dragon beast howled in its grating voice, sending shivers through all who heard it, as Aldamar buried his own blade in its rather ample belly, spilling blood and entrails, filling the chamber with a nauseating stench. The beast kept fighting long enough for Asgar to sweep its gruesome, spear-toothed head from its scaly neck. As the body fell, the long fingers on the tips of its wings writhed with freakish fervor. The jaws clenched and snapped for several seconds before they finally stilled.

  “Well played!” said the illusion of Wrothgar, which had reappeared within the flames. “But you are at a disadvantage, for you do not actually know where your enemy is at this moment. I might be anywhere, you know. And you will never see my blade until you feel it. I have brought

  you here to face your own death, Fire-heart. I had meant for you to face it alone, but I see you brought two little children along to defend you. How very touching.”

  Aincor ground his teeth in silent rage. He knew that Wrothgar’s taunt was not entirely baseless—if not for his son, he would have fallen already. “It is easy to fight under the guise of illusion,” he growled. “Stand before me as yourself, if you have the backbone.”

  ~~

  The Shadow continued in its terrible work, casting its illusions, turning brother against brother and friend against friend. It transformed enemies into apparent allies, who would smile before taking the lives of any Elves within reach. It was an insurmountable foe. Vathan had seen it unmasked, but his warning cries could not pierce the confusion on the battlefield. He ran toward the green wagon-driver, praying that his fears were unfounded, knowing they were not.

  To Vathan’s surprise, with neither reason nor fanfare, the veil of illusion fell away as the Shadow lifted, retreating back toward Wrothgar’s chambers. The horrible stone halls seemed brighter until the Elves looked down at their feet, seeing what they had done with their own hands. One Elf of the Wolf clan, who had just slain his eldest son, gave a soul-wrenching wail of grief. It broke the transfixed silence of the others, and the cries that went up from the remaining Èolar—grief, outrage, and terrible guilt—welled forth all around Vathan. He looked around in panic, seeing neither Aldamar nor Asgar. The green-hooded wagon-driver was gone. As he stood distracted, a troll-blade took him from behind.

  ~~

  Aincor stood before Wrothgar’s fire-pit, his blades ready, saving his strength for what he hoped would be the final confrontation. “Come out and face me, you misbegotten coward!”

  Every torch in the chamber winked out as the fire in the pit turned black, the flames barely edged with flickers of blue and gold. Aincor stood in the dark, still summoning Wrothgar with words no one else could hear. At last the air in the chamber began to move, swirling around Aincor’s feet. With it came a shroud of darkness, like a cloak of black wool drawn over the eyes. The wind rose higher as the blackness swirled all around Aincor, yet he stood as if unfazed, his fiery gaze still on the pit of weird, flickering black velvet flames. If Wrothgar came, it would be from there...wouldn’t it?

  A terrible roar spun him around on one heel as Lord Wrothgar charged forward from the stinking black wind, arms raised to attack him. Aincor raised his own blade just in time, striking at his terrible enemy, deflecting a deadly blow. The Shadowmancer was nothing like his former appearance on the Anvil—this was much more as Aincor had expected—huge, black-armored, and ferocious. Still, it was vulnerable; Aincor could see it in the eyes, which were…odd, somehow. Something made him draw back for only a moment, then he recovered his wits, striking with all his might. The shattered cries of Asgar, his son, pierced through the wailing wind.

  “NO, Father! NO!”

  Aincor could not heed them—the stroke had been sent, and Lord Wrothgar fell beneath it.

  No one moved. The wind ceased and the darkness lifted, drawing back in upon itself, folding and re-folding into the approximate shape of a man, a shape that only Aincor could see. The Shadow threw back its head and laughed as Aincor stood bewildered, not knowing what he had done. Then he saw Faelani.

  She lay at his feet, not quite gone, her eyes trying to focus on him, a terrible question in them: Why?

  A deep, malicious chuckle that only Aincor could hear came forth from the black flames as the vision of Wrothgar appeared within them.

  “When your foolish life-mate appeared on the battlefield, I could hardly believe my good fortune. See what you have done with your own hands?” Wrothgar laughed again, savoring his victory, only to be interrupted by the Shadow.

  “This is my kill, Black Flame! Only I can take credit for it…oh, but wait! No, I am wrong. The King has done the killing, hasn’t he?”

  The dark face of Lord Wrothgar twisted into a prideful grimace. “Indeed he has! I’ll take that mighty apology now, Murderer-King!”

  Aincor dropped to his knees, cradling Faelani’s head, his body and senses numb. She tried to focus her gaze on him, but could not. “But...you promised to stay in the encampment! Oh…my little one…why, just once, could you not do as I asked?” Asgar had fallen to his knees beside Aldamar, who was too shocked to move.

  “Our son tried to warn me, but I…I couldn’t hear,” said Aincor in a heartbroken voice. “Stay here, beloved—stay with me. Don’t let me be alone. I...I’m afraid of being alone. Please? Please?” But the life had gone out of Faelani’s eyes, and she was still.

  Aincor threw his head back and uttered a great cry—a cry that was either heard or felt by every being in Alterra, from the ice-covered northlands to the great southern wastes. His great spirit—the conflict that had raged within him all his life, the denial of need for love and warmth and companionship, and his one great fear, the fear of loneliness— poured out its pain in that terrible cry.

  Even as he screamed, Aincor was aware of the Shadow feeding on his guilt, savoring his defeat. Then, as Faelani’s spirit left her body, Aincor felt the Shadow’s hung
er turn to feed upon it. It engulfed Faelani as Aincor held her tight to his breast, his grief so fierce it threatened to crush her. He heard her spirit wail as the Shadow pounced upon it like a night-hunting beast, Wrothgar’s horrid laughter drifting in the background.

  In one desperate, reckless moment, Aincor knew what he had to do. He could not engage the Shadow on any earthly plane, for he had realized that it lurked in the realm between life and death. Therefore he could not prevail, could not save Faelani, while he was alive. He had sent her to a doom worse than death…unless he could prevent it. There was only one way to do that.

  Without hesitation he raised his blade and slashed his own throat, sending forth a flood of bright blood, drenching both Faelani and himself. Then, with some effort, he turned his blood-spattered face toward his horrified son. Though he could no longer speak, the message in his eyes was clear. I have failed. You are King now. Then he died, slumping over the body of his beloved. Even Lord Wrothgar was silent—his laughter died with Aincor. This was most unexpected.

  Aincor’s shade could see his son, Asgar, kneeling beside his friend Aldamar, both obviously overcome with what they had witnessed. It was apparent that they could neither see nor hear the Shadow and had not shared Aincor’s illusion—all Asgar had seen was his father murdering his mother. Asgar would not understand why Aincor had cut his own throat—he would wonder if it was an attempt to escape his guilt. He would wonder if his father was a coward. Why had he done such a thing? Why had he left his people in a time of greatest need? Aincor knew Asgar would never understand, but he could not concern himself with such matters. This wasn’t about him anymore.

  The Spirit of the Fire-heart rose up as it left its body, launching itself at the Shadow. No one but the Shadow could hear the cry it made, nor could they see the vile creature quail back as that mighty spirit went straight for its throat. No shade had ever dared attack him before! Aincor met the Shadow with all the power he was capable of, and the Shadow had no choice but to release the captive spirits it had fed upon—it could not afford the energy needed to restrain them. As they fled, Faelani fled with them, crying out for Aincor.

  Come with me, Beloved! You must come with me or be doomed to darkness! I love you—I will always love you. Come with me now!

  But Aincor knew that, if he relented, the Shadow would continue to consume his people as Wrothgar’s greatest ally. His only chance to defeat Wrothgar was to ensure the Shadow’s demise.

  I cannot. I must keep this evil at bay long enough for you to make your escape. Go, now!

  The Shadow grappled with Aincor, even as it taunted him. Yes, Fire-heart! Let us dance in deadly embrace, for I am the stronger! Thou hast freed the souls I have fed upon, but I am still hungry. I shall enjoy feasting upon thee, Mate-killer!

  Aincor snarled. I think not. I sense the fear behind your threats. You are not even a whole being, but a shadow of Lord Wrothgar. Let’s see what he makes of my next intention! Aincor looked across the Shadow-plane—the half-light between life and death—at the black void beyond. This was the nothingness of Eternity, a place from whence there was no escape, and Aincor knew it. Not even Wrothgar’s power could overcome this barrier. Here the Fire-heart would taste of victory at last. He heard Faelani wailing, and knew that she had guessed the dreadful, final sacrifice he intended to make.

  As Aincor forced the Shadow ever-closer to the edge of the black chasm, a mind-numbing dread nearly overcame Lord Wrothgar. If the Shadow was lost in the void, Wrothgar would never recover it. Would he ever be able to summon such a fearsome ally again? Would he even survive its demise? Wrothgar did not know, and he was terrified.

  He called to the Shadow: Let go! Give up the fight and return to Me! He cannot follow, for he is dead. Come back to Me!

  The Shadow struggled, trying to escape Aincor’s grasp, but in this realm it was spirit against spirit, and Aincor was strong. The Shadow could not evade him. Aincor pressed his advantage, drawing even closer to the edge. Almost there …

  Wrothgar panicked. Do you realize what you are doing, Fire- heart? You will be trapped with a part of Me for all eternity, and you will never see the Light again! Is that what you want? You will never see the Eternal Shores, you will never hear the voice of your Beloved. She calls to you now, begging you not to leave her forever. You would sacrifice so much to defeat me? You are a fool!”

  I know…whispered Aincor. I have always been a fool. But I cannot let you escape this justice. You must pay for what you did to my people…and to her.

  I did nothing to her, said Wrothgar, the last words Aincor would hear before he cast himself, still holding tight to his enemy, into the black depths. From that moment, his ultimate fate is unknown. One thing, however, is certain—he would never be alone. He would always have the Shadow for company.

  Epilogue—the Aftermath

  Aincor’s sacrifice was not in vain. Wrothgar, certainly, felt it most dearly. His most powerful manifestation, the part of himself he both feared and valued most, was now lost. Wrothgar’s strength was tied in large part to the Shadow. Without it, he had no choice but to retreat.

  In Tal-elathas, Léiras felt the loss of Aincor, falling senseless to the floor of the Council-chamber, overcome by a nameless dread and sorrow from which he would not awaken for days. Dardis, Aincor’s younger son, wailed and covered his pale face, weeping inconsolably. He had felt Faelani’s death, as well.

  In fact, every Elf in Alterra felt Aincor’s Light go out, though few realized it. To most it was like a brief pang of loss. Tears came unbidden to the more sensitive souls, and a few nearly swooned as a veil of sadness briefly clouded their sight. The Bödvari felt it; their strength grew as they reveled in the loss of the one enemy they had not yet overcome.

  No one on the battlefield really understood what had happened. Asgar and Aldamar had witnessed the King’s actions, but could make no sense of them. Had he gone mad? Only Vathan, who had personally felt the Shadow’s influence and had some sense of it, would have been able to shed some light, but he did not survive the battle.

  When the bedraggled survivors reached their encampment, they found their horses had been slain and their supplies plundered. All who had remained in camp were gone. The Elves had to return to Tal-elathas on foot and with few supplies, the northern winter tearing at them as they retreated before it. Very few made it back to stand before the Council.

  Meanwhile, the First Uprising raged on despite Wrothgar’s weakened condition. It would continue for nearly twenty years before the last of Wrothgar’s forces were vanquished. Vathan was proclaimed a hero; it was only because of his willingness to defy Aincor that the realms of Light had any warning of the impending war.

  Asgar, who had not understood his father’s actions in the end, deemed himself unworthy of carrying the scepter, declaring that Aldamar should be made High King. Reluctantly, Aldamar took over the leadership of the Èolar. He ruled Tal-elathas for many an Age until his death in battle during the Second Uprising.

  Aincor’s name and reputation sank deep into the shadows forever, sent there by his own pride and stubborn willfulness. His reckless disregard for others became his legacy—the true nature and extent of his sacrifice was neither known nor appreciated. To be compared with him became an insult of the highest order.

  Asgar, who lived in shame, kept mostly to himself. Though he was still counted among the fiercest defenders of Tal-elathas, he could not face down a Bödvar as had his father. It is said that the last word on his lips at the moment of his death was his mother’s name.

  Glossary

  Aincor (INE-cor): Elf of the Èolar, a great scholar and warrior, known as the Fire-heart. He was among the most skilled and passionate of his people, but he was prideful, and his reckless acts bore terrible consequences. It is unflattering to be compared with him in terms of willfulness. He produced two sons, Asgar and Dardis. Name means “fire-heart”. (ain-fire, cor-heart)

  Aldamar (AHL-da-mar): Èolarin Elf, son of Vathan. Aldamar was clos
e in friendship with Aincor’s elder son, Asgar. His name means “majestic and noble”.

  Alterra (Al-TAIR-ra): The World That Is; the Realm in which these tales take place. From terra (earth) and alta (being).

  Asari, sing. Asarla (Ah-sah-REE): Immortal beings endowed with great knowledge, sent to enlighten the Children of Aontar. Also known as “magic users”, each held affinity for a different element—earth, air, fire, or water. They were generally of the Light, but could be turned. Name means “teacher”.

  Asgar (ASZ-gar): Elf of the Èolar and elder son of Aincor. Asgar was like Aincor in temperament. Fearless before his enemies, strong and tall, he loved the thrill of battle. He mastered nearly every form of weaponry, especially the heavy two-handed sword his father favored. He was close in friendship with Aldamar, son of Vathan. His name means “the bold”.

  Baelta (Bah-EL-tah): Asarla of Tal-elathas, friend of Kotos, he is known as “The Bright”. He is an air spirit. Baelta is cheerful, eminently likeable, and trustworthy. His name means “bright light”.

  Bödvari, sing Bödvar (BODE-var): Dark servants of Wrothgar, they are the offspring of Dark Asari. They are as black demons that kill their enemies with fire after first paralyzing them with fear. They are terrible enemies in battle. From bödvar (demon).

  Caladon (CAL-ah-don): Name given to Aincor by Duinar, the Asarla. Name means “One who is deep”.

  Cós-domhain (Coss-Dome-Ha-EEN): Dwarf-realm known as the Realm of Caverns or Great Cavern Realm. From cós (cavern) and domhain (domain).

  Dardis (DAR-dees): The second son of Aincor, a highly talented and inventive artisan and lover of learning. Unlike his father, Dardis was of gentle temperament and was revered especially by the Dwarves. He was apprenticed to an Asarla named Léiras (the far-sighted), who taught him of the making of things that could be endowed with magical properties. Dardis made the mirror given to Gorgon Elfhunter; he also created the Stone of Léir.