Desperate Times (Fate of Periand Book 1)

by Ben Marshall

  The sentinel’s accent was thick even by the standards of the other Dwarves, and the Elves were forced to interpret much of the information by the energetic hand gestures that accompanied it. Taleinith could barely suppress a smile as he nodded along, appearing as if he understood exactly what was being said but Lonariel knew he didn’t and had to hide his face as he let silent peals of laughter make his shoulders rock just out of sight of the helmeted Dwarf.

  The various whispered conversations that had erupted elsewhere within the chamber ceased along with the sentinel’s nostalgia as a booming voice roared out “Where are ye Loremaster Firewielder, that ye need ter disturb me attempt at sleep?!” Lonariel stepped towards the angry king, his head bowed so that his red hair fell either side of his slender face and across his emerald eyes. Brietrin, dressed in a simple tunic of worn leather much akin to the garb of the metalsmiths, strode further into the chamber, his brown eyes seeming to burn with an inner fire as he looked around at the assembled Elven warriors.

  “I am here King Doomhammer, and bear news that could not wait until you were rested. Daruil has been -“

  “I have already been told of his current condition, as well as that of the human who accompanied ye,” the Dwarven ruler interrupted, his waist-length dark-brown beard shaking as he continued to stride forward until he was almost touching the still bowing form of the Fire Elf. “What I want ter know is what news couldn’t wait until Guthingol stirred with life awoken rather than life exhausted?”

  “Do you remember the band of orcs that your warriors killed 17 days prior to now?”

  “Of course I do, what is yer point?”

  “My point is that the slain band was just one of many that are wandering through the Kuhiar hall my companions and I had left to explore. They are in thrall to some five scores of Fire Giants, led by a Chieftain who calls himself Zoren. This army intends to attack your hall as soon as the last surviving Kuhiar are slain.” At the mention of the enemy number both the sentinels and the Forest Elves starred aghast at one another, but Brietrin was quick to remove any trace of shock or fear from his earth-coloured face.

  “Who worries about them durned orcs? If they attack we shall triumph as we did before. No band could be as large as the last one,” Brietrin told him loudly, referring to the depicted scene overhead, “but those giants are another matter. We no longer have the numbers ter hold against such creatures, so what would ye have me do?”

  “King Farlan Dark-Forge of the Kuhiar clan has requested that you send what you can to help his own troops in their efforts, so that the potential threat to you and current threat to him is struck down before they can prepare for your warriors.”

  “I still do not have enough warriors for such a plan ter be either feasible or effective, and it would take months before sufficient numbers are ready for such conflict. If ye wish for such a result then ye must look ter yer apparent allies, and yer own nation for the troops, because such is not possible from…what do ye have about yer neck?” The Dwarf King suddenly asked, noticing for the first time the outline of the amulet against the robes of Lonariel.

  “It is an amulet, King Doomhammer, which I uncovered within the Kuhiar hall. It is unlike any I have heard of existing, so I have taken it so that I might learn more about it upon my return to my homeland.” The Loremaster withdrew the item with his hand, turning the body of the artefact so that Brietrin saw both the inscription in an unknown tongue, and the strange material from which it was forged. Reaching out a bare hand towards the jewellery, the Dwarf suddenly recoiled as it seemed to burn him at a touch, and a faint whisper reached his ears. Revenge must be had.

  “What ye hold is powerful indeed, but I cannot tell whether it is for good or ill. Whatever its purpose, I wish it gone from this hall immediately. Ye had better leave regardless, lest yer foul prophecy is fulfilled before ye can complete attempts at mustering warriors ter oppose the black tide.” The Elves were then dismissed as the king turned and strode back into the passage that led to his clan’s city, still massaging the hand that had touched the amulet and shaking his head as the whisper continued to echo through his mind. Revenge must be had.

  As the King of Guthingol disappeared from view, the sloping corridor turning into a slow spiral towards the city, the lead sentinel approached Lonariel and Taleinith.

  “Ye heard me king, so I’ll have to insist that ye leave,” he told them gruffly, though his look suggested that he was thankful that they had come to give the warning. “Here are yer weapons, now go.”

  Back outside the stars had become concealed by thick clouds, and the severe drop in temperature promised early winter storms. The wyverns were growing annoyed by this, and the Elves saw the snorts of fire as they slid their blades silently back within their leather-lined scabbards, the impatient pacing by the slim Dragon-kin helping to act as a guide so that the riders could make their way back to them while their eyes adjusted after having been surrounded by the torches within the main chamber of the Gateway.

  “What will you do now?” Taleinith asked Lonariel as the Loremaster turned to see his winged horse gliding towards him upon the night, a dark grey mark against the near-black night. He pondered his answer as he smoothed the damp flanks of his steed, preparing to mount.

  “I will do as Brietrin advised, and return promptly to my homeland with this amulet. Hopefully one of the Elders will have some knowledge of its identity so that I might understand why it frightens someone as fearless as King Doomhammer.”

  Allow me to be your mount, for the journey will be fraught with peril now that you are alone he heard within his head as the grey wyvern moved closer, its golden eyes searching imploringly into the Fire Elf’s to augment the telepathic request. With a grin that showed both gratitude and surprise at how strong the connection between him and the wild creature appeared to be, the two of them having been companions for just a few short hours, he stroked the smooth scales in acceptance of the offer and felt the strong tail lift him into the invisible seat once more.

  “Will you try and raise troops to aid the Dwarves Taleinith?” he asked as the slim beast beneath him flexed its wings to get a feel for the conditions.

  “It is not my place to guarantee such things, but yes I shall try. The problem comes from My Lady’s requirement that Nature shows her the path, and She is unpredictable at best. It may be that the Dwarves are fated to fall, or it may be that Fate is guiding us into the conflict that we might serve Nature’s Order. Who can be sure of anything where such Powers are involved?” Without a further word, for none were needed to express each other’s sentiments, the two parties split, and the Forest Elves headed into the east while Lonariel felt the strong muscles of the wyvern tense and lift him into the night sky to pass westward, over the lands of Men and into the secluded realm of the Fire Elves beyond the edges of human travel. The Loremaster slept fitfully during the remaining darkness, shivering with the coldness inherent with such altitudes and drawing his cloak ever tighter about his frame.

  The wyvern’s flight during the lingering hours of night was of maintainable laziness, yet still each current helped bear his light frame to such a height that he could glide for many miles with only the barest of wing beats. He hovered whenever he felt the warm currents beneath him, and he often looked back at the form of his rider with a small grin upon his face as he read the thoughts swirling within the Elf’s mind. Many of the wyverns had at some time or another felt enjoyment at prying into their riders’ thoughts, using the experience as a chance to better understand their companions and their motives for the actions they often performed. A skill developed as a means of surviving against their larger cousins, telepathy had allowed the creatures to survive for many thousands of years purely through being able to anticipate and understand the methods of both friends and foes. The information that was gained during such secret intrusions was never shared with the other draconic creatures, a fact that was of great comfort to Taleinith in particular. He had secretly loved Halarniel for
many centuries, the main motivation for his unswerving loyalty, and he was constantly in fear that his full emotion would be discovered and that she would find out. He had often thought she already knew, or at least suspected, from several comments she had made to him before Katchanga had stopped coming to the realm. After he began to avoid the land she had become more withdrawn, and in turn had started to avoid contact with those she had been close with. Now, as he watched the Fire Elf slumber during the lesser periods of freezing cold, the wyvern saw a shadow of the visions brought to light by his rider’s subconscious mind being unclouded by the waking mind’s turmoil. He saw images of Katchanga, from the stone carving upon the dome of Guthingol through the imagined scenes of glory upon the battlefields of the Age of Conflicts to a final, nightmarish scene that made the wyvern pause in its flight, enraptured.

  He saw Lonariel walking beside a small group of people within the wooded realm of the Forest Elves, though no moonlight was upon them. The keen night vision of the wyvern allowed it to identify Lady Halarniel, Taleinith, Halarniel’s brother, the current Head Warden of the Eastern Boundary and Katchanga. The Lady of the Forest seemed to be hand in hand with him, and the two were smiling as if holding some secret from the others, yet Katchanga seemed to be seeing within himself rather than anything that was occurring within the forest. He suddenly seemed to stiffen, and pulled his hand from Halarniel’s with a look of fear upon his face. She showed only confusion, and kept trying to hold him.

  “Save yourselves from what is happening!” the ancient Elf screamed at the top of his lungs, his Elven accent replaced by what could only be described as a tiger’s growl. Both the wyvern and the Fire Elf watched as the three warriors drew their weapons, and saw them get thrown violently backwards beyond the trees that surrounded the small clearing they had been standing in by an unseen force that appeared to be focussed from Katchanga. Halarniel now had terror written upon her pale brow as she clung to his garments, and the two onlookers saw a clawed hand protrude from the end of the cowl, saw it strike against her cheek with such power that she was thrown to the ground. Katchanga moved to stand over her, his claws raised again, before going rigid once more and beginning to fade into insubstantial mist. In that final moment the figure of the fading being looked upwards, his angle making him face straight at the watching Loremaster, and what Lonariel could see through the darkness within the hood of the cowl made him jerk awake, sweat covering his face.

  Panting heavily, both Lonariel and the wyvern shared a look at each other with neither speaking for several long minutes. Finally it was the draconic creature that broke the silence, his reptilian hiss sounding unearthly after the vision the Fire Elf had imagined.

  I saw your visions, so don’t try and tell me what happened. I also know what truly happened that night and why, so I can tell you that it has occurred ten times previously during Katchanga’s time since the Age of Conflicts, as your race call the time when battles raged across the continents. He changes due to memories, and each transformation adds to the likelihood that it will happen again. That is why he has started to avoid the realm, because the sight of Halarniel brings back the memory of his actions to haunt him.

  “I was once struck by him, but I never saw his eyes as I did then. I have never seen such fury and, well, malice in one look before. How can he hide it for as long as he does?”

  Because it isn’t truly him, but the remnant of the demon he became. That is why he has been forgiven by those involved with the event, but cannot forgive himself.

  “Why can’t he forgive himself?”

  I have not read his thoughts since he ceased his coming to the forest, so I cannot answer your question with any accuracy. My guess, based on what I have learnt about him from others, is that he feels guilty for losing control at all. I think he would see it as failure. Lonariel could sympathise with this, knowing himself how terrible he always felt when he failed to do something. He considered trying to sleep for a while but he could see that dawn was almost upon them by the faint grey of the horizon behind his shoulder, and the sight of the burning gold eyes of a transformed Katchanga was still at the front of his mind, so he instead simply nestled as best he could into the seat and watched the night recede from the growing light in the East.

  Eventually the sun had risen sufficiently that its warmth and cleansing glow brought the land below the drifting wyvern into a relatively clear view. Mountains, dwarfing the rolling foothills that accompanied them beside the myriad of labyrinthine trails that wound their way through the naturally-formed giants of rock and stone, stretched throughout the view to all but the very rim of the horizon. The Elf had been awake when the Khazinan Mountains, the homeland of the Dwarves and the realm that surrounded the small grouping of forests that housed the Elves who obeyed Halarniel, had fallen away to the flat wilderness of Barid, so it appeared as if the barbarian lands and the Northern reaches of the Charad Empire had been traversed during the casual and unhurried flight. That led the Loremaster to the conclusion that he was now looking upon one of the borders to the secretive Land of the Chieftains, and therefore Farim Dumary’s homeland of Lebruskt. The Western border the wyvern confirmed with a thought as he continued to drift unerringly westward. The creature appeared to be ill at ease within this region, an understandable emotion considering the rumoured numbers of dragon colonies who claimed the ring of mountain ranges as their hunting grounds. Wyverns have survived as long as they had through just two advantages when their own territory was under threat: telepathic messaging to both warn the rest of the colony and coordinate counter attacks, and a greater ability to manoeuvre close to the peaks until their new-found friendship with the Elves of Halarniel allowed the archers to reinforce them whenever the more malicious sects of dragon wished to gain control of the mountains beyond their own boundaries.

  Look to the North-West he suddenly heard within his mind, and turning his emerald eyes to the appointed compass point he saw a major reason for distress within the heart of the wyvern. Many dragons, each one a large blur despite still being many miles from them, appeared to be flying swiftly upon a course that would intercept their own. Hovering while he watched his feared cousins pass across the mountains, the wyvern was both relieved and awed by the fact that none of the behemoths altered their path to head towards him.

  “They are ignoring us, and have other intentions,” noted Lonariel, not missing the significance of what he was witnessing though he knew not the full implications.

  Our path lies beyond them he heard the wyvern tell him. With a nod the Loremaster showed he agreed they should continue without further delay, though both beings knew what danger they risked if they drew too close, or if the dragons changed their course when the travellers were within range of their potent fiery breath. Find out their reason for the movements, because the group is far too large to be simply hunting through their own territory he thought to the wyvern.

  With a small inclination of his head the draconic beast acknowledged the request, and with steady wing beats he closed the gap until he was barely beyond the reach of the dragons’ breath. The closer he was borne towards the terrifying creatures the Loremaster saw steadily clearer the full identify of the draconic species, and he was filled with sheer dread. For their scales were a vibrant blood-red colour and each beast was larger than even the most immense rumoured size of the Golden dragons, who were feared by all the races for their power, with eyes of such blackness that they appeared to be just sockets within the skulls. Each wing beat displayed incredible strength, and the Elf could tell that it would take many warriors to face these Red dragons in combat.

  Drawing close enough to read the thoughts of the nearest dragon, the wyvern opened a telepathic link so that his rider heard the thoughts that were swirling through the unblinking beast’s mind.

  Must Telaniec always send us on such pointless missions, when the colony of Golds who follow the redundant sage and the foolish Dehujin could so easily be crushed with a regular war so much swifter th
an these skirmishes? Where I the Lord such would be the case, because I know we would win without such a constant drain upon our kin. We outnumber them and yet it is as if he fears outright combat by the ways of our forefathers since the first of our race. Then again all demons are cowardly; so unlike we true dragons. Does he fear the rumoured alliance with the renegade Katchanga? Such alliances are dead, for now He hunts alone and does not involve Himself with draconic feuds now He embraces the obsolete ideals of Nature. For all His age he cannot see that times are not as they were, and only the Lesser Races are against the Order. We dragons live by the order as we interpret it, and so He shall not interfere with Telaniec’s plan, whatever it is actually supposed to achieve.

  The wyvern broke the contact at that point, because it seemed as if other dragons had worked out why the smaller creature had been lurking for so long. The two dragons that formed the rear of the scaly cloud of red broke off and flew towards them, and an intense orange glow was already visible at the back of their cavernous throats. The grey wyvern knew the time had come to swiftly depart, though he could never even hope to outpace the more powerful flight of the red monstrosities who were advancing. It was fortuitous that a third beast, more powerful than the other two and seemingly feared by its brethren, intercepted them rapidly.