Desperate Times (Fate of Periand Book 1)

by Ben Marshall

  The Palace of the Fulfilled was a towering structure at least three times the size of the other villas within the city, its roof deep terracotta and its walls tinted the purest white in the newly-risen sun. Pillars carved into the images of powerful oaks ran around every wall a few metres away from the actual building, a roof jutting from above the ground floor to extend a little way beyond the pillars with a raised walkway filling the gap between pillar and wall. Steps led from the polished stone paving towards the raised walkway of gleaming marble, while a second set then led into the palace through the single immense door, plated with gold and stamped with a picture depicting a rearing unicorn that fully displayed the legendary creature’s perfection. Landing a couple of metres from the Palace, the Head Ambassador looked as far skywards as he was able yet still could not see the topmost floor, save for the edge of the slated roof where it extended beyond the walls to cast its shadow upon the surroundings, like a nobleman above a cowering peasant. Striding towards the door, climbing the stairs with as proud a bearing as he could muster within the shade of a building so fine, the Ambassador looked around him with shock upon his face when the door opened soundlessly before he reached the second stairway. Three guards, armed with spears of iron with golden shafts and dressed in golden chain mail, stood before him with shields held before them as they watched his approach with unblinking stares.

  “State your business upon the soil of Halingol,” the central figure demanded with quiet authority in a voice both musical yet strangely emotionless.

  “Lord Katchanga and my Council have requested that I come and speak with the leader of the Collasin line, who are the exalted rulers of this paradise. The matter is of utmost importance to all the races, and your royal line must be told of it without delay.”

  “Enter, Cousin Elf, but the Celebrated High King of our nation may not see you this day,” the central guard told the Fire Elf as he nodded to an unseen servant within the Palace. The three guards parted to allow the Ambassador entry into the Greeting Hall, which was a glorious rendition of the Berinain chamber that put the human version to shame. The staircases were each wide enough to allow more than four people to stand in a line as they climbed, the steps sculpted of marble beneath a carpet of silver and banisters of sparkling gold. Five glittering chandeliers of crystal and diamonds hung from the ceiling of the floor above them, though another staircase that was partially concealed within the corner signalled that there was at least another level above that. A servant, resplendent in long robes of scarlet that flowed behind him, could just be seen passing from view up this stairway, clearly heading for the chambers of High King Rithmarlin of Halingol with news of the Ambassador’s unexpected presence within the realm.

  It took just fifteen minutes before Rithmarlin Collasin entered the Greeting Hall, magnificent in his golden robes with a ruby-encrusted crown upon his head, wavy brown hair extending halfway down his back and seemingly infinite wisdom held within his aquamarine-coloured eyes. His left hand was held slightly aloft, the slender hand of his wife, Uphorelane, resting regally upon it. She was beautiful beyond compare to the eyes of the Ambassador, thick and vibrant auburn hair extending to her waist and deep, caring eyes of jade gazing placidly over at the stranger to their shores. Her gown of gold was complimented by the soft edges of silver, while a jewelled circlet sat serenely upon her head.

  “What is so important that you would come to our shores with such an apparently pressing schedule upon your shoulders?” she asked in a gentle voice that sounded as if she were part of a dream rather than reality.

  “What can be so important that it can affect all the races, and cause such concern for one so…professional in their lifestyle as Katchanga?” her husband countered, his voice filled with great imperiousness, his eyes flashing as he spoke the name of the Eastern Elf.

  “The most powerful weapon used by Moragil while he served the Dread Carrassiel has been uncovered, and it is rumoured that the Dark Lord’s former General seeks to reclaim it, to follow in his master’s footsteps.”

  “The Amulet of Planar Shifting has been found?” Rithmarlin whispered with shock, leaning towards the Ambassador as if he might have been mistaken in what he had heard.

  “Indeed it has, Your Majesty, and Lord Katchanga has deemed that it must be destroyed lest its creator manages to reclaim it.”

  “I know all the facts of Lore concerning the Amulet, and know that it can only be destroyed within one place. To reach that place one must walk fully into the den of the Faceless, must enter the dark stronghold of the Enemy where it lays at the very heart of his current empire. It is impossible to accomplish; a fool’s errand.”

  “Yet Lord Katchanga is determined to attempt it, and seeks others to join him and improve the chances of success. All the details of what is involved are not known to me, but the task shall be explained in full at a meeting between my Council and the faction representatives who agree to attend. I am here to request one of your people accompany me back to my homeland in readiness for when the meeting is held.”

  “Never would I ask one of my people to attempt such folly, nor would I advise Katchanga to attempt this madness. Who would be willing to face certain death upon such a foolhardy pursuit?”

  “I would father,” a proud and authoritative voice announced from a shadowy corner behind the King and Queen of Halingol. The speaker emerged into the light that was cast from the chandeliers, revealing his long robes of white over golden chain mail, a longbow and quiver filled with arrows fletched with eagle feathers across his shoulders. He had waist-length wavy hair of the same brown as his father and his father’s muscular frame and tanned flesh, but his eyes were the same mysterious green as his mother’s, and despite his many years his gaze still portrayed an almost adolescent innocence.

  “Dorallian you cannot be serious, or else you are ignorant of the implications of your idea,” Rithmarlin told his son harshly, but the stern gaze was equalled by the Prince as he countered his father’s argument.

  “Always have you taught me of the Ancient Laws created when we Elves were all part of the same faction, with the most important being that we should always aid another Elf if help should be requested. How can you now turn the Laws aside and say that I must refuse to go where my heart says I should? Where the Laws say I should?”

  “It is an entirely different matter. The Ancient Laws do not request that you follow a fool upon his path through life, and the Elves who created them would not wish your blood to be spilled for such reckless and ill-informed pursuits.”

  “I was taught all about Katchanga, and never once was I taught that he acted without all the facts that could be gained. If he took upon ill-informed pursuits he would never have achieved the results upon the battlefield as he did, nor would he be as powerful and respected as he is by the Loremasters of many lands. Was all my teaching purely falsehood? Where you wrong all those times?”

  “Our son is a mighty warrior, and he has your wisdom within his head, so he would not allow himself to die unless it is his unavoidable destiny. We cannot stop him, so why not support him and give what help we can to ensure his safety?” Uphorelane told her husband in her gentle voice, laying her hands upon his and gripping them tightly as she gazed into his eyes. The High King wavered in his refusal then, seeing the brimming tears and knowing she wished her son to stay as well. Closing his own eyes and bowing his head, Rithmarlin nodded his acceptance that Dorallian had made his choice.

  “It is as my wife says. You have received all the training and teaching that you could need, save knowledge of what you face. I can give you no more than common sense would make you take anyway, except this,” the King told his son, removing a cyan cloak from his own shoulders and clasping it around the Prince’s. The cloak bore upon it a circle of red that surrounded a woven image of a phoenix rising from the edges of an unseen fire, the barest edges of the orange flames visible within the symbol. “If you are going to fight and possibly die upon this venture, now those you face
shall know the wonderful nation you were born to lead. May your destiny be that you return to us that we shall once more have a son beside us.”

  Dorallian could not suppress the welling tears as he embraced his parents before heading out of the door ahead of the Ambassador.

  “Katchanga shall watch over him until his own fate demands that he cannot,” the Fire Elf told the King and Queen before following the Prince from the great Palace. Dorallian was nowhere to be seen when the Ambassador entered the sunlight, but landed beside him a short while later seated upon a palomino winged horse, the creamy mane and tail drifting against the golden coat as he waited for the Ambassador to mount his roan mount. Soon they were both flying away from the beautiful island, lush meadows giving way to a boundless ocean that barely rippled in the soft breeze that sped them on their way towards Pathosien; the city of the Fire Elves. The Ambassador couldn’t hide a smile as he savoured this success, feeling that it had more than cancelled out his problems with the Camentari that he had found the Ancient Laws to be so respected by his fellow Elves. Looking over at the calm figure of the heir to the throne of Halingol, who seemed to be oblivious to all but the thrill of feeling the wings of his mount beating beneath him, and the wind blowing his hair behind him like a banner, the Fire Elf wondered whether or not the other emissaries were knowing success as sweet as his.

  ***

  September 30th, 1190

  It felt strange to Lonariel that he was returning to the realm of the Forest Elves; though it was the fact he had been there before that had made the Council order him to be the emissary. He both remembered the terrain that flowed below him like a river and yet didn’t, having missed seeing the blanket of green from the forest.

  “Where are we heading?” he asked the wyvern he rode upon, as he had been expecting to land close to the forest border rather than continue the flight until the gently sloping treetops stretched to all horizons with only the mountains to the West and South showing that there was a world beyond it.

  You told me that your task was to find the lady who leads the Elves, and she dwells mainly within the city they call Faluvii which is found at the forest’s heart. The lone mountain yonder shows its location, for that is where my colony has built its home since our friendship with the Elves of this land fully developed nearly a century ago. The wyvern arched his neck a little to the South East of their position, and the Loremaster saw a jagged peak burst from the green like a broken spear point, surrounded by swirling clouds of mist that drifted in lazy circles around its exposed face. The flight was short from that point onward, the wyvern eager to see his home once more after several weeks of absence. He had enjoyed his time among the Fire Elves, despite the many stares he had received, but his home was within the forest where he had grown up rather than across the ocean that lay beyond the mountains. Lonariel didn’t mind, for he had expected such feelings after having experienced them whenever he had travelled, and in truth was just as anxious to see the colony of wyverns, and the city where his forest cousins found their homes. The flight took little more than half an hour, the trees passing as a dizzy blur of greens and browns before the wyvern began a spiralling descent that carried him in gradually tightening circuits around the mountain. Upon the many ledges and outcrops the Loremaster saw a myriad of wyverns of various sizes, all of whom looked suspiciously over at him as he glided past upon the scaled back of his mount.

  Inform your kin that I mean no harm, and please try to project the news of my arrival to the Elves of this land. I don’t want to be considered an intruder for a second time. The wyvern blew a small plume of smoke from his nostrils as he grunted in acknowledgement, and the air around the pair seemed suddenly full of an invisible essence as his kin began a mass exchange of telepathic opinions. As they reached the lower levels the Loremaster saw several Elves, all clad in cloaks similar in appearance to the one that Taleinith had worn, moving among the Dragon-kin, appearing to be tending to their needs in much the way a stable-hand worked alongside the various horses that were held within the many stables of the world. The one difference was the level of reverence each Elf appeared to pay the creatures they were amongst, each bowing to their charge before interacting with them.

  The base of the mountain was overshadowed by an overhang that ran around it like a sheltering roof, the Western face taken up almost entirely by an entrance into the dark passages that clearly wove through the belly of the natural fortress. Many of the ledges had been close to smaller entrances, leading Lonariel to the conclusion that a vast network of tunnels must be within the mountain of stone. The tunnels were created by thermal springs long before your race awoke into this world, and remain even though the springs long since ended their flowing through much of the mountain. A river still runs beneath the surface of the forest, feeding all that you see with its rich goodness before breaking to the surface a few miles within the Eastern and Northern borders the wyvern told him with a wistful note in his voice, as if he held a passionate desire to have lived through those years.

  Five cloaked Elves emerged from the perpetual night created within the tunnels, arms held stiffly at their sides as if they were unsure of Lonariel’s intentions, silver chain mail worn beneath their cloaks and silver breastplates while their swords waited patiently within the leather scabbards beside them.

  “We have been told you come seeking Lady Halarniel, that you have a grave request to make of her, and we shall take you to her only if you hand over your weapons freely,” the central warrior told the Fire Elf slowly, slightly stressing the word “freely” as he tapped his gauntleted hand against the hilt of his weapon. The Loremaster didn’t argue, simply eager to see Halarniel and speak with her again, and his slender blade was given to the speaker within its black scabbard, the afternoon sun glinting slightly off the polished gold that edged the leather. The Forest Elf sighed to himself as he strode past the Fire Elf towards the edge of the forest a few metres away from them The other armoured guards took up positions at the back and flanks of Lonariel, motioning for him to follow their fellow warrior into the shade of the trees.

  “The city is only a few minutes from here, and we shall see if Her Ladyship will see you,” one of the rear guards told him with indifference as the procession faded from the wyvern’s view, their mail armour barely rustling as their bodies shifted with their marching pace. The entrance to the city itself was almost missed by the Fire Elf, being an arch that appeared to have been naturally created by the branches of two ancient trees entwining and pushing each other skywards with the passing of many years, and the dwellings were little more obvious. Faluvii had been built from the oldest trees at the very centre of the wide forest, the buildings actually the hollow centres of the wooden behemoths, though each mighty growth appeared to be prospering and continuing to live despite its core missing.

  “The trees have strong roots, and their blood flows within the walls rather than the centre. These trees live by dying and then growing from the top of the dead stump, feeding from its former heart, creating our homes without us having to wield any tools against them,” the lead Guard told the Fire Elf as they walked along what would have been a street, had the settlement been of the same fashion as other nations’ cities, and what was instead merely a trail between the trees that was “paved” with the fallen leaves of Autumn. “It is a sign from Nature that we belong here, and a gift to show us the importance with which She regards all life.”

  Upon his initial encounter with the Forest Elves Lonariel had felt a strange connection between them and the forest around them, and in looking at their dwellings now and the memory of Halarniel’s voice he couldn’t find even the most implausible argument against their claim. He remained silent, partially through the awe of such oneness with their surroundings that these Elves seemed to possess, a oneness he had never witnessed to be held by any other beings save Katchanga, who seemed to blend easily with any surroundings and appeared to have a bond with all life that surpassed even the mightiest of druids. Dur
ing the early years of his training under the Eastern Elf, Lonariel had once witnessed a wild stallion calm almost instantly with but a gentle gaze from his mentor, a soft touch all that was required to lead the beast to the stables, while at other times wild birds and even a wolf pack had come freely towards him and appeared to be in conversation with him. The Loremaster had never witnessed such strange powers elsewhere, and he doubted even now that they could be held by any being save his mentor, but he gazed in wonderment as another Elf approached them, dressed in a flowing mantle that was neither green nor brown, but both depending upon the angle of her slender body as her gliding walk carried her towards them. Beneath the mantle she wore a long white dress, held above her breasts by a shimmering clasp that was fashioned into an entwinement of ivy and fern. She wore a silvery circlet over her shoulder-length hair of earthy brown, the shining metal curving gracefully to form a point that ran down the centre of her forehead, to end between her eyes of a deep sky blue. She was clearly a powerful member of the society, for each of the guards brought their right fists across their hearts and then to touch their foreheads in salute as she halted in front of them.