Of Dark Elves And Dragons

by Greg Curtis

  Here though, he could learn so much more. He already had. In only a week he'd learnt more than he had in six months on his own. Alan wanted to continue that. Even if the cost was complete exhaustion and the learning of a whole plethora of subjects he didn't need to know.

  One day, if he kept at his studies, he could become a truly powerful wizard. Or druid of the First Kingdom.

  It was with thoughts like that rushing through his mind that he let his eyes close, while the deep, sonorous voice of Tyrel ushered in the clouds of sleep. Until someone poked him in the ribs.

  “Ow!” He grunted instinctively at the pain but couldn't find it within him to open his eyes until they poked him again. Then his eyes opened as he turned to object. But he didn't object. Not when he saw Tyrel's huge eyes staring at him from a distance of not twenty feet. When he felt his breath on his face. That woke him up.

  “Teacher!”

  “Are my words boring you little one?” There was a small titter from the other students as they knew what he'd done. They knew why too. He suspected that one and all had at one time been in the same situation. Probably more than once.

  “No Tyrel!” It was the only possible answer he could give the dragon, and it was the truth. He'd actually been enjoying the tale of the dragon's illustrious ancestor's flight between the continents in the days before mortals had walked the world. It was a pleasant change from the usual evening session of magic even if he didn't understand why he was being taught draconic legends from thousands of years ago. Before he'd fallen asleep.

  “Perhaps it's the company that fails to stir your interest?”

  “No Tyrel.” He wished he couldn't hear the others still tittering away as he squirmed.

  “Then what little one? What is it that could steal your thoughts away to the land of dreams?”

  “I'm just very tired.” Of course even as he said it Alan knew the excuse wasn't going to be accepted.

  “Tired!” The dragon peered a little closer at him as if confused but Alan knew he wasn't. “But I was given to understand that you are one of the youngest of the students. Surely you should also be one of those most filled with fire. Is this not so?”

  “Maybe?”

  “Maybe?” Tyrel sounded as if he was confused by his answer. But he wasn't confused at all. Alan knew that. Like everyone there Tyrel knew exactly what was happening.

  “Surely little one there should be no 'maybe' about it. You should have the vigour of youth to sustain you. And the only reason I can imagine that you would not is if you had not lived the life you should have. If instead you had been lazy. Eating too much, sleeping too long, exercising too little.” And there it was – his fate. Alan knew it. The others knew it too from the barely suppressed sniggering which seemed to be growing in volume.

  “Is that what this is little one?”

  “Perhaps teacher.” Alan knew that he had no choice but to agree. But he also knew that he didn't want to, given that he could guess what the inevitable punishment would be.

  “Well clearly we must deal with that. We cannot have a member of the House giving in to self-indulgence. It builds character – poor character.”

  “I think a run would be in order. A good hard run first thing in the morning to remind you of what is important in life. Of what is expected of a member of the House of Sera. Do you agree little one?” Alan nodded, not really trusting himself to speak as he could already guess the course.

  “Excellent!” Tyrel's amused tones rumbled through the rock all around, and Alan was almost certain he was trying to keep from laughing. Unlike the rest of the class who had given up hiding their laughter and were all but rolling around on the floor in hysterics.

  “A run it is then. From the sea to the sky, first thing in the morning. A chance to clear the clouds from your mind and think upon what it means to be a member of the House. To think upon the honour that has been accorded you. And of what you can do to earn this honour. What do you say?”

  “Thank you teacher.” Despite the fact that he had to say it and surely everyone had expected it, the rest of the class burst into even louder laughter just then. Several had tears rolling down their cheeks as they enjoyed his discomfort. They should have known better.

  “And do the rest of you wish to join him?” Tyrel's head whipped around abruptly to take them all in, and the laughter ended as quickly as it had begun, to be followed by a desperate chorus of apologies and denials. No one wanted to do that run if they didn't have to. A couple of times a week was enough.

  “I thought as much.” Tyrel returned his attention to him.

  “And do not fear young one. I have a feeling that in time we will shape you into a worthy member of the House. It will take time and effort but we will succeed.”

  They probably would Alan thought. Assuming that they didn't kill him first. But as Tyrel returned to the tale of his illustrious ancestor's flight he still thought it might be worth it. All he had to do was get through the next three months. And then the three months after that. And so forth and so forth.

  That was all.

  Chapter Ten

  “Home!” Alan whispered the word so that only he could hear it as he finally came in sight of his cottage.

  It had been so long since he had last seen it, months in fact, and it looked so welcoming, even from high in the air. He immediately set his path for his front yard and prepared to land. It was already darkening and if he was lucky he knew he might be able to spend the night there, alone and at peace with his world, and perhaps reacquaint himself with his forest. Before he had to begin his duties for the teachers.

  He was anxious to get them over and done with so he could have some time to himself for a rest. He needed one. After three and a half months of intense study in the widest variety of subjects he’d ever imagined undertaking, he was exhausted.

  His training had continued apace, day after day, week after week, month after month, until finally the day of his assessment had come around, as each of his masters had told him in turn of their beliefs in his abilities and where he needed to concentrate his efforts. They were nothing if not detailed in their assessments, and their expectations of him over the coming months. Then, after three and a half months and loaded down with books and homework, he’d been sent home to rest and continue his studies in private, while another group of students were brought back to the lair for their class work.

  It was also then, and only then, that he’d been informed as to the state of the war between the necromancer and the realms. News he’d been told when he’d first asked, was not good for students. They needed to focus on their studies. But now he needed to know, mainly because he’d also been given some duties to perform, duties that only he could carry out because of his connection to the Huron.

  The dragons were busy dealing with the undead for the moment, wiping out the small forces that had begun roaming the lands almost as quickly as they formed, and in the process reminding the world of their existence. It must have come as a shock.

  Many humans had regarded the dragons as little more than myths, and others had claimed they were in hiding and all but extinct. Now the dragons were awake and flying over the lands as they hadn’t in many years, awake and readying themselves for action as they hadn’t had to in millennia, and the people of the lands must have been gripped with wonder and terror as they filled their skies.

  Of course envoys had been sent out to explain what was happening, and the rulers of the lands knew that they were buying the mortals’ time to prepare their forces for the battles to come. Which if any of them had told their people of the impending war, Alan didn’t know. Many probably wouldn't want to create a panic. The elves and the dryads surely had, as they didn’t have rulers so much as councils, and everyone in the community was expected to attend them. The dwarves he had no knowledge of, as with the gnomes, halflings, pixies and sprites. Few of their people lived anywhere near him and other than the odd trader, he’d never met any of them. The humans as always w
ere a mixed bag. Some had rulers, either benevolent kings or tyrants as in Calumbria. They tended to like to control the gossip and news of their kingdoms. Others had councils and were likely to be more open about such things.

  But the teachers were less concerned with the necromancer than they were with the ancients as he’d discovered during his time with them. The necromancer was but one threat, the ancients many and far more dangerous.

  Thus they had done all they had said they would, and informed the ancients of their rules and the consequences for failing them. They had told them of their judgement, and the decision that had to be made by them all. To have their magic bound or to be killed. There could be no more of their magic unleashed upon the world.

  They had even at Sera’s request, spoken to Dava and given him Alan’s words, and the result had been a partial success. Dava and perhaps two thirds of the ancients, four thousand or so souls, had quickly acquiesced to their demands, a remarkably easy choice when the skies above them were thick with dragons, but nearly two thousand hadn’t, choosing to keep what they had and defend themselves against those they considered a threat.

  Over the long and painful months of negotiation and pleading they had withdrawn from the others, believing the village of New Huron was too vulnerable to attack from the air, and retreating instead to the deep forests where they could build a new village and hide in the shade of the great trees. They apparently didn’t realize that dragon’s eyes saw all and a mere forest wasn’t going to protect them from their fireballs.

  Now, after three and a bit months of hiding, and mostly refusing to even talk, the dragons were being backed into a corner and even their legendary patience was wearing thin. So as a last resort before war, they’d sent a last special envoy in to speak for them; him.

  It was a terrible burden on Alan’s shoulders, and the fear of failure was crushing, especially when he had had only three and a half months of training. His teachers said he was a good student, that he had great potential, that he learned fast, soaking up knowledge and wisdom like a sponge, but also that it would be many years before he was even ready to pass beyond the rank of apprentice or neophyte to initiate, let alone adept, journeyman or acolyte. Years he did not have. He had a week to solve this crisis. And what use were a few new shapes, a couple of spells of protection, a lot of healing spells and some practice with counter-magic? He had barely begun his studies into the culture and history of the races including the Huron, though he had brought with him some tomes to read. His skills at negotiation had proven pitiful. Worse still he hadn’t even begun the study of diplomacy, which his teachers had told him was probably the most useful of all a member’s skills, especially in this situation.

  Yet after three long days of flying, it was something he decided he could deal with in the morning. Already the skies were darkening, and dusk was coming. If he flew on to the village of the ancients, it would be night when he arrived. Not a good time to bother people when he had no idea of the welcome he might receive from them, and when he would be tired and far from his best.

  Even though spring had already come and gone and summer was well established, the night would be cool, and a good night’s sleep in a soft bed with a cosy fire for extra warmth would be more than welcome. Maybe even a hot bath to sooth his aching muscles, and then a warm meal and a soothing cup of chamomile tea while he studied the tomes he had brought with him.

  If he was that fortunate. The closer he got the more he realised that things were not as they had been. That his home was not the welcome respite he had expected.

  “Merciful creator!” Alan uttered the ancient benediction as he finally made out all that had troubled him from close up.

  He’d seen from the air that things were not quite as he’d left them, and in truth he’d expected that months away from his gardens would have left them overgrown and in need of some weeding. But close up it was much worse. They'd attacked his home.

  Someone had taken a hatchet to his walls and windows, before apparently deciding on switching to a paint brush and scrawling every curse he could think of over its walls. Then they’d flattened his pergola and destroyed his gardens, and he knew a sense of shock at the sight. But closer up, after another terrible landing, he could see they’d gone further, much further.

  His gardens were trampled and many of the larger trees actually uprooted, the water no longer flowed through his ponds and not a shred of his pergola or other outdoor furniture remained intact. Not even the headstones he’d crafted for his parents’ graves had been left untouched as someone had taken to them with a hammer. What sort of a troll attacked the final resting place of the deceased?

  His home had suffered far more. The front door was torn off its hinges and was now lying on the verandah, which had no single balustrade still left intact. Their remains were strewn around the garden. Inside, things were worse again.

  His carefully boarded and stained wood panel walls were broken and ripped apart. The floor boards were smashed beyond repair. Cupboards were ripped out of the walls, the stone fire place was a pile of rubble, and the ceiling and roof had caved in. Then someone had lit a bonfire in the centre of the main room with the rest of his furniture and clothes, and it had eaten out a hole in the middle of his floor. It was probably only luck that had stopped the fire spreading and leaving him without a home at all. Everything was covered with soot, including the remains of his windows. The bedrooms, what he could see of them, were destroyed. Then, as if to add insult to the damage, animal faeces had been flung everywhere, while more painted curse words adorned what remained of his walls.

  He should have been angry, in fact a large part of him was. This was his home, had been for much of his life. His parents were buried in the back yard, and he dreaded looking closer to see if their graves had been disturbed as well as their headstones. Given the enthusiasm with which someone, or more likely many someones had attacked everything else it wasn’t impossible. But more than that he was sad. Sad to see his home in such a terrible state. Sad to know that he had caused someone so much pain as to do this. Sad that he didn’t even know who it was. There were so many suspects, most of them Huron. Rightly or wrongly so many were surely angry at him. Above even that though he felt betrayed. People he had dared to care about had done this to him. People he had almost imagined as friends, when he should have known better. He was angry and disappointed with himself for having allowed people to worm their way into his affections. For having trusted them. If he hadn’t, this would not have hurt so much.

  One thing was certain he decided as he began the long and painful job of picking up the remains of his home and placing it into piles of what could be repaired and what couldn’t; he wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

  Chapter Eleven.

  The renegade’s village was like nothing Alan had ever seen before, and even as he stood on the broad grass track staring at it from at least three hundred paces away, he found himself shocked by it. Actually it was more than that, he found himself offended by it. The village was an exercise in extravagance and waste, and an offence to the natural order.

  He’d just come from New Huron and seen a more or less human styled hamlet with a lot of ornate woodwork being added on to the relatively normal wooden houses they’d constructed, and for some reason he’d expected the same to be true of the renegade’s homes. But it wasn’t.

  Where their kin had decided on single story buildings, for the most part crafted carefully from timber with beautifully adorned decks and eves, the renegades had chosen stone, presumably for its strength. They’d also decided on two and three story buildings as their norm, and most of them had wrought iron grates over their doors and windows, steel shutters, and crenelations on their roofs. They looked for all the world like miniature castles, all carefully hidden under the towering oaks and redwoods of the forest which they’d then bent and shaped to conceal as much of them from the air as they could. Their village of less than two thousand people was actually as large as some
cities and easily five times the size of New Huron itself.

  In part he suspected it was for defence, though a dragon could just as easily destroy a small castle with his fire bursts as a simple wooden house. But for the most part he suspected it was about power and strength, and showing their neighbours just how strong they were.

  A terrible amount of magic had gone into the buildings’ construction, quarrying the stone, transporting it, and assembling the massive houses, even before they’d started adding their other touches. Enormous garden ornaments floated in the air for no apparent reason. There were also spells of glamour and concealment, more traps of course for the unwary, and golems to patrol the grounds. Mechanical contraptions crafted from steel and stone and then imbued with a quasi life of their own. The ancients’ own answer to his elementals.