Complete Kingdoms and the Elves of the Reaches

by William Robert Stanek

  This night was different from the others before it. Images filtered into his dreams and urged him to wake, to race through the darkened land. Vilmos followed the call, only the knowledge that something was close carried him on.

  Many hours later Vilmos offered quiet thanks to the heavens. The outskirts of Beyet Daren, dark and shadowy, illuminated only by silvery red light filtering through a darkened sky, came into view. At first it seemed the city was a single mass of black stone, but as he approached the city walls he grew increasingly amazed at what he saw.

  Every building in Beyet Daren was a veritable palace of stones. Stones that must have been carved from the mountains in the distance. The dark stone had a dull shine as if every surface was polished smooth. Indeed, as Vilmos passed quickly through a cavernous opening in the city walls that served as the entryway, he found the walls were polished smooth—smooth and cold to the touch.

  Inside the strange city he found empty streets, and as he walked along them he imagined the city was deserted. Images flashed through his mind’s eye as if in a dream. He delved deep into the heart of the city. He started to see signs of life. A light on. A voice in a back alleyway.

  He found it strange that the streets remained empty. The voice in his mind told him to pull the hood of his cloak closer about his head as a precaution.

  He walked on, unafraid of the growing whispers in darkened alleyways. He muttered a curse to the very air around him. His thoughts went to the shaman for a time. Xith had taken him away from everything: his home where he was cared for. His parents who loved him. His life in Tabborrath village.

  He started to cry. As he cried he cursed the shaman for everything that had happened to him and all that would happen to him if he didn’t find his way.

  He maintained his curses as he walked, yet the more he cursed, the more harsh and wrong his words sounded. He didn’t hate Xith. He was scared. Scared he would not find Xith. Scared of being alone. Scared about what the future would bring.

  The streets grew from vaguely familiar to completely unfamiliar. He knew he was lost and this was made worse by the fact that he didn’t even know where he was trying to go.

  As he turned a corner and entered a shadowed street he heard footsteps behind him. Before he could react he felt the heavy tip of a cold blade against his back. The finely crafted steel sliced through his clothing and touched his skin. Steel met his spine. He screamed, tried to run, but it was too late.

  By the time Seth and Adrina made their way downstairs the council had adjourned. Over the course of the next several days the council required Seth’s presence only sporadically, mostly to push the skeptics back into their place. More often, the council was in heated debate without him—debates that didn’t always pertain to the elves.

  During the long days of waiting and listening Seth and Adrina continued to tell each other about their homelands. As it happened, if Seth wasn’t with Adrina she could be sure that he was with Valam. A slow friendship was building between Seth and Valam. Adrina could see this and this pleased her as something more, something dangerous, was building between her and Seth.

  Most mornings she paced the walkways of the garden. She was often alone, left only with her thoughts, although eventually one of the two would find her. This morning it was Seth who found her first. She wasn’t disappointed to see him but her thoughts went out to another for a few brief moments.

  Beautiful day, imparted Seth wordlessly.

  “Yes it is, isn’t it,” responded Adrina, adding, “No word from the Minor Kingdoms yet?”

  No, Keeper Martin seems worried. He thinks something’s wrong. The Seventh day session may not take place.

  Adrina turned up her lip. Her expression became a frown. She knew Valam was planning something and that Seth was a part of those discussions. She wasn’t allowed to know what was happening. It bothered her that they were keeping secrets, compounded by the fact that she had tried her best to learn about what they were planning but hadn’t been able to. Valam knew her too well. He knew her tricks and blocked her every effort.

  For a short time the two stood quietly, searching for anything to spark conversation. Adrina’s thoughts continued to drift. She wished that she was still a girl and not the woman she was becoming. She didn’t want to understand why it mattered so that she was coming of age. When Valam had come of age there had been a great celebration. Heralds throughout the lands proclaimed him as Lord of the South, Governor of South Province and King’s Heir.

  There would be none of this for her. She would not be granted titles or land. Those things would be granted to Rudden Klaiveson on their wedding day—a man she had promised herself to, yes, but not the man of her dreams. What did she know of dreams anyway? It seemed she had only recently started to live.

  Turning to Seth, she asked, “You’ve said before that The Reaches are divided in two: East and West. A king in the West, a queen in the East. Why is that? Why are the peoples divided?”

  Kapital was my home, yes, I know little of it in truth. Galan should have been the one to tell you about this, not me.

  Remembering Galan’s face as if in a dream, Adrina smiled. “She did. She told me some, and I am grateful but there is so much I don’t understand.”

  I was chosen at birth, Adrina. I have no past memories to cling to. I know only that which the Brotherhood teaches and what I have seen with my own eyes.

  “Surely you know why there is a king in the West and a queen in the East?” She said it like it was such a simple thing, knowing it wasn’t.

  Seth walked to the edge of the balcony. He gripped the stone railing, stared out over the gardens but did not reply.

  “It is because of Queen Oread, is it not?” Prince Valam said as he joined them on the balcony.

  Seth shot a quick response of, Come to join the battle of wits and words? and at the same time replied aloud to Adrina, “I know what I have been told and read.”

  Valam’s timely laugh in response to Seth’s words caused Adrina to bead her eyes and flip her long dark hair over her shoulder. At times it seemed she and Valam competed for Seth’s attention. “Well then?”

  Oread was but one of the fools in the game. To truly understand you must go back to the First Age. The time of Ky’el, the titan who led men, elves, and dwarves from the bonds of slavery. These histories I know as I studied many of the ancient texts regarding your kind.

  “Did titans and dragons truly rule the skies?” Adrina asked excitedly.

  It is said titans and dragons shared the skies of Over-Earth with the Eagle Clans of old, and together they ruled the sky kingdoms.

  Valam said, “Back to Ky’el.”

  “Yes,” agreed Adrina. “Our history of the great titans is very different.”

  Ky’el was a titan, but a very different sort. Dangerous to some, a genius to others…

  Adrina saw movement out of the corner of her eye, turned, saw Myrial waving to her from the stairs. Valam saw Myrial as well and whispered, “Go,” to Adrina.

  She excused herself and turned away. “News from Emel?” she asked excitedly as she walked down the steps with Myrial. Myrial nodded and the two hurried off.

  The nameless rogue prodded Vilmos along, turning him this way and that with careful pressure of the cold blade applied to the small of his back. Whenever Vilmos tried to resist, the rogue muttered under his breath, “Only Nyom strays,” as if Vilmos understood what that meant.

  Eventually the rogue led Vilmos to an alley where another waited, clad in dark leathers and a hooded mask with two slits in it for the eyes. The two rogues then guided Vilmos into the darkness, maneuvering him around unseen obstacles, finally coming to a place where a door of sorts stood. Vilmos couldn’t see the door. He only heard the noise of its movement as it creaked open.

  After entering a dimly lit room the rogue with the blade prodded Vilmos from behind to raise his arms while the second searched him. The hooded one stripped Vilmos of his cloak and, after a brief struggle, his boots.
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  “Human?” muttered a raspy voice, the voice of the figure with the blade.

  Soon afterward strong hands pulled Vilmos’ arms painfully behind his back. They bound his hands harshly with a thin rope that cut into his skin as he attempted to resist.

  As shock settled in Vilmos froze. Void of thoughts, too awestruck to react, his only recourse was to wait. He didn’t think they were going to kill him, or he thought—hoped—they would have already done the deed.

  The one with the blade spoke again, “Human slave, from where did you come?”

  He didn’t say a word. He sensed a third figure watching—judging—from the shadows. An unconscious shiver built within him. His legs shook with nervous tremors. He bit his cheek against his jaw until he felt warm blood flow across his tongue and trickle down his throat.

  “Slave, speak when spoken to!” The sharp blade sliced into his back.

  Vilmos fell to his knees, stood, and remained silent. He understood the words though they were in a language different from his own. It was then that he realized the language spoken was that of the dark elves. He knew the rogues were not of that race for he could smell the stench of their fleshy hides, a stench that even their cloaks and masks could not hide. The rogues were goblins, servants of the dark elves.

  “Check his tongue,” said the second goblin. “His master may have removed it…”

  Strong hands pried open Vilmos’ mouth. He saw shiny eyes from within the slits of the goblin’s mask. He thought about biting down but didn’t.

  “Tongue and no branding. He must be a rebel spy.”

  “Slave or spy?” the goblin behind Vilmos said, clear impatience in his voice.

  The figure in the shadows of Vilmos’ mind spoke. “Neither,” he said in the language of those who held him.

  “Neither,” laughed the goblin standing in front of Vilmos. “Human, you are one or the other. There is nothing else here. So which one are you? Off with it, don’t try my patience. I haven’t much to strain.”

  Vilmos winced as the blade sliced along the small of his back. He was afraid but the figure in his mind kept him standing tall—tall and nearly naked in the frigid night air.

  “I’ll bet he’s a slave,” the goblin standing behind him said, “or else we wouldn’t have been able to sneak up on him.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. I am a slave.”

  “I hate slaves… kill him,” said the cloaked goblin behind him, turning to leave.

  “Wait!” shouted Vilmos desperately, “Wait, I’m no slave. I’m a spy, honest.”

  The goblin, seemingly interested, asked, “Really?”

  “Yes, yes, I am,” Vilmos said with a laugh, half bemused, half about to cry. The shadow walker in his mind screamed out in alarm to silence him.

  “I don’t know,” said the second goblin as he stood in front of Vilmos and pranced nervously back and forth. He lunged out. The blade ripped into Vilmos’ side. “He doesn’t look like a spy, doesn’t bleed like one.”

  The shadow walker forced Vilmos to his feet but couldn’t stop terror from gripping his thoughts. Hands tied behind his back, nearly naked with two dark figures poking and prodding him, he felt utterly helpless. A discharge of warm urine flowed down his leg yet he said firmly, “I am neither slave nor spy.”

  “Overstep your bounds and you shall finish as Stranth,” the first goblin said. “I shall have the truth of it.”

  Vilmos swallowed his heart back down his throat as the second goblin pulled the long, slender dagger from its sheath again. He did not cringe away from the blade or the cold death he saw in the other’s eyes.

  The goblin held the dagger close against his throat, staring into his eyes, hesitating, seemingly, only for the sheer joy of the agony it caused. With one hand the goblin pulled his hair back and pressed the blade tighter with the other.

  Vilmos never wavered the direction of his gaze. He held it fixed, wild, wide, glaring at the one who would kill him. An image, a flicker of something, in his eyes forced the would-be killer to back away. The goblin dropped the dagger as if it had stung him and backed away from Vilmos trembling, bumping into the wall behind him as he went, groping wildly until he found the adjacent corridor before running from the room shouting.

  The hooded goblin behind Vilmos whispered to the other who stood in the shadows before he hurried after his companion. Only the final words carried to Vilmos’ ears, “He’s the one.”

  “It is you,” the figure said stepping from the shadows, the voice not harsh but soft. He caught Vilmos, twisted him around, unsheathed his sword. Then he sliced through the air in a series of fluid motions that were almost too quick for the eye to follow.

  Vilmos, his hands freed from the restraints, gulped and gasped at the air. He tried to speak, found no words.

  “It is you but not you,” the warrior said, “I knew you would come back.”

  Puzzled Vilmos stood quietly for a time. He stared incredulously at his mysterious benefactor. The large armored tower seemed hardly a man at all, more a hardened mountain of stone and metal than a man. He was hard pressed to gaze past the chained plate to see the face, yet as he did recognition came in an instant. The brankened collar, the iron bit, the face chiseled as if of solid rock—it was the warrior from Solntse. But how and why?

  His thoughts raced. “Where’s Xith? Can you take me to him?”

  “I serve Shost and my masters,” the other answered.

  “Take me to him.”

  The warrior’s puzzled look matched Vilmos’ now. “I have been waiting for you. You are home. Shost awaits.”

  “Home?” He was even more confused. The one who walked in the shadows of his mind watched but didn’t speak.

  “Is it time?” the warrior asked.

  “No,” Vilmos said flippantly.

  The warrior frowned, sheathed his weapon, then walked away. Vilmos followed the warrior into the dark hallway.

  Chapter Three:

  Slipping Away

  Seth stared at the prince. “I still don’t understand why I should learn. I mean if I had ever needed to use such weapons, I am sure I would have been taught. Members of the Brotherhood rarely learn to use weapons, even then only for personal edification.”

  “Then you shall learn for personal edification and because I think it is a good idea. I need the practice as well,” Valam said. “Besides we have an entire day to pass. We cannot leave for the south until the weather breaks.”

  Seth glanced out into the courtyard and at the heavy downpour. The timing of the storm couldn’t have been worse. Long hours of heavy rains were flooding the trails, making them nearly impassable. He hoped tomorrow would be a clear day, a day to begin a journey. He even cast a prayer to the Mother to ensure it.

  “Meet me on the western balcony overlooking the garden. The hall just beyond it is perfect, secluded and quiet. I’ll see an old friend to procure weapons. It won’t take long.”

  “You harbor hopes in these competitions?” Seth paused, continued in a voiceless whisper, Tell me, will the winner of this competition gain your trust or true friendship?

  Valam bowed through an apology. “The competitions are hard to forget, even with all that is ahead. We won last year. After a decade of defeat, we won. Geoffrey of Solntse lost to Captain Brodst of the Kingdom in the final match. If only you could see the games, the competition fields, you would understand how much this means. Do you know how many disputes have been settled on a field with just two combatants instead of hundreds or thousands?”

  Seth probed Valam’s mind seeking understanding but didn’t find anything that made sense of the matter. East Reach had no blood sport. He saw only futility in men facing each other and dying on bloody fields.

  Seth stared out into the rain-filled courtyard. He was becoming disillusioned. The delays were aggravating and the ceaseless bantering of the kingdom council was frustrating. He longed for East Reach, to feel his will mixing in with Queen Mother’s thoughts, all the things he might never see
again.

  “Emel?” asked Adrina excitedly as she followed Myrial down the stairs. “You must tell me everything.”

  Myrial didn’t say a word; she only gripped Adrina’s hand more tightly as she led the princess along the dark hallway.

  “The orb?” Adrina asked when she could no longer endure the quiet.

  Myrial faced Adrina. “Emel, the caravan. We must hurry or we’ll be too late.”

  Myrial hurried along the hall, pulling Adrina behind her. Adrina followed close, partly because the twisting corridor was unknown to her and partly because the darkness frightened her.