by Ryo Mizuno
Chapter I:
The Adventurers
1
The white marble walls of the Great Temple of Marfa shone brightly in the spring sunshine, welcome after the long winter. New grass peeked from the patches of snow that still lingered on the ground, and yellow wildflowers had started to bloom along the road from the temple to the village center.
The temple stood on the edge of Tarba village, northernmost point of Lodoss. A few hundred villagers led simple lives on the plains between the peaks of the White Dragon Mountains, home to the ice spirits that pushed spring later than in the southern regions. In a few days, though, the snow blocking the passes would melt, and young couples from all over the island would come to receive blessings from the goddess Marfa for happy marriages.
For Neese, the high priestess, the busy season was just beginning. She and her guest sat together at a small table in her private quarters. Neese was perched on a simple wooden chair and dressed in pure white robes embroidered with the sacred emblem of Marfa, the goddess of all creation. Her long, black hair had turned to grey, and deep wrinkles etched her fifty years’ experience into her face, but her posture and bearing radiated vitality.
“You’re leaving on a journey?” she asked her visitor with rare uncertainty.
“I am,” he replied gruffly from his seat across from her. He was stocky and half as tall as an average man, with a disproportionately large head and a neatly trimmed grey beard—a dwarf, one of the fae folk of the earth. His skin was tanned from the glare of the sun reflecting off the snow, and his amber-colored eyes showed fierce determination.
“Why?” Neese asked, rising from her chair and kneeling beside the dwarf to look into his eyes. She lay her hands on his shoulders.
“No reason. I want to, that’s all,” he said in typical blunt fashion.
Neese knew the dwarves well. It was said that their hearts were made of iron—and that their stubborn streak was what gave these seemingly clumsy fae folk such incredible skills as craftsmen. This particular dwarf was a fine artisan who could transform rough gemstones into brilliant jewels, precious metal into glittering ornaments.
She knew the dwarves, and she knew this dwarf in particular. Once Ghim had decided on something, he would never change his mind.
“If this is about Leylia, it isn’t necessary. I gave up on her long ago.” she said, but her pained expression betrayed her.
If she ever felt her age, it was when she thought of her daughter. Leylia had disappeared seven years previous—signs of a struggle had been found at the temple, evidence that she’d fought an intruder and been taken away.
Neese had been gone at the time, called to heal Ghim after an accident in the dwarven mines left him gravely injured. Leylia’s absence broke Neese’s heart, but the old dwarf’s guilt might have been even greater. Ever since the incident, Ghim came to the shrine to help out every chance he could.
Ghim didn’t answer. Dwarves never lied—they simply fell silent.
“It wasn’t your fault, Ghim. How can you feel responsible for the timing of that attack? Not even the gods can know the future completely—how can we mortals expect to know more?” Neese offered a smile, but Ghim didn’t break his stony silence. “I’ve asked the goddess Marfa about her many times—where she is and whether she’s alive or dead…” She paused, thinking back to the response she’d received every time.
“What did Marfa say?” Ghim ventured.
“It wasn’t an answer, really. More of a riddle. She said that Leylia is alive, but doesn’t exist.”
“Alive, but doesn’t exist?” Ghim cocked his head in puzzlement and watched Neese’s doleful expression. He’d met her way back when she first arrived at the temple—beautiful and wise, radiating inner strength and kindness. She had collected an impressive array of titles: she was a Saint, one of the Six Heroes who defeated the Demon King during the Demon Wars, the Earth Mother Goddess’s beloved daughter, and the Dragon Tamer, to name a few. But despite all that, there was no arrogance to her, and she dealt with everyone equally. She loved to see the dwarven workshops, and she often visited the Iron Kingdom, the dwarven settlement closest to Tarba. Even the grumpiest dwarf couldn’t help but smile when talking to her.
But her radiance had clouded since Leylia went missing.
Of course he knew that her disappearance wasn’t his fault. But he also knew that he had to go look for her. He owed Neese so much. He would never be at peace while she was suffering.
The thought was always in the back of his mind, but he also knew there was no point in searching aimlessly. But circumstances had recently changed—he had a clue, now. Someone from the settlement had just returned from a journey and reported that he’d seen a woman who looked just like Leylia—only ten days earlier in the town of Allan, not far from Tarba. Ghim didn’t hesitate for a moment before making up his mind.
“I’m not a thinking dwarf, but I trust my strength. I can’t solve your riddle, but dragging your prodigal daughter back home shouldn’t be a difficult task.”
Neese felt her eyes mist over. The dwarf was always so gruff and serious, but inside his iron heart, deep passion stirred. All dwarves revered the truth and thought nothing of risking their lives for a cause.
She sat silently for a while, almost starting to speak several times before trailing off into silence. Finally, she shook her head.
She closed her eyes and clasped Ghim’s hand in hers. “Thank you. Please bring Leylia home.”
Ghim’s eyes crinkled in delight. “Just leave it to me. I promise I’ll bring her back. The Goddess’s strange riddle will be solved by then, I’m sure,” he said with vigor.
Neese gently hugged the dwarf’s solid frame with her thin arms. “When are you leaving?”
“I’ll stop by the settlement, then leave at once from there.”
“The journey will be dangerous. Not like it was in my youth, but all the same—be careful.” Neese’s travels had been during a time of great death and destruction, when demons sealed in the Deepest Labyrinth had been released to wreak havoc throughout the land. She’d been revered as a Hero—one of the six who had saved the country—after the defeat of the Demon King, but that title meant nothing to her. She only cared that humanity was flourishing on Lodoss again.
“Thank you, Priestess of Marfa. And do me a favor, will you? Pray that I’ll be able to solve this riddle and bring your daughter back. Praying’s not my job.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Zaxon, for now. There’s only one road, after all, and I’ve got a friend called Slayn living there. I haven’t figured out the rest yet. The path will lead me, I’m sure.”
A few hours later, the dwarf craftsmen took his first steps down the road. Thick, grey clouds covered the sky above his destination to the south.
2
Lodoss was a remote island a fortnight’s voyage south of the Alecrast continent. The voyage was long and perilous enough that there was little sea traffic between the two landforms—only occasional merchant galley ships from Raiden, the free city northwest of Lodoss. Some people on the continent called Lodoss “The Cursed Island,” and it was true that there were some ominous places there that lived up to that title: The Forest of No Return, The Storm and Fire Desert, and Marmo, The Island of Darkness. Underground labyrinths crawled with loathsome monsters, and the God of Darkness, Phalaris, had a dedicated following. The Demon Wars thirty years prior had terrorized the island, and it had taken an alliance of elves, dwarves, and humans to drive the demons back into their underground prison. The scars from the battle had healed and peace had returned, but tales from those days had forever stained the island’s reputation.
The ordinary people of Lodoss, however, didn’t think much about what outsiders thought
of their island. Daily life held more than enough problems for anyone.
The island of Lodoss was divided into kingdoms. The most powerful was the Kingdom of Moss in the southwest, unified after the Demon Wars by Mycen, a Dragon-Knight-turned-King. The original countries had been fiercely independent and fought amongst themselves constantly, until foreign threats united them. Then the fractured kingdoms, each named for a different body part of a dragon, came together under Mycen, the king of Highland, the Dragon’s Eye. Mycen’s heir was a Dragon Knight named Jester, and he and the twelve Dragon Knights who served him were the central pillars of Moss. Thus, he came to be known as “Mycen, the Golden Dragon King.” When Mycen passed away, Jester inherited his name, his title, and the golden dragon he used to ride.
At the center of the island lay Valis, the Holy Kingdom of Justice. It was ruled over by Fahn, one of the Six Heroes. Most people there worshipped the supreme god Pharis, so the Order of Pharis held power. Rule over Valis was not passed down through blood. Instead, the new king ascended to the throne after being nominated by the Order from among the Holy Knights and royal guardians of the kingdom. Religious commandments from the order were also made law.
North of Valis was Flaim, the desert kingdom, a nation that rose from the recent defeat of local barbarians. The desert people were brave, and their mercenary king and founder—Kashue—was widely respected. The land was harsh, but the young country was vibrant with hope.
Kanon, in the southeast, was ruled by a scholar king. It was known for its natural beauty and temperate climate.
To the south lay the feared Dark Island of Marmo, home to monsters and exiled criminals. For years, the land had been ruled only by chaos, until a warrior called Beld declared himself Emperor and brought the entire island under his rule. He’d spent most of his ten years of leadership ruthlessly crushing every rebellion that sprung up. In recent times, Marmo appeared peaceful—at least on the surface.
Alania, in the north, was a center of culture and history. The citizens took great pride in their stone buildings and the marble dwarven-built castle.
Within Alania, there was a small village nestled in the mountains of the peninsula north of Allan, the capital city. This village was called Zaxon, and its inhabitants led simple lives far from the culture and bustle of the capital.
That village was dealing with a serious problem…
“I told you—I’m going to destroy them!”
Good Reunions, the only pub in Zaxon, thundered with the pounding of an armored fist on a table, and wooden goblets spilled their contents everywhere.
A young man stood in the back of the crowded room. He wore plate mail and a longsword at his hip—a sword with a long grip to allow the wielder to hold it two-handed. He had a thick iron shield strapped to his back; all he needed was a helmet, and he’d look like a fine knight. But his breastplate bore no crest, only a large scrape across the chest.
“But Parn,” Filmer, the village chief, replied, “you can’t fix this by yourself. These are goblins—lots of them. I don’t care how good a swordsman you are. You’ll be outnumbered.”
Parn glared back in disgust. He wasn’t getting anywhere with this pack of cowards.
“That’s why I’m asking for help! Like you said, I don’t have a chance alone, or even with Etoh’s help. But look around! If everyone here grabbed a weapon, we’d be invincible! Don’t let a few goblins scare you—think about how it makes our village look not being able to handle this!” Parn scanned the crowd. The people at the tables all kept their heads down, avoiding his gaze.
A group of about twenty goblins had dug a cave in the hills close to Zaxon while isolated by the winter snow. Goblins were about the size of a human child, with reddish skin. Because of their skin tone, they were sometimes called “red ogres,” but they were originally fae of the earth and soil. In the ancient wars of the immortals, they were summoned by the gods of darkness as their vanguard. The gods of both sides died at the end of the war, so the surviving goblins had no way to return to the fairies’ realm—and no choice but to live primitive lives in the mountains and forests.
Humans and goblins could not live together—any contact between the two always ended in conflict. And while the goblins near Zaxon hadn’t harmed the villagers in the three months since they’d arrived, it was only a matter of time—considering their evil reputation.
Parn had called on all the strong, healthy men of the village to help him mount a preemptive strike. They had more than thirty men, outnumbering the goblins. But as for their reaction…
“Nothing bad has happened yet. Maybe it never will. Why risk our hides by provoking them? If we fail, they’ll attack the village,” someone muttered.
Parn looked at the man in dismay. It was Zamji, a hunter—Parn had been counting on his skill with a bow and arrow.
“Zamji, that’s dangerous thinking.” Parn replied. “You’ve heard the horror stories. You want to wait until that happens here? Defeating them now is our only option.”
“But Parn…” This time it was Riot the woodcutter. Parn’s spirits fell even lower—Riot was the strongest person in the village.
Others mumbled their objections—and not a single voice rose up to agree with him.
Parn smashed his fist into the table again. This time, the whole table flipped over with a thundering crash, alarming the pub’s owner.
“Why don’t you people get it?! My dad fought thirty bandits by himself. Don’t you have a tenth of that courage?”
“We all know the story. Didn’t your dad run into those bandits after he ditched his knight position? And he got himself killed, too,” Moto, the owner of the general store, sneered. He and the pub’s owner, Old Man Jet, were the town’s gossip mongers.
Parn, whose face had been flushed with excitement, went pale.
“Wh-what did you say about my dad?!” Parn glared at the man with open hatred.
“I’m just repeating what I heard. If it’s not true, then why was the crest of the Holy Knights scraped off your breastplate? Why did your mother have to leave Valis and settle out here in the country?”
Parn’s hand went to his sword—the urge to charge Moto and chop his head off was almost overwhelming. But drawing his sword against a villager was clearly not the right thing to do.
“Fine,” he muttered, and pulled his hand away from his weapon. “Etoh and I will handle it ourselves.”
With that, he strode out, ramming the door into the wall as he left.
The villagers sat slumped in their seats until the metallic clanking faded away.
“They’re not actually going to go alone, are they?” Riot whispered to Moto.
“He wouldn’t be that reckless,” Moto answered uncertainly. They all knew Parn. He would absolutely do foolish things in the name of justice.
The village chief listened to them talk for a while, then quietly announced the meeting over. He slipped out the door Parn had left open, toward the shack on the outskirts of the village.
3
Parn stormed home and viciously kicked open the door. The floorboards creaked in protest as the metal studs of his sabatons made fresh divots in the wood.
“How’d it go, Parn?” a gentle voice asked from the back of the room.
“How do you think it went?!” Parn shouted at the smiling young man—Etoh the priest. Etoh wore a baggy, sun-bleached cotton robe with a blue sash at his waist. The silver amulet around his neck was the talisman of Pharis.
Etoh had been Parn’s friend from childhood—his only friend, really. Both orphans, their similar circumstances brought them together despite their opposite personalities. Etoh was much more reserved and always thought carefully before he acted. But they shared the same steadfast resolve.
When he was ten, Etoh worked doing odd jobs for a missionary of Pharis. He was so impressed by the doctrine of justice and order that he decided to follow the missionary when he left, and was eventually accepted to study at Pharis Temple in Allan, the capitol. Once h
e completed his training and became an official priest, he returned to the village.
Etoh put his hand on his talisman and said a quick prayer to Pharis while he listened to Parn explode in anger.
“You can’t blame them. They’re not used to combat.” Alania hadn’t been at war for a hundred years—they were the only kingdom that had avoided major battles during the most recent war.
“But we can’t handle a horde of goblins by ourselves,” Parn replied. He sat heavily at the table and gulped water from the bag at his hip. It was warm and reeked of leather. With a sigh, he tossed the empty bag on the table, but he threw it too hard and it slid off the far edge. Etoh picked it up, folded it carefully, and placed it back on the table—like he’d done a thousand times before.
“We can’t let the goblins roam free, either. We may be fine for now, but they’ll be a threat someday.” Etoh closed his eyes and raised his left hand as if preaching the words of Pharis. He didn’t have his own temple, so any preaching he did was on the roadside or in the assembly hall. But he was an authentic priest nevertheless—he could cast holy spells, and even perform miracles like curing diseases or healing wounds. He was also trained in combat—conflicts between his Order and the kingdom meant that government guards wouldn’t offer them protection, so they had their own Holy Knights for self-defense.
“Can we really do this alone? There are twenty of them—that’s ten apiece.” Master warriors might be able to slay ten goblins at once, even twenty or thirty. But Parn knew his skills weren’t at that level yet.
“There might be a way…” Etoh muttered thoughtfully, and Parn knew better than to interrupt. When he was with Etoh, it wasn’t his job to think—a warrior’s job was to improve his skills and slay his enemies.
At last, Etoh turned to Parn. “I don’t think it’s a very good plan…”
Parn grinned. “You’ve got a plan?” he said. “Sounds good—let’s do it!”
Slayn Starseeker’s house lay north of Zaxon. He’d moved in two years prior and quickly endeared himself to the villagers by teaching reading and writing.