A Dream of Storms, In the Shadow of the Black Sun: Book One

by William Kenney

              “Hagan, come join us!” D’Pharin called out from across the dining hall. He and several of the female Councilmembers spun in a wide circle, their hands clasped. The loud chimes of stringed instruments filled the room, echoing from the rough stone walls and punctuated by large, booming drums.

              Hagan had seated himself against a far wall where he, Davaris and Gorin had been involved in a lengthy conversation about the Talon. He found D’Pharin with his eyes and waved him off, producing a frown from his brother. All about them, the place had become nearly a festival, the tables decorated with bright wildflowers and the plates overflowing with victuals. Tall glass vessels of wine stood among the dishes and those in attendance had consumed their share. Despite the coming battle, there were smiles in abundance.

              “Khienen will not give up Harquinn easily. He will surely fight until the last man stands.” Davaris remarked, his posture much improved since Hagan first arrived.

              Hagan frowned.

              “Many of the Talon will fall, Crest. Dark sorcery will burn them to ashes. They refuse even to wear armor.” he said.

              “Yes. They are aware of this. They know the risks involved yet they also know the outcome were Mournenhile to rule. For the good of Kirkaldin, they will give their lives. Surely you remember a similar situation, son?” Davaris said.

              Hagan nodded. He had done the same under the Black Sun. In the same setting, he would do so once more. He knew that to be true. How could he blame the Talon for running so headlong into death? It was all so confusing. Why did so many die in the quest for peace? To avoid death, they die. His mother had tried to reason with him as he left for the war all those years ago. Nothing she said could persuade him to stay. He knew that to save his land and his family he had to fight. How could he have lived with himself had he stood by and watched others die for him? It is a strange compromise. To save those that you love, you must lose yourself and become someone unknown to you. Seeing so much bloodshed changes a person. The pain and death no longer affect you in the same way. Your heart grows numb. Your instincts take over. The instinct to kill.

              “Hmmmm, Hagan?” Gorin said. It was obvious that he had called him more than once.

              “I am sorry, Gorin. I was elsewhere.” Hagan explained, draining his cup of wine.

              “Once inside the Keep, will you accompany me in the search for Windenn?” the Troll asked.

              “Of course, my friend. Let none stand in our way lest they pay with their lives. She will be fine, you will see. Had she more time to control her powers, she would have blasted them all to hell by now.”

              “Yes, hmmmm. She is a feisty one to be sure.” Gorin chuckled deeply and smiled.

              “Let there be no doubt.” Hagan laughed and refilled his cup. He raised it high overhead.

              “To strength and courage in battle. The Wind guide your hand.” he announced.

              “The Wind guide your hand.” replied anyone within earshot of their table and they drank to one another.

              The morning brought a somber mood as the sun crept up over the horizon. D’Pharin had risen early, before first light and wandered out onto the terrace. The Talon were crouched there, their bodies hunched, seemingly asleep. Their great wings covered them from head to foot, enveloping them and keeping out the light. This seemed odd to D’Pharin. Odd and uncomfortable.

              When the strange creatures rose, the wings simply folded back and they stood, eyes facing the sun in a greeting of sorts. They soon gathered into groups, several taking wing and heading for the near forests. Even from far above, he could make out the loud clicking noise that was their communication.

              “Hmmm…”

              Gorin joined him then, handing him a large mug of hot tea. They watched the activity of the Talon together for a moment without speaking. The rays of the sun slowly bathed everything in an orange glow, setting a sparkle to the morning dew.

              “Gorin, how many will die today?” D’Pharin asked, his eyes on the sun.

              “No one can be certain, son. It will be too many, whatever the number. Khienen has revealed his true nature and his kinship with the east. He does not dare give up Harquinn without a bloody fight. His master would not stand for it.”

              D’Pharin sighed.

              “I’m not ready, am I?” he asked. “For battle, I mean? The fight in Elfwhere was nothing compared to this.”

              “You will not know until you are in the midst of it. You have a strong lineage. I am sure you have the hero’s blood within. Do not fear, my friend. I will be at your back if you need me.” Gorin encouraged him.

              They slowly drained their cups, lost in thought; Gorin of his home in Rathnok, D’Pharin of his trembling hands.

              Hagan and Vasp had already met with Davaris and the Red Lion in the upper chamber. Just beyond the borders of Harquinn they would be joined by the Red Lion’s men, some several thousand well-armed soldiers. Near the western wall another contingent lie in wait. At a signal they would scale the wall, throwing Harquinn’s army into chaos. It seemed that a handful of Harquinn’s soldiers were on the side of Davaris and had been appointed important positions on this day. Many that were to guard the western wall were indeed a part of the rebellion. If all went to plan, in very little time the Talon would overwhelm Harquinn’s defenses. Then would come the mages. No matter the strength of claw and beak, sorcery would drive them back. The task would remain with Davaris and the remainder of Councilcrane. Had he the strength? Hagan had tossed all night with this thought.

              He had never known a man of such will and sheer presence. Few could meet his gaze, his intensity was so evident. His physical condition, however, was very poor at the moment. He could scarcely walk without aid of the staff and needed rest often. How could he face down Khienen at his full power? This was all too much.

              Just days ago I hadn’t a care in the world. Now the world is in my care.

              Many hours later they pulled up short near a hilly rise in the landscape, their numbers still hidden from the city. Just over the ridge, Harquinn’s walls would be in plain sight. No doubt, Khienen knew the Talon were there by now. They had to hope he had not learned of their plan at the western wall.

              Hagan let out a long breath. All about him, the winged warriors perched, covering the landscape with multicolored flashes of feather. They eyed the sky nervously, eager to take flight. Davaris sat across from him, crooked staff across his lap and wrinkles upon his brow.

              “Not a sound from Khienen…” he muttered.

              “You find that odd, Crest?” Hagan asked.

              “You do not know him as I do. Ever the showman, he. I half-expected him to shout boasts and challenge us from the battlements.”

              Hagan nodded.

              “This is war. The enemies’ best tactic is to do what is not expected.”

              “Perhaps he knows something we do not.” Davaris said contemplatively.

              “What do you mean?” Hagan asked.

              “It is just a fear I have had. Something nagging at the back of my mind.”

              “Do not worry yourself so, my old friend. We have the force to take the city. It is up to Councilcrane to hold it.”

              Davaris smiled and nodded his head. His eyes held that strength that Hagan remembere
d so well. He still seemed frail of body, however, and Hagan bit his lip with worry.

              Gorin sat with D’Pharin not far from them and studied the horizon. It seemed as if he could see the doom in the east. Somewhere out there Mournenhile waited and planned and worked his dark sorceries. Had he truly returned? That such a being could exist had always amazed him. A thing of pure hate seeking nothing but destruction and the enslavement of all that is good. Now his servants had Windenn and with her vast power, Mournenhile’s siege would be much easier to accomplish.

              Windenn.

              She would be his main purpose. His heart pounded at the thought of her chained somewhere, tortured. Why hadn’t he been able to protect her? He gritted his teeth against the urge to scream.

              His eyes went to young D’Pharin whose hands were visibly trembling as he traced the length of his scabbard.

              Gorin stood and went to his side.

              “Hmmm… a young man’s first battle is a rite of passage. It does not matter, the race, the culture. It is a very important step in one’s journey to wisdom. War is never a good thing, but its test can teach you much about yourself and the hearts of those you fight beside.”

              D’Pharin looked up at the Troll with moist eyes.

              “That doesn’t stop me from wanting to run.” D’Pharin half-laughed.

              “Heh, this is indeed true. I am certain that your brother had a bit of a fright as well in his first moments of combat. It is perfectly natural.”

              “Is it natural to soil one’s self during battle, for I feel that I may.” D’Pharin added with a nervous grin.

              Gorin chuckled, his deep eyes twinkling. “Hmmm, well it is not unheard of…”

              “I miss my home, Gorin. It felt secure and safe. My father is a hard man but I still find myself missing him…”

              “Family bond is a peculiar thing. If a child is treated badly by a parent, that child will still come to that parent seeking love and approval. In youth it seems that love is unconditional.” Gorin remarked.

    “Until we learn the reality of it all. A boy assumes his father can do no wrong.” D’Pharin said, glancing out at the massed troops.

              “Your father is mortal, however and as such, prone to mistakes.”

              There was a long pause.

              “Gorin, do you have children?” asked D’Pharin.

              This brought an uncomfortable moment of silence as Gorin fidgeted and searched for an answer.

              “Hmmm. No, D’Pharin. I have yet to find a lifemate. My size makes it difficult.” he answered drumming his fingers on his knee.

              “I think that inside you are a giant compared to those close-minded fools. Do your women care for what lies beneath the skin?”

              “In Rathnok, we have a very strict and structured community. Without her mother’s and father’s consent, a woman would never approach an unknown suitor. We have many traditions back home that we must follow.” Gorin said.

              “It must be hard to fall in love where you come from.” D’Pharin said, his eyes to the grass.

              “For some of us.” Gorin muttered.

              Shindire and Vasp were in the midst of their own discussion only steps away. It was a heated one and would soon undoubtedly draw the other’s attention.

              “This is foolishness, brother. You fight the minions of Mournenhile to save this human city and those that dwell here. Why? Rejoin your brethren and defend your homeland!” Shindire hissed.

              “You are crossing the line, Shindire. Do not question my decision or force your prejudice on me.” Vasp replied in a low and menacing voice.

              “It is a sad day when Elf aids Man. One step closer to being driven from the land.” she recited.

  “That’s nonsense and you know it!” Vasp said.

  “I will not go. I will not take part in this human war.” she said, crossing her arms in front of her.

  Vasp leaned forward, his face only inches from hers.

  “You will fight, little sister. You will fight or I will kill you myself. Men like these deserve your respect and your loyalty. I would weigh them against any Elven Lord in Kirkaldin. Believe what I say-you will fight.”

  Her eyes were wide and her fists clenched at her side. Her eyes dropped to her feet and her posture sank.

  “Very well, General.” she cursed and wiped his spittle from her chin. “Your orders will be carried out, my Lord.”

  Vasparian turned on his heel and marched off into the ranks.

  She would never admit to being afraid.

  Never.

  The loud bellow of a horn sounded suddenly from within Harquinn. Hagan and the others snapped their weapons from their scabbards prepared for any attack. One of the Talon approached Davaris and spoke quickly in its peculiar tongue. Harsh whistles and slight whispers.

  “It is time, my friends. Khienen’s men line the walls of Harquinn. They know we are here. We will hide no more. Come, let us take what is rightfully ours.”

  Davaris then marched up the hill and stood tall atop it. Stretching his arms skyward, he shouted. Lightning flashed wickedly above him and then the land grew dark. Where the air had been calm before, a hard wind kicked up sending his ivory hair all about his head. He dropped his arms and as one, the Talon took flight. Their wings slapped the air with an ungodly might and those on the ground had to cover their ears for the noise.

  The Red Lion topped the hill as the Talon swept away. With sword in hand, he cried, “For Council and Crest!”

              His men repeated the oath and in flashes of crimson, charged past him toward the city.

              In moments, screams could be heard from the battlements, for the Talon were deadly foes. Soon came the sulfurous odor of mage’s fire. Several groups of Talon were blasted to cinders as Khienen’s council made themselves known, but Councilcrane struck as well, beating them back with fire of their own.

              As had been planned, after their initial attack, many of the Talon fell back and then descended. Grasping one of the land dwellers by the shoulders, they soared over the walls and took them to the ground. Once inside, the chaos began. Khienen tried to control the situation, but his soldiers were soon scattered. Unsure where to go, some ran down to the courtyard and some remained above. At once, high atop the southern tower, Khienen dropped to his knees clutching his head.

              “Get out, damn you! You dare assault me? You do not have the power!” he screamed, veins protruding harshly from his temples. His pain quickly turned to anger and he stood looking in the direction of those members of Councilcrane still hidden beyond the near hill.

              He gritted his teeth and extended his hand toward his unseen attacker.

              “You are no longer.” He gathered his will. “Die.” he called.

              Outside the walls, one of the mages fell to the grass, still. The backlash from Khienen’s counterattack had been too much. Davaris stood near and sighed. He drew his hood over his face and touched his chest.

              “With the Wind, my brother…” he said and walked down the hill.

              “Crest, no. It is too dangerous!” Lorys cried, pulling at his sleeve. “Please wait until the soldiers do their work. Please!”

              Davaris shook her off.

              “The longer I wait, the more will die.” he shouted.

              “You may die
as well.” she said, pleading.

              “Very well. I will not stand and watch.”

              He marched forcefully for the main gate, eyes locked on the tower occupied by Kheinen.

              After the Talon had dropped them across the wall, Hagan and his companions were quickly in the center of fierce combat. Each fought for several moments and finally drew back together, thus far unhurt.

              Gorin glanced over his shoulder toward the heart of the city. Figures ran to and fro across the streets, panicked.

              “Hagan?” he called.

              Hagan knew what the Troll intended.

              “Very well. Take great caution, my friend and go with the Wind.”

              Gorin did not respond. He was off before Hagan had finished. Suddenly, D’Pharin felt very alone. The Troll had promised to protect him, yet he had gone in search of Windenn, leaving him in the heart of danger.

              “Gorin!” he called out. Almost immediately, the Troll had returned with a broad grin.

              “In my haste, I nearly forgot my oath to you, young man! Hagan, I will take D’Pharin with me. I have sworn to watch over him in this battle and cannot break my word.”

              D’Pharin nodded to Hagan his consent. Hagan considered for a moment.

              “Be careful, both of you. Gorin. Guard him well.” Hagan said just as more of Khienen’s men attacked.

              Vasp easily defeated three soldiers as they lurched clumsily toward him. His sword cut three times and no more. His eyes found Shindire in the crowd. She fought hard, short silver blade in hand. He moved to her side and dispatched another attacker.

              There was a loud clamor of metal, shouts, and then Hagan joined them.

              “These soldiers are unprepared. This is far to easy.” Vasparian remarked. Above them, on the walls, Khienen’s men turned tail and as one, retreated. The Talon followed closely behind with beaks and claws.

              Just then, another horn sounded from the vicinity of Councilkeep.

              “What is that?” Hagan asked.

              For a moment, nothing changed, then the ground began to shake. A low rumbling, like that of thunder, moved their way.

             

              Davaris stood before the outer wall, at the great iron gate and glared. His strength new no bounds. His magic tingled through his arms and flitted about his fingertips with a bluish glow. He had seen this gate erected and supervised its construction many years ago. Now he would see it fall.

              At his own hands.

              A deafening crack filled the air like a great tree ripped asunder. Blue smoke and the smell of ozone filled the area, flickers of electricity slowly dying as the immense doors groaned and fell to the side. Davaris stepped forward and passed through the opening where the gate had stood.

              Clashing soldiers parted as he made his way slowly and deliberately inside. He did not stop, heading straight for his destination.

              His home.

              Councilkeep.

             

  Gorin tossed the guards like dolls at the doors to the keep. Behind him, D’Pharin marveled at his strength. A man could never be that powerful.

              With a single kick, the doors flew open and they rushed inside. A dozen men ran at them, weapons drawn. Gorin threw one arm out and toppled seven of them. A spearhead shattered on his chest, its wielder grasping his stunned arm. Gorin crushed his ribcage with his fist.

              Unable to overtake the Stone Troll, a handful of men leapt at D’Pharin. Lightly stepping back, he parried two attacks, spun and caught one guard in the eye. Spinning again, he slashed down hard, severing an arm from another.

              A boot came from nowhere and slammed into his belly, doubling him over. A heavy-set guard raised an axe above his head and swung it. At the last moment, D’Pharin threw himself backward as the axe head glanced off the floor. He kicked the man violently in the nose, the blood splatter blinding its owner, and finished him with a lunge to the throat.

              D’Pharin stood back, for the moment free of attackers and grinned. Other than the mild remnant of pain in his chest, he seemed ready for combat.

  That wasn’t half-bad.

  Then he was struck from behind in the head and fell to his knees, stunned. He heard Gorin roar and felt a body fall next to him. Stone hands helped him to his feet.

  “Hmmm. There is your first lesson. Celebrate when the battle is done. Were I not here, you would be dead. Understand?” Gorin asked.

  D’Pharin simply nodded groggily. His vision was blurred and his head throbbed.

  “Now to the dungeons.” Gorin said and dragged him along beside him.

  Soon, they descended several flights of stone steps. Gorin had taken a torch from the wall and lit it, casting an orange circle of light about them. Beyond the torch’s reach was naught but midnight black.

  They heard voices below them, perhaps two flights down, but none of them belonged to Windenn.

  “The torch light will give us away. There cannot be more than twenty of them.” Gorin said quietly and handed the torch to him.

  “How will you see?” D’Pharin asked.

  “I am a Stone Troll from Rathnok, D’Pharin. The torch was for you.” said Gorin with a broad smile. “Wait here. I will call to you when my work is done.”

  D’Pharin nodded in embarrassment and the Troll disappeared into the inky darkness.

  In no time, the sound of a scuffle drifted up to him. It didn’t last long and soon he heard Gorin’s call. With torch held high, he made his way down several score steps and met the Troll at the bottom. The place was fairly well lit and in every corner of this small room lie a heap of guardsmen. In one wall, an impression had been made in the stone roughly the size of a man’s head.

  “Wind.” D’Pharin gasped. “That is something I will never be able to do.”

  Directly in front of them stood a door with a large metal lock. Gorin wrapped a massive hand around it and squeezed until it crumbled. He tossed it to the side and pushed the door inward.

              All was pitch black in front of them.

              They walked cautiously into a long, low hallway carved from the earth. On either side was a row of iron doors with small windows of rusted bars. The hall seemed to continue as far as Gorin could see.

              “Which one is it?” D’Pharin asked, his voice echoing eerily down the corridor.

              “Windenn?” Gorin called out. D’Pharin grimaced at the loudness of the word.

              No reply.

              “Windenn! It is Grimandin. Where are you, child?” he called out again. Before the echoes had died, a sound behind them spun them on their heels. One of the guards was coming to.

              Gorin stepped back into the guardroom and drew the man up roughly by the neck. The man’s hair was wet with blood and cheeks severely bruised.

              “Where is she?” he asked. The room shook with the force of his voice.

              The man quivered.

              “Where’s who?” he replied.

              “Where is the woman, Windenn? You know of whom I speak, muckhog.”

              The man looked into the great Troll’s face and found no compassion there. Yet he held his tongue.

              “You will show me, vermin.”

              The man shook uncontrollably.r />
              “I dare not. Khienen is the eyes of Mournenhile himself. Do you know what he would do to me? Do you?”

              “Yes. And do you know what I am about to do to you? I will drive my fist through your chest and crush your heart slowly to mush.” Gorin whispered.

              “Wind, no!” the man howled, tears streaming down his face.

              “Do not speak that name, servant of the east. You are not fit!”

              Gorin lowered the man to the floor and shoved him into the corridor. He staggered a few steps forward, looked back once.

              “This way.” he said reluctantly. He led them many paces down the passage and turned to the north. The corridor descended at a gentle slope and finally leveled off. At the third cell on the west wall, the guard stopped. He reached to his belt and withdrew a large ring of keys. He soon found the one he searched for and poked at the keyhole. He was shaking in such a way that he could not drive it home.

              “Move aside!” Gorin yelled and pulled the door from its hinges with a groan.

              “Windenn! Windenn, I am here!” he shouted, but there was no response. He stepped hesitantly into the dank cell and D’Pharin joined him, torch held high. As they scanned the room from one side to the other, it was soon obvious that it was utterly unoccupied.

              Gorin growled and lowered his eyes. D’Pharin’s horrified tone snapped him once more to attention.

              “Wind, no…Gorin.” he whispered.

              The Troll’s eyes rose to where the torchlight shone on the wet stone wall. Scrawled there upon the rough surface in blood was a short message.

              I have gone.

              The letters were still fresh it seemed.

              Gorin snapped. With an insane howl, he leapt through the doorway and snapped the guard up, hand on throat. Eye to eye, he growled into the trembling man’s face. “What have you done to her, worm? That is her blood. Is she dead?”

              The man went limp, no longer struggling. All hope within him faded.

              “I swear to you… she was livin’ when we left her. Some of the lads knocked her about but-I know she weren’t dead …”

              “Silence!” Gorin screamed. “Where in the deep is she?”

              “What?” the man asked, trying his best to peer around Gorin’s immense head. “What do ye mean?”

              “She’s not here, you fool.” D’Pharin explained as Gorin threw the guard down within the cell.

              “What? Wait -where did she go? Oh, Wind. Khinenen’s sure to have us all boiled in oil.” he stammered.

              Gorin stood confused. He slowly walked to the wall. The bloody sentence stood out harshly.

              I have gone.

              He fell to his knees, the dirt floor shaking from the impact and lightly ran his fingers along the graceful letters there. He let his forehead fall to the wall and quietly wept.

              “Windenn, where are you, girl? I am too late. By the Wind, I am too late to save you.”

   

   

   

              Both friend and foe stepped aside as Davaris strode through the gates outside of the keep and into the vicious fray. None dared approach him for in his eyes was a white-hot fire. It seemed that even the dull smoke and haze parted as well as the mage made his way toward the keep itself.

              He stepped through the ruined doorway and walked to the center of the circular mosaic that covered the floor. The clusters of fighting soldiers unconsciously moved away and took their battles into the long halls that ran into the heart of the fortress.

              “Khienen!” he shouted and all within the sound of his voice recoiled in pain. Sorcery ran along the word as he screamed it and the fabric of reality seemed to splinter for a heartbeat.

              Hagan, Vasp and Shindire stood in awe at the mage. All frailty, all signs of weakness had vanished. What remained was power.

              “Hagan, look there.” Vasparian said and motioned to the opposite side of the entry hall. A large force of guards burst through one of the corridors and charged toward them, three-score strong. They avoided the wrath of Davaris and held to the wall as they came. The white-haired wizard paid them no mind as they passed, his only concern being the traitor Khienen.

              “We are too far outnumbered. We must flee.” the Wood Elf called, the dozen men behind them looking to Hagan nervously. Hagan nodded, then Shindire led the way down the hall at a sprint. They navigated several turns and reached a wide set of stone steps. Behind them came the sounds of close pursuit.

              “Go!” Hagan called. He knew these steps led to the roof and that his choice had been wrong but they had little alternative. They took the steps two at a time, their weapons clattering as they ran. Many flights later and they had gained the roof.

              They had emerged at the highest part of the keep, a low wall barely waist high separated them from a fatal fall to the courtyard far below. They had ample room to move, but no escape route.

              They gathered into a rough circle and faced the stairway.

              “Alright. Let us see what you men have in your souls. There is no second chance. We live here or we die here.” Hagan shouted, his face now slick with sweat.

              “Hold together and watch each other’s backs!” Vasparian called out. He glanced at Shindire and she met his eyes. She was visibly frightened, her lip shaking.

              The stairway erupted suddenly and guards poured forth, a torrent of shouts and steel. They were on them quick, smelling of sweat and leather. Their initial lunge sent Hagan and the others back several steps, dangerously close to the roof’s edge. They fought back hard, beating away the stabbing blades, forcing themselves forward into the enemy.

              “Give no more ground!” Vasp cried out, his sword passing through the ribs of his opponent. To his left, he saw sudden motion and turned to look.

              Then, their left flank collapsed, sending man over man. Chaos exploded, both sides suddenly split down the middle.

              Hagan heard the cries of men falling from the wall, but he could not tell if they were his or Khienen’s.

              A splatter of blood hit his face as the soldier to his right took a lethal blow to the head.

              This is useless. Our formation is broken. I have to-

              Just then, he saw Shindire. Six of the enemy had her up against the wall. She was off balance and close to going over the edge. Her left leg was bloody and she slumped as she fought them back.

              No!

              Hagan ducked under the shaft of a jabbing spear and dove away in her direction. He could hear her blade slicing through the air, occasionally meeting steel and flesh. More men joined in the attack, pressing her farther. Her breath was coming fast and loud and Hagan knew she did not have much time. He caught one of the attackers in the back of the neck with the pommel of his sword and kicked another aside. He fell against the wall at Shindire’s side and spun to meet Khienen’s men. As he turned, a large man wielding a broadsword lunged in with a wild fury. He threw himself between Hagan and the Elf and blocked Hagan’s view of her. He heard her cry out.

              “No!” she screamed.

              He’s throwing her over. Wind, no.

              He thrust his blade into the man’s midsecti
on and vaulted over his body just as Shindire was forced over the low wall. Her wide eyes met his, her arms flailing at the air and her legs went out from under her. Hagan hurled himself toward her, continuing to fend off blows with one hand. The reaching fingers of his other hand barely wrapped themselves in her shirt just below the neckline.

              “I’ve got you!” he said.

              The weight of her body pulled him roughly and suddenly up against the wall, knocking the breath from his chest and wrenching his arm nearly from the socket. Shindire screamed in fear. Far below, the sound of her dagger could be heard hitting the cobblestones.

              Khienen’s men attacked then, viciously. Hagan fought on, holding Shindire with one arm and swinging his sword with the other.

              “Hagan, don’t let me go. Hagan…” he heard her cry.

              Never. I will not let her go. If I have to die here, I will hold on until I fall.

              Metal rang on metal, blades darting in and out all about him, yet he fought them back for what seemed like ages. Sweat ran into his eyes and his right arm was on fire. He fought on. The anger of his attackers was increasing as Hagan successfully avoided their weapons. It became like a dream in slow - motion. He saw nothing but his enemies’ blades and evaded them all, his vision narrowed to the space directly in front of him.

              Then a sword found home.

              Searing pain shot through his thigh and dropped him nearly to his knees. Shindire called out as the jolt sent her swinging against the wall. Hagan quickly regained his feet, but he knew it was hopeless. No one could hold off such an attack with one arm. He could not defend himself against so many.

              Then several of Hagan’s men jumped into the fray, screaming, “Hail, Harquinn!” and the enemy turned to face these new foes. Hagan threw his sword to the roof and reached for Shindire with the other hand. She gripped his wrists and pleaded to him with her eyes, her face ghostly pale. With everything he had, against his screaming arm, he pulled. The muscles in his back and neck knotted like rock. With much struggle, he finally pulled her back to the roof. After checking her for serious wounds, he collapsed against the wall. She fell next to him and buried her face in her hands, weeping openly.

  Hagan’s trousers were soaked with blood and his right arm was all but useless. He closed his eyes and laid his head back, longing for an end to the pain. All went black for a moment as if he were sinking in a cool, flowing river. The current gently tugging at his consciousness. Just as suddenly, the harsh sounds of battle snapped him awake and the agony returned two-fold.

              He heard Vasparian shouting orders to the men.

              “To me! Hail the Red Lion!”

              Red Lion? So that’s what turned the tide.

              Then, Vasparian was running to him, a look of worry on his face.

              “Hagan? Hagan, are you wounded, my old friend?”

              “Vasp,” Hagan croaked. “Stop shouting. I’m still here. My leg…” Blood seeped between his fingers where he gripped his upper thigh.

              The Elf looked closer with an expression of concern.

              “It is deep, Hagan. You need a healer. Now.”

              “Just tie it off, Vasp. Stop the bleeding for now. Davaris needs us.”

              Vasp shook his head in disapproval. He tore a long piece of leather from his scabbard and wound it around Hagan’s leg, pulling it tight. Hagan winced, pounding a fist into the stone of the roof next to him. He noticed Shindire, still crying into her hands.

              He reached out to her and put an arm around her shoulders. She stiffened at first and then relaxed into his arms, putting her head to his chest.

              “You’re alright. It’s over, Shindire. Just relax…” he said calmly.

              She did not respond, only sniffled into his shirt.

              “Vasp. Help me up.”

              Vasparian pulled both of them to their feet and grumbled something to himself. Khienen’s men had been driven back down the steps to the keep. Many of Hagan’s group had fallen, some at the end of a blade, others upon the cobblestones below.

   

   

   

              “I am here, Davaris.” Khienen’s voice called out as he stepped from a dark hallway and into the room. “There is no need to shout. After all, in your weakened condition, you may expire.” He flashed a wicked grin and took a step forward.

              “You are within the fortress that I designed and had built many years ago. This is my home.” Davaris said in a calm tone.

              “No longer. This entire city now belongs to the east and to Mournenhile. You and yours have no hope. Flee while you can, Crest. Mournenhile does not take prisoners.” Khienen said, standing proudly, staff in hand.

              “Khienen. How did one such as you, strong, proud, how did you become a slave to darkness? He controls you now. You have become a pathetic lap - dog with-“

              “Silence!” Khienen shouted and the keep shook. There at Davaris’ feet, cracks grew in the floor and surrounded him, stone grating on stone.

              Wind and Ashes. His power has become awesome.

              “You must be destroyed, Khienen.” Davaris said. “I regret that, in the past, I have called you friend. I was blinded. Now you grovel at the feet of your master.”

              Khienen smiled.

              “Old man, can you not see the limitless power that he commands? With a word, I have shattered the floor around you. One word. Not a spell. A word. I drew no power from my staff to aid me. What will happen when I do? How easily you will fall, defeated. Lying dead in the very keep you once ruled.”

              “I pity you.” Davaris replied shaking his head. “You have been corrupted and with that corruption, stricken blind as I was by you. Once you have outlived your usefulness, you will be discarded. The power is not yours to keep. You must know that.”

              “I will outlive you!” Khienen screamed and thick fingers of lightning burst forth, striking Davaris in the chest, throwing him to the far wall. He lie there a moment, the front of his robe smoldering, fighting back the agonizing pain.

   

   

   

              The earth shook, sending Gorin and D’Pharin nearly to the floor. The Troll helped D’Pharin to his feet, brushing dirt from the back of his shirt.

              “The mage’s battle has begun. We must get back upstairs quickly!” Gorin said, bounding up the steps. D’Pharin ran behind him, torch held high.

              Twice more they were forced to their knees by the rumbling of the keep, small stones falling from the walls and ceiling then bouncing down the steps past them.

              A group of soldiers ran headfirst into Gorin as he rounded a corner. They stopped and brandished their weapons, hesitating.

              “Run away, little men. I have no time to play.” stated Gorin with a growl, his eyes intense.

              As one, the soldiers bolted, running chaotically back the way they had come, some dropping their weapons altogether.

              Gorin and D’Pharin ran into the hall, covering their eyes as Magefire assaulted their vision, flashing in all directions. The Troll noticed the smoke wafting from Davaris chest and frowned.

              I must help him. He must not fall.

   

   

   

 
            Davaris’ forehead felt as if it would burst, the fire within pressing outward like a swollen river.

              Wind. Never have I been attacked so. Can I defeat him? Has Mournenhile grown so strong?

              From within, Davaris drew on the power of his staff. He could feel the heat flow into his palm and up his arm. He had always loved the ecstasy of Magefire.

              I will not die on my back.

   

              “Ar’ Vaenen Iraene-bre!

              Ea sar’ Vaenen iraend’ess!

              From the Wind, I was created!

              And through the Wind, destroy!”

   

              Instantly, he was on his feet, arms outstretched. The room filled with an intense light, comforting at first, then wrenching at Khienen’s insides.

              Khienen doubled over, holding his stomach, clenching his teeth. A trickle of blood dribbled from his ear and soaked his shoulder.

              “Davaris…” he hissed.

              “I will not stand by and watch his dark fist crush this world.” Davaris said, walking toward his enemy. “There truly is no hope of steering you off of this path you have chosen?”

              “No, Davaris. I choose to live. Without Mournenhile, life is short.”

              Davaris thrust his staff out before him and shouted, the force of it sending those within the room smashing into the walls. Many perished instantly, friend and foe. His will could be felt by all in his presence, a crushing entity pressing hard upon their minds, forcing them to the ground.

              White fire erupted from the floor along the newly formed cracks and like a snake it swiftly traced its way back to Khienen, setting his robes afire.

              The dark wizard laughed as he was engulfed, obviously unaffected.

              “You do not understand, old man.” he said, his face ghostly behind the sorcerous fire. “Through Mournenhile, I have evolved far beyond your reach. I have been given Mournenhile’s gift. The gift of blood. And though you may be the Crest of Councilcrane… Your blood is weak!”

   

   

   

              Blood.

              Something nudged at Gorin’s mind. He was missing something. He knew it. There must be a way to help the Crest but magic was something the Stone Trolls of Rathnok knew nothing of.

  Like a great cat, Khienen shot through the air and tackled Davaris, falling to the floor on top of him. The flames swallowed them both in a burst of unearthly light.

  The agony inside of the Crest was unbearable, as if his soul was pierced by countless blades. He knew nothing but pain, could see nothing but empty white. A tortured howl came out of him as he began to lose consciousness.

  Distraught, Gorin lowered his eyes to the floor and just caught a glimpse of his hands, still wet with Windenn’s blood.

              Windenn’s blood.

              The Stone Troll charged forward into the room and dove at the mages. With all of the might given him, he drove his hand into the white fire that surrounded them. Every muscle burned as he fought the magical resistance.

              Pain! Wind, the pain!

              He stretched his fingers, reaching.

              Agghhh! Push!

              Nearly there. For an eternity he forced his hand into their midst as if through the current of the mightiest river. At last his fingers grasped Davaris’ staff.

              A deafening blast of energy threw the Troll across the room, clear of the battle.

              Many moments passed and he did not move.

              Wind. Am I alive?

              He finally lifted his head and looked for the mages.

              Both stood, feet at the edge of the mosaic, facing one another. Khienen’s face held a new expression, one of doubt and fear.

              “Yes, Khienen. The blood of the very one you held prisoner, Mournenhile’s prize, will now destroy you.” Davaris announced.

              “No. How …?” Khienen asked and moved as if to flee. “I forbade the guards to draw blood! Mournenhile bade me cherish each drop. Save it for him. Her power and that of my master will be invincible! I must use her now to defeat you. My master must understand.”

              He ran toward the hall that led to the dungeons below.

              “No, Khienen.”

              Khienen pulled up short and spun to face the Crest, his face contorted in fear and confusion.

              “She has gone.”

              Khienen laughed but it was full of desperation. “What? No. She is below in chains. I put her there myself.” he stammered.

              “No. Her power has saved her, taking her far from here. Far from you or your dark master.” Davaris stated calmly. “I feel her. She is very much alive, but so very far away.”

              “It cannot be. She is but a child, unable to understand-“

              “The power of the Wind, Khienen. It has kept her from harm and spirited her away.” Davaris said.

              And somehow Khienen knew it to be true. He searched the keep with his mind and found no trace of Windenn. All hope quickly left him. Fear soon gave way to anger and one thought came into focus.

  Kill the Crest.

  He launched a vicious attack, staff held high above his head. Black arms of sorcery sought out Davaris but could not approach him, instead it faded as it drew near.

              Davaris shone as bright as the sun, the Wind’s power filling him completely. He closed his eyes and smiled, cherishing the feeling, the Wind within him. When he opened his eyes again, they were aglow with one purpose. He had to remove this servant of Mournenhile.

              “Come, dog.” he said and Khienen’s feet began to slide across the floor, pulling him toward the Crest. Khienen turned and fell to the floor, his fingers searching for a hold, but nothing could stop his forward motion.

              “No! Davaris, no! Release me! Mournenhile will devour your soul for this! No!” he screamed.

              Khienen stopped at Davaris’ feet. The Crest looked at him with something akin to pity. Khienen raised his face to Davaris, his cheeks now wet with tears.

              “I beg of you, my Crest. I was seduced…”

              Davaris placed a hand gently on Khienen’s head and brushed the hair from his eyes.

              “Poor soul. Yours is a story that has played itself out so many times.” He briefly smiled.

  “Now your story must come to an end.”

              Khienen’s eyes popped open.

              “Crest, no!” he begged.

              White flames caressed Khienen’s face, then, tracing its lines and encircling his skull. It then drove inward. His mouth went wide and his body went rigid. It was apparent that he struggled for a moment, arms and legs flailing. His fingers clawed at his eyes. His body suddenly straightened and then went limp. Davaris let him fall to the floor.

  As the body settled, war drums suddenly thundered outside the walls of Harquinn.