Chapter 6 - Ambush in the Hills

A line of elves rode single file along a narrow path in the hills near the keep where the king of Bordeia had been rumored to be staying. There wore black and their thin bodies were easily hidden in the shadows of the trees that lined the small creek beside which the path ran. They had grim, cold faces and were obviously set to completing a mission of some kind.

At the lead was a somewhat taller elf, reaching about the middle chest of a normal man. He had long black hair and wore a thin metal helmet, colored with ornate designs. His olive skin stood out next to the black that tinted most of his armor. His black eyes were deep caverns in his face. He slowed his small horse to a stop at the opening of a clearing in the trees, a spot where the trees opened up a bit and the water of the river pooled into a shallow pond.

He motioned with his right hand for the twenty riders behind him to stop. They did with an almost clockwork efficiency. He looked a round and listened for a little, even smelled the air, before he slowly proceeded into the clearing. The other riders circled around him as he rounded his mount in the center of the grassy clearing.

“Riders of Treesoul, listen to me,” he said in a quiet, yet firm voice. “We are coming closer and closer every hour to the place where the Bordeians are making their war camp. We must be extra careful as we get closer. We will stop here for a short rest. Do not light nay fires and I want a few of you sharper eyed scouts to walk a short perimeter along the tops of those hills there,” he said, motioning to either side of the tight, steep hills that encased the tiny crevasse they were in. “Please report back to me if you see anything. That is all.”

With those final words he jumped down from his horse, as did all the rest of the riders, and he quickly rummaged through a pack in search of some food. Around him, elves of various sizes were doing the same. Small packets of dried meat and hard bread were removed and the group quickly launched into a midday lunch. Along the ridge of the hills, scouts were already reconnoitering, scanning the area for their mission’s quest: the roaming army of Bordeians that had attacked the villages near their forest home only the night before.

Though the elves of Treesoul lived in what was considered by men to be Bordeian land, they did not see it the same way. Having existed there many years before there were any Bordeians, or men for that matter, they saw themselves as the rightful owners of the land they lived in and rode over. These men were merely outnumbering them, not ruling them. Even that would soon come to an end.

A scout quickly ran down the ridge to where the elf who had spoken to the group of riders now sat.

“Kerraugh, the group we are looking for is heading south towards the keep, coming to the bridge that lays just ahead on the path. We can cut them off there if we choose to.”

Kerraugh sat, chewing on his meager lunch and looked for a while at the scout, and then away at the ridge of the hill, where the other scouts were descending the hill now. They had seen that the news had already been reported and now made their way to where the two were talking.

“I think that is a good plan, Spira. We will leave momentarily.”

He stood up and motioned for the rest of the scouts to leave him. Then, mounting his horse, he spoke softly, yet loudly again to the rest of the war party.

“Riders, we will meet the invaders at the ancient bridge of Dhore, as it is just ahead on the path. They are coming now, so we must leave immediately.” He allowed his horse to make a small, quick circle in the direction of the path for flair, and then continued. “Tonight we will feast at home knowing we have begun the retaliation that our fathers should have put into motion many ages ago. These invaders will stand their ground no more.”

With that he sped for the path while the rest of the riders quickly stuffed food into packs and jumped into saddles, making little hiccups of calls. They were not loud enough to attract attention, but clear enough to be heard by the rest of the riders, encouraging them to ride without fear to deal with this enemy.

The clear day made visibility easy and the riders moved quickly down the path to the bridge of Dhore, where many of their ancient brothers had fought off aggressors, stopped wars and made treaties. This spot was holy to the riders, as well as to their people.

It was the perfect spot to do battle with those that sought to unseat them from their home.

The bridge at Dhore was at the bottom of a high hill, coming of the foothills to the north. The Bordeians would eventually crest the hill and make their way down the long slope to where the bridge and the hidden elves were waiting for them. The road to the bridge was in a clear path of grass, with trees to both sides, but far enough away to make the riders feel comfortable. Not that that they knew they were being trailed, anyway. This attack was truly going to be a surprise.

The line of soldiers came over the hill, the reconnaissance riders out front on horses, and the rest of the small group coming up behind them. The elves stood their ground, hidden in the woods and tall grass around the bridge. The soldiers coming down the hill suspected nothing.

As they neared the bottom of the hill, the elves stepped out quickly from the trees in formation, knelt on one knee and let a string of arrows fly, all in the time it takes to bat away a fly. They began falling over and slumping in their saddles, dropping into the road and dying under the hooves of the horses behind them. After one volley of arrows came another, then another, then another. The men of the Bordeian army were caught unawares and now paid the penalty of security, falling everywhere and dying quickly.

Blood flowed in long thin rivers in the dust of the road, mingling with dirt and becoming mud. Men tried to pull themselves up and defend themselves as the rest of the elven war party began walking through their midst but nothing could help them. The red mud smeared them and they saw only red and brown before their heads were hacked from their shoulders. There were cries and moans from those that still waited for their coming death.

Kerraugh watched from his mount, now in the open, standing on the Bridge of Dhore. He surveyed the group that his men were killing, trying to find any of the enemy that might be trouble for them later; royalty, high-ranking officials, sons of kings were all trouble when they were killed for the wrong reasons. Even when killed in battle they could be trouble. There were none on those. He would not have to worry about the repercussions of a royal feud with this attack. That was lucky.

Kerraugh motioned for one of his warriors to come over him. He had an idea.

“I want you to find the head of the lead soldier,” he said. “We will return it to the keep and the kind inside it to remind him that we do not approve of his being in our lands.”

“A strong message, Kerraugh,” said the elf, a warrior named Konn. He was taller than the rest and very strong. His muscles rippled under his chain mail shirt. “I know the man already,” he said and then turned and walked over to a body near the bridge. Drawing out his sword, he swung down very quickly and severed the head from the body on the ground, lifting it by its bloodied hair and carrying it back to Kerraugh.

“Here is the head you requested. Shall I bring it to the Bordeians?”

“Please do, Konn,” said Kerraugh. “This will get their attention,” he said out loud, almost more to himself than to anyone else.

Konn turned around sauntered back to his horse, putting the head in a bag that hung from the side of the animal. It sagged limply, forming a scarlet spot that grew on the bottom of the bag, staining the flank of the animal.

Konn looked up and they locked gazes. They understood each other. Though this was not the normal behavior of Elves, chopping off heads and ambushing groups of soldiers, they both knew that a new day had dawned and that it was time to make a statement to those that would rage constant war against them. This was a move to gain respect and attention. Their motives would not be misunderstood.

Konn rounded his mount and then set off towards the keep. Kerraugh watched him go and then dismounted to survey the rest of the slaughter in closer detail, sure that when this slaughter was found, the message they were sending would be correctly understood. He did not desire war for his people, but he was not about to stand aside and allow them to be forced out of their homes, either. This aggressor from the south seemed determined to do just that, stopping at nothing for total domination.

Kerraugh knew, why, though. This was a son of the old kings of Bordeia, the oldest kingdom in the world that he knew of. They were used to ruling and fighting, and there had been a time when they had ruled all of the continent. Now they did not, and very likely would not again, unless they took it back. It had been 500 years since they had ruled the kingdoms of the world as one. Now, in the ensuing 500 years, they had consistently found themselves on the losing end of battles and land disputes, which is hard to take for a country so surrounded by other nations. That all changed, however, when the father of the present king came into power and began a lifetime of fighting and conquering that his son now carried on for himself.

Kerraugh watched the grim battlefield as the last of the men were finally killed. It had been surprisingly easy. He knew that it was time to put an end to this king while he still had time, and the thought chilled his heart.

Chapter 5 - The Journey South Continues

Somehow, leaving home felt permanent.

Amon had been up early on the morning after Arnyia had delivered her message, setting out just after the sun rose on the east side of the green valley, turning the corner of the river in his canoe and leaving his cottage behind. He didn’t know why, but Amon knew that he would not see the little cottage again for a long time. Something in his leaving felt permanent.

It didn’t bother him, but he felt as if he were leaving behind memories that wanted to come with him, the ghosts of a past he had spent many years burying. He set himself to paddling south, towards Town and the circle of elders who had a message for him. They also, he assumed, had many difficult duties for him to attend to. Nothing they assigned to people was pleasant.

As he made the turn in the river, passing through the thick evergreen canopy of trees and poplars, the walls of the small cavern rose up around him as his house slipped completely out of view. The valley stretched out before him. A little below and sloping up all around the sides, he could see the green waves of trees and hills rising and falling like an ocean of pine and evergreens. It was a great emerald set in the ringlet of a massive, grey jewel. The clouds hugged the sides of the mountains, mist sweeping and falling down the sides of the slopes like a great bunch of white moss on an ancient rock.

This was the only world Amon, or any of the Norternvalar, knew. It was a world that was completely self-contained and hidden. They knew the mountains were more ancient than anything alive, and that they had watched over the green valley for as many years as there were in the world. To the people of the valley, the mountains and the trees were the signs of all time, the past and the future. They were timeless symbols of what the world should be, despite the wars that raged around them outside the valley.

It would be midday before Amon reached the Town, and his thoughts raced with what might have been the real message for him. What did Arnyia know, or what had she been not allowed to tell him? The council rarely sent its messengers to ask for assistance without giving the one being called some inkling of the task that was going to be requested of them. In fact, they did not often call upon the people of the valley to do things for them, being a fairly self-sufficient group of businessmen and upstanding citizens of the valley society. It was only in the skills of hunting, tracking or fighting that they had ever requested help. And, those were very rare occurances.

Perhaps he would be sent to find out what was really going on in the world beyond the valley. Maybe they were planning to move the Town deeper into the forest and hills, for fear that the armies outside their world would invade and take away what they had worked so many centuries to gain.

No, that would be far too much work and the cowardly act of a frightened nation.

War was without any mercy in taking the possessions of those that got in its way, but the people of the valley were not easily intimidated. However, it was also true that they were not often challenged. Not that an action of that sort had never been talked about. It’s just that no one had ever really considered it seriously. Politics and battle were a sticky business and Amon was glad that he had no part in any of it.

Amon deftly angled the canoe out of the way of a large boulder that was jutting up in the water. The canoe easily went around it.

Arnyia had said that there were rumors of spies and people lurking around the valley that people had not seen before. Maybe he would be asked to go find out what people had seen and report this back to the elders’ council. A little scouting was not uncommon in these kinds of requests, rare though they were. At least that wouldn’t mean having to leave the valley. People didn’t like being asked questions, though. He had been on the other end of local disputes about stolen livestock before, and accusations were one of the few things that brought out the ugly side of the people of the valley. Questioning and insinuations of guilt were where the thin veneer of calm cracked.

It could be anything, though, so he would listen first before he made any decision to go somewhere far from home, if that was indeed what they intended for him. He still could not escape the fact that he felt he would not see home for many years. There was a deep aching inside him, the kind of gnawing you have when you are very tired and your body hums with the moaning of weariness. It was a feeling that something difficult and painful was to be expected from himself and the future. It felt like an old wound that had healed many years ago was aching with muscle memory, the way old wounds sometimes will. Is body was trying to remind of him the pain of many battles, the teeth of many stitches. Yet, this wound had not yet been inflicted. Those battles were yet to come, if they ever came at all.

Amon feared, somewhere deep inside, where he could not recognize the emotion, that this wound would be the loss of everything he had known in his life.

The day grew warmer, though it was nearing the end of the Summer, and he stopped by the side of the river to eat some of the bread and hard cheese he had brought along with him for the journey to Town. He knew he would stay at least one night in Town and so he didn’t bother to bring food for a return journey. His older brother could supply that from the great many supplies he had stored away in the various pantries of his home.

In fact, though he feared never returning, he had taken very little with him except for his bow and a small sword that he always brought when he traveled anywhere. The sword had been given to him by his father when he became a man and it was his most treasured possession. His father had found it, he said, on a long journey when he had been sent away by the same council Amon was journeying south to see. He had gone to the outside world at a time when Amon was very young. A year or so after he had gone away, he came home and gave Amon, his younger son, the sword which Amon now carried wherever he went. He sharpened it and oiled the blade so often that it still looked as if it had been just given to him that morning. There were no nicks on the blade, and the leather of the handle, though quite old, had the appearance of never being used. In truth, there was only one time in his life when Amon had been forced to use it, but that had been a long time ago.

He became drowsy after eating, in part due to the sun’s heat and in part due to an early morning. After wrestling with the idea in his mind, he decided to take a short nap before journeying on, resting his head against a fallen log in a patch of some grass a little bit up from the riverbank. He had not slept well the night before and his body began to remember the weariness of a night spent without sleep. Amon struggled for a moment under the bumpy log and then relaxed, finding a comfortable spot.

It wasn’t long before he drifted into comfortable blackness…

Chapter 3 - The Problem With Being King

Pacing the halls of the his large, cavernous keep, Paltor thought about the wars and the way they had been going lately and he was unhappy. Bordeia had waged a solid, well thought out, tactical war against various northern kingdoms for a number of years now, more than a decade, and nothing had really come of it. The boundary lines had moved this way and that in a few places, and a few more slaves than normal had been drawn from the less fortunate of the cities that had dared to stand up to the Bordeian army, but nothing of real value had come their way.

Certainly not what he had been really looking for all along.

Paltor felt as if something was standing against him, opposing him and his war. Maybe the gods were unhappy. But, as there were so many gods, and since Bordeia hedged their bets by continually sacrificing and honoring a large number of them, he couldn’t assume that they were in bad standing. For what it was worth, despite being the aggressor in this war, Bordeia was only looking out for its interests, and he as king was only looking out for the interests of his people. Sure, he obviously stood to make a rather large fortune by gaining more land. And, due to the various family rivalries inherent with maintaining a millennium-long family legacy, much of his family’s collective fortune had been depleted over time through conspiracy and greed. He could replenish that fortune for the throne with these wars. But, beyond all of that, he was increasing the wealth of his people. Bordeians would be the richest people in the world when he achieved his goal.

What else were kings supposed to do?

Paltor was tall, muscular and fairly good looking, as kings went. The inbred family line had produced some very odd looking relatives in past years, but he had come out on the more traditionally handsome side of things. It was no secret that behind closed doors, King Paltor was very popular with more than a few ladies of the court, much to his wife’s chagrin. But, as king, he assumed, he had rights that other men did not. Who would tell him that he couldn’t, anyway?

His wife, Feria, was also his cousin, and he had grown tired of her watchful eye very early in their relationship, not long after the betrothal of the two had been announced when they were 13 and 11, respectively. By now, at age 35, he basically hated her and did what he could to make her angry, though he knew he could never divorce her. In fact, in Bordeia, most people had never heard of the concept of divorce. As things always go in the world, only the truly rich and decadent know about what happens in the world beyond the day’s-ride radius of their front doors. Paltor wished he could introduce the concept to Bordeia, but being a king meant pleasing the people as much as it did ruling them. Sometimes a king was more trapped than his people understood. He knew he was stuck with her.

Pacing his room in the keep was becoming tiring, so Paltor sat down on one of his many long couches. The keep was not his home; just a place to stay while they planned the next phase of the war. It was a very old keep, as old as the country itself, nearing a millennium of use, he guessed. How was he supposed to wage a proper war with a nagging wife and constant court controversies circling around him? He shook his head in frustration and closed his eyes for a few minutes.

How to win this war, and, beyond that, how to find what he was really looking for? Truthfully, he didn’t care about these wars. They weren’t what was closest to his heart. He cared about finding the Key.

Paltor pushed aside his long, brown hair and stared out the window. The keep was at the border of Keryia, a country that had once been part of the larger United Kingdoms of Bordeia, but had broken away 500 years ago in the Great Revolts, when Bordeia and its sister kingdoms broke out into war against one another, splintering the union they had once peacefully shared for 500 years before that. It had been 500 years of peace, and then after the Great Revolt, 500 years of war. It was Paltor’s plan to finally be the king to bring all the countries of Bordeia (or, Old Bordeia, as it was properly called by the Bordeians) back into a single, unified nation again. If he had the Key, he knew that he could do this easily enough.

He could see a commotion below his window, a few man-lengths below him. Outside, in the courtyard, Feria was walking with her usual entourage of young women and servants. Feria could be just as demanding as Paltor when she needed to be. She was somewhat more needy in the morning than she was in the evening, usually due to the fact that she did not enjoy waking up very early, but had an inability to sleep late. The compromise meant she was always in a bad mood until after the noon hour. Paltor could see her now, shouting at a servant to bring her some wine, another bad habit of hers, even though it was only 2 hours after the sun had risen. Paltor shook his head and looked north.

There was the ridge he had ridden out to a few days before where the gnomes lived. An odd bunch, he thought to himself. Beyond that he could just see the line of mountains in the distance that made up the traditional northern border of the kingdom.

People lived beyond them, he was sure, but no one had ever bothered to try and make it through the passes, as the mountains were so steep they were virtually impassable. What could you bring to whatever was beyond them and what could you bring back? There was not much point in going there. Never mind that it was financially unfeasible, which made it so that few people had ever bothered. No king had the time or money to spend on wandering around in the mountains, especially as cold as they were, so no Bordeian that he knew of had ever made the journey and returned to tell anyone. Being somewhat sedentary people unless there was a profit to come of it, most of Bordeia’s many farmers generally just stayed home and tried to figure out how to produce a bumper crop for that year.

Paltor secretly suspected that what he wanted was out there somewhere, though. He had not, however, mentioned this to anyone. He had searched everywhere else on the continent that he could think of, and had come up with nothing. Perhaps it was beyond those mountains, or somewhere in between. It had been dangerous work taking his army here and there in search of a trinket, but he knew what his kingdom needed, and they definitely needed what he was looking for.

Maybe now was the time to invade Keryia. Perhaps the Key was somewhere in Keryia, laying in some fool farmer’s house or in the hands of some greasy merchant. Paltor wanted to stop and check every closet he passed, but long ago he had found that practice useless. He thumbed his sword’s flat edge, running his fingers over the insignia of a wolf jumping from the air to attack an eagle rearing up from the ground to defend itself. The Key of Achkin would make itself known to him when it was good and ready, and that was what drove him mad in all this searching. It all seemed so pointless. Paltor turned away and decided to go and talk with Philpon, his sorcerer.

As he left his room he could hear Feria below, calling for another glass of wine and demanding that it not be vinegar this time. She had barely been able to drink that first one it was so foul. Paltor could only shake his head and hope that one of the glasses might be poisoned, evidence of some one of his servant’s loyalty to their king. He would, of course have had to kill them, but it would be an honorable death, he mused, passing into the shadowy hall.

Chapter 4 - Council With a Mage

Philpon was short, foul smelling and bald. He had bad eyes and breathed very loudly through his large, twisted nose because he was quite overweight. Long, dark hairs sprung from the bridge of his nose, but he never cared to have them removed. He was unpopular among the court, and not trusted by anyone other than Paltor. His appearance was only part of the reason.

Sitting at his make-shift desk on the ground floor of the keep, Philpon was poring over a very old book when Paltor walked in. He ignored him, being generally unimpressed by his king. This was partly because he himself was quite a bit older than Paltor, and also because he lacked in manners. But, mostly, it was because he was arrogant and didn’t care to impress anyone. Philpon was the only voice Philpon usually heard.

“Have you found my Key, Philpon?” asked the king, ready to argue with his testy magician. It was his usual question, one he obviously knew the answer to.

“No, Paltor, I haven’t, and if you continue to bother me every day about it, I am afraid I will be quite unlikely to make any progress, either. Patience is a virtue you have yet to learn, it seems.”

“I don’t have the rest of my life to look for it, old man. I have been looking for it now for years, and you seem no closer to finding it now than you did a decade ago. What is the problem, Philpon?”

This was quickly becoming the usual conversation between Philpon and Paltor.

“Well, for one thing, we seem to move every few months or so, which throws me off for days and days until I get used to my surroundings again. I am an old man, now, your highness,” he said with not a little contempt in his voice. “And, there is the fact, which I believe I have made clear enough, that we still do not know exactly what the Key of Achkin looks like. It is hard to look for something when you don’t know what it is you are looking for, exactly.”

“Always the same reasons, but never any new answers Philpon. And, let me remind you, you are the one that demands we move every so often. I’d be perfectly happy to stay in my castle and never leave except to conduct a battle or two. So, come up with something better, please. I am getting tired of these pointless arguments,” said the king, walking away as quickly as he had come, tired already of Philpon’s condescending attitude and repetitive answers.

Philpon only murmured a response in the affirmative and rolled his eyes. How many times did he have to tell this impatient young prince that a life’s work takes a life to complete? Sometimes longer. Philpon long ago realized that this king would never be an apprentice to him the way his father had been. He watched for few seconds as Paltor left, and then went back to his book.

Wavering between going for a ride on his horse and demanding an early lunch in the main hall, Paltor decided to go back up the winding staircase to his second floor rooms to think. Between Feria and Philpon he was always in some kind of argument with someone.

Why did he always bring them along when he traveled?

No wonder he enjoyed his time off in Tindora, the capital city of Bordeia s much: he could avoid both of them and do what he wanted without fear of being interrupted. But, he needed Feria with him so that he could keep up appearances and not be accused of sleeping with the various women he was sleeping with. The nobles at home would love that. Just another way to get their hooks into his coveted kingship.

And, he needed Philpon because they had been looking for the Key of Achkin for as long as Paltor had been king. In fact, Philpon had been the one who had first told the king about the key that would open the chest hidden in the stone chamber under the throne of Bordeia. He had shown him the chamber when he was just a teenager and told him about the box, a metal box that looked like nothing special or unique, but which contained something more powerful and deadly than any substance in existence.

Except for the fact that no one knew what it was, Philpon the Grand Mage of Bordeia included; it was a very enticing legend.

“But, you’ve never seen what’s inside?” he’d asked Philpon mthose many years ago in the dank chamber below the throne.

“No, son, no one has. I told you already, this is not a secret known to many, and the answer to its contents are likely known to no one at all.” Philpon looked the same then as he did in the present. Many people suspected he used his magic to prolong his life.

“So, the Key of Achkin is what will open this chest?”

“Yes. It is an ancient artifact from the times even before your father’s, Paltor. When you are king, you would do well to make it your life’s work to find this Key and open the chest. Your power will be unmatched, then, and all the wars that your father has had to suffer through will finally be ended.”

Paltor had looked long and hard at the chest, then, musing over how he could find the box and what it would take to wield such immense power. The very idea excited him in a way nothing else ever had. He was tingling with the very idea of it.

“Yes, yes, Philpon, we must find it when I am king.” He paused, to consider just how important this quest would be. He stared at the dull, gray box in the gloom of the crypt. “We absolutely must.”

The only thing that stood between Paltor and the box was that the box had been locked with a lock made of some type of magical substance and could only be opened with a special sort of key, the Key Achkin. It was rumored that the key had been split in two parts and scattered around the kingdom of Bordeia, and those kingdoms that had been Old Bordeia. To add to that problem was the fact that neither Philpon or Paltor knew what the key looked like. No one seemed to. Or, at least, Philpon said he did not know, but sometimes Paltor suspected that he did know and just chose to keep it to himslef. The trouble with Philpon was that he was quite old and very arrogant. He felt that he did not have to answer to Paltor, since he not had to answer to Paltor’s father, the previous king, Halton.

Philpon was trouble, but he was needed.

Feria on the other hand, was just trouble. Admittedly, she was a drunk, and it was mostly due to the sexual dalliances of Paltor, whom she still confessed to love. She did not confess it to Paltor, of course. Unfortunately, she often confessed it to the ladies in the court, many of whom told Paltor this as he took them by the hand to his bed chamber. This usually just made him laugh, the irony of the message, and its bad timing, being just too much to bear.

He did not love her and never had. He had been forced to marry her to fulfill an old family tradition designed to keep the blood-line of the Devonian kings pure. Instead, it was beginning to produce malformed children along with the resentment that the practice engendered in the heirs to the Bordeian throne. So, to prevent his line, and whatever children he might have, from being given to a deformed, inbred cripple, Paltor had never slept with Feria. Instead, he planned to hold off from having any children until he could figure out a way to have one with one of the ladies of the court and pass it off as Feria’s. It was neither a new, nor an easy plan to carry out. But, it was necessary.

Paltor reached the thick wooden door to his rooms and nodded to Minty, his doorman, employed to block Feria from entering. Or, at least to alert Paltor when she wanted to enter. She often came down after a few glasses of wine to argue with him. Minty had become a very trusted servant in recent years.

The business of a life of searching for the Key of Achkin had put many things on hold, but now the realities of being the king of a large country were beginning to catch up with him. Soon, someone would demand an heir, or he would be threatened with sabotage from within, if not from his own people, from the many jealous nobles around them at all times. His family was not the type to suffer the loss of the throne and they had taken care to ensure the lineage live on. More than a few kings of the past had met untimely deaths because they refused to comply with the rules handed to them with the power of the throne. There had also been the internal battles between families trying to gain the power sufficient to take what they thought was theirs in the crown. No one had been successful, but only because of the superior scheming of the people Paltor called his relatives.

Paltor shrugged off these thoughts and laid down on his large bed, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling. It was flat sanded wood covered by thick wooden beams all across. Architecture and building had always amazed him. Perhaps he would have been a laborer had he not been born king. Maybe an engineer of some kind. But, leading was in his blood, he figured. He was accustomed to telling people the best way to achive something, even if it wasn’t the best way.

What was he doing? Why was he just laying there dreaming of something he was not? He was the king of the world’s most mighty nation. Why was so held in check by a small, smelly man with hair sprouting from various places? Why was he so controlled by a woman that he had never loved and never noticed before? She haunted him like a ghost alive, and was sick of it.

Paltor got up from the bed and went to the main door of his room. He called his servant over to him from where the boy had been sitting in the hall, waiting to be given instructions.

“Listen, Minty, go ask Lady Brandar to come and see me in my chambers. I have things to discuss with her about this war.” He laughed a little. “A king’s work is never done, Minty.” He turned to go, and then turned back. “And, Minty, be sure that Queen Feria is kept busy for the next little while, would you?”

Minty, used to his instructions at this point, though he had only been assisting the king like this for a few months, nodded and purposely made sure no emotion of any kind, anger or joy or disgust, showed on his face. This was the life of those above him. This was the life of the rich.

“As you will, sire,” he said and scampered off down the hall to deliver what he knew could only be a message personally delivered.

Chapter 2 – The Messenger

In time this pain of his great loss went away, though it still hurt. He focused now on paddling the canoe towards Town, to the meeting circle where the elders and advisors were said to have a message for him. They had a duty for him, and though he had not responded to any of their calls in the past year (they had sent different messengers at different times, some finding him, some not). He decided to hear them out this time. He did not know why he decided this, but something told him that this was the time to listen and see what was needed. So many wars and battles were rumored to be happening in the world, in the places beyond the mountain walls that held the Northern Valley like a small bird in its palm, and it made him afraid for the only place he truly loved.

Truthfully, it also made him curious.

The messenger was the daughter of his older brother, Marwen, an advisor in the Town, and a businessman with a large home and lots of money. When Arnyia had come to his door the day before, he wandered out from where he had been sitting, writing a song to his lost family. He looked to the sky where dark clouds and the chill of the coming Fall was sharp in the air. He felt that it was time to listen to this messenger, not just because she was his niece, but because something in the air told him so. He knew why she had come.

Amon gave her a drink and some bread before he sat down on the stump of wood he had specially cut from a fallen tree years before, when he had first built the small cottage. He had been intent on marrying a girl named Shala, the woman who would be his wife. The stump was now worn smooth and comfortable to sit on. He motioned to another stump, less worn, that she could sit on while they talked. After the initial formal greetings, used more often by people in Town than those in the woods, they began to speak about the reason she had been sent to find her elusive uncle in the hills beyond Town.

“Uncle, there is war coming and the elders want you to come and meet with them in the morning.”

“War is coming to the Valley?”

“They didn’t say, actually. They just told me to tell you that war is coming, and to demand on behalf of them that you come and listen to them.” She chewed on the bread he had given her and looked thoughtfully at the ground. “I’m not sure what they meant, but they had a very distinct look in their eyes when they spoke to me.”

Amon found it odd that the council of elders would specifically speak to Arnyia alone, and not send the message through her father. They were not so official that something could not be trusted to be passed on by a father or a brother. Though he felt a certain foreboding, Amon said nothing and did not allow his face to show his concern.

“Why are they worried, Arnyia? What can come to the Northern Valley? We are too difficult to find. There would be no way to send and army of any reasonable size into the Valley.”

“They don’t tell me what they intend to those I am sent to, Uncle. I’m sure you know that with all the visitors you have had in the past months.” She was referring, of course, to the many previous messengers that had made the trek north to the cottage. “They only give me instructions. They say they want you to come to them and listen to their plans. They say the Valley has needs and only a few can help to achieve those needs in the midst of these wars.”

“Or, only those with little to lose.”

“Perhaps, uncle, but you know how few of us live here. We have to consider what it means to protect what we have.”

Amon watched his niece. She was wily. They had certainly chosen the right person to send, he though. I can’t get anything out of her other than what she was told to say. That’s smart.

“They are afraid that the wars will come to us, I think,” Amon said, sitting back in his seat and stretching, putting his hands behind his head and resting it against the wall of his cottage, trying to look as if the idea of a war did not bother him. Let her deliver a return message that said Amon was not as flustered about this call to Town as they thought he might be. Let them wonder if they were getting what they wanted if he decided to come after all. They obviously only wanted him to come because he was one a very few number that had no family to speak of, not anymore anyway, and who had also been beyond the Pass of Toruk in his time. They wanted him because he was expendable, economically speaking.

“Perhaps they are afraid, uncle. I think they should be. They didn’t say, however, as I told you. My father thinks that there have been spies in the valley, and that the war may come here, but many of the elders have disagreed with this in the past. They are not of one mind, if you want to know.”

Maybe she was not as tight-lipped as he had thought. Oh well, an uncle’s pride in his kin could be clouded, Amon supposed.

“I remember. I think your father is sometimes too worried about things that may happen instead of what is happening, Arnyia.”

“That’s none of my business, Uncle. You can tell him yourself when you come” She ate her bread slowly, feeling the seeds in the loaf with her tongue, thoughtfully, and then brushing the crumbs from her oiled leather leggings. She was strong and thin, the very image of a messenger. She could maneuver a canoe through spaces so small or narrow it would be assumed only a fish could make it through.

Though they did not know it in the valley, few people in the world were as agile in a canoe as the people of the Northern Valley. The children were taught from a very young age how to manage a canoe and even how to hunt from a canoe. When a bear or a moose or a deer appeared out of nowhere along the edge of the river, they should be able to notch an arrow and get off a shot in a breath. Where it would take an outsider the amount of time needed for the bear or deer to disappear, a child raised in the Northern Valley should be taking home dinner, if they were trained properly. Arynia had taken home many meals in her time on the river.

Arnyia looked up and stared at her uncle for a second thoughtfully. He saw her looking and knew what was coming. It was their family trait, it seemed: the thoughtful stare followed by the prying eyes.

“Are you okay here, alone, these days, Uncle,” she asked.

He looked away at the sky again and the thick mist of hot air and cool air meeting near the edge of the sky where the peaks of the mountains met the roof of the world. He could just see it from under the small overhang of the cottage.

“I am fine, Arnyia,” he said. “It is lonely sometimes, but I have my hobbies and I provide for myself here.” He did not want to talk anymore.

“My father says to tell you that you can still live with us if you choose to. He will build a cottage for you behind our house in Town if you want one,” she said.

“No, I have my place here in the forest.” He got up from his low stump and took the empty wooden cup she had set on the ground near her feet. Pine needles and cedar sprigs stuck to it where condensation had begun to form water droplets on the outside of the cup. Amon brushed them from the cup and went inside the low-hanging door of the house to put them on the table in the middle of the room.

The cottage was not big, but not the smallest dwelling of its kind in the area. It was a one room house with a few small rooms to sleep in at the back. The rooms had thick pine walls, but they were not designed to be big enough to spend any time in, really. They had been designed only to sleep in, each containing only a bed that was built into the wall and a small table to put things on next to the bed. The main room of the house was the room that was meant for people and interaction. It was wide and spanned the length of the house. But, it had been empty of people other than Amon for a while now.

He went back outside, in the cloudy light of the mid-afternoon, having decided what he would do, though he regretted it somewhat, in his heart. He knew what they wanted, he was sure, now; and he was a little bitter about the fact that they had not had the courage to tell him before they told him why. Of course, he could be wrong about everything, but it seemed so unlikely. Amon had good instincts.

Looking out from under the overhang, he said, “You can tell them I will come tomorrow in the morning, Arynia. Do you need a place to stay tonight or can you make it back to Town before dark?”

She got up from her seat and picked up her small pack as she slowly walked back to her canoe, where it sat on the steep rise to the cottage at the edge of the river.

“I can make it home fast enough, Uncle. Either way, I know this river so well that I could make my way home with my eyes closed if I had to. The dark is not dark enough to keep me from making it home.” She had canoed home with her eyes closed before as a test to herself, and Amon knew it because this was part of the training a messenger for the council of elders had to receive before they could accept someone as a true messenger for the people of the valley. Yet, it didn’t keep him from thinking better of making sure she was safe, an instinct left over from being the father of her long-dead cousin.

“Be careful, Arnyia, those clouds are up river.” He motioned to the building tide of billowy clouds he had watched near the peak of the mountain range a few moments earlier. “If they rained or snowed in the peaks it could become a flash-flood if it wanted to. You know how temperamental this river and that sky can be.”

“I will be careful, Uncle,” she said, slipping silently into the narrow river and quickly paddling out of sight, around the curve of the banks, her shadow casting a long paddling silhouette on the high limestone wall that cupped the far side of the river. The wall kept Amon from seeing the other side of the valley, because of the evergreens that lined the top of it.

Once more he looked at the clouds, worried, noting that they were cold and ominous. There was a grey core at the heart of the largest cloud. They were the kind of clouds that threatened early snow, which could happen even in mid-Summer if the sky felt that it was too heavy with snow being saved for the Winter. Even the sky had bumper crops from time to time. Many of the summers since Amon had moved to the hills had seen a snowfall, though it might be only a short one, with a hot, sunny day following. The mountains were unpredictable that way. So, large, dark clouds were often a sign that people in the valley should take care, if not be wary.

Chapter 1 – A Journey South Begins

The message was nothing but a mystery.

Paddling along the river to where the messenger, his niece, had said the Council of Elders would be waiting at the meeting hall in Town a few days from now, Amon wondered at the news that war was brewing again. After so many years of war in the south, and then the rumors of the war moving north, the fear of a coming conflict had been thrown around over dinner tables and mugs of ale again and again during the past months. People had begun to speculate that it might even reach as far as the valley, and they were afraid. War had never come there before. Not many people knew about their little valley, and they were satisfied with that arrangement. Anonymity and secrecy in the midst of war was a comfort. Amon was more satisfied with it than most.

The sun was shining down bright and warm, having only just risen an hour before Amon had dropped his canoe into the water to begin his journey to Town. How many more wars would be fought before these invaders with their constant roaming from place to place, leaving death and destruction in their wake, were finally put down, he wondered. It seemed as if they would never go away. Many more wars would be fought, he imagined; many more innocents and weaker peoples would die. War is more like an infection that spreads through the body of a people than it is like a permanent solution to complicated problems. But, in the end, you have to do something, he thought as he lunged with his paddle at the water, propelling himself forward and slicing the clear stream with a strong jerk.

The river, called the Deep River by most, though it did not actually have a formal name, was really just a wide stream, slow moving for the most part, and meandering through the entire valley. It was not the size of a real river, though it was far more than a simple stream to fish in. It was a torrent of black power, with the strength needed to kill or do damage when tested by men. From Amon’s cottage in the hills at the north end of the great valley, eventually the river lead to the place where many houses and cottages were clustered at the center of the valley, in a kind of bowl. That was Town, the only real settlement that could be called a village or town in the valley. Though it did have a formal name, most people just called it Town. It wasn’t far, really, only a day’s walk from his cottage, but in the forests of the north it seemed much farther, and there was not much chance that one could actually walk the distance anyway. Why walk when you could far more easily sit in a canoe and float? The valley did not lend itself well to walking, so most people had a canoe or a skiff of some sort to get from place to place.

The river was the best way to get to anywhere in the valley, having so many tributaries and branches that it was almost like a system of roads, though it was made of water. It was deep and black and cold and deadly, but the lifeblood of the valley. The fish within it were thick and full, dense fish that were good to eat when you could catch one, but not many people could. They were hard to catch because these rivers had been fished for many, many centuries by the people of the valley and the fish had become used to being fished for. Knowing how to escape a simple net or hook, they passed on the knowledge of escape from one generation of fish to another and the people of the valley did not catch them so easily anymore, as their ancestors had many centuries before. Even animals passed on ideas from one generation to another, the hunters in the valley often reminded each other. The rocks of the river on the bank were also dark and mossy, and the though the river was not wide, really only a few man-lengths in most places, it was very deep. People often drowned if they were not careful. Many people had lost their lives to the river in the early days, before the people of the valley learned to respect it as part of their everyday world. The river could be both dangerous and violent.

It had not been even a decade since Amon had lost his wife and daughter to the river when it had swollen to a great, gushing wall during a heavy rain, overflowing its banks like a growing wound, and taken them to its depths as the waves spilled over one morning. He had been away from the cottage, bringing food and skins he had caught to trade for things in Town. Having not seen it for himself, he could only assume that that was the death they died, as horrible an end as he imagined it to be. It was the death of far too many people in the valley.

He had watched the sky that morning so many years ago, as the rains passed overhead while he walked in the market. The clouds headed for where his cottage stood above the banks on the other side of the valley, in the place where very few houses stood, and he prayed to the gods that his wife and daughter were not outside at the moment. But, they had said that when he was gone they would do the washing. Why did they have to choose that day? He knew how the water could rise at its own will and take anything in its path, if it wanted to. The foreboding he felt was very deep and black and cold, not unlike the river.

Prologue

Almost without knowing it, the small, hairy man had placed himself in a very precarious situation.

None of the dark beings in front of him were about to let him live, and their slavering, whispering tongues confirmed it: he was going to die in that dank pit and painfully.

He had come to the deep cavernous crypt to take back from the dead what had been lost so many years before. Even when he approached the shadowy entrance of the crypt, he could tell that this was not somewhere he wanted to be. He could feel it in his bones, a deep cold that sent a shiver through him. The blade at his side seemed to grow immediately cold. It felt as if it would freeze his leg, hanging next to his thigh. Opening the rusty doors of the crypt, under showers of rust particles that floated down onto his head and into his nose, he knew that he would not return.

But, he knew he had to go on. He had no choice. His mission was non-negotiable.

He descended the ancient stone steps into the clammy darkness below. The air was dank and it spread a thin layer of moisture over the man. There was a musty odor of something decaying over many years. He shuddered and moved on into the darkness, wishing he had brought even a small torch with him.

The stairways of the complex wound down and down, growing more and more dark. It was not long before he came to the sarcophagus of the first king, deep in the lowest floor of the vast grave. Oddly, as he entered the king’s grave room, torches on the wall lit themselves, coming mysteriously to life. It was a bad sign.

The king’s visage was carved ornately into the stone, showing a face that many had seen before they met their death. The little man remembered this king too well. It had been many, many years, but he had forgotten nothing about him. He was not relieved to see this face before him again now, deep in the darkness.

Perhaps it will be the last face I see before I die, he thought to himself.

That was when he heard the voices and something blowing in a sick, frenzied wind from behind him. Quickly he picked up the blade that lay in its ceremonial spot on the lid of the ancient sarcophagus. The blade was why he had come and now that he had it, he only wanted out as fast as possible. But, tuning around, he saw dark figures in a strange twisting cloud of streaming beams that were somehow like blackness instead of light. It began to take shape and then quickly divided and the shape disappeared into a vision of confusion. Over and over again, as he watched mesmerized, the being repeated this process.

It was not long before the man had been attacked, knocked down and nearly frightened to death. Had he not experienced this before, he would have died. But this little man, as small as he was, was made of something stronger than that.

He jumped to his feet, gripping the sword that was the reason for his journey to this dark cavern with both of his small hands. He looked to his left and to his right, realizing that his situation would get no better if chose to fight these venomous shadows. The sword quivered in his hand a bit, as if it was itself afraid, or perhaps agitated. This frightened the little man almost more than the demons in front of him. He gulped and shifted his weight to his left foot, more out of instinct than because he really thought it would help, and then closed his eyes. He had to calm himself. Within, he could feel a deep welling of fear and confusion. This sword could do little against demons, he knew, but there was more to the man than just a sword.

The shadows circled, focusing their attention on the sword, calling out in murmured whispers, calling for the sword, commanding the little man to hand it over to them. It was theirs, he was a thief.

“Ours, oursss, ourssssss,” they called from the vortex of shadows.

Taking a quick peek from behind his closed eyelids, the little man could see a shifting scene of swirling, disappearing and reappearing faces and twisting ghostly bodies. He immediately closed his eyes again, dizzy and tired all of a sudden. This was not because of a lack of sleep. He could feel their demon magic sucking him into their pain and making him hazy with fear and desperation to be free of their grip.

“Oursss, littlllehhhh magggggehhh…” they whispered like a hurricane. They spun and spun in an ever-present cyclone of pain and gnashing.

“No!” the little man shouted from his frozen stance, eyes closed and body taut.

The cloud of pain stopped for the briefest second, as if time itself had suddenly frozen, and then refocused their efforts. The spinning and wind whipping began to reach a level that was almost cacophonous. There was truly danger now. He could feel that all the anger of the ghostly form was focusing on the sword and the himself as he tried to hold off those who would take it from him.

“No!!” said the little man again. “No, you will not have it back. Never!!!” He cried out as he was beaten by the unholy winds. “You did not have it in the beginning, and you will not have it again! It is ours again and the gods will not see you touch it again.”

“OOUUURRRSSSSSSSS!!!!!!” the spirits of anger cried again, nearly pushing the little man to his feet. “OOOUUUURRRRSSSSSS!!!!!!!!”

Had he not been so squat and powerful, he would have folded in half. This only served to make the spirits even more angry, an emotion they seemed to truly understand, as if they had long ago concocted the feeling for themselves. The winds around him roared with the fury of a planet dying, a star folding in on itself.

“OOOOOUUUURRRSSSSS, LITTLEhhhhh FOOOLLLLhhhhhhhhhh!!!!”

Their scream was the sound of a deep well on fire. Ghostly fingers reached out to caress, turning immediately to steel when they touched his skin.

“NNNNOOO!!! You will not have it. It was not yours and will not be yours any time soon. May the gods excuse your evil desires!”

The stone walls began to crack and sway from side to side as the winds pushed them back and forth in a tumult of angry pain. Lines of stress and breaking began to appear on all sides of the room. Very old dust began to fall from the cracks.

“You will not have it! You will never have it!”

The little man closed his eyes and focused. Just for a second he focused and pushed outwards from within. A wall of power pushed out like a bubble growing and suddenly the vortex of demons stopped. They could not move, just for a second. They froze and began to struggle outwards, trying to break free of a prison.

“No, you will not have it! It was not meant for you or your kind! The gods forbid it!”

The band of blackness began to rumble and shake, vibrating like a plate near breaking. It was horrible to see, and the sound nearly stopped the little man from thinking straight. The foul words, painful cries and horrible emptiness of nothing bleeding out into space, it all bled out in a desperate flow of evil anger.

He kept his eyes closed and tried again to refocus. He would not be tricked by evil cries or desperate pleas for mercy. He knew their tricks. He could not give up now, after so many years and so many attempts to make things right. He had finally achieved what he had failed to do for so many years, after so many struggles and battles to gain what he had been commissioned to find again.

Through this, he was pure again.

Putting the sword before him, firmly held in both of his hands, he began a slow chant, deep in his throat. He began to push out a force of energy from his chest, eyes closed and focused. The demons frothed with anger, literally raging and starting to beat the little man as they swirled around him. He stood his ground, focusing even more deeply as the wind began to whip fiercely.

Suddenly he opened his eyes, focusing on the spirits before him, and thrust the sword out in a wide, arching swing, cutting the cloud of darkness in half. The two halves shrieked and twisted violently, sucking all light into them, extinguishing the torches on the wall. It gave the little man just enough time to run from the room, out the narrow stone passage and up the stairway to the higher levels of the crypt.

He rushed up, running faster and faster as the winds behind him began to take the form of ancient warriors, flesh rotting and dry, husky voices lost to time. They called after him, grabbing his arms and trying to take back the sword, though they seemed unable to take it for themselves. They screamed and begged and finally cried out to him to give them the sword, but the man only ran. Up one level to the next, round stairs and into the light of the main floor of the crypt, where the power of the voices and the demons began to fade like a bad dream. They could only come so far, finally becoming only voices from the dark behind him.

Emerging into the moonlight of the graveyard, the little man could only fall to his knees and steady himself, trying to keep himself from getting sick. He shook his head, breathed deeply and looked down at the sword, safe again in his hands, once more his to protect.