Elanari

“Who’ll give me fifty for this beauty?” The slavesman called from atop the pitted wooden dais.

Eldrick narrowed his eyes in concentration and sorted the silver discs lying in his dirt stained hand. He shrugged uncomfortably, shifting the weight of the heavy crossbow slung across his back. It was dwarven made, top quality, and would shoot clean through an armored man at thirty yards but it was not light.

“Fifty,” a silk clad youth standing next to Eldrick called out. The well-dressed gentleman looked like a feastday pheasant to Eldrick, though he was a little jealous of the man’s shining boots. He glanced away from his counting to inspect the supple leather. They were for riding, not walking, and walking was what Eldrick did most of the time.

“Thank-you young sire,” the slavesman called to the youth who was busy adjusting the long, blue, heron feathers that decorated his tall cap.

“Sixty,” Eldrick had finished counting and held his balled fist in the air. Silver glinted from between his fingers as his savings threatened to mutiny and flee into the street. Several of the merchants in attendance shook their heads in disapproval of the bid, thinking sixty talents far too much to pay for an Iverni woman.

The young nobleman glanced at Eldrick out of the corner of his eye and wrinkled his nose raising a scented handkerchief to the upturned member and yawned a casual, “Seventy-five.”

One hundred,” Eldrick held both his bulging fists in the air. The young nobleman blanched at the bid and held the kerchief closer to his face. The slavesman looked expectantly toward the well-dressed youth who shook his head slightly and mumbled something about the “unwashed and sodden masses.”

“One hundred then, is there another. Is there another?” The slavesman drew out the last formality, “Is there another?” The slavesman gave the crowd a pleading look and loosed a quiet sigh. Eldrick understood why. One hundred talents was a fraction of what the Iverni beauty was worth. But because she was Iverni and he was standing in the hamlet of Ebah in the South Midlands she would command no more. Religion, it seemed, was the bane of the slave trade. “Sold, to the,” the slavesman hesitated with the word “gentleman” teetering on the tip of his tongue. He settled with, “bowman.”

Eldrick stepped forward, reached up, and dumped his coins into the eager hands of the waiting slavesman who in turn dropped them immediately into a strongbox flanked by two scar knuckled brutes. Eldrick thought they were Adria or perhaps Lodrian and he eased his footman’s hammer in its rawhide hanger. Memories of fighting in the mountains east of Modara flashed through his mind. He was Skarnish by birth and since he could swing a weapon he had fought both the Lodrians and Adria under the banner of the boy king, Collin Kingshammer, his one time liege lord. He felt the sudden urge to crush the Lodrian’s skull with the back-spike of his hammer.

“Here she is,” a rough voice ended Eldrick’s violent reverie. “Take my advice archer, this one is only good for field work. She’d make a fine plow horse. But I wouldn’t let her off the chains. She’s no bedmate, if you don’t mind me saying so. The bitch fights like a wounded tiger.” Several deep scratches lined the grizzled old man’s face and a wide bruise was yellowing on his cheek.

She was even more beautiful up close. Tall, barely a head shorter than he, her unbound hair cascaded in dark waves over the smooth, cinnamon, skin of her shoulders. Bright green eyes regarded him coolly as if she were a queen and he the one being brought to her in chains. Sleek muscle, shaped dancing and hunting in the depths of the northern jungles, added to her feral beauty and the dirty rags draped haphazardly about her lean body barely managed to conceal her physical perfection. One hundred talents was blatant thievery.

The King's Grace

The road winding into the valley seemed too widened in relation to the volume of traffic. This far south, large cities did not exist. The peculiarity that was Modara attracted merchants, sell swords, farmers, holy-men, and a myriad of others to its high towers and thick walls. Different in more than one way, Modara had converted to the Path several generations ago. This had helped the town in a pagan land, first with Northern trade and then, prestige. And truth be told, the Northern religion was the real reason the city had grown beyond size of any other southern, hill town.

"So you really feel no sympathy for the Iverni?" Jasper asked, lounging easily against his high cantle. He rode slowly with the rhythmic sway of his horse. As their descent towards the city steepened, the sweeping vista of the Modaran Valley opened before them. Snow swirled about, but the wind was light, and the sun had been threatening the clouds for the better part of the afternoon.

"It's not that really." Harrig's eyes were distant as he considered his next words, "We Adria have always had slaves.” He paused again, running a hand over the braids in his beard. “Though, from before my father's father's time it has fallen out of practice. I can feel sympathy, but I also don't judge the other sidhe. Who knows if the Sundering would have happened if not for the Low Elves?"
Jasper snorted, "You speak of your father's father, but your greatfather's greatfather could not remember a time before the Sundering and neither could mine. I doubt very much an Iverni child or his mother riding the hull of a slaver could tell you their ancestor's role in an event so old it's merely legend to me; to you for that matter, and everyone else in this world!" Spent now the cascade paused and, for the next hour there were no more words.

Their discussion had gone much the same for the journey south and not just the topic of slavery. Conversations turned to verbal sparring, then fizzled out. Jasper had ridden with Harrig for over two years now, and the pattern had become routine. For all of it though, Jasper enjoyed the Adria's company. The big man was actually quite clever, very handy in a scuffle, and an uncanny judge of weather. Their discourse sharpened his wit, and on more than one issue Harrig had almost swayed him.

They had been riding behind a merchant caravan that left the Modaran sanctuary just ahead of them. The pace was slow, but afforded protection at night. A large fire with good food and company didn’t hurt either.

“Do you think we’ll need more than a night in Modara?” Jasper broke the silence, once again trying to sort out the schedule in his mind.

Harrig shrugged. “The message I sent said ‘early spring.’ My only concern would be that they waited too long and got bored.” He turned then and smiled, “I think we may have been taking it too easy on the horses though.” Tugging his reigns quickly, Harrig smiled as his horse leaped off the road and began to gallop towards the city.

Jasper was quick behind him with a smile of his own. Large clots of frozen ground were tossed up behind them. The merchants they had been riding with shook their heads in disapproval as they thundered down the line. Jasper laughed out loud; both men leaning over their mounts. For a few minutes they pressed their horses, letting them stretch their legs. They only slowed as the city walls came into view.

“There she is de Luc.” Harrig leaned over and gave his horse a pat on the neck, “I’ll be looking forward to a hot bath, a tankard of ale, and a saucy woman.”

“Not necessarily in that order?” Jasper asked, trying to hide his disapproval, and it must have worked for Harrig laughed.

“I’ll have to think of what order suites me best when we get there.” Then, out of the corner of his eye, he looked back at Jasper, “Don’t worry friend, there’s a Sanctuary down there would out do most of yours.”

They covered the final miles quickly. The horses took to the faster pace with seeming joy. Jasper too was looking forward to the famed bath houses of Modara. Never in his life, had he been this far south, and rarely had had he gone any further than the Midlands. A hot city in this frigid land intrigued him, as most things did this far south. He didn’t care for the snow over much, but it was a novelty that they saw once in a generation around the Shattered Sea.

Soon the gates towered before them, and traffic slowed to a crawl. Already in the half light of Sol’s setting, Isis was about to dip behind the rim of the valley leaving them in the shortened, but dark night of a southern spring. There were many people that needed to pass the scrutiny of the guards before entering the trade section. Jasper hoped Harrig’s clout would get them into High Town yet tonight. He had his doubt though. Harrig still worshipped the cold mountain gods, and this city was said to be gripped in a righteous fervor this time of year.

A half hour later, with only the spilling light from taverns and shops to light the road, Jasper and Harrig passed through the high arches of Modara. The cobbled streets were broad and clean, and Jasper smiled at this familiar setting in a foreign painting. Winding up the hill towards High Towne, Harrig called greetings to more than a few townsfolk. Jasper began to feel much better about their situation with each block they covered.

Harrig had surprised him many times before, and it seemed he would again. The short, high-arching bridge that lead to Hight Towne was guarded by two men in plate and mail. A grin split the face of one as they drew close.

“Harrig you old wolf, I’d thought not to see you again!” The men clasped hands after Harrig quickly dismounted. Jasper stayed mounted as he followed their conversation.

“What’s the talk this festival season Morrid? We’ve come far, and I travel with a brother of the Path.” He gestured back towards Jasper. For his part Jasper attempted to look as innocent as was possible with a lance and backsword strapped to his person.

“Not much happening this year. For some reason the Chosen has kept quiet about you pagans.” He smiled hugely again, “The festival goes on, but there have been no calls for Roundings. Some say a prophet visited the King last month. Me, I think all them lords just want the extra silver around.”

The other guard seemed to be uncomfortably ignoring the byplay. Jasper nudged his horse in between the man and the conversation. Swinging off his saddle, he offered his arm in greeting to the guard.

“Jasper de Luc, King’s Lance and Baron of Juleth.” The guard smiled, conditioned to respect nobility and accepted the sign of equals readily, “We can cross tonight I assume?”

He had never considered his heritage and standing in the Path would be a better way to get into High Towne than Harrig’s connections. It seemed either way would work tonight, but Jasper thought they should open every door.

Soon they were crossing the bridge; metal shod hooves making an eerie sound in the muffled silence. Once over though, they were again basked in the light of dozen massive inns, all of them with street-level taverns open to the night. The crowds were much less raucous than those in the trade quarter though, and the food smelled amazing.

“Brother, I’ll find you at the King’s Grace late tonight or tomorrow afternoon, that saucy girl I spoke of before is calling my name.” With that Harrig disappeared down a side alley, leaving Jasper to find the King’s Grace on his own.

The Lair

Eldrick stooped and peered into the cavernous hole yawning at the base of the fallen cypress. Murky water swirled around his boot tops and Eldrick shifted his weight to keep from sinking into the mud and filling his boots with reeking sludge.

“And this is where the creature sleeps?” He asked, turning to his companions.

Brune stood two hands away, too close for Eldrick’s taste. The portly man eyed the worn footman’s hammer hanging at Eldrick’s side like a rabid dog watching a man with a stick.

“This is the hell-spawn’s lair.” Brune replied with the cool assurance of the ignorant. His filthy face was streaked with sweat and his sagging jowls flapped as he muttered a protective chant under his breath and traced the warding sign in the air. Neloc, Brune’s cohort, a sinewy fellow all bones and mottled skin, mimed the warding sign and licked his cracked lips staring with barely restrained lust at the silver rings flashing on Eldrick’s fingers. Under ordinary circumstances Eldrick would not have ventured into the depths of the Blackwater with such guides, but these were not ordinary circumstances. If what these men claimed was true he would have enough coin to buy a new horse and maybe a little left over for some new boots. Eldrick glanced back at the dirty men and smiled. He could nearly smell the murder on them.

Eldrick stepped up into the mouth of the tunnel, muttered an incantation and peered down into the darkness. His eyes, once blind in the blackness of the burrow, now shone with an internal light and myriad colors painted his vision. The cool earth of the burrow was dark, blue-black like the winter sky on a cloudy night. A finger length of yellow alerted him to a lizard creeping among the lair’s ceiling roots searching for a meal. Hand sized spots of red scurried toward him as he continued his descent into the burrow. The marsh rats squealed a warning at his approach but made no move to flee, standing their ground before the invading titan.

Eldrick turned at Brune’s whisper from the mouth of the burrow. Eldrick could see his jowls flapping as he spoke. “Sir, sir, don’t be a fool. You’ll be killed.”

“And your valuables will be out of my reach,” Eldrick muttered sardonically under his breath.

Brune, of course, had been wrong earlier. Eldrick knew he was not in the creature’s lair. He was traveling down a little used side entrance that might very well be a dead end. Eldrick frowned at the double meaning of “dead end” and continued deeper down the burrow ignoring the marsh rats behind him celebrating their bravery with a chorus of squeaks and squeals. The burrow leveled out into a fetid smelling tunnel festooned with roots and painted with the vibrating yellow dots of millions of insects. A narrow stream of murky water trickled down the center. It was no more than three feet across but Eldrick had no desire to test its depth. In the northern jungles he had seen men swallowed whole in sinks no wider than the gurgling stream.

After a hundred or so yards the tunnel opened up into a wide, flooded, cavern. Eldrick crouched in the darkness and exhaled slowly. He had reached the lair. The fetid smell was strong here and Eldrick knew it would get stronger as he proceeded. Blue-black filled his vision and he was relieved that no color tinged his vision. In a lair color usually meant a quick and painful death. Quick if you were lucky.

Eldrick straightened and pulled his hammer from its rawhide hanger. Gripping it by the pommel he plunged the hammer’s wide head into the dark water before him feeling for solid ground before continuing forward in the murk. Testing the ground made his exploration noisier than he would have liked but stealth would be of little use to him if he drowned at the bottom of a black pit in the depths of a light forsaken swamp. Twice he nearly fell headlong into a hole but the hammer’s warning saved him and he was able to pull back before plunging in.

Minutes passed, an hour, and the ground began to rise. Swamp water became spongy moss; moss became tightly packed soil until he was standing on solid ground. Eldrick sat and pulled his boots from his feet, dumping what sounded like gallons of rank smelling water from the travel stained leather. A blob of yellow plopped from his left boot and hopped, croaking, away. As he moved to stand his hand brushed against something hard and sharp. He pulled his hand back quickly and with a little alarm. No light shone from the space where the sharp object lay and in the inky blackness of the lair Eldrick could not make out even a shadow.

He stood carefully and snapped his fingers, mumbling an incantation all the while. Silvery brightness arched between his fingertips. Not a flame of fire or a globe of light, but a sliver spark, like a lightning bolt blazing between his thumb and forefinger. Eldrick held his hand high and looked about. He was at the crest of a low hill, an island in a sea of still, brown, water. Bones lay scattered across the hill, strewn about like the forgotten toys of some ghoulish child.

Eldrick crouched and examined the skeleton nearest him. The arms were missing, lost somewhere among the heaps, but the rest of the skeleton was in good repair. The skull, crushed on the left side, reported the probable cause of death. Eldrick turned the skull over in one hand and scratched a week’s growth of beard with the other. After a moment he gently replaced the skull and inhaled deeply. Nothing fit. The bones were for the most part unbroken, there were no tooth marks or stress fractures. Eldrick stood and turned in a slow circle. There weren’t even any paw prints. He inhaled again. And the air, the air was all wrong. The odor was old and stale, not the pungent musk of a recently used lair.

Fire flared to life before Eldrick.

“Kill him quick, but don’t harm the goods.” Brune’s fleshy face looked devilish in the flickering torchlight.

Neloc stood a little to the left side of Brune waving his torch and licking his scabby lips eagerly. “Let’s have some fun with him first.”

A third figure, his face shadowed in the cowl of his cloak, stood behind the other two cradling something in his hands. “Be careful now boys this one’s a Free Caster for sure and true or I’m a Red Street whore.”

There was no warning save the twang of a bow string as the hooded man fired his crossbow. The heavy bolt took Eldrick in the shoulder, tearing straight through just beneath the joint. The force of the blow threw him backwards with a rattling crash as he collapsed into a pile of mismatched bones. Pain seared his shoulder like a hot iron and Eldrick fought hard to focus on the men running toward him. He could hear the click, click, click of the heavy crossbow as the hooded man readied the weapon for another shot.

Eldrick climbed to one knee clutching his badly bleeding shoulder with a grimy hand. Neloc was two steps away, a long, hooked knife held stiffly in his crooked fingers, a look of expectant ecstasy twisting his mottled face. Brune was a step behind, torch in hand, moving his bulk with impressive speed. Glowing runes spun in Eldrick’s head, words written at the beginning of time by the All and Only, the true names of the primordial elements spoken at their creation. He called and the Primal Spark obeyed. It filled him, using his body as a conduit, and exploded outward devouring the living creatures surrounding it, burning their life force away like dry grass in a wildfire.

Thunder boomed in Eldrick’s ears. A thousand lightning bolts flashed in the near darkness, blinding him. He was falling, falling into blackness darker than any night, darker than the shadow less pit of the lair. Blackness swallowed him.

II.

Eldrick awoke to agony. Throbbing pain pulsed in his left shoulder. It felt like a hundred scorpions with firebrand tails were stinging him with every heartbeat. He groaned and rolled to his side unsure if he was blind or dead or if it was simply to dark to see. The air stank of charred bones and burnt flesh and he remembered. Bone splinters poked holes in his linen shirt as he rolled to his hands and knees adding fly bites to the scorpion stings in his shoulder.

He crawled forward like a snail crossing a garden path, groping in the darkness, sliding his hands along pitted stone and through the carpet of clinking bones. Finally, he found was he was looking for. The stench of burnt flesh threatened to overwhelm him as he lifted the torch from its resting place; lodged securely in the scorched fingers of his would be murderer. By the strength of the smell Eldrick guessed it was Brune’s body he had found.

It took Eldrick nearly an hour to light the torch. His body had been drained by the magic and even producing a single spark felt like trying to swim across the Shattered Sea in stone shoes. Finally, the torch sputtered to life and Eldrick took in the grisly scene surrounding him. His assailants lay unrecognizable from the collection of scorched and broken skeletons that littered the ground except that charred bits of flesh still hung from their blackened bones. Skin and clothes had been burnt to fine ash and the gray dust swirled in the air as Eldrick shuffled along beside the corpses searching for anything of value.

The spark had cauterized his wound and though the gash still throbbed with every step he would not bleed to death. The hooded man’s crossbow seemed none the worse for wear so Eldrick lifted it into the air by its carrying strap and slung it over his good shoulder. The bolts, however, had spilled when the man fell or else been burnt to cinders by the blast and Eldrick had no desire to go sifting through the skeletons again.

His assailants must have found a quicker way down into the lair, probably through the main entrance, and waited for him. How many others had they taken with the promise of wealth at the bottom of the dark pit? Eldrick looked around at the scattered skeletons and shivered. If the hooded man’s aim had been better he would have joined the ghastly horde littering the stone island.

Eldrick raised the torch high and walked off the island, using his hammer as a crutch, and turned toward where he hoped the main entrance would be. He silently cursed himself for believing the dead murderers. There was no dragon here. And by the looks of things there hadn’t been one in years, maybe decades. Images of what he could have purchased with just a pair of old dragon scales flashed through his mind and vanished like the smoke from his torch. Perhaps he could sell the crossbow. After only a brief appraisal he thought it was dwarven made, master craftsmanship, top coin.

New thoughts of wealth formed in Eldrick’s mind but were suddenly banished by the mineral glint of metal from behind a screen of long-reaching roots. He had just cleared the water and was walking up a wide tunnel, twice as wide as the one he had entered in, when he saw the stone. His heart leapt and he hobbled as quickly as he could manage over to the root-wall. It took some effort to clear the roots away but after a dull knife and aching right arm he was able to see the Binding Stone clearly.

It had sunk many feet into the soft soil of the tunnel and only the very top now lay exposed above ground. Eldrick nearly danced with excitement as he jammed the torch handle into the dirt and drew a sheet of parchment and nub of charcoal from the satchel hanging at this side. Holding the parchment taught against the stone he drew the charcoal rapidly across the parchment and the runes beneath creating a copy of the ancient letters. He recognized the runes from other stones he had studied in the North, but the order of the letters was new to him. He nearly giggled with delight as he finished tracing the runes. Perhaps he was seeing something that no one had seen since the dawn of time. What mysteries would these runes hold? Carefully he rolled the parchment and gently slid it into his wax coated scroll case. He dare not try to decipher it now. He was far too weak to attempt even another light spark let alone some long lost incantation from ancient times.

Moonlight bathed the Blackwater in silver radiance when Eldrick emerged from the tunnel. He was on the edge of a wide, shallow, lake. Billions of frogs croaked love songs into the night air filling the swamp with sounds of life. On the horizon the lights of Fenmen's Roost twinkled faintly like earthbound stars. Eldrick sighed, shifted the heavy crossbow on his back and winced at the burning pain the sudden movement incited. It was going to be a long walk home.

Absolution

A hundred candles burned in the alcoves and arches of the chapel. Incense rose in a wispy haze to mingle with the flickering shadows. On his knees before the Sister, Jasper de Luc gripped his pleading candle. The flame danced on the breath of his quick, quiet words. Eyes pinched shut, Jasper’s prayer tumbled out in a constant mumble. For two hours now he had been kneeling, repeating his plea on the cold stone. Long ago he had forgotten the cramps that had snaked up his legs, and now bound his hip in pain.

He did not notice the two monks in a darkened corner. Concern painted the face of the younger man, the older seemed only sad.

“Why does he plead to the Sister?” the younger monk asked in a whisper, “I can see by his dress that he is a man of the blade. Surely the Hero would be more fitting, or at least more likely to intercede on his behalf.”

The older man did not answer for a long while. Finally drawing a slow breath, he rested his hand lightly on the shoulder of his companion, “Men of the blade, and in particular that man, have seen and done things for which they can find no absolution in this broken world.” He stopped, and for a moment seemed to be done. But as he turned to walk back towards their quarters he paused, “The Sister, in his mind at least, would demand the most of him. He knows his deeds require the intercession of those he has harmed the most.”

The two monks left quietly. Jasper did not note their passing. Tears had now mixed with the dirt from the road, swirling on his face. Still his prayers went on in the wavering shadow of the Sister. Slowly the tears stopped as his frantic prayers calmed. An hour after the two monks had left, Jasper straightened. Muscles creaked in protest, and painful moan escaped his lips; he paid again for his transgressions.

Outside the Modarin Sanctuary his companion and friend waited in disapproving boredom. He stood in marked contrast to Jasper. With thick ashen hair, braided down past his shoulders, Harrig Vulgor towered over his northern companion by two full hands. In no way could he be mistaken for a religious devote, unless his faith involved the worship of long steel idols with sharpened edges.

Jasper smiled at his friend who was running a stone along the blade of his dagger. He wished he had Harrig’s thick mane in this southern climate. His own dark hair was cropped close, and his beard, though he had let it grow of late, did nothing to cut the biting wind. The land was well into spring, but still snow swirled down from the massive peaks to the south. Wrapping his cloak tighter he fell in beside Harrig as they walked to the stables.

“Did you find absolution friend?” His tone was sincere, though Jasper knew his companion did not understand the need.

“Only the Sister knows now, though in truth I feel her calm upon me now. I know not if that is for good or ill though.” He smiled up at the big man, “I am sorry to make you spend these hours alone, and without beer.”

“Ach, tis’ a brisk sunny day, with only a little snow. If I’m to sit outside, this,” he pointed to the vista before them, “Is the time and place for it.”

They reached the stables and Harrig tugged the doors open, “We’ve a message while you were praying.” Indeed, strapped and hooded, a falcon awaited them just inside the doors. “I waited for you; can’t read your spidery northern script.”

Jasper peeled the rolled paper from the raptor. As he unfolded and skimmed the contents, Herrig began saddling their horses. The big man waited patiently. Working through the stalls, he checked the shoes and teeth of his grey. He moved on to Jasper’s mount. Losing himself in the work, he was startled by the other man’s voice.

“Turas sends us instructions.” Jasper folded the paper in his gloved hands, and looked over the half wall, “We are to meet the others south of Modara at the Crossroads.”

Harrig grunted, “That’s few words for the amount of time you spent reading.” He looked out the corner of his eyes. The accusation was small, but real. “I trust you Jasper, but some scraps would be nice from time to time.”

“I’d give it to you to read if you could make it out. It pains me to repeat it though.” Jasper sighed and pushed the folded note behind his belt, “ar’Turas is not well, and his sons…well they were never meant to rule. My own family will find the times hard in the next few years.”

“Your king does me no good dead. I forsook my oaths to follow him.” Harrig looked grim and serious.

“Let us pray we can find Emrys my friend.”

“You pray.” Harrig smiled, “I have this.” He flourished the three foot length of steel, sheathed now, and strapped it to his saddle.