The
Light in the Forest
The Light in the Forest
Prologue:
Centuries past, before men first stepped west of the mighty Crystalmist Mountains, dense woodlands covered the central Flanaess from the Icy Sea to the Sea of Gearnat. In the darkest reaches of these forests dwelt many creatures, both fair and foul. The foulest of these was Slithisk, a being ancient when the elves were young. Its power and evil were as great as its hatred for the light, and for all those who dwelt in it. It preyed mercilessly upon the sylvan elves, who could not counter it. But with the arrival of the faerie, strong in magic, it was overwhelmed. Defeated and much weakened, it fled deep into the bowels of the oerth, where it remained for time untold, nursing both its body and its hatred of the light. But now, at long last, it had the means for its revenge. Thus it resurged, to once again grasp the woodlands of Oerth in a reign of terror...
Chapter 1: Planting, CY573
The beauty of Pitchfield never ceased to amaze Sigurd Rannstun. As a veteran captain of Sunndi's heavy infantry, he had multiple occasions to visit, but never for more than a week or so. Between the aggressive imperialistic forays from Aerdy, the ferocious goblin folk from the Glorioles, the naval sorties from Medegia, and the occasional attacks by amphibious horrors from the Vast Swamp to the south, retirement and city life seemed far indeed.
The city was truly impressive. Gray Elves had built it with their Flan and dwur allies, many centuries before. It consisted of five high walls of granite and shale, arranged in five great concentric rings. The beautiful buildings and towers combined dwur sturdiness and defensibility with olven décor, and the many public gardens showed the influence of both the olven and the Flan respect for nature. Of course, not all was harmony in this city.
Few dwurs dwelt in Pitchfield, and those were either craftsmen or diplomats from the Lyrkerami clans in the Gloriole Mountains. Although many men lived there, they were more of Oeridian than Flan descent, testimony of the many years this beautiful land had been under the yoke of the Aerdy. And of course, the Faerie, or gray elves, who ruled. Indeed, in olden times the walls had divided the city by caste, or social level. Although these distinctions were now mostly dissolved by the wise and benevolent Count Hazendel, Olvensteward of the South, one prohibition remained: only the faerie were allowed in the innermost ring, where the count's citadel lay. Men could only enter with the count's permission, and this was rarely granted.
Thus it was unusual that on this day, not one but two men stood in the Tower of Vigilance, headquarters of the Count's Olvenguard, awaiting the arrival of the Master of Song. This lyrical title did not refer to a minstrel, but to a warrior. Celebrimbor was the elf in charge of instructing the olvenguard in the complex art of bladesinging, the culmination of olven swordsmanship. Sigurd had witnessed the elves in combat many times, and knew that aside from allowing them to cast spells while wielding their swords, the style was deceptively slow and graceful, yet devastatingly effective.
Now Threndor, the lad he had brought to the tower today, did not seem to need any help with his swordplay, only with his discipline. A fortnight past, his company had been patrolling along the Hestmark Highlands to the east. Threndor was one of the rangers of the Rieuwood, the northern border of Sunndi. The rangers were often assigned to various infantry units across the county, as their wilderness training was superb, as was their knowledge of goblinkind. As the company was making camp one night, the lad wandered north towards the Glorioles, neglecting his campfire duties (which applied to all new company members, regardless of any special skills). Close to midnight, the young ranger ran back to the camp, with a dire warning of an approaching horde of orcs from the mountains. Sigurd noticed, while he listened to the report, that the lad's quiver was empty, his hands bloody, and that a black-fletched arrow still pierced his arm.
The company was quickly roused, runners were sent for reinforcements, and after several hours' forced march the ranger led them to a force of almost one thousand orcs. The company engaged them in a narrow pass, and after many hours of fierce fighting, the orcs were finally routed by the arrival of a joint force of axe wielding dwurs and fierce hillmen of Flan descent, wielding slings and morningstars.
And now Sigurd Rannstun, having received a commendation from Count Hazendel, awaited the legendary Celebrimbor for unknown reasons. The beautifully carved doors opened and two elves entered. Both were clad in fine gray cloaks covering shirts of glittering mail, and both wore ornate swords at their sides. Sigurd knew both of them. The eldest, Celebrimbor, was slight, with fair skin, silver hair, and amber eyes. He had been teaching elves the sword for over five centuries. The younger's name was Curufin, a prince among his people, lieutenant in the count's olvenguard, and Leader of the Choir, a title given to the most senior students of the bladesong. His greater height, flaxen hair, and violet eyes labeled him as one of the faerie, the noblest of gray elves.
"Greetings, Captain Rannstun. Welcome to the Tower of Vigilance." The ancient elf greeted him politely. "Once again your company has distinguished itself, showing that pole-axes and courage are more than a match for any foe of our realm."
"You honor me, Celebrimbor, Master of Song." Sigurd bowed respectfully, left hand on his knee, and was pleased to see the young woodsman followed suit. "As requested by the Count, I bring Sunder Threndor, ranger of the Rieuwood and scout of the Hestmark Army and leave him in your charge." Sigurd could not help but notice the disapproval in Curufin's face at these words.
"We are always glad of the rare times when your brave soldiers work with the olvenguard." At these words, Curufin did not even try to hide his disdain. Indeed, Sigurd himself had been the last man rewarded by a brief stint in the olvenguard, and this had been over 30 years ago. At that time a younger Curufin had been newly named Leader of the Choir, and had showed the same contempt for men. He did not envy Threndor. If the ranger was fated to have an experience like his own, only long hours of citadel gate duty awaited him over the next year.
"Boy, make us look good!" The ranger smiled ruefully at these words, after which his former captain exchanged final pleasantries with Celebrimbor, and then departed to rejoin his company in the outermost circle of Pitchfield.
"THIS is the new recruit you want me to train?" Celebrimbor smiled at the surprise in Curufin's voice. Indeed, the few men who were 'honored' by joining the olvenguard for a year's time did not receive training, only the least important duties. And the young man standing before them appeared an unlikely candidate. He was well over six feet, and broad of shoulder, but otherwise lean. His tanned skin, dark hair, and gray eyes suggested pure oeridian blood. He was dressed as a woodsman, in stout leather and Lincoln green. Instead of the usual bardiche and crossbow usual with inland Sunnds, he bore a stout hunting bow and a straight, long-hilted broadsword. His serious expression and the swordsman's grace with which he moved belied his youthfulness.
"Well, now, Sunder, welcome to the olvenguard." The master of song surprised Sunder by clasping his forearm in the manner of Oeridian warriors. "I have been ordered by Count Hazendel to instruct you in the Song." Sunder could not hide his amazement. The bladesong was among the greatest secrets of the elves, and one of their most potent weapons against their foes. Curufin's scowl only deepened. "In one year's time you will not be able to master our techniques, but you may learn much that is useful."
At this point a young elf, dressed in gray cloak and mail, but with a plain sword, entered the chamber. "Mal-galad will lead you to your quarters, and from there to the practice yard." The ranger once more bowed formally, and left the room with his guide.
"Respected master, is this wise? This is never done!" Curufin could no longer contain his disapproval.
"Now, my student, he has earned this privilege."
"How? We do not train any&ldots;. man&ldots;. who gives us warning of our enemies' approach. If that were the case, there would be more Hestmark hillmen than elves in our ranks!" Indeed, it was these brave Flan tribesmen who were most alert against incursions from Aerdy or the See of Medegia.
"The account I heard was that, as Captain Rannstun's company marched to battle, they found the remains of ten yrch. This was the patrol that young Threndor discovered while scouting, alerting him to the presence of the invading force. Threndor killed all ten with bow and sword."
"I suppose that would be accounted a fine deed for a man. That still does not explain&ldots;"
"Peace, finest of students. The Count has ordered it be so. As Leader of the Choir, you are of course in charge of all beginning students of the song. Begin as you see fit."
At these words, Curufin finally smiled. "As always, we must begin by testing his skills..."
* * * * *
Having doffed his cloak and jerkin, Sunder gazed in wonder across the practice yards. Several pairs of elves were sparring under the watchful eyes of two Choirmasters. The elves used blunted swords of steel to practice, as the metallic clashing of blade on blade provided the music to which they seemed to dance. Some of them were actually singing wordless tunes that even to Sunder's untrained ears sounded incredibly ancient and edged with immortal regret.
The style itself was intriguing. Sunder was only eighteen, but had spent almost half his life studying the discipline of steel. At age ten his father began teaching him the basics of the straightforward Oeridian style, using a straight broadsword with or without a shield. By age twelve he had shown great talent, and thus Turpin Threndor introduced him to Krovas Dancar, the Suloise Way of the Blade. The bladesong differed from both. Although the elves appeared to be dancing, there were no specific forms that Sunder could see. Rather, their moves seemed to flow naturally with the clashing of their blades.
"Mal-galad!" Curufin arrived on the field, and all combat ceased as the Choir saluted its Leader. Let us see what our new recruit can do!"
With a smile, the young elf gave Sunder one of the practice blades. It was a handspan shorter and a few pounds lighter than the ranger's own sword, but he was able to crowd both hands on the hilt. He held the blade at shoulder level, his feet shoulder-wide. Lion on the Hill. Mal-galad stood in front of him, gracefully twirling his blade in the sunlight. Then he lunged. They were approximately equals in speed, and seemed well matched. The elves cheered as their blades clashed repeatedly, filling the yard with their music. Sunder danced the forms confidently, now attacking, now defending. The young elf was aggressive but not reckless, never committing himself fully to a thrust. After a few minutes, Sunder took a defensive stance, keeping his parries close and his thrusts and slashes tentative. Mal-galad sensed an opening, and lunged. But he had been fooled by The Cat Dances on the Wall. The ranger blocked with his crossguard, quickly whipping his sword in a circle. The Grapevine Twines, and Mal-galad's sword flew from his hand.
Most of the surrounding elves clapped politely, and Mal-galad congratulated the ranger on his victory. But Curufin was not pleased.
"You have done well, man. But Mal-galad is new to the Choir. Let us see how you fare against an advanced student." Curufin approached the ranger, hefting a practice blade. "And one other thing. In this field we all use only one hand on the hilts of our blades. You will do the same."
Curufin held his right arm parallel to the ground, the point of his blade aimed at Sunder's chest. He stood sideways, his feet together, His left arm gracefully lifted for balance, palm upwards. The ranger also stood sideways, but with a wide stance, right foot forward. He held his sword hilt at waist level, its blade upwards. His left elbow was cocked, his forearm across his chest, as if holding an invisible shield. The elf began humming a wordless tune, which was taken up by some of the spectators. He slowly circled the ranger, who only moved his right foot to continue facing him.
"Strike me," commanded Curufin.
Sunder feinted with a stab to the midriff, followed by two lightning-fast slashes to the neck, to which he added power by rapidly whirling his sword above his head. He stomped his leading foot as he lunged, trying to press the elf back. But Curufin was truly a master. He seemed to weave a net of steel around himself, which Sunder could not penetrate despite his best efforts. Even worse, not even with his superior strength and size was he driving his foe back. As Curufin danced, he seemed to remain on exactly the same patch of grass. As the ranger began breathing heavily, Curufin imitated him, whirling his sword over his head in apparent preparation for a slash. As Sunder brought his blade up to parry in carte, however, he saw his mistake. Fast as an adder, the elf lunged low, the blunt point of his sword slamming into the ranger's solar plexus. Sunder went down in a heap.
Impassively, Curufin approached him. "You have spirit, but men were not meant for the Song."
The ranger stood, sword still in hand, gasping for breath. "Well struck, Lord Curufin. But you will not do that again."
The elf merely raised an eyebrow, and again assumed his graceful fighting stance. As soon as Sunder signaled readiness, Curufin attacked. This time he showed no restraint, pressing the ranger back across the field. It was more through quickness and the strength of his parries that Sunder defended himself, and inside a minute his arms were covered with bruises from the elf's blunt blade. But Sunder did not attack, only parried; waiting for the same low thrust.
The duelers crashed through the circle of onlookers, their swords clashing at improbable speeds. Their combat took them closer and closer to the citadel's courtyard, and now other elves silently watched the duel, having been distracted from their duties or reveries. Sunder, however, noticed none of these. As he dodged and parried, all he knew was his sword and his foe. His whole world was reduced to those two clashing blades, to his desperate defense. Nothing else existed as he waited for Curufin to repeat the midriff thrust.
When the thrust finally came, it was intended as a feint to precede a stab to the groin. But Sunder met it with a large, down-sweeping parry in low prime. Simultaneously the ranger drove a powerful left cross over his parry, smashing his fist into Curufin's nose. The elf, stunned, fell backwards, but managed to roll gracefully to his feet in one smooth motion.
Curufin faced the panting ranger. Even with blood running freely from his ruined nose, the elf stood as expressionless as he had throughout the duel. He handed his practice sword to one of the younger elves, and waved away offers of help or support.
"Not bad, ranger. I had forgotten that your brethren learn to fight two-fisted, as they frequently fight alone against numerous groups of yrch. As you did yourself a fortnight ago. We will teach you." With this the elf walked away. The younger elves coolly but politely congratulated Sunder. As he followed Mal-galad to his new quarters, the murmurs of the courtiers and guards reached his ears. His grasp of the olven tongue was rudimentary, and he could only make out one word they repeated, though he did not yet know its meaning - Turmacil.
* * * * *
From his study in the Tower of Vigilance, the Master of Song looked down on the practice yard. He did not know whether to be relieved that the young man had done well, or to be saddened. Celebrimbor had lived too long. The waning of olvenkind while mankind waxed ever more powerful was obvious to him. After a while, there was a polite knock at his door. At his invitation, Curufin entered.
"It shall be as you wish, o Master of Song."
"It is not my wish, we merely follow the Count's order."
"Can you not tell me why, my lord?"
"I wish I could&ldots;." Celebrimbor truly had received no explanation regarding this unusual request. But he was older than the Olvensteward, and his memories were clear. It was only a mere two centuries past, when a young Aerdy general had finalized the conquest of Sunndi. Although he came as a conqueror, he always treated the faerie with respect. He later died while leading the Glorioles Army against the evil of Vecna. There was something about his name&ldots;.
"Curufin, do you speak the Oeridian language?"
"No, my lord. The vulgar common tongue of the humans is almost more than I can bear."
"It is of no importance. Now, continue your report on the Choir's progress."
* * * * *
Chapter 2: Brewfest, CY 573
At last, all was in place. Although its powers were a far cry from what they had been, the means for restoring them were at hand. Only the final element was missing for the vile ritual to take place, after which no force on Oerth would be able to oppose him. And now its spies informed him that the final ingredient was within reach. If only it's doltish servants did not fail in this simple task...
* * * * *
The sun was setting as the tired but proud company reached the township of Woodwych. The gray cloaked elves walked their horses, weaving their way through feasters and merchants as they approached the mayor's house. Galannor Cuithil, First Bow of Count Hazendel's olvenguard, was glad to reach the end of this journey.
Their mission had been one of utmost importance to the Count - to escort a beauteous lady of the court, the enchantress Fioranna Aielestriel, to this small Nyrondese city. He did not know why such an illustrious envoy was needed so urgently in such a place, instead of in mighty Rel Mord, seat of King Archbold III. But the Olvenguard's loyalty to Hazendel was absolute.
* * * * *
The journey from Pitchfield to Idee had been swifter than expected, for the one human among his twelve riders, Sunder Threndor, had led them through the Rieuwood's secret paths with an ease born of years of familiarity. Their journey through Idee had likewise been swift, as this land was flat, and had great roads built during the days when the Great Kingdom of the Aerdy spread from the Solnor Ocean to the Clatspur Mountains in the west. Their troubles began in the Free City of Irongate. Although midway through the month of Harvester the high summer was not yet over, mighty autumnal storms were already ravaging the Sea of Gearnat, making its crossing all but impossible.
This left the prospect of riding across the South Province of Aerdy to its port city of Prymp, there to catch ship to the Almorian port of Mithat. This would have been unspeakably dangerous for twelve gray elves. Chelor, the Herzog (as the Grand Duke of that Province was known), would have liked nothing more than to capture a company of the Sunnd olvenguard and a high-ranking lady from the nation he considered a rebellious territory of his own fief. But fortune smiled on them.
Galannor encountered an old acquaintance, the peredhel Lotheneser. Although born in Irongate of a human mother, Lotheneser's father was a gray olven noble from Pitchfield. The half-elf had visited his father often during his youth, and was relatively well known in the court. Lotheneser was a man of many talents - stealth, barter, archery, and dirksmanship foremost among them. He also knew the eastern Flanaess well, as he had made his living as a messenger, courier, caravan guide, and mercenary scout in the area for over thirty years.
As Lotheneser was about to guide a caravan to Prymp with a cargo of uncut gems from the Iron Hills, Galannor seized this opportunity. The elves substituted common raiment for their fine gray cloaks, and thus posed as caravan guards. Ahlissan patrols questioned them mercilessly at every stop during their journey to Prymp, and only Lotheneser's clever words and hefty bribes kept them from the Herzog's dungeons on more than one occasion. The crew of the Sable Serpent, the carrack that took them to Almor, were little better than pirates. But as soon as they were out to sea the elves cast away their disguise, and the cutthroats thought better of any mischief. They thus reached Mithat safely, and once again took to their horses for the short trip to Nyrond. Lotheneser traveled with them, as Galannor hired him to lead them to Woodwych.
The only physical danger during the trip came as an attack by bandits as they were fording the River Duntide. But those scoundrels, though numerous and vicious as river rats, had been no match for the swords, bows, and spells of the olvenguard. During the short battle Galannor admired Lotheneser's skill with the bow, which was almost on par with his own. Indeed, the half-elf did not once need to touch the basket-hilted broadsword at his side. Over the years, Galannor had several times asked Lotheneser to join his own brotherhood, the Hands of the New Moon, reputedly the finest archers among the faerie. But the roguish peredhel always had, in his words, 'more pressing commitments.'
The First Bow had also been intrigued by the way in which Sunder combined his knowledge of the Song with the Suloise sword forms. There was no longer any doubt among the olvenguard that the young man in their ranks was a Turmacil - a blademaster. Sunder was an avid student, who quickly mastered the basic techniques of bladesinging. He also excelled in acrobatics and horsemanship, skills which the elves put to good use in combat. The lad was a warrior born.
* * * * *
On their arrival in Woodwych Square, Lotheneser parted company with the elves, gallantly praising the lady Fioranna. He then spoke with Galannor as he collected his payment.
"Your gold is almost as pleasant as your company, cousin." The half-elf smiled, as their kinship was somewhat more distant than that.
"I thank you, Peredhel, for your service. You really should ride back with us, so that I can finally teach you to use that bow you burden yourself with."
Lotheneser laughed, a twinkle in his amber eyes. "I do well enough, my lord First Bow." There was enough friendly sarcasm in his words to make his feelings clear. "Besides, tonight is the third night of Brewfest. I think I'll spend the next few days enjoying Nyrondese hospitality&ldots;" his words trailed off as he admired a curvaceous young whore who sauntered by on her way to the festivities. His admiration was interrupted when he remembered the lady Fioranna, who observed the exchange with an amused look on her perfect features. The half-elf actually blushed (which Galannor had thought impossible).
"Er.... I must be going now. Be well, my friends!" The wiry half-elf then swaggered off, adjusting his russet cape.
* * * * *
As the tall Sunnd ranger made his way through the festivities, he could not help but feel homesick. Brewfest, the week-long celebration marking the end of the High Summer and thus the last days of the year's harvest, was as joyful an occasion in Woodwych as in his native village of Ruanon, if in a much larger scale. Although Woodwych was called a township, it was really a walled city, home to close to twenty thousand people. It was the hereditary baronial fief of a pudgy, self-important man named Bastrayne. This year the celebration was more lavish than usual for, as Sunder learned, King Archbold had just named Bastrayne Duke, and Earl of Woodsedge. In his absence, Mayor Radnen Gryppe officiated the festivities.
Indeed, for the past six months, other than rare visits to the outermost ring of Pitchfield for a quiet drink or a lively whore, Sunder had been almost exclusively in the company of elves. Although he learned much from them, he never felt truly welcome. His natural shyness made it difficult for him to approach them, whilst their unwitting bigotry made them all but oblivious to his presence. Even in the practice yard, Sunder usually practiced alone. He only sparred with a partner when Curufin taught him, the only times the Leader of the Choir ever addressed him.
As Captain Rannstun had feared, Sunder was at first assigned to guard duty on the parapets of the Count's citadel. But after a month or so, Galannor Moonbow (so named because of the enchanted bow he bore, a weapon made of mother-of-pearl yet hard as steel and pliable as a willow-wand) invited him to join his company. The First Bow and his ten riders traveled extensively, serving as either messengers or advance bodyguards for the Count. Galannor recognized the young blademaster's prowess, and was glad to have a wood-wise ranger in his group. And Sunder was glad to spend less time in lonely vigilance of unassailable walls.
But although trusted in combat, Sunder was not truly one of them. Thus, after claiming his room at the Turquoise Moon, a large inn where lodging had been arranged for the Sunnd party, the ranger declined a half-hearted invitation to dine with the elves. Doffing his elven cloak and mail, he donned his old leather jerkin and hunter's cloak, and left to partake of the festivities. He stopped at the inn's kitchen on his way out, to purchase a loaf of bread and a joint of beef for his dinner. As he left by the back door, he almost bumped into a black-cloaked man who was furiously haggling with the hostler. They met him with icy stares, and so he hurried on his way, not concerned with an innkeeper's business.
Perhaps to make them forget the harsh way in which he taxed them, Gryppe had truly procured the best in entertainment for his people. Numerous minstrels, jugglers, and other street performers were on hand, as well as vast amounts of the heady stout preferred by the local farmers and woodsmen. But there was an undercurrent of unease among the feasters. Sunder heard many odd and unnerving rumors. They said that of late woodsmen had at times seen strange, eldritch lights deep in the nearby Celadon Forest. None who investigated these lights were seen again. Everyone knew that many xenophobic sylvan elves dwelt in these woods, but they were not known to be sorcerers, and they avoided all contact with men. There had also been several reports of goblin folk, who reportedly raided various homesteads, but all the patrols Gryppe sent had mysteriously vanished. But as there had been no raids on (or sightings from) Woodwych itself, the city gates stood open, as was customary during Brewfest throughout the Flanaess.
Sunder enjoyed himself, drinking moderate quantities of hearty stout, and dancing with several comely maidens. The last of these, a winsome lass with reddish hair and dark, knowing eyes, invited him for a leisurely stroll in the moonlight. The nights of Brewfest were widely thought romantic, as the waning of Luna and the waxing of Celene bathed the evening in a soft bluish glow. But as they walked down a quiet street, talking softly, they were accosted by three husky youths. One of these was the wench's sweetheart; the other two were his cousins. Only Sunder's steely gaze and his hand on the long hilt of his sword prevented a fight, but the lass, seemingly disappointed that no one would bleed for her, chose to reconcile herself with her paramour.
Thus sometime after midnight the young blademaster entered the Turquoise Moon alone. On reaching the third floor, he was surprised by the two elves guarding the Lady Fioranna's door. It was not odd that they ignored him, but they were leaning against the walls instead of at attention, and seemed unnaturally still. Then he heard one snore.
He leapt to the door, and heard voices beyond it. The elves were unresponsive, and on lifting one's eyelid he saw an unnaturally constricted amber pupil. And from behind the door he heard a weak, feminine voice crying for help. A powerful kick tore the door off its leathern hinges, and Sunder sprang into the room, his sword flashing into his hand. Two dark-clad men were carrying the weakly struggling Fioranna to the balcony. One of them whirled around, drawing a short sword with either hand. The moonlight spilling through the window showed him to be the same rogue who was dealing with the hostler earlier that night. As the other rogue dragged the silver-haired faerie damsel over the railing, the one in the black cloak struck at Sunder.
Steel sang on steel as long sword met short swords. The man was fast, and used both blades with equal skill. The quick, sideways arcs of Bundling Straw kept the keen short blades at bay, and only by swiftly crouching did the rogue avoid decapitation by Arc of the Moon. From his crouch, the rogue crossed his blades over his head to parry a mighty overhead slash from the ranger, and while thus occupied, was rendered senseless by a savage kick to the jaw.
Sunder ran across the room and recklessly vaulted over the balcony rail, gracefully landing in the alley two stories below. He heard several horses galloping away, but immediately sensed he was not alone. He whirled to see a rat-faced rogue with a knife in each hand and a wide leer on his face.
The first knife flew unerringly at the ranger, but he was already moving. His sword came up to deflect it harmlessly, and he spun away from the second blade. But as he closed with the no longer smiling rogue, rat-face went for a third, hidden knife. The throw was hurried and imperfect, thus the pommel and not the blade impacted solidly above Sunder's left ear. Everything went black for a moment. The next thing he saw was rat-face, again leering, with a knife to his throat.
Cursing his luck, Sunder steeled himself for a probably futile attempt to grapple rat-face. But suddenly, a knife hilt seemed to sprout from the rogue's right eye. As he gained his feet, the ranger saw a familiar figure garbed in russet and green.
"Swordsmen! You are all alike. Did you even THINK of hurling your belt knife at him, instead of charging like a lummox?" Lotheneser scanned the street for enemies as he swaggered towards the fallen assassin.
Sunder smiled sheepishly, his hand touching the hilt of his hunting knife. "You have my thanks, peredhel."
"What kind of argument did you have with Galbro? I've never known him to have the guts for a stand-up fight before. I guess that's one mistake he will not repeat." As the half-elf chuckled at his own jest, and retrieved his knife, the ranger studied the spoor of the fleeing horses by the wan moonlight.
"They drugged the olvenguards, and took the lady Fioranna."
The half-elf was shocked. "Who would dare? Why?"
The horse tracks now indelible in his mind, the young blademaster stood, his eyes gray as storm clouds. "We will ask them soon, my friend. Soon."
* * * * *
Chapter 3: The Celadon Forest
The two men promptly claimed their horses and set off in pursuit. They left by the city's South Gate, in turn pursued by the curses of overturned late feasters in their wake. Rudd's luck seemed to be with them, for the kidnappers promptly left the hard packed earth of the main road, riding south through open country towards the ancient Celadon Forest. Thus even by moonlight, the ranger's keen eyes were able to follow the spoor.
"Sunder, should we have woken Galannor and told him of this? We know not what we will find."
"We had no time to spare, my friend. Besides, from their tracks I surmise that there are no more than three of them."
Lotheneser hoped the ranger's recklessness would not cost them. But he was right - the lady Fioranna had to be rescued promptly. Also, the unspoken question remained, whether the poison Galannor and his elves took was lethal.
A short ride later, they reached the edge of the woods. Soon they dismounted, as the forest was too dense, with many low branches, to make riding safe. After finding a copse of elms to shelter their mounts, they continued on foot.
The Celadon Forest was one of the most wondrous of Ehlonna's realms. Mighty elm and oak trees towered over the two hunters, so old even the elves could not begin to guess the time elapsed since they were sprouts. Their going was painfully slow, as the ranger had scant light to work by, and such sign was beyond Lotheneser's rudimentary tracking skills.
As dawn approached, they came upon the kidnappers. Or what was left of them. The three men and their horses had been butchered, and unspeakably maimed. Of the olven lady there was no sign.
"They were hacked to pieces with great curved blades." Lotheneser commented in a detached manner. "Axes or swords. They should have been more particular in their choice of employers."
The ranger quickly cast for sign. "Hobgoblins." That one word carried such hatred, the half elf was taken aback. "A dozen of them. They continued to the south."
Although tired, the two hunters now had a renewed sense of urgency, for the thought of the lovely Fioranna in the grasp of those vile creatures, who hated elves with a passion, was horrible. Also, the rising sun made tracking easier, and they were able to move faster. The ranger, at home in the woods, set a steady, ground eating pace. The springiness in Lotheneser's wiry body allowed him to keep up with Sunder's long strides.
They also kept a watchful eye for signs of ambush. Unlike most other goblin folk, the hobgoblins were skilled tacticians, operating within rigid military societies. They were also unafraid of sunlight, and willing to fight at all times.
* * * * *
As the sun set on the fourth night of Brewfest, the two weary hunters stopped for a brief rest, only their second since their meeting over a kidnapper's corpse behind the inn. With turquoise Celene in its full glory, and only a sliver of the pearly, waning Luna left in the sky, the Celadon truly appeared otherworldly. As Lotheneser thought he spied an unusual radiance in the woods ahead, a low growl came from the bush to their right.
That was their only warning as a half-dozen hulking figures clad in black mail charged them, their bestial mandrill-like features wetly glistening in the moonlight. Two of them fell to Lotheneser's bow in a heartbeat's span, a pair of arrows fletchings-deep in each massive chest. And then the monsters were upon them. Lotheneser sprang back, trying desperately to find room to ply his hornwood bow. But Sunder stood unafraid, smoothly drawing his sword.
Rearing him in the Rieuwood, Turpin Threndor taught his son the sword, the bow, and the hunter's skills. But he also taught him of right and wrong, and of the need for a man to be ever vigilant against the forces of evil. Particularly against the foul goblin folk who constantly press upon mankind's borders, seeking to enslave its populace, rape its riches, and steal its treasures. As a ranger, Sunder knew how these creatures fought, and how they wore their armor. He knew how to make them bleed.
The first brute closed on the ranger with a gleeful, guttural cry. Sunder, one with his blade, met him with a tentative-appearing slash. The creature tried to scream but only gurgled as it died, its throat torn. The ranger spun to his left, so as not to be surrounded. Apple Blossoms in the Wind parried two of the heavy, scythe-like swords; and Tower of Morning disemboweled a second creature, opening it from hip to breastbone. As the last two brutes charged him, Sunder struck the one to his left, splitting its skull to the teeth with The Courtier Taps his Fan. The last monster swung its ax in a wide arc, but one of Lotheneser's gray goose shafts hit it high in the shoulder, staggering it. Sunder dropped to one knee, using his weight to drive his sword deep into the hobgob's groin.
Lotheneser kicked the monster's weapon away, questioning it in its harsh language. The dying brute was hesitant at first, but the half-elf's pointed queries and sharp knife soon coerced it to cooperate. And then Sunder watched in stunned horror as Lotheneser repeatedly drove his poniard into the creature's black heart, sobs wracking his wiry frame.
"Lotheneser!" The ranger gingerly but firmly grasped the half-elf's knife arm. "What did it say? What's wrong?"
The half-elf took a moment to compose himself. "The hobgoblins serve some kind of monster - this one called it a god. They mean to sacrifice Fioranna to this being, or it will claim her itself, I know not. I am sorry, my friend. But if you had understood how she is to be defiled&ldots;"
"Then we must stop them. Come, peredhel, time enough to grieve if we fail." Sunder shifted his sword to his back, hilt jutting above his left shoulder. Lotheneser shouldered his bow. Without a word, united by a single purpose, the scout and the ranger advanced through the woods, silent as shadows.
* * * * *
They moved swiftly now, as they could clearly see a bluish radiance from the forest ahead. They avoided several more patrols, restraining themselves with great effort from attacking them. Within a few minutes they reached a rough but sturdy wooden palisade. It was from this structure that the mysterious blue glow seemed to emanate. Lotheneser adroitly scrambled up the logs.
"This is their camp, alright. I count at least forty." The half-elf's keen eyes narrowed in surprise. "There is a ruined temple in the middle, its markings unclear &ldots; wait! I see now. It was dedicated to the Moonbow." Sehanine, the Moonbow, was the olven goddess of dreams, illusions, and the moons. "The marble itself is glowing - as if it has absorbed Celene's light."
Indeed, on climbing the palisade, the ranger saw that the ruined temple was emitting a radiance of its own, bathing the orderly hide tents of the hobgoblins in its azure glow. The monsters were drilling with their swords, axes, and polearms, under the watchful eyes of whip-wielding serjeants.
The two hunters silently slipped over the palisade, and made their way to the ruined temple unseen. Avoiding the guards at the main entrance, they found a fissure in the back wall large enough to crawl through. The inside of the temple was also bathed in the eerie blue glow coming from its walls.
* * * * *
Chapter 4: The Temple of the Moon
They made their way to the main worship area, where they surprised and swiftly overcame two guards, silently slitting their throats. The temple itself had been defiled by the monsters, with vulgar graffiti in crudely misspelled Common scrawled on the walls. The pews had been smashed to kindling, and the effigies to the Moonbow, once among the most beautiful sculptures on Oerth, were naught but rubble. Even the altar had been defiled, its top shattered.
"Hmmm... Elves are fairies..." Sunder could not help but smile at the crude writing. Lotheneser was not amused.
"Wait, Sunder! Look at all this rubble!"
"What about it?" The ranger knew little of construction.
"The altar was smashed from the INSIDE out! Lotheneser ran to the altar, peering in the hole. His elvensight revealed a tunnel leading straight down into the darkness. Crude iron rings had been hammered down one wall, to aid the humanoids in climbing.
"Wait here." The half-elf swiftly but quietly scampered down the iron rungs into the darkness. When the blue glow spilling through the shattered altar was no larger than the palm of his hand, Lotheneser finally saw the bottom of the pit, where a lone hobgoblin stood on guard. The scout dropped the last ten feet, breaking the humanoid's neck on landing. A crudely carved tunnel headed to the south, slanting gently into the oerth. Iron torches set into the walls at regular intervals provided more smoke than light.
The ranger joined him, and they crept down the tunnel, Lotheneser in the lead. Twice they met small groups of hobgoblins, but these were no match for the two hunters. Even as he flowed through the forms, Sunder noticed Lotheneser used an unorthodox style. The half-elf tended to use his basket-hilted sword to parry and bind his foes' weapons, depending on a poniard in his left hand to deal killing blows. As they advanced, they detected the distinct smell of carrion. But this did not prepare them for what they found.
The tunnel opened into a large cavern, over one hundred paces in diameter, which was filled with a charnel house stench. In the middle there was a crude stone altar, with a tall iron torch standing at each corner. Shackled to this granite slab was Fioranna Aielestriel. Her naked, alabaster body glistened in the torchlight. Her bright violet eyes dilated with terror as she witnessed the creature that approached her.
* * * * *
Not in their worst nightmares had the hunters imagined a monster such as this. It had the body of a snake, at least fifteen feet in length. Its slimy, scaled form was covered in black and crimson bands. Its head was humanoid, with matted, stringy hair. Sunder thanked St Cuthbert he could not, from this angle, see its visage. It was the source of the nauseating stench. As the scaled horror approached its captive, its sinuous movements could only be described as obscene. A huge hobgoblin chieftain, with its three lieutenants, laughed grandly at the olven maid's plight.
If its appearance was ghastly, its voice was horrifying, high pitched yet gravelly. "And now, slut, prepare to witness the return of your kin's bane. After I have bathed in your virginal, faerie blood, my powers again will be as of old. One thousand lives shall I devour for each year I spent in the darkness. Slithisk will rule SUPREME!!!" It then pronounced eldritch words, whereupon its body grew, until it was over twenty feet in length, and over five in girth. Fioranna screamed in mindless terror.
No other words were needed. The hunters sprang forth, their fear forgotten in the face of the lady's danger. Lotheneser smoothly nocked and shot, his bronze-tipped arrows biting deep into the horror's scaled hide. Sunder flowed through the forms, and two hobgoblins lay dead at his feet before the creatures could react.
Slithisk uttered another charm, and suddenly the half-elf's arrows no longer reached it, bouncing off the air inches from their goal. As Sunder advanced on the chieftain, Slithisk turned, fixing him with his baleful, lidless eyes, dark as hell itself.
"Hold, my friend." The horrible voice was suddenly pleasing to Sunder's ears. "There is no need for violence."
Lotheneser's desperate cries were as ineffective as his arrows.
"Put that sword down. You are scaring our friends." To the ranger, these were the most reasonable words he had ever heard, despite their obvious absurdity. As he went down on one knee to lower his blade, the hobgoblins laughed. They approached him, testing their swords' edges with their thumbs.
"That's right, 'friend,'" laughed the chieftain, a leer splitting its mandrill-like face. "It will all be over in a moment."
Lotheneser could not help his friend, for Slithisk turned its gaze on him. But the hellish stare had no effect on the archer, as his olven blood protected him. Cursing, the ancient terror spat out another charm. Suddenly, its movements were no longer slow and sinuous. Faster than lightning, Slithisk lunged at the half-elf, poison streaming from its tooth-filled maw. Lotheneser saw his death in those fangs, and leapt back adroitly. As he dodged desperately, the half-elf despaired of leaving the cavern alive.
Sunder had never been so confused. He saw Lotheneser dodging for his life, and heard Fioranna's frightened screams. Yet he found himself kneeling motionless, his sword on the ground, as two hobgoblins approached him. The smaller of the two drew a jagged black knife, and grasped the ranger's hair in preparation for throat-slitting. This foul touch, however, proved to be more than the ranger could bear. His hatred of these evil humanoids overcame Slithisk's charm. His broadsword came up, and the hobgob's hand went flying. The maimed monster screamed until Arc of the Moon beheaded him.
"Some sport at last!" The chieftain roared. This monster was head and shoulders taller than Sunder, and half again as wide. It wore a cuirass of banded leather over its hauberk, and had a steel buckler strapped to its left forearm, leaving its hand free. It drew a straight, double-edged long sword much like Sunder's and presented its left side to the ranger, sword high behind its head. Sunder stretched his arms in a wide circular motion, ending with both hands on his swordhilt as he stood facing the huge goblin.
They attacked simultaneously, their blades striking sparks as they met. The monster's strength was clearly superior, and he drove Sunder back. Sunder needed room to recover his balance. He reversed his grip on his hilt, weaving a great horizontal figure eight in the air. The Serpent Bites its Tail parried the chieftain's fierce attacks, and left a cut across its face, for good measure.
The hobgoblin stepped back, surprised for a moment. Sunder struck like lightning, but the wily monster parried low, their weapons locking at their crossguards. Sunder heaved with all his might, which would have overturned a lesser foe. But the huge hobgoblin withstood it, and planted a foot on the ranger's belly, pushing him off his feet. As Sunder went sprawling, the chieftain closed for the kill. But Curufin's teachings had not been in vain. The ranger smoothly rolled on one shoulder, and when the hobgoblin slashed at him, Sunder was up on one knee, ready with an overhead parry. As the chieftain recovered, Sunder's blade whipped around - The River Undercuts the Bank - and disemboweled it.
Lotheneser's thoughts were only of survival. His acrobatic display as he dodged would have shamed many a professional tumbler. But Slithisk's speed was nothing short of supernatural. There could only be one outcome. Until suddenly, its enchantment exhausted, the ancient beast slowed in its movements, its speed vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. Lotheneser saw his chance, and drew sword and knife. Before he could strike, the horror spoke another spell. Three crimson bolts of eldritch energy materialized, and slammed into the half-elf's chest. Stunned, he dropped his weapons, and had to reach desperately for two hidden knives as the monster again lunged.
But Slithisk suddenly reared, howling in pain. Lotheneser was relieved to see the ranger still lived, and was now driving his sword repeatedly into the scaled, snake-like beast. The huge tail lifted, slamming the ranger against the cavern wall. Sunder felt a few ribs crack, but managed to keep hold of his sword. As the monster's hideous maw lunged at him, he thrust his sword into the beast, transfixing it just below its head. As it screamed in pain, the ranger drove the point of his sword into the cavern wall.
"Now, Lotheneser!" The half-elf was already in motion, sprinting towards the wounded horror. As the hideous creature tried to free itself from the yard of steel holding it in place, Lotheneser charged. After centuries of terrorizing others, Slithisk died in fear, as the half-elf drove his knives through the dark, lidless eyes, deep into the creature's depraved brain.
* * * * *
Chapter 5: Patchwall, CY 573
Bone-weary and battered, the two hunters freed the lady Fioranna. Sunder covered her with his cloak as Lotheneser opened her bonds with a curious set of flat metal tools. The half-elf, sword in hand, led the way back to the temple, and stood guard as Sunder struggled up the iron rungs, burdened by the debilitated Fioranna. The olven lady was slight, but Sunder's wounds tasked even his great strength. They despaired of being able to leave unobserved, but their fears proved groundless.
For even as they fought the dreaded Slithisk, Galannor Cuithil and his warriors had led a company of Nyrondese guardsmen through the forest, following trail marks left by Sunder. Leaderless, the humanoids' defense had been poor, and their palisade had been worthless against the First Bow's lightning bolt spell.
* * * * *
A week later, the scout and the ranger sat in the common room at the Turquoise Moon (now the Duke's property, its former owner having been hanged for high treason) sharing a pitcher of mulled wine.
"You mean that the lady Fioranna is to go to Greyhawk as ambassador for Nyrond?" Sunder still did not understand the subtleties of politics.
"That's what Galannor told me, my friend. Ralishaz's luck!" The half-elf cursed heartily as he spilled wine on his silken sleeve. "The thought is that, as a gray elf with no background in trade and no family in Nyrond, she will not be taken seriously by the Oligarchs. This will hopefully free her to pursue her true mission - to find allies for the Iron League against the Great Kingdom's depredations." Lotheneser chuckled. "It has taken him a few centuries, but Hazendel is finally getting crafty."
As Sunder reached for his money pouch, Lotheneser shook his head. "No, my friend. It's on me. I was richly rewarded for our little escapade, while for you it was only duty."
The half-elf's affected cynicism never ceased to amuse the ranger. "Will you journey back to Pitchfield with us? Galannor still means to teach you the bow."
"HA! He WISHES he could teach me anything!" The half-elf then became serious. "But you have it wrong, my friend. You should join me. With my brains and your sword, we could REALLY rake in the gold. Why do you want to be with these elves anyway? I, despite sharing their blood, tire of their affectations quite rapidly."
"I am a soldier. I follow orders."
"Right. If that ever gets old, look me up." The half-elf stood, gathering his bow and pack. I'm heading for Trigol. I hear there's a mercenary company there, the Ravens or somesuch, hiring men for a strike against one of the Bandit Kingdoms." Lotheneser swaggered to the door, where he paused. "Take a pull on the hell-horn if you get there before me."
"I shall." The ranger smiled. "Farewell, my friend." Sunder then stood, and suddenly laughed heartily, filling the common room with his mirth. The gray elves present were surprised, as they had never heard him laugh so. The half-elf had apparently decided that Sunder could pay for breakfast after all.
FINIS
