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There was a storm outside the
feeble stables where the fifty or more workers were guarded each night. While
most of the slaves slept, there was one that huddled under the old stairs, a
small candle flickering in the storm that sent lines of light along the black
sky. It was a boy, or so any human’s eyes would call him for he appeared to be
only seventeen or so. Yet, should one look past the matted blond hair,
bloodied, mud covered face, one would have seen the eyes of a young Elven man,
full in his prime. In the dying light of the candle, those eyes were focused on
the pages of a worn book. The text was ancient, older then anything that was
printed these days. Simply, it was called the Book of the Dead. Inside was the knowledge
to wield the deadly powers of a Necromancer.
The thunder rolled above him. Jarel
Redwood shriveled under the sound, looking up as if he was afraid another was
looking over his shoulder. There was no one. Closing the book, Jarel slowly got
up and with the volume under his arm and the flickering candle in the other, he
stood.
Elves are naturally light on there
feet. As he crept around the thin bodies that lay on the floor, covered in
frail blankets or tattered clothing, Jarel forced his breathing to remain
silent and his heart to beat quietly as he crept toward the stairs. Aged and
many broken, the loft was a place forbidden by the Elders. It was because no
one ever went up here that Jarel had set aside his workshop and where he
practiced what the book taught him. He knew the dangers of it and knew that
many were lured into it only to end up trapped in Death for eternity. Still, he
felt in his heart that in this book he could find a way to leave the Herring
Farm forever. Then he could begin the longer, harder task of making it to the
city of Astrael – there he could find, he hoped, his home.
The Book was placed on a pile of
straw. Rats scurried out of the way but Jarel took no heed of them now. He
hated rats but as he could never get rid of them he was learning to deal with
them. From under the dusty pile Jarel pulled out a box and tools. Inside he
found the beginning of three small bells. Each spanned the length of his palm.
They were made out of silver, which had been very tricky to find being a slave.
The handles were still on the bottom of the box in the form of cedar branches (another
tricky find) he had collected over the past week in the fields.
Looking down at his work, Jarel set
the candle down away from the straw. Taking his thumb and index finger, the
young Elf touched the flame, uttering a soft spell. When he drew his hands away
and flicked it to wave underneath the fire that followed his hand, it turned
into a harmless orb of golden light. At his will, the orb grew in strength
until he had enough light to work by.
Thus were his nightly activities
for the next few months till the three bells were completed. Of the Five
Greater Bells Jarel found that he could only get enough silver to make three.
Senael, the Binder, was the first to be completed on a dark, quite night as the
autumn seeped into the barn. Next he fashioned Teval which would sing the song
of Walking to the Dead. Lastly he had needed Jeyda above the others the Book
named. Jeyda, the Waker. Perhaps later he would carve and shape Ranis, the
Sleeper, to contradict the power of Jeyda.
It was the night Robert Herring
left. The young lad was called into duty only weeks after completing his basic
training for the Military. Jarel watched them go from the dusty windows of the
barn. The entire family was going to say good-bye. Jarel frowned. That still
left the guards but by the time Jake Herring, owner of the family ‘business’, returned,
Jarel planned to be long gone and far from the plantation.
What made it easier was that he
wasn’t the only one planning on trying to get across the border and back to
Astrael.
“We go now,” someone hissed in
Jarel’s ear.
The boy could have been his
brother, Jarel didn’t know. He looked like him, however. Bloodlines had been
lost over the years which was something sorely missed by the Elders who had
been around since the beginning of the War and even before the humans came.
His pack was prepared. Inside was
the Book, his bells and anything else that he had been given by the Elders for
the Escape. Pulling the backpack over his scrawny shoulders, Jarel quietly followed
the rest out the back door that had been tricked in staying open the other
night by one of the women going with. As the others watched, a group of ten
men, women and a few children crept out the top of the door before breaking
into a run for the woods.
The orders of Traven grated in his
ears from the night before. “What ever you hear, don’t look back. Just run.
Make for the mountains of snow you see in the distance and keep your eyes set
on them. May the Gods and Goddess of our people protect you – for though not
all will return to us there will be some that escape…”
I will escape, Jarel
growled to himself as he slipped into the woods where the morning mist still
lay heavily on the ground. They had spit up so that the gaurds would have to
follow many tracks save one large, noticeable trial. Jarel ran. The backpack
was heavier now and he cursed the leather bound Book. He still needed it but he
wished he could leave it behind.
A shot rang out, urging him to run
faster. Damn, he cursed.
As the guards went after those they
could find, Jarel suddenly growled and threw himself into the bushes, crouching
within the misty shadows. Quickly, he pulled out his bells, clipping the
leather handles around the rope that was meant to serve as a belt. As his
fingers pulled Senael from the holder, Jarel heard the hoof beats of a horse
and his mouth quirked into a smile.
He concentrated.
Nate Jenning rode past on a
frothing bay, pistol ready to shoot the first thing that dared moved, even if
it wasn’t an escapee.
Praying that he would not fail,
Jarel rang Senael.
“What the f…” Nate cried as his
horse suddenly reared, bucking as if something had scared the living daylights
out of it. Jarel focused again, ringing Senael once more and Nate landed on the
ground. Without a further step, the bay skidded to a halt near Jarel who leapt
into the saddle, the bell in hand and spurred the mare north.
Nate did not have good aim from
where he lay on the moist earth thus Jarel was the only slave to escape from
the Herring Estate that morning.
He had decided to call her Nixy.
Why, he didn’t know. It was a name that stuck through the following days. She
was a friendly beast and took to Jarel’s handling very well. Perhaps that was
because the first chance he had to stop, Jarel stripped her of saddle and after
gaining her trust a few days later, the bridle. They made good speed and good
progress.
He was a Mage, too, which made the
journey easier. He found that his skills as a Necromancer came quickly and
easily. He practiced on animals either already dead or using the spirits of
those he killed for food. He also read about the Fell Beasts, the Walking or
Woken Dead that used the corpuses to ‘live’ again. As he continued his studies
he learned more then he ever could under the cover of darkness at the Herring
manor.
It took months to reach the sea.
Here he said good-bye to Nixy, setting her free with the best of wishes and
prayer that she would find a safe place to dwell.
His journey had been uneventful
thus far for he had kept to the woods and avoided civilization. He had been
able to gain some weight now that he hunted for himself, finding fruits and
nuts along the way. This brought his weight to considerable health for the
first time in his life. It was true that the immortality of Elves was waning
and that there lifespan was nearly less then it had been ten years ago with a
steady decline two-hundred fifty years ago when laws were passed restricted
Elves to the point where few humans considered them human anymore. But, like
the African American, the Elves found themselves keeping old faiths alive and
never forgetting where they are. The Elders were few, having lived for hundreds
of years, watching there people’s lives get worse. Soon there would be none
left.
There was a beach near the cliffs and
it was here that Jarel would attempt to cross the Wall – by sea.
Placing a waterproof spell on his
belongings, Jarel slipped into the freezing waters of the sea. Once he had
adjusted to the temperature, he dove making for the cliffs. Underwater, he cast
another spell which allowed him to breath underwater. This set, he began to
swim around the cliffs, often glancing at the cliffs above him. It was cold. He
knew if he stayed down here long enough he would die from hypothermia. He
figured if he kept moving he would be able to make it.
It was about a half an hour before
he noticed that someone was following him. Turning he spotted another being,
using the same underwater breathing spell as him and not of the Wall Patrol,
swimming toward him. Just as he was about to panic and surge forward the other,
a black haired young man shook his head and pointed while swimming forward.
Jarel looked but didn’t see anything. He waited, ready to throw some magic at
him should this man be hostile. Seeing ragged cloths of a prisoner was a
relief.
He was an Elf.
The other took his arm and pulled
him in the direction he had been coming from. Feeling the cold getting into his
bones, Jarel followed the dark haired Elf down into the depth and into a
tunnel. It was long, stretching quite a distance until they rose upward,
breaking the surface minutes later. Jarel shook his head, breaking the
Underwater Breath spell and looked at the other.
“What?” was all he could asked,
puzzled. The black haired Elf glared at him. There was power in this man and
Jarel couldn’t help but recoil.
“They patrol underwater, too,” he
stated, striking out for a cliff near the edge of the underwater pool. Jarel
could hear a waterfall nearby. “If you really want to go back to Shaor, we know
the only way back in. Follow me, if you’re that crazy,” he said.
Frowning, Jarel followed the other
Elf to the underwater stairs, walking up them to the platform. “What is this
place?” Jarel asked as he shook out his hair, placing his backpack on the
ground while he dried off as best he could.
“The tunnel was collapsed years
ago,” the dark Elf said, pointing toward a cave that appeared to have caved in.
“The small tunnel we used was a circulation route for the water. This was the
old harbor used in the beginning of the war when the Wall wasn’t guarded on the
Seacall,” he said with more venom then Jarel thought needed. “It was collapsed
with in a decade before the Be…attack on Astrael,” he said, cutting off as if
he was going to say something else. Jarel shrugged it off. “Come, my father is
expecting me back before night fall so I cannot linger long. Follow me.”
“You’re an Elf,” Jarel said,
picking up his pack and throwing it over his shoulders as he jogged after the
rapidly retreating figure. “What are you doing…”
“Errands that you don’t need to
know about,” the man hissed. He looked Jarel up and down then noticed the three
bells strapped to the young elf’s ‘belt’. Before Jarel knew what was going on,
a silver sword was at his throat. “This as far as you get, Necromancer of
Asphoanth!”
“Ai” Jarel whimpered, freezing.
“I’m not a Necromancer! I’m a runaway!”
The other spat at him. “Phaw!
You’re bells deceive you! I know what they are and I know what they are used
for. I’m doing our world a favor by killing you.”
“Can you banish me to the Last Shore?”
Jarel snapped, narrowing his green eyes at the other. It was a bit later that
he noticed the humming that seemed to grow louder. His eyes glanced at the
sword.
“Ah, I see you hear it’s eagerness
to kill those it is meant to dispose of,” the other laughed. “What is your
name, before I kill you. My father will want to know it.”
“Jarel Redwood, my father is
unknown. My mother died giving birth to me. Do you have a name?”
“Just know me as Ril,” he replied.
“Not that it’s going to matter if you’re dead.”
Jarel took a deep breath, slowly
concentrating on the sword before him. It seemed to know what he was about to
do for it’s hum grew stronger.
Ril attacked.
Jarel ducked and rolled, his hands
grabbing the first bell he came into contact with and if flew into his hands.
“Teval!” he cried and rang the bell with his heart’s wish to live to see the
city of Astrael. “Continue on your journey and leave me to my road,” Jarel
hissed, eyes narrowed on the dark haired Elf who was fighting the power of the
bell with more will then Jarel had expected. As he rolled to his feet, Senael
was pulled out. Ringing both would surely make Ril obey his wish to be rid of
him.
“You’re kind will never…survive…”
Ril hissed as he turned, disappearing into the darkness.
It wasn’t until later that Jarel
had wished he had gotten the information on how to get out of the Lower Harbor.
For hours he traveled through the maze, looking for a way out. Finally, he
entered a vast hall. He had heard nothing in his Elder’s tales about a place
like this. Because of this, he frowned, noticing then that the floor was
covered with skeletons. He felt the presence of Death to be strong and closed
his eyes. He had no reason to bring these being back into life, using the dead
bodies as hosts for other spirits.
Nor would he.
In one of the white, skeletal
hands, Jarel found a sword which was still polished and beautiful in the dim
light his Elven eyes could see in as clearly as if it were day. Taking the
sword he hefted it, testing its weight before taking the scabbard as well.
Tying it to his rope (which he had to draw tighter against his body with the
added weight of the sheath), Jarel took another step into the darkness.
He felt the Dead, faintly, but
didn’t know where they were. He continued on, following the dead bodies as a
sign. They had been running away thus he went the opposite direction they were
laying.
It wasn’t until he saw the opening
at the other end that he felt the first wave along the shores of Death surge
and break into Life. Turning he watched as a few of the lifeless corpses stood,
eyes glowing blood red as their joints creaked and they uttered cries that were
not human nor made by anything human for there was nothing left but bones.
Jarel ran.
Behind him the clicking of bones on
stone became faster and the Dead drew closer. Jarel felt the sword he carried
begin to hum, like the one Ril had tried to kill him with.
Faintly, he remembered something Celnar,
an Elder from his youth that had died when he was sixteen, told him about the
swords forged for the Black Wars. There had been many years in which these Wars
were fought, always when the Lord of Asphoanth returned to the Living to try
and take Sentra into his Darkness. There had been many swords made, the
strongest of them all was Annuren, Fire of the Skies. It had been wielded by
the High Prince Amarion Ashfalcon who had also betrayed his people over a
thousand years ago. They were meant to kill the Dead – the sword wanted him to
stand and fight.
He sought Senael and held the bell
in his hand, holding the clapper down with a firm finger. Putting on a greater
burst of speed, Jarel raced to the door way where he hope to met the Dead as
they came charging at him.
Suddenly he whirled, the sword sang
as he swung it with an undefined cry. The Dead screamed as its body was
shattered by the legendary sword. Jarel had no sword skills and knew that as
soon as he found himself being attacked once again. He screamed defiantly
before ringing Senael, it’s song filling the halls.
“Run!”
It was Ril.
He was racing up the steps, his
sword glowing a white light as he did so. “The dead have awaken in the depths!
Run!”
Why is he
telling me to run? Jarel grumbled as he watched, the Dead nearest to
him writhing under the spell of the bell.
“They come with
Fell Beasts, you fool! Run!”
A pit landed in
Jarel’s stomach. He could not face off with a Fell Beast, no matter its
original form. He still hadn’t moved when Ril raced forward and grabbed his
arm, yanking him from his spot where he watched in horror as the Dead and the
Shadows often called Fell Beasts lunged after them.
They ran.
“You’re a pretty
pathetic Necromancer,” Ril growled as they entered the landscape, the sun
sinking below the horizon of the over grown forest.
“I’m new,” Jarel
retorted.
Ril scoffed but
did not deny it. “You better be able to do something. We can’t out run them for
long and skeletons do not fear sunlight and these Fell Beasts don’t either.
“I can’t fight
the Fell Beasts!” Jarel protested.
“Well, you’re going
to have to do something!” Ril cried. “Where did you get that sword?” he asked,
pulling Jarel down an unseen path.
“Off one of the
skeletons,” the younger replied, suddenly wishing he could ditch this annoying
man once and for all “Why?”
“Get ready to
fight,” he commanded as if he was use to being the leader over soldiers and
troops. Ril stopped and with a flourish of his sword, turned to face the
oncoming rattle of bones. Jarel reluctantly followed.
Ril watched him
out of the corner of his eye. “How man bells do you have?”
“Three. I ran
out of silver.”
“What did you
carve your handles out of?”
“Cedar,” Jarel
replied, giving Ril a questioning look. “Why?”
“I know a bit of
bell making. Do you have Ranis?”
“No. I ran out
of silver,” Jarel repeated acidly, trying to hide his fear at the same time. “Senael,
Teval and Jeyda are all I carry,” he answered as the Dead came in to view.
“Give me Teval.
You wield Senael. Hurry! Don’t ask!”
With Elven
quickness, Jarel handed Ril one of the smaller bells. Seconds after it passed
to Ril’s hands, as dirty as Jarel’s, the two swords were swung at the oncoming
dead. But it was Ril who leapt before Jarel as if protecting him. “You deal
with the Fell Beasts!”
“I can’t…”
“Do what you
can! You should have Ranis!” Ril accused, shattering another skeleton.
One of the Fell
beasts flew straight to Jarel who raised the sword and jumped back, Senael in
his other hand. “Gods be with me in my final hour,” he whispered to himself.
The Beast was nothing but shadow with flame for eyes and wings. Jarel trembled
as the creature rose above him, a strangled cry of dead vocal cords causing the
hair on his neck to stand straight up.
A howl rose from
the bushes.
It was not from
the Dead or the Fell Beasts but of something else, like a wolf. The sword in
his hand sprang to life like a white fire and Senael suddenly rang on it’s own
free will. Jarel made a sound that one could not place but the Fell Beast faltered
but quickly regained its footing and sprang after Jarel.
“Foolish boy!”
Ril growled, leaping forward and cried out a spell only a Necromancer could
know, Teval singing loudly with a commanding force. He shoved Jarel to the
ground, Senael rolling to along the earth from his paralyzed hand and the sword
ringing out as it clattered against the dirt. Senael had taken control of Jarel,
binding him against his wishes. He could not move or speak nor could he do
anything to help Ril.
The wolf howled
again as Ril fell and the sword in the other Elf’s hand seemed to echo that
call, a sudden burst of power shimmered along the blade and Ril found a
strength against the Fell Beast once again. “Ember saor ani!” Ril cried,
Teval echoing his words in a clear song. The blade exploded along the wing of
the Fell Beast, once a dragon, and the creature screamed before fleeing into
the shadows.
But it was not
enough for there were two more that lunged toward the stumbling Elf.
Jarel fought
against the bind of Senael.
Something warm
and wet licked his face. Before him was a large white dog. Jarel made small
noises, feeling Senael’s invisible ropes pull tighter against his will. Ril he
could not see, only hear as the other let his sword take down the skeletons
before facing the Fell Beasts. They were smaller then the dragon had been, both
appearing to have been dogs of some sort before a Necromancer had destroyed them.
Slowly, as the desperate
cries of Ril filled his mind, Jarel began to feel Senael weakening. The god
still licked his face, softly woofing in his ear as if encouraging him before
Jarel felt Senael’s spell break and he leapt to his feet. His hands crushed the
misbehaving bell in his hand and with Elven quickness, jumped to his feet and
landed on them like a cat ready to pounce. Next to him, the white dog barked
happily. “Where the hell did you come from?” Jarel asked. The dog only wagged its
tail. “Ril!” he cried.
“When I say run –
run!” Ril commanded, his sword crashing into another skeleton and narrowly
dodging the blast of fire that came from one of the Fell Beasts’ mouths. “Toss
me Senael!”
The young Elf
wanted to scream out a rebellion. Ril should not sacrifice his life for his
own. The dog barked again. Ril whistled and the creature bounded forward, fangs
barred as it tore apart one of the skeletons, bones breaking as they landed on
the ground. Senael quivered in his hand as if about to betray him once again.
Then Jarel threw it. Ril caught it dropping his sword at the same time. “Run!”
He did.
The Dead
followed him despite the dog’s attempts to keep them away. There was the sweet
sound of music from both Senael and Teval, the cry of and Elvish spell, the
bark of a dog, then scream of the Fell Beasts as Ril sent them all away. Jarel
kept running until he heard the mad creaking of the Dead and turned to see a
host of skeletons coming his way. The sword in his hand hummed, quivering as if
it was a leaf in the wind. Jarel closed his eyes. The only bell he had left was
Jeyda who was of no use to him now.
Jarel turned to
face his foes, the sword crashing into one of the skeleton’s skulls just in
time. Then another came, and another. Jarel fought to survive and feared at any
moment that he would be ripped apart by sharp, broken bones. However, when he
finally stood up he saw that the Dead had returned to Death either by the magic
in his sword or the spell that had echoed in the hollow skulls. His breathing
was heavy and loud in the suddenly very silent forest. He stood on a large
grassy glade, the trees tall and dark around him. Only when he looked closer
could he see what was once a road, faintly going along the hall of trees that
turned in the distance so he could not follow it.
Collapsing next
to a large bolder next to the ancient road, Jarel tried to regain his breath
and quell his shaking hands. At last he picked up the sword from the Lower Harbor
and looked at it. He knew little of the ancient runes that ran along the Elven
blade. He guessed most were spells of protection and power so that the wielder could
face the Dead. But he did catch the name and the saying that went with it.
Nauarin,
Death Bane
It was indeed
one of the great swords then. Jarel managed a smile as his heart filled up with
pride, holding the blade aloft in the fading sunlight. “So you’re the famous
Nauarin,” Jarel said, taking a deep breath. “Well, I am indebt to you. Thank
you…”
The sound of a
horses galloping hooves caught his attention and he looked up. Ril, riding a weathered
gray gelding, rushed past him without second thought. Jarel struggled to stand,
frowning and down hearted. “Thanks,” he muttered sarcastically. Tears were in
his eyes as he went back to see if the strange Elf had left behind his bells.
The battle
ground was scattered with broken bones of the skeletons. He searched the ground
and finally found Senael and Teval. Muttering to himself about Ril, who had
left uneasiness in his stomach, he returned the bells to there place. For a man
that was about to kill him for being a Necromancer he knew enough about the
craft to be called one himself. Nauarin was sheathed safely. He picked up his
pack, which had been dropped during the fight, and studied it. Little damage
done, he noted.
Something moved.
Jarel looked up
from inspecting his belongings to see the bloodied, burnt form of the white
dog. With a disgusted glance toward the direction Ril had gone, Jarel went to
the dog. There was no life in the dog’s body but as he prodded the Edge of
Death, Jarel found that the dog was already swimming in the Lake.
Stepping on the
banks of the Black Shore, Jarel placed a hand on the pommel of Nauarin, his
fingers aching to pick up a bell. The dog was in the lake but close enough so
that it shouldn’t be that hard to grab him and pull him back to life. The still
water lapped at his feet as he stepped into the fridged blackness. Shivering,
Jarel reached out for the dog, keeping his mind open. This was the first time
he had entered Death. His entry to the water should have been made with more
caution for it had been loud and the ripples large. With Nauarin at his finger
tips, Jarel grabbed the dog’s ruff and began to pull him to shore, abandoning
all attempts to remain quiet. He heard a roar as he stumbled to the Shore and
looked up to see a host of Dead spirits and Fell Beasts racing toward them on a
great tidal wave. His little bells would not be able to hold them off and he
could not wield a sword well enough to use Nauarin. Jarel managed to stand and
with a desperate cry, flung himself back into Life. As he landed, he twisted
around, his left hand outstretched as if to ward off the Dead behind him. “Tavel
durin!” he cried.
The shock wave that
rippled along the border of Life and Death was felt as he held the gate shut
with all his strength. At last the wave resided and he let his hand, now limp
and weak, fall against his side. A wet tounge licked his face and Jarel smiled.
“Nice to see you, too,” he told the dog.
There was a
river not far from the Seacall and the Lower Harbor. There he bathed himself
and the dog, catching two fish with pure luck and cooking them over a small
fire. The dog would heal for the wounds were not as bad as one would have
thought. He was singed from the fires of the Fell Beasts, a few gashes from the
blows of skeletal hands, but nothing more. It was the call of the bells that
had sent him to Death, if anything. He lay at Jarel’s feet, accepting the morsels
that the Elf handed to him.
He looked more
like a wolf then anything though it was evident he was also a domestic dog.
Most likely a part bred mutt of some sort. He had radiant blue eyes, uncommon
for wolf or dog yet there was a look of sled dog in him as well. Jarel had seen
one once. They were called huskies and some had blue eyes. Nevertheless, Jarel
could only think of one thing to call him.
“Good night,
Wolf,” the young Elf said as he curled up next to the fire, Nauarin beneath his
hand and a white dog next to his belly. It felt good to have a companion. Part
of him wished to see Ril again but another told him that the Elf was long gone.
Where he had gotten the horse was beyond Jarel. The gelding had been well bred
and had been tacked earlier. What bothered Jarel more was the fact that he knew
how to use the bells and knew how to defeat the Fell Beasts that had attacked them.
As he drifted off to sleep, the frogs and crickets filling the night air, Jarel
wondered if Ril was one of the wielders of the great swords such as Nauarin. If
that was so, it was possible that he knew Necromancy. However, he had told
Jarel to defeat the Fell Beasts because he could not. Then he goes and does it
himself? Jarel hoped that he would not be meeting Ril again, for good or ill.
By morning all
thought of Ril was out of his mind. He rose to Wolf’s face-licking greeting and
was soon off, following the road that seemed to wind southwest toward Astrael.
To his relief he did not met a single soul for weeks thus it was only him and
Wolf. Winter came, blanketing the land in snow. On his second week he came
across a battle field. It was recent. His heart fell at the sight of the dead
Elves. The few bodies of soldiers also proved his theory that he should be more
careful in these lands. He had nearly forgotten about the guards that patrolled
Shaor to stop runaways like himself from getting to far.
He began to poke
at the bodies to see if they held anything valuable. The stench was terrible as
were the flies. Using the tip of Nauarin he pushed over the body of a what he
guessed to be a young Elven women. From her hand fell five silver pieces. Money
of his own people that was rare. Bending over, Jarel picked up the pieces and
slowly began to smile. Now all he needed to find was a cedar tree. He also
found a small dagger on a nearby soldier that was of good make. This, too, he
took along with Nauarin. Placing the money in his satchel made from rabbits skin
and the dagger next to the great sword, Jarel began to perform the rituals of
his people and burnt the bodies so that no spirit could use them in Life. He almost
left the soldiers to wither in the sun then burnt them, too, though there were
no words to them as the flames carried there bodies into the air. Such men and
women did not need a safe passage into Death when they would not grant his
people safe passage home.
It was three
days following the piers of the Elven refugees and soldiers that Jarel found a
young cedar sapling. He took what he need from the living tree and using the
dagger he began to carve a handle for the bell, Ranis.
The River of Kilbranlae
lay before him. Its rocky shore was silent yet Jarel feared to go near it
despite the peace that lay under the midday sun. Here he found firewood for a
fire and took refuge in Kilbranlae’s small crevices. It was also here that
Jarel began to shape the Sleeper Ranis. It would take several more weeks before
he bound the bell to the handle, however. He did not stay long next to the river
for it had an evil stirring in the forests near the banks. Magic shaped the
Necromancer’s bells and it was with magic that Ranis was formed under Jarel’s
hands, as were the others. By the time that Ranis was complete, Jarel had seen
the mountains of snow that loomed in the distance. Under those mountains lay
the great city of Astrael, his home.
“What do you
think?” Jarel asked Wolf one evening, holding up the bow he had worked on in
the weeks after Ranis had been placed next to the other bells. Wolf yawned and
lay back down, ears perched on his head attentively. “Be that way,” the Elf
pouted playfully before standing up. Until now he had only killed small animals
such as rabbits and squirrels. Most were ‘gifts’ from Wolf yet there hide was
often worthless for anything but sewing the small pieces together for a
blanket. Jarel chuckled often looking at his growing amount of belongings. The
sword Nauarin, a dagger he called Balin, or Protector, the four bells, Senael, Teval,
Jeyda and Ranis, and now the bow and a small batch of arrows in a leather
quiver. Taking one of the arrows Jarel pulled the bow back, praying it would
not break, then released.
The twang was
followed closely by a ‘thunk’ – but far from where he had aimed it. Sighing,
Jarel turned to Wolf who’s tongue lolled out as if he was laughing. “So I need
a bit of practice!” Jarel said defiantly before picking up another arrow and
trying for the same target yet again. By the time the sun had set, he still
hadn’t hit his mark but he was determine to become a decent archer for the sake
of his peoples reputation.
Days passed. The
winter faded into spring, bringing new life to Shaor even if Death was in the
air constantly. Jarel had spent most of his winter in the forest near Kilbranlae
where the air was more pleasant. He trained himself to be an archer and had reached
a level he was proud of. The Dead had come often, using the bodies of his kind
or the soldiers from the Wall. Jarel fought, studying the Book often until he
felt as if he could handle anything. He met no other living human thus winter
passed with Wolf as his only companion. Once the snow had receded into spring
and the ancient road he was following was clear, Jarel and Wolf set out again.
He would reach Astrael in a few months.
The Dead are
not always lost to the Living. Some can be called if one wishes the advise of a
road they are to travel. The call brings back one that the caller seeks…
Jarel pondered
these words, glancing at the spell that he would need. He needed to make sure
he was on the right path and if his journey to Astrael was not in vain. Closing
the book slowly, Jarel pulled out Jeyda and looked at the bell in his hand. “Well,”
he said. Wolf raised his head from his paws. “Here goes nothing.”
Standing with
his feet holding his weight in an archers position, Nauarin in one hand and
Jeyda in the other, Jarel concentrated on the one person he could think of that
could give him advise. The Elder Elalad he had so dearly loved.
Jeyda sang it’s
sweet song. As Jarel felt his spirit entering Death, he faintly heard Wolf
barking. A blast of heat rose from the Waters and Jarel opened his eyes as a
Fell Beast let out a scream. Jarel cried out, flailing backward and landing on the
ground in Life once again. His hand stretched to close the gap between the two
planes only to have the Fell Beast lunged forward and land a few meters from
him. Wolf began to bark wildly, fur bristling on his neck and growling savagely.
Jarel fumbled for Senael as the creature turned to face the creature. “Leave
him alone!” Jarel growled and rang Senael, his mind bent on sending the
creature. It stopped moving but struggled against the frail bond that Jarel had
put on it.
Teval was next
in Jarel’s hand and with it’s strong note Jarel sent the Beast back into Death
and immediately closed the Edge, collapsing from his near disaster. Wolf huffed
loudly and padded up to Jarel to lick the young Elf’s face. “One more time,”
Jarel said.
He took his
stance again and proceeded with the spell. Death was not cold nor was it still.
As he opened his eyes and took a step back, he found that another Fell Beast
had disturbed the peaceful waters of Death. “Fire and ash,” Jarel cursed and
again lunged back into Life. Again, he failed to close the Edge of Life and
Death before the creature erupted in a fiery cloud of smoke and fire above him
and Wolf.
Stumbling to his
feet as Wolf began a mad bark, circling closer to Jarel, the young Elf drew out
Nauarin, holding it with Jeyda who he fumbled to put back so he could take another
bell. At last Senael sprang to his fingers and he held it ready when the Beast lunged
at him. Jarel screamed, fear flooding him as he felt the pull of Death and the suffocation
of the flames. Wolf lunged, barking. Turning it’s wrath on the puny dog, the
Beast raised a fiery forepaw and with a yelp, Wolf rolled to the ground. In that
moment Jarel remembered that any Fell Beast was easier to defeat in Death. Once
again, the shores of black sand lay under his feet and the Fell Beast, once a
gryphon, reared up and screamed. Ranis replaced Senael and it rang sweetly
along the angered Sea. This seemed to only enrage the beast who leapt forward
and knocked Jarel off his feet. As he started to raise Nauarin to his defense,
the song of Senael came to him and the Beast screamed in rage. Rolling to his
feet and scrambling against the black sands, Jarel looked up to see another wielding
the Walker.
The new
Necromancer walked past him with more confidence then Jarel would have had just
now. But as the spell wore off then broke, the stranger raised a sword which
sprang alight with green fire. Dropping Nauarin, Jarel grabbed his bow from his
back, an arrow of magic forming in his hands with lightning speed. This he
notched to the string and let it fly, hitting his mark between the Beast’s
eyes. His bow, too, dropped to the sands and pulled out Teval and Senael. Jeyda
soon joined the chores, the music dancing over the waters until at last the
creature was forced back whence it came. As soon as it gone, Jarel grabbed his
bow and Nauarin and fled back into Life for Wolf’s spirit was quickly being
pulled into Death.
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