Jarek lifted his right hand, swilling a clay jug of lukewarm mead. “Couldn’a picked a day more perfect.” The reins of the two draft horses pulling his wagon rested listlessly in his other hand.

“I wish the end of autumn had more days like this.” Ilana nodded. She reached for the clay jug in her companion’s hand, downing a large draft of the amber liquid before returning it.

The iron-clad wagon wheels rumbled against the rough surface of the road. The caravan of a dozen wagons lumbered in the unseasonable warmth north towards Telarius, the capital of Ilyria. Eran, king for more than a year now, had rebuilt the road through the Feral Marshes, east of Mystwood. It snaked up through the canyons to enable ease of travel from the southlands. It was this road the wagon-train followed.

Ilana lifted her head and closed her eyes against the brilliance of the sun as she leaned against the backboard. She sighed with contentment. Jarek glanced sideways at his wife, her raven hair illuminated by the golden glow haloing her delicate gypsy features. He knew he was the luckiest man alive.

“Do stop staring Jarek.”

“How do you always know that?”

“You’ve been my husband for thirteen years, Jarek; it would be a sad state of affairs if I didn’t know when my husband was staring at me.” Her eyes remained closed as she stared blindly at the heavens.

Jarek chuckled but didn’t turn away, instead he drank in every feature of his beloved wife. She was an intoxicant he couldn’t turn down.

“Jarek!” Ilana scowled and her face wrinkled slightly.

“Sorry,” he replied sheepishly and turned his attention to the wagon directly in front of them. He caught her frown turn to a smile out of the corner of his eye, and the corners of his own mouth turned up to mirror his wife’s expression.

Jarek warily eyed the dark-jade forest to their left; despite the king’s reassurances to the people of Ilyria he was still nervous of Mystwood and would never fully trust it. For the most part he kept his eyes on the road, the wagon in front of him, or Ilana – much to her annoyance.

“The last stop of the year,” Jarek said, referring to the Autumn Festival in Telarius. It was the last chance for the gypsies and troubadours that traveled Ilyria to stock up for winter, and find a semi-permanent place to park their caravans.

“What do we still have to sell?” Ilana asked, her features serene as she bathed in the warmth.

“A few trinkets and some jewelry; I think we have some old manuscripts too, a couple of books, yarn, fabric, a side of leather and some raw iron.”

Ilana nodded. “Should be enough with everything we already have stocked.”

“Should be…as long as we get a fair price.”

“Trade’s better these days without the threat of Morgeth’s marauders, and people worried about war.” Ilana smiled and turned to her husband.

Jarek nodded. “We’ll be fine.”

The shadow moved so swiftly from deep within the trees that the wagon drivers and the riders on horseback had no chance to see their doom descend. The darkness muted the sun until only a deep-red disc hung where a dazzling white orb had been only moments before.

“What the…” The reins in Jarek’s hand no longer hung idly as he pulled the horses to a halt; his knuckles were white with tension. The horses screamed.

“Jarek?” Ilana’s voice trembled.

Jarek cussed under his breath. “Get in the back and hide under the sack cloth. Don’t get out until I come find you.”

Ilana nodded, scrambling over the backboard. She paused. “I love you, Jarek!”

Jarek smiled faintly as he gave her a gentle push so she was out of sight. He grabbed his sword from beneath the wagon seat. He leapt to the ground and was almost knocked off-balance by a rider less horse, galloping in blind panic. He felt a shudder creep down his spine.

Faint screams reverberated against the trunks of the ghost-shrouded trees of Mystwood, but no clanging of weapons preceded them – there was no clash of metal against metal, or thud of sword against wooden shield. Birds twittered nervously within the boughs of the trees – the only witnesses to the massacre. Jarek summoned all his strength and courage and ducked around the rear of his wagon; it lurched back towards him and horses screamed in agony. The wagon bucked as though it were horse saddled for the first time. He heard a faint gasp come from within, and then the wagon was still.

Dropping to a knee Jarek peered between the wheels and saw his two horses writhing on the ground, torn from the wagon. He turned away for in the eyes of one of the great beasts all he could see was sheer terror. The thrashing ceased and Jarek turned his attention back to the horses; they still breathed, but the life in their eyes was gone. He had no time to ponder this for a shadow descended over him, freezing him in time and place. There was no opportunity to fight, no chance to scream, and he thrashed in torment before succumbing to bleak mindlessness.

As rapidly as the shadow had appeared it departed, leaving a mass of destruction in is wake. Wagons lay torn and battered; splintered wood and shattered wheels lay scattered in the dust, and canvas canopies were shredded as though some creature had ripped through them with massive claws. Dozens of bodies lay in contorted positions of defense, but they had had no hope of defending themselves for the weapon of the assailant had not been of steal, wood or rock. Neither had magic left its mark for there were no lingering after-effects or disturbance in the energy around the area.

Within each man and woman of the convoy a faint heartbeat flickered for hours. Their bodies willed them to survive before finally giving out as they understood that their souls were gone.

 

“This is the third attack in less than a week.” Eran, King of Ilyria, looked worriedly at Fen. The early spring chill wasn’t the only thing to send a shiver up his spine.

“And the eighth so far this month,” added Commander Aerick Broadshield. Frown lines were etched deeply in his forehead and his broad shoulders slumped dejectedly.

“And there is still no idea as to what’s causing this?” Advisor Valor asked. His face wrinkled to match that of his brother, Aerick.

Eran shook his head solemnly. “Reports come from across Ilyria and throughout the allied-lands of Alatheia of random attacks on remote farms and unescorted caravans. There are never any witnesses left to describe what happened, but it seems the attacks are becoming more brazen; more powerful and less controlled. I think its only time before we see assaults on small villages and larger settlements.”

An uneasy silence hung over the meeting room of Nuneth Parthum for a moment before being disturbed by a sharp rap at the door.

“Enter,” Eran called. The doors swung open with a silent whoosh. Outlined by the oaken doorframe stood Thala.

Forgetting his royal status Eran flew to the door, knocking over his chair. He tripped over the rugs between him and the visitor, and cracked his knee on the corner of another solid chair in his hast to embrace his brother.

“Eran, it’s good to see you too,” Thala wheezed as Eran bear-hugged the air out of him.

“Where’s grandfather?” Eran stepped back holding his brother by the shoulders, and keeping them eye to eye; worry was etched upon his face.

“He’s okay Eran; he didn’t feel that he should be leaving Nuthen Faer with everything the way it is so he sent me in his stead.” Thala paused. His gaze drifted from Eran to the three members of the room beyond. “Are you going to allow me to come in or are we going to remain on the threshold?”

Eran blushed. He stepped back from the opening to allow Thala to enter. “Of course, I’m forgetting myself; it’s just so good to see you.”

“Welcome, Thala, brother of the king.” Aerick bowed his head briefly in reverence and was imitated by the others.

“It is good to see you all again.” Thala acknowledged with a smile and returned the gesture in respect. “Am I the first?”

Eran returned to his place at the table and righted the chair that had fallen in his haste to greet Thala. “Yes. Caradoc and Raethen have been sent for, but Dath’erim is many leagues from here, and as usual Caradoc hides himself better than any other…he is on a mission of royal decree but we do not know where he is at present.”

“And you have tried luetha?” Thala asked, referring to the capabilities of mind-share that was an ability of all those born of or influenced by magic.

Fen nodded. “His mind is hidden. Caradoc knows how not to be found if he chooses. Oaldar works tirelessly to find him; he is in a constant state of meditation.”

“He still blames himself for Grith’s death doesn’t he?” Thala asked.

Valor spoke, his face grim. “No one, not even Fen, can absolve him from his guilt; he punishes himself daily. He has become a fine mage under Fen’s tutelage, but only when he lets go of his own demons will he know his true strength.”

“And you, Eran, how are you doing?” Thala asked, although he already knew the answer.

“Her face still haunts my dreams. I can hear her voice calling to me sometimes, but I blame not myself for I know there is little I could have done to change it.”

“Good.” Thala smiled. Although their moments of luetha across the miles had told him this he had needed to see Eran’s face to be certain.

“What reports can you bring us of Sam Nuthen?” Aerick asked of the raven-haired elf.

“I had rather wait until the others are here to talk of such matters.” Thala’s face remained serene, but Eran could feel the inner turmoil in his brother’s mind.

“Very well, shall we retire for dinner?” Eran asked of the others. The suggestion was met with hasty agreement for bellies were beginning to grumble.

 

Long, slender swaths of sheer muslin and translucent silk shuffled against the stone walls like writhing snakes as an indolent breeze slunk through the open windows. Every so often Eran’s eyes flickered to the lethargic serpents, watching them for a while with a hypnotic gaze before returning his attention to the portrait of his parents. It was a great canvas, as tall as a man, and surrounded with delicate antique gilt. It portrayed the likeness of a man in elven garb and a she-elf in a soft white dress. They were holding tightly to each other, a smile of contentment complementing each of their faces. They were surrounded by grand Ambira trees that were as white and luminescent as moonlight.

 The picture had been sent to Eran by his grandfather, Lord Thagar of the Sam Nuthen elves, a month after the end of the Great War. It hung on the wall across the room from the desk Eran now reclined behind. It was the desk of his paternal grandfather and all the kings before, but not his own father. It was built from the wood of the Ambira tree and inlaid with filigree of moonstone and silver.

Eran had taken to temporary moods of despondency ever since he had watched his beloved Max killed by the hand of Morgeth at the end of the Great Battle not more than a year before. He missed her, but he had refused to give in to guilt. In both his heart and in his head he knew there had been no other way, but it did not mean he would stop missing her.

Knives of waning sunlight cut into the chamber, alighting on rugs and ottomans, and giving everything it rested on the touch of the gods. A single band of golden light rested its tip on the scattered papers in front of Eran, pointing to the land of Sam Nuthen, and more specifically to the elven city of Nuthen Faer. He took it as a sign and closed his eyes, falling deep in to his mind and reaching out over the leagues of Ilyria, across the Aneurin Vale, towards Nuthen Faer.

“Grandfather?” Eran called quietly in his mind for he still only used luetha infrequently. It made him a little nervous. “Grandfather, are you there?”

A short pause. Eran felt a familiar mind full of age and wisdom touch his own. “Yes my grandson, what is it you need?”

“Feeling a little overwhelmed I guess.” Eran allowed his emotions to wash over his mind to Thagar.

“You feel the pressure of your people to learn what is happening in the world, and yet feel like you have let them down because you cannot provide them with answers?”

“Yes, I want to do something, but I don’t know what to do or who to turn to for answers.”

“My child, you are young for a king, but you have the wisdom to rule and rule well. You have the advantage of elven blood to give you strength in times when others would fail…to give you knowledge in questions far beyond the understanding of mortal men. There are always many paths before you, and one will lead to success…you must use those around you to learn which one it is.”

“Grandfather, you have nothing more you can tell me of the happenings in Alatheia?”

“Thala has not informed you of what is happening in Sam Nuthen? Hmm.”

 “Grandfather?”

“I sent Thala in my stead Eran, and he has apparently seen fit not to say anything for the time being it seems.”

“Thala wishes to wait for Caradoc’s return and Raethen’s arrival.”

“Ah, yes, a wise choice I see now. Trust in that wisdom, Eran, for I know you do not doubt your brother.”

“I do not doubt him, but his silence concerns me only because I wish to know what news it is that he brings.”

“If nothing else, did not your quest teach you patience?” Thagar felt his grandson smile through the mind link.

“Yes, grandfather.”

“Then be patient, all will reveal itself in due course.”

“Thank you. As always you know how to make me feel more at peace with myself.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you, but Raethen and his young cousin passed through here not a week ago. I daresay they will be with you soon.”

“That does make me feel better, thank you. Any word on Caradoc?”

“We have not seen him in three months, but our scouts know you need him to return to the palace. Only an elf will find him when he chooses not to be found.”

“I know. I wouldn’t mind if this wasn’t all so urgent.”

“Goodbye for now, my grandson.”

“Goodbye Grandfather.” Eran withdrew his own mind from the link as he felt Thagar pull away. He always felt a little empty after luetha since he mostly used it with family and dear friends; their closeness was always comforting even when they were leagues away.

After short reflection of all his grandfather had said Eran called to his chamber servant. “Asoc!”

A young boy no older than twelve hustled into the king’s private quarters. He was slender built with a head of unruly blond hair and a mischievous gleam in his eyes, desperate for adventure. He bowed deftly and waited for orders.

“Asoc, I need to you to take a message to Commander Broadshield, Advisor Broadshield, Mage Fen, Mage Oaldar and Elf Thala. Please ask them to join me in the meeting room in half an hour.”

“Yes sir.” Asoc nodded his head, turned on his heels and fled from the suite. He ran with a fluidity that few boys his age could compete with. It was this that Eran had seen and liked in the boy; it reminded him of a carefree time before he had killed the necromancer. Eran had also seen a wildness in the boy that he knew any other master would try to tame, but which he cultured.

Asoc flew from floor to floor, and room to room to deliver the message of the king. He knew he had it good in life, and despite the urges to run free in the mountains and grasslands beyond the great city of Penmarric he would not give up the best position any one of his age could dare hope to have. He smiled and ran, breathing hard as he knocked on the final door.

“It’s open.” A melodic elven voice called from within.

Asoc depressed the brass handle and pushed against the intricately-carved oak doors that barred entry. Writing at a desk built entirely of Ambira wood which shimmered slightly in the muted sunlight hidden beyond silk window drapes sat the king’s half-brother.

“What news have you from the king?” Thala looked kindly at the huffing boy, seeing the same spirit in Asoc’s eyes that Eran also saw.

“He asks that you and the Commander and the Advisor join him in the meeting room in half an hour.” The boy wheezed between breaths.

“Very well, thank you Asoc. You can inform the king that I will be there shortly.”

Asoc bowed once more, his feet dragging slightly as he closed the doors. He returned to the king’s chambers to report that all were informed and that they would join the king shortly.

“I ask that you are present at the meeting Asoc, but you are free for the next half hour. That will be all, thank you.” Eran dismissed the boy with a smile and rose from his comfortable chair behind the desk as the door closed quietly. Once more Eran felt a heavy weight upon his shoulders; not for the first time did he wish that the burdens that had come to him had gone to another. It seemed his rule was destined to be plagued by one kind of relentless evil or another.

Feeling his brother’s mental distress Thala touched lightly on Eran’s mind. “You feel this burden like no other Eran because you are who you are. Things come to pass at this time because you are the son of prophecy. Your throne will be beset by challenges that only you have the will and strength to overcome; it does not come lightly, my brother. You will succeed because of those around you – those loyal to you, and those who are willing to die for this land…and for their king.”

Like their grandfather Thala had a way of soothing Eran’s mind. “I’ll see you in a little while Eran.” The elf pulled away without giving Eran a chance to respond. A faint smile, barely more than the twitching of the corners of his mouth, formed on Eran’s face. He was lucky to have so many people loyal to him, not just as a king but as a man of Ilyria.

Checking himself in a full-length mirror he stared into his own haunted eyes. Tearing away from his own scrutiny he rearranged the grey-green cloak that hung from his shoulders and smoothed a few wrinkles from the elven garb he insisted on wearing. It was not that he disliked the fashions of men, he just felt more comfortable in the soft linens and delicate weave of the elves with their subtle colors and practical fit. It also helped him to feel connected to his family, many leagues away in Sam Nuthen.

He wore fitted britches and a loose, well-cut shirt which was gathered at the waist and tucked beneath his belt. Soft brown leather boots were laced up to his knees, well-worn and comfortable. He rarely wore the gloves his foster parents had given him, but they were always with him and never put away; now they poked their fingertips out of one his cloak’s interior pockets as though clawing for freedom. His hair, always unruly and barely tamed, hung messily to his shoulders concealing the brands of elf and royal blood behind his ears. His dark mane complimented his striking silver-flecked green eyes.

From an intricately-carved leather belt hung the Sword of Tirith Sha. It had been his mother’s blade and it was something he was never without, especially in the uncertain times Ilyria was facing once more. On his left hand he wore a ring bearing the crest of kings. It was replicated by the mark of an iridescent red sun on his left palm. The scar was mirrored on his right hand by the shimmering image of a blue dragon’s eye. Each icon indicated his blood-link to the inherited line of the kings or of one born of elven blood.

He smoothed his wild mop of dark hair back from his face; he had not consented to have it cut, thinking it made him look like his father. He glanced from the mirror to the painting of Gannon and Gith’rael hanging above the marble-ensconced fireplace. They smiled down at him as if knowing he would always be okay as long as they could watch over him from wherever they were. He smiled back at them as he turned and departed his chambers for the meeting room.

Descending from his fourth floor apartments Eran walked slowly, savoring the peace within the palace. Occasionally a servant hustled by inclining their head in honor as they passed him. He, in turn, returned the gesture as a sign of respect for those that worked hard for him. He wanted to be in the meeting room before the others arrived and picked up his a pace a little. Soon he came to the towering doors that barred the passageway between the second-floor landing and the meeting room. He pushed the doors inward; they glided soundlessly on well-maintained hinges. Immediately he felt a presence in the room. He lifted his eyes from the floor and came face to face with a silver-haired elf with haunted ice-blue eyes.

“Raethen!” Eran threw his arms around the solemn elf without a thought of controlling his actions. The embrace was returned, albeit stiffly, for the elf was unaccustomed to such intimate displays of affection. His manner softened quickly and a rare grin cracked his face.

“Hello Eran, how are you?” The elf pushed Eran to arms length to look at him before frowning. “A great burden you carry my young friend; I can see it in your eyes; it haunts you.”

Before Eran could answer he heard Thala’s voice behind him. “I thought a welcome such as this was reserved only for visiting family.”

“But he is…” Eran trailed off as he turned to catch a wry mocking smile on his brother’s face “…family.”

“Welcome Raethen, it is good to see you again. Thagar tells me that I missed journeying with you by only two days.”

Raethen nodded. “It is not without some regret I agree.”

Eran’s attention was caught by some quiet activity within the room. Both elves turned to see what had caught the young king’s interest.

“Ah, let me introduce my cousin, Aylwin.” Raethen stepped away from the door to allow the brothers passage into the room.

Standing with the pride born of all elves, but twitching slightly with nerves, was a young elf not more than forty or fifty years in age. He had the same silver-spun hair as Raethen and similar features, but he lacked the wisdom and experience that was visible in the eyes of the older elf. It was the lack of sadness and pain in Aylwin’s eyes that both Eran and Thala noticed more than anything; it was as though they were looking at Raethen before his betrayal by Morgeth and the death of his brother.

Aylwin possessed a youthful exuberance that he wasn’t quite sure how to channel, and it was his obvious love and passion for his own people that shone quite clearly through his demeanor. His clear ice-blue eyes, almost identical to Raethen’s, danced with eagerness and interest. Eran wondered if the smile that lightened his face was attached on a permanent basis.

“Aylwin, cousin of Raethen, welcome to Nuneth Parthum and to Penmarric, the City of Kings.” Eran stretched out a hand in welcome to his guest.

The young elf stepped forward and took Eran’s hand with his own. “Thank you Eran, King of Men. I welcome your hospitality and hope that I can be your friend like my uncle.”

Eran noticed the shyness in the young elf’s eyes and he smiled as Aylwin turned to Thala. He guessed that the young elf had probably rehearsed the speech a thousand times in his head, probably in front of a mirror.

“Azthalad.” Aylwin spoke with intensity, using Thala’s full given name. “Lord Osric, leader of the elves of Dath’erim, sends his respect and blessings to the elves of Sam Nuthen.” Aylwin exhaled with obvious relief at getting his speech right.

“Alright Aylwin, that’s enough,” Raethen interjected before the elfling could burst into another rehearsed speech. “Who else are we expecting at the meeting?”

“Fen, Oaldar, Aerick and Valor should be joining us shortly,” Eran replied as he walked further in to the meeting room. He sat down heavily in his chair.

“And here are two of them now,” Thala announced as Aerick and Valor Broadshield appeared in the doorway.

“Raethen, it is good to see you again.” Aerick shook the elf’s hand with affection for he had not forgotten the elf’s part in the Great Battle.

“Likewise, Commander Broadshield.” A warm, slight smile was directed at the broad-shouldered soldier.

“Aerick, please.”

“Of course.”

“And who is this?” Aerick looked at the younger version of Raethen who was still standing to the left of the door.

Introductions were interrupted by the arrival of two mages, one cloaked in iron-grey, the other in deep twilight-blue. Asoc followed closely. Eran coughed from the end of the table, and those blocking the door made a move to their places at the table.

“Please take a seat, all of you,” Eran asked of the gathered company. “We are still missing one, but since we are not able to ascertain Caradoc’s whereabouts, and cannot wait until we do, I suggest we continue where we left off two days ago.

“For those gathered here who have not already been introduced, our newcomer is Aylwin, cousin to Raethen, from the elf lands of Dath’erim. Those who do not know him, I encourage you to introduce yourselves now before we begin.”

“Greetings Aylwin, I am Fen, a mage of half-changeling blood. Welcome to Penmarric.”

Aylwin nodded his head in recognition of the introduction since the table barred the shaking of hands.

“I am Oaldar, a mage of Penmarric…and Fen is my mentor.”

“It is good to meet you, Oaldar of Penmarric,” Aylwin replied, noticing the mage’s haunted eyes and gaunt look.

“Aylwin, this is Asoc.” Eran gestured to the wild-looking boy standing off to the side. “He is my aide and loyal servant, if a little on the untamed side.” He looked sideways at the boy. Asoc grinned.

“Asoc.” Again, Aylwin dipped his head in greeting to the boy.

“I believe all introductions have been made. Now I think we should get to the matter in hand.” Eran looked from one face to the next, scanning the expressions of the individuals who stood with him before sinking into his chair. The others followed his example. “Commander would you please begin; tell us what news there is beyond Penmarric.”

Returning to his feet Aerick spoke clear and slow. “There have been no more attacks since we met two days ago. It is a blessing in that sense, but still we cannot see a pattern to the massacres.”

“For the benefit of those who have not been here for previous meetings can you tell us what your men have found?” Eran asked softly of the commander, knowing what Aerick had experienced.

Aerick nodded, but a lump rose in his throat thinking of what he had seen on more than one occasion. “We do not know as of this moment what is attacking and massacring the people of remote farms or unprotected caravans. Just this week, we have seen one caravan of entertainers headed for this city attacked and destroyed on the road between Penmarric and Capathen. Brought to my attention only two days ago was the news of a multi-family farming settlement attacked in daylight, not two hundred leagues from here. What my men have seen disturbs and unsettles them. Each time they have seen what remains after the attacks they have reported the same thing; men and women who live yet do not live. A heart continues to beat within the victims, and faint and shallow breaths have continued to give rise and fall to their breast for a few short hours, but in their eyes there resides no life.”

“How can they live but have no life?” Aylwin asked with confusion.

“This is what we have been discussing these past weeks, my elf friend,” Aerick replied with a tender gruffness. “We have no answer, and no way to find out.”

“They are catatonic?” Raethen looked apprehensive.

“Catatonic, maybe,” Fen answered, “but even those in a psychotic stupor still have some life in their eyes. According to Penmarric’s best soldiers the eyes of the victims were those of dead men.”

“Is there any pattern to the attacks; are they moving one way or another?” Aylwin asked with concern, his pale hands gripping tightly to the arms of his chair.

“At first we thought so,” Valor replied, looking at his brother to continue.

“It seemed at first that the attacks were heading towards Penmarric, but after the first four or five they shifted direction and have been fairly random since that time. We have no way to know where we will find the next victims, or if we did, no way to protect them.” Aerick’s face was afflicted with the weight of helplessness.

Steering the meeting in another direction Eran spoke quietly, resting his head in his hands. “You know of the bane of men, Raethen, Thala; what of the elves?”

“I had wanted to wait until all were present…” Thala was interrupted by a loud crash as the doors swung open violently and banged against the walls.

“No time like now.” A rough and wild looking man stood in the doorway; his hair was untamed and unkempt, but the long beard could not hide the wry smile that lifted the ragged hair. “I believe we are all now here.”

Eran felt as though the world had been lifted from his shoulders. His face relaxed into a smile of relief. It was aimed at the Uthen warrior who had returned from the wilderness. “Caradoc!”

“We were not certain that you would be here.” Fen spoke with reverence to the range master.

“I heard news through the wilds that you were looking for me.”

“Why couldn’t I reach you?” A concerned-looking Oaldar asked of the wild man.

“I had my reasons to keep my mind hidden,” Caradoc replied cryptically. He would explain no more. “Now, to the subject at hand…come elves, tell us the news of Sam Nuthen and Dath’erim.”

Heavy storm clouds gathered over the faces of all three elves, darkening even that of the young elf. Thala and Raethen exchanged glances neither wanting to speak first, but knowing that one must take the lead.

“What we have to say is grave and will bend even your faith in that which you hold dear.” Thala paused, looking to Raethen for strength. “The elves are sick, the elves are dying and there is no cause or reason.”

An audible gasp echoed from each man to the next and color drained from Eran’s face.

“Grandfather?” He looked beseechingly at his brother.

“Thagar is well…for now.” Thala turned from Eran and looked at each of the others in turn. “A handful of elves in Sam Nuthen are ill, and I believe the same applies to the elves of Dath’erim.”

Raethen nodded in agreement.

“Three are dead from an illness we do not understand and have no way to cure.” Tears glimmered in the corner of Thala’s eyes, but he refused to let them fall. “We feel sure that whatever it is that attacks the caravans and outreaches of man has something to do with the sickness of the elves.”

Caradoc looked white even beneath the shaggy hair that covered his handsome and rugged visage. Blood drained from Eran’s face and he looked almost blue. Aerick found it difficult to breathe and he took ragged breaths as though there were not enough oxygen in the room. Valor shook so violently that his multiple rings clattered against the table like horse hooves on a cobbled street, and the faces of the both mages, normally serene and peaceful, looked tortured and haggard.

“You’re sure of this?” Caradoc locked eyes with Thala.

“There is no way to be sure, but there has been a disturbance in the magic once more.”

Fen’s face paled. “It cannot be…destroyed he was.”

A stifling silence hung in the great meeting room. It seemed at that moment that had one of them spoken no sound would have been heard.

“Are we sure of that?” Raethen finally asked the gathered men, voicing what no other dared to. The faces of the men in the meeting room were ghostly twins of those who had first entered, and each of them looked like they had aged a lifetime in a matter of minutes.

“How can we be sure?” Eran asked pathetically, not feeling like a king at that moment. He felt like a very scared little boy and he longed for his mother.

“There are only two races that can answer that, and neither are here,” Oaldar added quietly, speaking for the first time.

“It seems I must take Padraig up on his offer although I had sincerely hoped I would not need to do so.” Eran looked pained at the thought of disturbing the Nix – the nine dragons that stood as guardians of Alatheia’s magic.

A sound that reminded half of those present of the grumbling protestations of an earthquake reverberated through the great room. Pictures clattered against the walls and unoccupied chairs skittered away from the table. The waning sun that was turning everything to gold was abruptly obliterated and the light of the room was transformed into veiled twilight. The gloom concealed the concerned and confused expressions of the occupants. A loud thud and the sound of falling debris followed the rumbling. It wasn’t until a black head, with amber eyes above jaws lined with dagger-like teeth, peered through a pair of glass doors that the men within collectively breathed out. None had realized they had all been holding their breath.

Using a sharp snout lined with raven-black scales that glimmered with hints of rainbow coloring the doors were pushed in rather sharply, rattling the glass in their casings. “My ears are burning…must mean someone is talking about me.” Padraig, leader and largest of the Nix, spoke with a voice that sounded like distant thunder.

“You are most welcome.” Eran bowed to the noble beast and the others followed his example. “And yes, we were just talking about you…in a roundabout way.”

“I know your questions, King Eran, but fear I cannot answer them to your satisfaction.” As Padraig spoke a second dragon landed more softly behind him. It was golden in color and almost disappeared, hidden in the colors of the setting sun. “This, my friends, is Galor.”

The golden dragon bowed his head at the greeting. His sun-touched scales breathed fire across his body. His crest and tail were tipped with a color so rich and deep it almost put the sun to shame. “Galor at your service, Ilyrian King.”

Eran bowed once more in reverence to the second of the great beasts before him. “You are welcome to join us great dragons, but it seems we will have to adjourn to a new meeting place for that.”

“Indeed, for our wings and tails would create havoc in a tiny room such as this,” Padraig agreed.

Eran smiled. By the standards of man and elf the room was large and almost extravagant. “I believe the central courtyard would suit us well.”

“A most pleasing choice,” Padraig agreed, thinking of the climbing vines, the decorative flowers and the soothing fountain. “We will meet you there as soon as you are able.”

Eran turned from the doors as Asoc closed them with far more care than they had been opened. “Shall we relocate to the courtyard? I believe a change of scenery and the warm spring air would do our disheartened spirits some good.”

All who were gathered nodded heartily; the room stifled them, their minds, and any ability to think with forethought. They left in twos or threes for the central gardens. They were same gardens through which Eran and the Dagornath had first been led upon their arrival at Nuneth Parthum, before the Great Battle. Eran remained a moment longer, staring at the dying red-orange orb that was sinking behind the Wilderhope Mountains. It was a beautiful sunset, but Eran saw a sadness in the death of the day and he hoped it was not a premonition.

Caradoc’s rough voice broke through his reverie as the Uthen poked his head back around the entry door. “Eran are you coming, or are you going to spend all evening watching the sun disappear?”

Eran laughed in spite of himself. “No, I’m coming.” He turned towards his old friend and together they left the room, descending through the elegant hallways and landings and out to the garlanded sanctuary where Padraig and Galor waited.

The spring flowers lent a heady scent to the air; climbing roses of every conceivable hue bejeweled the granite-grey columns that surrounded the garden. Trellises were bound in creeping jasmine, and adorning the silver-barked birches that gave shade to the courtyard clematis burst forth with unexpected flashes of vibrant color. The hydra-nymph fountain, which Eran had first laughed at because of its inaccuracies, found an honored place in the center and was surrounded by long, sweeping white-granite benches.

A light breeze tickled the tops of the birches and sent a few bright-green leaves spiraling downwards. They settled on the undulating pool of the fountain like tiny boats, or as if they were undersized tree-nymphs lying in the grass taking an evening snooze. The drafts of air that swirled around the courtyard were still warm from the day, but they hinted at the chill of winter that had only been gone a few weeks.

The mood was somber and quiet as Caradoc and Eran joined the others in the shaded sanctuary. The solemn faces of the dragons lent even greater weight to the issue at hand, but the feelings of those gathered were lighter as they inhaled the perfumed air.

Eran stood before the gathered men and elves that had seated themselves randomly around the smiling hydra-nymph. “Much better to be less confined.” He smiled.

The others nodded their heads in agreement.

“But unfortunately a change in scenery does not change the weight of the issue that presents itself to us.” Raethen frowned.

“It does not, no, but let us hope there is a way to find a solution. Padraig, you must tell us of the dragons and of the disturbance in Alatheia’s magic.” Eran looked at the great black dragon whose head was resting on the ground between two trees.

“We fear that there is little good news from Stormhold; like the elves the dragons are becoming ill. It is nothing compared to that which afflicts the elves for that which ails the Nix is nothing more serious than a cold…so far.” Padraig paused. “But that is enough; the dragons are never sick. As guardians of the magic we are stronger and more easily able to bear the illness that troubles our elvish friends, but it still remains that a third of the Nix are suffering. This is disturbing…and it may get worse.”

“And what of the disturbance?” Aylwin looked distraught at the thought of sick dragons.

“That is, it seems, the only good news I can give you. Morgeth has not returned; it is not he who upsets the balance. For there is also a clue – magic is not being redirected; it is being distorted and changed. Something or someone far stronger than Morgeth ever could have become now affects the balance of all things.”

“You call that good news?” Oaldar smiled glumly.

“Yes.” Eran looked at the young mage. “We lost a lot to that evil. This may be worse, but at least it’s different.”

“I wouldn’t be too caught up on the differences; we knew how to defeat Morgeth. Trying to defeat an enemy that we don’t know may take more heartache and loss of life than any of us can guess at.” Caradoc chastised Eran.

Eran smiled despite his frown. He hated to be reprimanded even when veiled by friend, but he knew the Uthen was right.

“So how do we find out what this enemy is and how to defeat him…or it?” Aerick asked to no one in particular.

“Padraig?” Eran turned to the dragon.

Both Galor and Padraig shook their heads, staring at the ground. “No more help can we be it seems for this knowledge is somehow beyond us,” Galor grumbled.

“How can that be?” Valor asked of the two. “You are the guardians of all magic in this world.”

“Yes, but I believe this is something not of this world – something far outside of that which we know.” Galor answered, tongues of fire licking at his nostrils in agitation.

Aerick laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder in warning. Although the dragons were friends to the peoples of Alatheia they were still dragons, and that in turn commanded respect.

“Do the books of old not talk of anything such as this?” Caradoc looked at Fen and Oaldar.

“We have searched and read; our minds are fairly full of stories and tales, spells and histories, but there is nothing to tell us what this plague might be,” Oaldar said, shaking his head.

A death-shroud of silence hung over the courtyard as each of them reached to the furthest corners of their minds. They clawed into the darkest reaches of their knowledge, feeling for that tiny morsel of memory that would give them an answer – any answer. Only the steady stream of water plunging to the clear pool from the hydra-nymph’s hands broke the tedium of stillness. Heart-shaped birch leaves, darkly mottled the fire-streaked sky, shuffled quietly against each other. The sun hidden behind the Wilderhope Mountains painted only the loftiest clouds in slender ribbons of crimson, ember and lavender. Eran shivered as the air began to cool.

Frost began to distort the bright colors of the sanctuary’s flowers. Yellows became cream, cerulean became periwinkle, deep leafy greens were muted, and reds morphed into pink. The pool of water began to turn to ice; striking patterns of delicate crystals spread across the surface, and the plunging fountain transformed into a slender pillar of shimmering moonstone.

“What’s happening?” Valor’s face paled as the temperature continued to drop, and white gems hemmed their robes and hair.

“Eran?” Aerick looked at the king who was grinning. White plumes of frigid air bloomed from the young man’s open mouth.

Eran raised a hand as though to quiet the questions. He looked at those who had accompanied him on his quest to destroy Morgeth; they were smiling too, but a look of apprehension still found a place in their expressions.

“The sylphs!” Thala said, more as a statement than a question.

Caradoc nodded, thinking back to his only other encounter with one of the strange mythical beings of Mystwood. It was only with hindsight that he knew that the sylphs were benign creatures.

The air shuddered and shivered. Magical energy distorted the space between the men, elves and dragons like lazy waves of heat rising from a baked earth. A voice, as cold as the air, spoke without hesitation. “King Eran, honored friend, and ruler of this land. I Merial, come now to tell you what it is that you cannot understand.”

“Merial, leader of the sylphs, please tell us that which we do not know.” Eran spoke with reverence to the spirit that had guided him to find this father’s ring.

“It is with heavy heart and mind that I come to you now for those of us who are left had wished to restore the balance alone.”

“Those who are left?” Raethen asked with concern.

“Yes, my elven friend. It burdens me to tell you what happened when you destroyed Morgeth less than a year ago. We had hoped that it need not go beyond our humble home.” Merial’s voice was haunted with an anguish more pronounced than it had been when Eran had first talked with him.

“What happened?” Caradoc’s disconcerted expression was still noticeable beneath his mask of wild hair.

“Please sit while I tell you all that has befallen us, and do not interrupt until I am finished.” Merial settled himself upon a bench despite not having a physical form that needed support. Those that were not already seated found a space on one of the benches and huddled together for warmth.

“Eran, you know some of this, and I am sure you have explained much to those here, but allow me some leeway if you would. The story of my people goes back before the recorded history of this world began. The sylphs have called this land home for as long as it has existed – from its creation. We have protected it from invaders of many kinds, banishing the very worst to the underworld; the Neverwhere. We have shielded Alatheia from the evil buried below the surface, guarding the door between worlds, and keeping those malevolent beings from returning to claim this land once more.

“Twenty-one there were when you came to Mystwood Eran, only five of us remain; our race is on the brink of extinction. Disease and illness do not touch us. Only an evil a thousand times more powerful than the necromancer Morgeth can destroy us easily as poison will kill a rat. There is no blame to be placed, but unknown to you a great demon has been unleashed. At the hour of your success in exiling Morgeth to places best left to the imagination the gate we have guarded for thousands of years was torn open for a brief moment. That rift allowed this creature passage into this world. Morgeth's last draw on Alatheia’s magic to defend himself against the Nix was enough to allow the door to open for a transitory time.

“This creature, as large as two oxen and with spider-like limbs, contorted itself to fit through a crack no larger than a wolf. Red eyes blazed with evil intent as with a single touch of one of its spindly limbs it killed sixteen of my kind. The rest, including myself, fled into the protective shroud of Mystwood. The fear of our own demise was in our hearts as we gathered in secret. More pressing on our minds was what would happen to the people of Alatheia should this creature escape beyond our realm.

“We have relentless pursued the demon, known only as Malys, across the land. We have dared to leave the familiarity of Mystwood behind to hunt this foul monster, but have met with no success. He is cunning, deceitful and clever. He can hide where and when he will. Should he choose not to be found neither the sylphs nor the best of the elves will find him.”

Merial ceased his haunted tale and waited on the others to speak.

“So, other than knowing what this thing is, we are no closer to a solution,” Valor said with frustration.

“On the contrary, my friend, with knowing comes something to look for.” Fen replied, somewhat cryptically as usual.

“The changeling mage is correct,” Merial added. “My kind have done all we can to stop this creature, but it is now out of our hands…so to speak.”

Aylwin smiled at the reference since the sylph obviously didn’t have hands.

“Someone who still retains a sense of humor.” A smile could be felt in Merial’s voice. “A trait that is most admirable.”

Aylwin grinned at the compliment – something he hadn’t expected from the cold voice emanating from the phantom energy. “So, what now?”

“The answer lies in something you already have.” The specter addressed Fen. “You took something from us that only you will understand.”

Fen looked quizzically towards the Sylph. “I understand not what you speak of.”

“In Rilanr; pages of history you seized, glyphs of a language misunderstood.” Merial explained patiently.

“The books!” Fen whispered quietly.

“Yes Fen, the Tomes of Hehuon; a written history kept by the sylphs before modern recorded time.”

“But full of a language neither I nor any other can understand.” Fen struggled to grasp the knowledge that Merial was pushing his direction.

“One here carries the key to understanding…one who does not know what he holds.”

“Who?” Fen was utterly confused, as were the others.

“You must learn that for yourselves, for with learning comes knowledge, with knowledge comes understanding, and with understanding comes wisdom. Jump ahead on any of these steps and you will not be complete.”

“Very well, as you request it,” Fen conceded.

“I must leave you now my friends, but wish you every blessing known to the living peoples of this land.” Merial shivered violently once more and faded from sight. The temperature rose swiftly at his departure and water droplets formed at the tip of each delicate petal as the ice melted. The sound of the fountain once more sang merrily, and except for a few streaks of cerulean silk the sky was dark.

Those gathered were silent for a moment, digesting what the phantom had spoken of. Eran spoke at last. “We have been given much to think about and consider. I propose that we adjourn to supper where there will be no talk of demons and books until we are properly done. Once our bellies are full, and our thoughts have been given more time to evaluate that which we have learned, I suggest we move to my quarters which are far more comfortable than the meeting room. Padraig and Galor may join us from the patio beyond the living room.”

In uniform agreement the men and elves returned to the interior of the palace. The two dragons spread their wings and departed for the freedom of the skies, prepared to hunt for their own meals.