The Inquisitor

We’re always suspicious when another party try to share our campfire. Tonight, in the hills less than a week from Sandona was no exception. I am called Bedaris, of the elven lands of Turlai. I travel with a party of adventurers, some acquaintances, some friends. They are the Northman Dyergan, a great warrior, the dwarf Wogan, a warrior priest from Khardova, the thief Urda, a woman from the blacktown of Etrak and my apprentice, Meirlaia, also a Turlai elf.

This group who we encountered were all human, so we were immediately suspicious of them and them of us. They exchanged few words apart from their leader speaking softly with Dyergan, warrior to warrior. Each of them wore an unusual symbol that I could not place. Any group travelling under a symbol are even more likely to be quarrelsome.

“Steer clear of this lot,” Wogan whispered to me. “Marks of Almar on them, church folk can’t be trusted.”

“Armers you think,” I asked. The Armers were a radical sect of the Human religion who not only hated outsiders, despised spellcasters like Meirlaia and myself.

“Can’t be sure, not the symbol they wear, can’t be sure.” Wogan spoke in a deep bass, often repeating phases for effect. Most others found him dull and slow but his advice was always right on target. It was his opinion I always valued the highest.

If an Armer suspected someone of spellcasting they could arrest them in the name of the church immediately. That was the law of this land, although we would be unlikely to surrender without a fight any confrontation with armed warriors would result in casualties we could ill afford. Urda was staying well away from the strangers by herself but Meirlaia was talking idly with one of the strangers.

Meirlaia had been my apprentice for only a few months but she had already proved to be foolhardy and naïve at best. At first I let her speak her words, trust her judgement as I was supposed to but after a small while more of the strangers gathered around her. They all still wore their swords and armour, which should have been unnecessary with camp made. I motioned to Dyergan but he was already moving to get his enormous two handed sword, pretending to sharpen it. Urda, in the shadows, no doubt had knives by the cartload hidden in her clothes, she allowed me to see a glint of steel, though I trusted her to be prepared. Wogan was less subtle, taking up his mace and shield and walking over to the strangers.

“Best get your gear off and relax, men of Farah. We don’t wish to be armed all night.” The men looked up and the dwarf and snarled. Meirlaia looked over shocked and took a step back from the man she was talking, not realising she was already surrounded.

I stepped closer, trying to hide the fact that the pole I was holding was not a walking stick but was in fact a javelin ready to be thrown.

“Come over here Meirlaia, help me get dinner started.”

“Two elves travelling in one group. Not often we see your kind here, pointing eared one. Can I ask what your purpose is in our lands?” The man was not the leader who spoke to Dyergan but another, making no secret to the broad sword at his waist.

“Perhaps in good time friend,” I said through clenched teeth, “first we must get our meal started, and you should put away your weapons.”

Meirlaia tried to walk back over to me but she was stopped by another of the strangers.

“No matter, your apprentice here has told us enough already.”

I looked over to Dyergan and he stepped forward holding his two handed claymore threateningly.

“Let her go and be gone, you have overstayed your welcome,” Dyergan said menacingly.

The man merely laughed and motioned to his lackeys who moved on Dyergan and me.

I thrust hard at the first soldier but he parried my blow. Dyergan had two men to fight and was grimacing with effort, swinging his huge blade.

Wogan moved to rescue Meirlaia but he too was outnumbered. Meirlaia was foolishly trying to cast a spell but the man who had her was throwing her round like a rag doll and she could do nothing. The helpless girl had never learned to truly defend herself, as much as I tried to teach her of the need.

I tried to cast a spell of my own in the chaos but the man I fought would not give me the time. Eventually I released a simple fire spell that distracted him enough to stab him in the leg. Although he was still mobile and I was forced to fight on. But moments later he let out a yelp and collapsed. As did one of the men fighting Dyergan, while our leader felled his other adversary immediately.

I launched my Javelin at one of Wogan’s adversaries, seconds before the Dwarf was cleaved in two and Dyergan finished his other. In the chaos I lost track of Meirlaia and the man. Urda, who’s knives had swung the battle was nowhere to be seen either.

Wogan started his best dwarf sprint towards where he knew they went. I followed to find Meirlaia, soaked to the bone, shivering, but standing still, over the body of the man, who also had a knife in his back. She had no doubt finally got a spell to cast, though a clearly crude and ill-advised one. A ball of ice from that range could have killed her.

I went over to Meirlaia, draping my cloak over her shoulders and whispering encouragement in her ears. Urda, who had already gone through the man’s pockets, threw me a small medallion with a sun and a fist on it, the symbol of the Armers. We should have known. Travelling in the lands of men would only get more dangerous.

The Gift of Magic

“Can you hear me? Don’t be afraid.”
Chula scrambled away from the thicket. Where had the voice come from? It was deep and stern. Not boisterous like another ogre’s.
“What are you?” Chula asked.
“I am the power to make impossible into reality. I am magic. For you,” the voice said.
Chula was an ogre. Ogres were not magical. Though they appeared to be dim-witted monsters they were much like any other mortal race. But they were never wizards.
“You are not for me,” Chula said. “Ogres don’t use magic.”
Then she fled to her camp. At this time of year when the sun rose early and set late her family led buffalo through the plateaus. When the days turned dark they would retreat to the caves.
Her father was making arrows for the day’s hunt and Chula ran to his arms. She did not speak. Words weren’t needed. Her fear was obvious to him. Ogres usually had nothing to fear. His arms were enough comfort that she could return to her duties.
Plants infested the plateau. Many were poisonous, some were delicious. Chula knew how to spot each one. Today she searched for food. Another day she could be searching for medicines or even weapons.
“You return,” the voice said.
Chula looked around. It was not the same bush. The spirit was following her.
“Go away.”
“No.”
“Ogres are not magical,” Chula said.
“No mortal is magic. My kind are magic,” the voice said. “My kind are afraid of the Ogres. That is why you are never our wizards. But you are different. I overcame my fear to speak to you. I ask that you do the same.”
Magic had fears?
“What do you want?” Chula asked.
“You,” the voice said. “To be my wizard,”
Chula looked around. She couldn’t run away. The spirit would always follow. Her only hope was to reason with it.
“I don’t want power.”
“Yes you do,” the voice said. “Why do you study the plants if not to gain power from them? Why do you follow the animals and learn their instincts if not to gain their power? You have gained so much power already that other mortals could not dream of. Take this final gift from me. Be my wizard.”
The voice was closer now. It pleaded to her. She could almost feel herself becoming a wizard then and there. She could raise mountains and summon storms. She had true power at her fingertips.
But to what end? She had no use for this gift. With that thought the spirit retreated.
“I will wait,” it said.
Chula returned home much later in the day with all the food she could carry but the camp was not its usual buzz of activity. The Ogres were huddled together around something and Chula rushed over to see her father lying on his back with a huge spear in his stomach.
“The hill men attacked us on the hunt,” Cousin Bran said. “Can you help him?”
The spear was in deep. Her father was dying. No amount of medical skill could save him. Chula reached for her knife so she could end his suffering, but she hesitated. The voice was closer than ever.
“I am waiting.”

Return of a cursed one

Lebogan Shah peered through the slit in his door at the streets that were growing darker by the second. Soon the Parson's voices would be heard through the city of Dalasca, declaring the streets safe for the 'cursed ones'. That was what Lebogan Shah was called.
It had been that way for centuries in Dalasca. The blessed walk the streets by day, the cursed by night. Always separated.
"Retreat now blessed ones," the Parsons' song could be heard. "Lest the cursed corrupt your soul. Return now cursed ones, if you've the will to leave your hole."
A foolish chant, but it had been sung each day for centuries. The blessed would return to their homes and the cursed would emerge.
Shah's door opened. Dalasca was dirty and smelled of squalor and poverty but compared to his house the air felt cool and fresh. Other cursed were emerging, snarling at any blessed ones who remained in the streets. The blessed ones, the Altari, would be gone from the streets in minutes. The night belonged to the Krull, the cursed.
The streets and alleys were unlit and no moon graced the sky but Shah could see clearly. He walked amongst the cursed Krull, their skin like coal. A few gave him strange glances but most were used to his ghostly complexion in these streets. The night began like any other, until he saw a face he thought he knew, before it disappeared. Shah moved to follow. To find one who escaped his presence.
He knew the face, if his eyes did not deceive. Veska Ayari, one of the cursed maidens, a daughter of the Kingdom of Krull. Shah had not seen her in years and thought he'd never see her again. The sight of her alone nearly warmed the blood in his veins.
Shah had not always been cursed. As a child he walked by day among the blessed. A child of the Altari Empire. But he was forever curious and took to leaving his house at night, to spy on the cursed ones.
He had seen Veska, a girl with such passion and beauty couldn't exist among the blessed. He spoke with her and won her heart, but they could never be together. He was blessed, she was cursed.
Shah had left the city, not yet a grown man, to find a solution and he though he found it in the far off city of Mazanad. A man with ghostly white skin, cursed as teh Krull were to never see the light of the sun. Shah had asked the man to share his curse and the man bit into his neck, nearly killing him. But when he woke the curse had already begun.
Shah returned to Dalasca but Veska was horrified at him. She screamed he had given up his mortality. That he could no longer feel, no longer love. His curse was a thousand times worse than hers and she ran away, never to be seen or heard of by Shah again.
He ran through the streets. Trying to feel excitement, like those days so many years ago when he tried to feel heart broken, but could only feel emptiness. With thoughts of Veska so close Shah could almost remember how to be passionate. He tried to focus on thoughts of her eyes, her lips, her breasts. But his mind could only rest on her neck.
Shah froze. Something sharp was being held at the back of his heart.
"Lebogan Shah," Veska's voice was unmistakable. "It has been a long time."

Krull Assassin, Part 2

Kekai followed the elf servant girl through the labyrinth that was the palace of King Baredah. The other Krull Assassins and the Arcaner Mardai followed. The went up and down different flights of stairs, made as many left turns as they did right turns. There was no direct way to navigate this place. Only perfect knowledge of every corridor would ensure correct navigation.
Despite being a humble servant the elf moved with the quiet grace of one trained in stealth. It was true that elves possessed a natural control of their body that most members of other races could only dream of but Kekai was still intrigued.
At the back of the group Mardai could be heard muttering away again. If any other member of his squad was to act that way Kekai would murder them where they stood, but Mardai was not a Krull Assassin and he was essential to completing their mission. And they were so close.
They approached a strange door that looked more like a giant’s long shield, made from solid brass. The girl looked back at them. She could lead them no further. The Krull Assassins were ready for this eventuality. Kekai signalled to two of his brothers to go to work. They produced a number of strange tools, normally the arsenal or the master thief, today another weapon of the assassins.
"Just look at her," Mardai whispered, Kekai tried to shoo him away but the Arcaner wouldn't be denied. "The silent treatment won't work on me now. What do you think? Should I see if that lovely complexion stretches over her whole body? Or would you like to do the honour?"
"You won't touch a hair on her head," Kekai hissed at barely a whisper, though he felt like he was shouting to the sky at Dursa herself.
"It's not the hair I'm interested in," Mardai sneered back. Kekai stroked the blade in his sleeve with the tips of his fingers, if he wished Mardai would already be dead. But Mardai knew Kekai had to stay his blade. They could not complete the mission without the Arcaner's powers.
The girl was less than a pace ahead of the Assassin leader, her face was now turned, watching the Assassins work to open the door. Kekai begged silently to her not to overhear the Arcaner's words. She was already terrified, he wanted to protect her. Mardai would do nothing but harm.
After much work the door clicked open, the assassins were all positioned along the walls of the corridor as Kekai peered into the room with a tiny mirror, so as not to expose himself to a waiting attack. The room had two elven soldiers armed with bows pointed at the door waiting for Krull to enter the room. Kekai gave a signal to another assassin who used a similar mirror to also survey the room inside. Then they drew throwing stars and sent them slicing into the ribs of both archers. Two other assassins followed the stars and finished the elves, who had started to moan in pain. The star could never be as accurate as the bow, but its ability to turn corners made it a useful tool.
They entered the treasury, Kekai making sure to keep himself between the girl and Mardai at all times. The Arcaner had work to do here, then Kekai's blades could contemplate work. The Arcaner walked to the middle of the treasury room and closed his eyes, slowly turning in a circle before he stopped and his eyes shot open. "There it is," he said wide eyed in his usual slimy tone.
The Arcaner stepped nimbly through mountains of elven treasure. His eyes on one thing, the magical weapon of the elves. None of the Krull before now knew what it looked like. Only Mardai's talent to identify objects of power allowed him to find it.
Mardai knelt in front of a chest of solid gold, looking up helplessly as it was locked. Kekai motioned to his assassin's to get to work with their lock picks.
"What is your name?" it was the girl. Her voice broken and hoarse, but still the hint of lyrical beauty was there.
"I am called Kekai," he whispered back. "What do they call you?"
"Meila," the girl looked to the ground. It was such a beautiful name, why did she look down. Kekai could not speak more. Mardai was muttering Arcaner spells. Nonsense words to any but one trained in magic. He held in his hand the object of power, a small statue of a tree. It no doubt represented the Olarea, the Tree of Life, source of much of the world’s power so the elders said. The elves' lands lay closest to where the tree was said to grow. Maybe this statue was linked to the tree itself. If so it would hold devastating power.
As Mardai raised the tree it began to glow, its cold silver surface changing, so the tree almost looked real. Mardai's eyes stared straight at Kekai, and he the assassin felt he could almost hear the Arcaner's thoughts. Almost see his magic.
I know what you would do when my task is done assassin. My life means nothing to you, just like your fellow assassin's lives mean nothing. But your heart is not so cold. Your lovely elfling I have put under a curse. Her blood now flows with mine. If you kill me you doom her. It is already done. You'd best stay your blade.
Kekai's eyes bulged in horror as he saw the spell leave Mardai's hand and enter Meila, the magic spreading to every part of her body, as it already was through Mardai. And then it was gone. Kekai saw nothing but what his normal sight could grant. Mardai had shown him that spell, and now Kekai could do nothing but wait for the second spell to be cast.
This spell would win the great war for the Krull and doom the elves of Alfeira. After this spell was cast the Krull race could recover and rebuild and their land could become beautiful again. But Kekai swore a silent oath. He would never again set foot in Krua. He would escape the Arcaner's influence with Meila and start a new life. And if the snake came after him he would find a way to break that curse and then take his revenge.

Dalsakesh Manor

At night the streets of Red Rock were just a dark orange blur, especially from this height. Daneski Vilton climbed carefully up the side of the Dalsakesh Manor. It was one of the tallest buildings in Red Rock and housed one of the wealthiest men there. Hasha Dalsakesh was the owner of more Red Rock horses than any other man except Lord Faralay himself and unlike Faralay he was obsessed with foreign luxuries and decorations. Nobody had dared to scale the Dalsakesh Manor in the past, but Daneski had worked out how to do it.
There was a guard keeping watch on the top of the tower, but unless he looked straight down at the wall, and he would have to lean a long way over his barrier to do so, he would never see Daneski. This meant Daneski had to be quiet as flea in the dirt as he climbed, which was why he moved so slowly.
There was also a soldier on the ground walking circuits of the tower. Each circuit took four minutes, after which Daneski would need to be hidden behind one of the drapes that decorated the tower. If he had to hurry to the next drape then the guard above would hear, if he didn’t make it in time the one below would see. Most saw this task as impossible, for a master like Daneski it was simply a challenge.
The only unlocked window was the highest in the Manor, at least eight stories up, and Daneski was almost there. If he were to look down now he would see the entire city, its flat topped roofs and grid of streets and alleyways, fading into the gloom. Many would hear of the great heist he was about to pull in the days to come, it was his most ambitious job yet.
Daneski once again carefully positioned himself behind one of the drapes that covered the tower as the soldier below made his circuit once more. The drapes were decorated with pictures of mountains and forests unlike anything in the Faran Badlands that Red Rock was surrounded by. Daneski always wondered how much of the world there was. He had been read stories as a child about heroes and wizards travelling through incredible lands but could barely believe anywhere could really be so different. Dalsakesh’s treasures were some proof however.
He was within reach of the window now, the guards above and below still oblivious. Somewhere nearby on the ground were Milosh and Grendic, two of the toughs in the gang that Daneski was also in. Jeneal, their leader, would be with them, she was running the show. Everything needed to work perfectly.
Daneski had with him a stone, which he would throw from the window when he was ready to make his escape. When they saw the signal Milosh and Grendic would start a diversion, drawing the attention of both guards, so Daneski could make a speed descent down the wall with as much treasure as he could carry, which would hopefully be a lot. Then Jeneal would meet him at the bottom and they would make for their safe house, Mad Naric’s.
The guard passed by, oblivious once more, and Daneski made his move, still being careful with every movement he glided up the wall and onto the windowsill. The room he saw was filled with all kinds of golden artefacts but it was not these that caught Daneski’s eye. A man in an armchair holding a crossbow was staring straight at him, Hasha Dalsakesh. Or would have been staring at him, had he not been sound asleep. Daneski breathed a sigh of relief. He had been about to risk the huge fall and jump from the building. Either way though this man was sure to complicate matters.
Daneski felt for his knife, but he carried nothing except the warning stone. He could not risk carrying the treasure he wanted while the sleeping man was armed and ungagged. On one of the tables in the room the aristocrat had been eating something with a silver knife and fork. That would have to do. The thief took the knife and crept behind the sleeping man’s chair. With the blade on his neck Daneski carefully removed the bolt from the crossbow before covering Dalsakesh’s mouth with his hand.
The man woke immediately and tried to called for help but only the tiniest mumble was able to escape.
“If you want to live, stand up and stay quiet.”
Daneski tried to keep his voice calm and authoritative, praying to Almar that the man would fail to see through the bluff. This knife was so dull it would barely draw blood, he could never kill with it.
“Even if you scream now I could kill you and be gone before anyone could intervene,” Daneski whispered, thankful to see his hostage tense with fear at the words. Meanwhile Daneski’s eyes scanned the room like a sprinting wolf, desperately looking for something highly valuable to sneak away with. He would not be taking a sackful of loot home with him today.
In this light what looked gold could be brass, silver could be polished iron, jewels could be real or fake. He needed a sure thing, something that was guaranteed to be valuable. Then he saw it.
Daneski grew up around horses in Red Rock. He had ridden in the races as a child until he became too tall and heavy. He had even ridden Dalsakesh’s horses for a short time and had won a highly prestigious trophy as well. As the rider Daneski had been given a small painted wooden replica of the trophy but Dalsakesh had received the real, solid gold version. Daneski would never forget it, and he was looking at it now. He just needed enough time to throw his stone, wait for the diversion, then grab it and leave. He turned Dalsakesh away from the window to face the middle of the room then moved his hand from the man’s mouth to go into his pocket for the stone to throw.
“You know,” said Dalsakesh. “You won’t cut much with a serving knife. Guards!”
Dalaskesh spun and Daneski had to duck the rich man’s fist. Daneski responded with a slash of the knife but it was blocked by a forearm and sent sliding to the floor, without leaving even a mark. Daneski realised what a fool he’d been, he’d faced his hostage directly in front on the table he took the knife from. The guards would be here soon, Daneski needed to get that prize or this would all be for nothing, but he also needed to escape. Milosh and Grendic would have heard the commotion, they would be doing their best on the ground to make an escape route but that would only be open for a short time. Daneski had to act fast.
He dodged two more punches and responded with a strike to the man’s jaw that sent him reeling back. Daneski took his chance and grabbed the trophy before leaping from the window, catching a drape as he did.
Climbing down was an exercise in speed, not stealth. For any other to climb that wall with the heavy trophy in hand would be near suicide, but Daneski was a master escape artist. In moments he had both feet on the ground and was running into the side streets with Jeneal, Dalsakesh screaming incoherently from the windowsill.
“So you finally got your hands on that trophy after all these years,” Jeneal chuckled. “Get any trouble from the old boss?”
“Nothing a good right hook couldn’t solve,” Daneski joked back.
“You idiot,” Jeneal laughed. “We wanted you to break into his house, not break his jaw.”

Krull Assassin, part 1

Kekai paused, bow steady, and released the shaft. His aim was true as another elf sentry fell. His unit of highly trained Krull Assassins continued their progress through the elf city of Alfeira, to the royal palace. Just as other identical groups moved to different locations inside the borders of Turlai, the land of the elves.
Kekai was part of the great Krull counter attack. Casualties in the battles on the Plain of Altar were said to be catastrophic, but the war that could not be won face to face could still be won by more cunning means.
Again Kekai motioned his assassin brothers to stop as he raised his bow, placing an arrow in the neck of another elf sentry. It was almost inconceivable how easily the task was turning out to be. With the best elven warriors away at war the city was all but defenceless. The elves foolishly believed the Krull would not attack civilian targets.
Mardai, an Arcaner in the group nodded his approval at the kill. Arcaners were spell casters, wizards that could us magic as a weapon. Mardai’s task would come later, using the elves own enchanted weapons to destroy their city. Kekai’s assassins were Mardai’s escort.
The city of Alfeira was a bleak place now. The elves once boasted of its beauty, The Jewel of the East. Under King Baredah’s rule it had been scarred. Windows filled with cobwebs, waste littering the street, houses about to collapse having been stripped for spare wood and metal to help the war effort. The deserted streets only enhanced the feeling of a city that could never return to its former splendour.
Yet no Krull would ever feel sympathy for the plight of the elves. Krua lay in complete ruin. Alfeira had lost some of its beauty but Krua had lost everything. Buildings were reduced to rubble, forests had been burned to the ground and entire populations left homeless and starving. The stench of death coated the nation, bodies lay rotting in streets as those left had nowhere to take them. The blow that was struck this day would be fully justified. The elves could not hide behind their biased views of a just war any longer.
Five elven soldiers patrolled in front of the palace of King Baredah. The King was absent so the security was bare. If not for spies reporting of the elves weapons of magic being locked in the treasury here then this raid would be all but meaningless.
Kekai assigned four of his assassins a separate target with a series of hand movements and then raised his own bow. His tongue would click, five times in tempo, to ensure all assassins fired in unison. The result was perfect, five elves toppled, arrows to the neck. You could not scream in your last seconds and sound an alarm when an arrow pierced your throat.
Mardai the Arcaner let out a chuckle and Kekai glared at him. It was true that to someone untrained in the Krull Assassin techniques that such a feat of coordination would appear lucky or even magical and that the Arcaner was right to be awed. But the assassins operated in complete silence, anything less than that standard and they risked discovery. The Arcaner was not an assassin but he was just as likely to reveal their position.
They crept past the five bodies, drawing their blades as they opened the palace doors. The treasury would be on the lower levels, but they needed a hostage to confirm its location.
The halls of Baredah’s palace were dark and completely deserted. With the royal family away at the front line there was no need for servants to be roaming every corridor. Still it was essential that someone be found and made to talk.
The palace featured finery from across the civilised world. Dwarven cabinets housed human silver and elven gold. Weapons from every culture, even orc, hung from the walls. Even the flooring was Krullian carpet. The wealth of the world was on display for a King who cared for no culture, not even his own.
The palace moved from one grand room to the next, not a soul in sight. All that could be seen were shadows, any but a krull, with their superior night vision, would be blind.
But ears were better than eyes. Above the heartbeats of his assassin brothers Kekai could hear the softest whimpering from a side room. He peered into the undecorated storage room and saw the first person they had encountered since entering the palace.
“Have you found something?” Mardai whispered. Kekai didn’t bother to glare back. The figure in the corner of the room could not escape now. Behind a barrel of aromatic spices there sat an elf servant girl. Although she looked no more than sixteen, as an elf she would be nearly forty years old. Yet it was said that elves matured slowly both in body and mind, and this girl had childlike eyes, full of fear.
“Oh she’s exquisite,” Mardai spoke softly but his words were like knives. Kekai motioned to Aznas to keep Mardai away from the girl. They would get nothing from her with him salivated everywhere.
“Don’t be afraid,” Kekai said, barely whispering, but the girl’s pale blue eyes responded to meet his own as if he had bellowed the words from the top of his lungs. Her skin was soft and fair, almost white, her cheeks only imperfection were the tears that stained them. She wore simple white robes over her tiny frame.
“Did you come to set us free?” she responded in her lyrical elven voice. “Because he is not here, you are too late.”
“We did not come for the King,” Kekai whispered back. “But if you help me, I can take you from this place.” Baredah’s crimes cut deeper than Kekai could ever have believed, if this girl saw the krull as a means of escape. “Can you take us to the treasury?”
The girl did not respond, but she stood up and walked to the doorway, leading the group of assassins back through the palace, her eyes never leaving Kekai for an instant.

The Last Defence of the Bridge of Light

Fog settled over the battlefield, the air for now sucked dry of magic. The Debruans would surely strike again soon. Gors sheathed his blade for the moment. He would need it later but not now.
“Ready the men Bog. We have an hour at least before the next wave.”
Bog looked at Gors. The grizzled veteran shook his head. “There is no fight left in the men my Lord. We should retreat over the bridge to the keep.”
Bog had seen war since he was a small boy. He had not lived to be so old by making rash decisions. But Gors knew that the veteran’s advice would not help him today.
“We are already at the bridge. There is nowhere further to retreat.”
Bog shook his head. Gors knew what he would say. “We can go to the keep. Brave hearts will be defeated today, but stone can hold them off for days, or weeks.”
“And then what?” Gors replied. “In the keep we are trapped, our defeat there will be certain. Here we have the bridge, our one great advantage. We should hold as long as we can, help will come.”
In the distance pillars of fire burst from the ground. The fiends were summoning more imps. The imps would not stay in Rhyfell long. Just long enough for the battle, before their essence started to break down. Gors’ soldiers had captured imps in the past. After a day or two they would become completely mad, their mind back in Debrua, lost.
The fire was proof that the fiends had lost none of their strength. Gors could see his men’s shoulders slump at the sight. The defence had lasted days and it would need to last many more if help did not arrive.
Behind him lay the Bridge of Light. It used to be at the heart of his lands. Today it was their front line. The Keep of Serma lay beyond the Bridge. It was their home. Gors would never let war come to that place.
Next to Bog stood Glan, Gors’ twelve year old son. The boy held a blade just like the other men, but he was the future lord of this land. It was because of him that Gors could not abandon this Bridge.
The Bridge of Light was built by The Guardian. It provided a way over the ice lake from the mainland to the Isle of Serma. Even Debruans could not cross the ice lake without the Bridge. The Bridge of Light was the only way the Sermits could reach the rest of the world. If the Debruans took it they would all be trapped and eventually would die. Not even the Guardian could save them if the Bridge of Light were to fall.
The Bridge of Light always amazed Gors. It was more than just a pathway from Serma to the rest of Rhyfell. It was more even than a form of protection against the Debruans’ magic. It was also beautiful. Two white towers stood at each end and an enormous arch, the Heart of the Bridge, marked its middle. Shining like white fire it was a beacon of hope in the bleak landscape that surrounded it. It was the one ray of order in a time of chaos and Gors would die before abandoning it.
“There is no help coming,” Bog whispered. He did not want to destroy what courage the men had left. The old veteran knew that Gors would not back down.
“The Guardian will come,” Gors spoke confidently. “This will be the last time we face the tide.” The men nodded, trying to cheer in agreement. Yet Gors could see in each one of their eyes that they did not believe.
“We face our death then,” Bog spoke sombrely. “I will die today. As will you and your son.”
Gors looked at Glan. The boy showed courage to the end. Gors wished he could send his son back to the keep but that would break his men. And the keep would not save his son.
“Ready the men to form ranks. We hold our ground here,” Bog nodded at Gors’ order. The men drew their swords, loyal to the end.
“Wait.”
Gors stopped at the sound of his son’s voice.
“There is another way.”
“Form ranks my son. This is the way I have chosen. Our hopes lie with The Guardian now.” But young Glan did not move.
“We destroy the Bridge,” was all that the boy said. Gors paused as all the men looked to him. For the first time in days they had hope in their eyes.
“No,” Gors couldn’t give up the bridge. It was madness.
“Listen to your son. He is wise beyond his years,” Bog whispered to his lord.
“Do you know what will happen if we destroy this bridge? The Guardian will abandon us. We will be alone, we will be helpless.”
“No,” Bog replied. “We will find a way. The young will find a way. Your son will lead the Sermit people to greatness. He will lead the Rhyfian people to greatness.”
Gors opened his mouth to order the men to take arms, to defend the Bridge of Light once more, but no words escaped his lips.
“The only way to destroy the Bridge of Light,” Gors began, his voice breaking up with anguish. “The only way is to set fire to its Heart, the central arch. Whoever is appointed this task will die in the purifying flames.”
“I am old,” Bog said respectfully. “I would be honoured to perform that task this day my lord.”
“No Bog, my son will need your wise hand on his shoulder if he is to become a great leader. My time is over. I was the protector of the Bridge of Light. I must be the one to destroy it.”
Bog nodded and withdrew. He informed the Sermit warriors that they would withdraw to the Keep of Serma.
Gors knelt down in front of his son. “You lead these people now Lord Glan. Rule them with integrity and bravery. Do not succumb to pride and sentimentality like your father. Good times will come for our people. I regret that I could not bring them for you.”
Glan simply nodded, tears forming in the youth’s eyes, though his face remained carved of stone. He turned and joined the men, crossing the Bridge of Light, one last time.
Gors wept as his son left. In the distance the Debruan horde was beginning to charge. He stood and grabbed a torch from the ground, and strode away from the carnage and onto the Bridge. As he reached the Heart he could see his son leading the last of the soldiers onto the Isle of Serma. Gors lit the Heart and watched it flare into a brightness that meant Gors could see nothing else.
The fire filled Gors’ lungs, but he did not feel pain. His body would be cleansed and he would depart for Kematia, the Afterlife, with his essence pure. And there he would be content to rest and wait until he was reborn.

Prologue: The Broken Shield

Daigan Ur strode through the carnage. Everywhere there was fire and bloodshed, steel clashing against steel, magic and flesh battling for supremacy. It was supposed to be a massacre, but the magic that should have been flooding the battlefield was growing scarce, each gust of wind bringing less and less. The mortals of Rhyfell were winning somehow.
A Rhyfian swordsman stepped to block Daigan’s way and was run through by Kalador, Daigan’s sword. Daigan Ur was covered in arrows, scars and burns, but he was still strong. No mortal weapon could harm him. The Debruans that fell today were weak and deserved to fall.
Daigan Ur’s target was the Rhyfian fortress of Bacendon. A great amount of magic poured from that spot. It could only be Nattyr, no other could cause such chaos.
The fortress was in sight, and Daigan Ur pressed on through the slaughter.
As he approached the fortress, the desolation grew. Fire was everywhere, illuminating the blood of thousands. Magical remains of banished Debruans covered the dusty earth. Daigan stroked Kalador, he would see more work soon, that was certain.
The gates of Bacendon loomed ahead of him and Daigan Ur blasted them open with nothing but a point of his finger. He knew his final confrontation with Nattyr was not far away.
The dust cleared in the courtyard behind the walls and Daigan was faced with a mortal.
“You are not welcome here demon. I am Glan, champion of the free people. Turn back or be destroyed,” the Rhyfian champion spoke proudly and confidently.
Daigan Ur sniggered, “You will regret that tone mortal. You know nothing of my power or my purpose, yet you attack me. You may banish a few of my weaker brethren, but we are too strong and too numerous for you to ever overcome. Now you attack me and do not realize I am the only reason your race still exists.”
“We have allies now,” the mortal challenged back, “allies greater than you. They have shielded our world so no more of you will ever enter from Debrua. Once you are banished the fight will be ours. I will be the one to banish you.”
“You are mortal,” the demon boomed a response, “Your feeble weapons are no match for me. I am not a mere imp like those banished on the ground outside. I am Daigan Ur, greatest Debruan of Light.”
“No more shall you dominate my people.” The mortal drew his sword. Its blade was jet black and elaborately runed. Who would give a mortal such a gift?
“On guard foul beast, it is time for you to fall by my blade.”
“Very well mortal, you shall have your death!” Daigan Ur raised Kalador and advanced on the Champion of Rhyfell.
Enchanted steel met enchanted steel. The blade that the mortal wielded throbbed with power. It moved like lightening and struck like a hammer.
The shield, that the mortal opponent wore, repelled each blow back at Daigan Ur with a force that threatened to send Kalador flying from his hand.
The helm the mortal wore seemed to sense his every move before it happened. Daigan Ur found the mortal was waiting for each of his blows to fall, easily blocking them and counter attacking.
The gauntlets the mortal wore glowed red with power. As they got brighter the mortal’s blows fell harder. His feet moved faster and his defence became more solid.
His armour of metallic blue was impenetrable. Every hit seemed to strengthen it more.
These gifts were from a powerful Debruan. Only Nattyr could do this, but why would he after all this time? There was power enough for all. Why cut off the world and give it to the mortals?
The mortal’s black blade was a blur to Daigan Ur now. It smashed Kalador from his hand and buried itself in his chest.
Daigan Ur felt his essence burning out of him. He fell to his knees and dropped his shoulders a great rune of banishment began to appear on his forehead. “Well done mortal, your people may have their freedom for now, but if you ever have war find you again, do not seek me, for you have doomed me for eternity.”

Wogan Bora Return's Home

The mountains continued to rise but Wogan was sure his journey neared its end. It had ben many years since he had left the mountains of the dwarfs but he still found the surroundings grow more familiar. The curves in the thin paved road became less violent and the ground surrounding it flattened out and the road widened, leading up to the great southern gate. Portal to the land of the dwarfs.
As Wogan approached the gates he saw the cliffs at either side rise up. They had been dg out centuries ago to better defend the already invulnerable city. Fortifications lined the cliff wall, complete with giant crossbows and catapults. The city gates were wide open in this time of relative peace, but the giant blue stone doors could be clsoed in seconds thanks to an elaborate system of gears, powered by the mighty river that flowed through the city.
Passing under the gates Wogan could look up and see the murder holes, manned by more armed soldiers. Ready with cross bows, hot oil and pikes, should the main gates be breached. Once through the great archway Wogan entered the outer wall. He walked on a road with high walls to each side, though not high enough for soldiers to walk from the outer wall to the inner wall. The outer wall district was made so that an enemy would need to breach two walls, not one, to enter the city. Besides teh road Wagan walked now the outer wall consisted of thin wooden walkways that could be burned in case of assault, and tar pits that are almost impossible to walk through and could also be burned to aid the city's defense. If set alight the tar would burn for nearly a day.
Two hundred paces further was the inner gate. The whole inner wall was made of the stunning blue stone that the city was famous for, just like the out wall, again the gates were open, welcoming Wogan to his home. The towers of the inner wall rose much higher than the outer wall, allowing the weapons on top to fire over the outer wall. Very few soldiers were on the wall. They were needed for the wars in the south.
Once through the gates the great dwarven capital was even more impressive than its defenses. The great waterfall of the River of Kings was the first thing you could see, out in the distance. The river was diverted ahead, he walked through what used to be the river bed.
Around the waterfall was Murindor's Promenade. A great square that surrounded the King's waterfall. Flanking the square were cliffs to every side. The city was built into those cliffs. The city shone blue in the afternoon sun. Every brick, every paving stone, every speck of rock was Bosk's blessed blue stone.
The King pretended to deny Bosk, as did most citizens, but Wogan knew his god created those stones. He had travelled the world to learn of gods and magic and had learnt, without room for disproval, that the gods were real and that there was magic in this world.
He kept walking up the eastern cliff face, now high above the promenade to a secret entrance to the temple of Bosk. The main entrance at the centre of the promenade had been closed by King Noridin. Wogan opened a door and walked down many hundreds of steps. At the bottom he was let through a door into the great temple of his god. Wogan Bora, High Priest of the Dwarven God Bosk, was home.

The Curse of the Village on the Cliff Face

The village on the cliff face was under a curse. None lived who truly remembered how it started but I woke up that morning with an idea. It concerned the moon, and the stars, but most of all it concerned the great mountain, who’s shadow we lived beneath, and a gift that was stolen long ago.

There was a diamond in my hand. I knew immediately it was a star, only I don’t know how I knew. The diamond had an engraving of the moon. It was old Master Algarth who told me that diamonds like that could be found in the caves beneath the great mountain.

What did it have to do with the curse? To explain that you need to know what the curse was. The people of the village on the cliff face were invisible. Anything we touched became invisible. We had been like that since we could remember. Or at least that was always what I had been told. When you are blind you didn’t notice that everyone around you is impossible to see.

So how did I know the diamond star with the engraved moon concerned the curse? Because when I felt it in my hand that morning, not only could I feel its cold hard surfaces on the tips of my fingers, I could see it. I could see it and the hand that clasped it.

But when I put it down my hand was gone, only the diamond remained in my otherwise absent sight. It worked for master Algarth too, but only if I held it against his skin, then I could see both of us.

His was the first face I ever saw. Now I know he was horribly ugly, with grime all over his wrinkled face, his beard scratchy and fuzzy, but at that moment he was beautiful.

Everyone went into a frenzy. I couldn’t escape, because they could see me, and I could not see them. But no matter how many stole the stone they would all give it back, for it was powerless without me. After everybody in the village on the cliff face had satisfied themselves that they could not steal my moonstar they began discussing things.

Being invisible may seem a great gift to some. We held no fear of attack from other villages, for one thing. Fighting an enemy you cannot see is nearly impossible. We can steal, we can cheat, but those acts do not lead to happiness. We could not see the faces of our loved ones or the tears on our children’s faces. We could not see a smile or a frown. To be invisible is to have the world blind to you, it is far worse than being blind, and for that the people of our village were in constant sorrow.

But never me. I am blind anyway, all my friends were as easy to feel, taste, smell and hear as the rest of the world. The moonstar was my curse, for it showed me the world I was missing, and taught me of my neighbours’ pain.

It was agreed I would take the moonstar to Nortima, the wise old woman who lived at the foot of the mountain. My friend Barnabus would go with me, for I could still only see what the moonstar touched, but more people demanded to come, so by the time I left we were six. The twins, Garlena and Christian were chosen by the miners’ guild, who most people in the town worked for. Our mayor, Madame Jordane sent her own daughter, Lita. And finally the town guard captain, Master Bartram, sent his nephew Olgar. Others suggested many more but a small village makes decisions well when it knows who knows best. That was the guild leaders, the mayor, the captain, and today, me.

There was so much arguing, even among the members of the group, over who was in charge. In the village people were usually so careful with words, for you never knew who could be listening. Today they forgot that, and spoke like they didn’t care who would hear. It was only when I moved to leave that they quietened, for they could see me.

I told them Nortima would know what to do, and that Barnabus would lead me to her. After that the twins, Lita and Olgar followed us, and nobody else did.

As I walked I pressed the diamond into Barnabus’ face. I knew he had soft curly hair and was taller and more solid than me, but I didn’t know how bright his hair was, or how his ruddy cheeks encased a round, friendly face.

The other four stopped their arguing then, and one by one we saw for the first time what they looked like.

Garlena was tall and slim, her dark hair hung nearly to her waist and glowed in the sun’s light. Christian’s hair was dark as well, his face was locked in a scowl and he had a scar running from his left ear to his chin. Olgar was short and muscular with arms as thick as tree trunks, and a piercing stare from his eyes. Lita also had eyes like Olgar and her hair was like Barnabus’, except that it shone like silk. Her smile was warm and comforting and made my heart race, as it still does.

They told me my hair was brown and my eyes were green. But those words mean nothing to the blind. I knew what I was. I did not need sight like they did.

When we reached Nortima’s cottage we no longer argued. If Nortima was surprised to see me she made no reaction we could hear, and we could not see her for she never once asked to be touched by the moonstar.

Instead of surprised she was fascinated, for the moonstar was truly a fascinating thing. But Nortima was also worried. Her hut smelt foreign to me, of sulphur and ash, and blood. If she was wise she was also strange. She said the moonstar came to me to be returned. It was stolen by the moon goddess Dursa, she had left her mark on it, but the mountain had punished our people, not Dursa. Someone had returned the moonstar, perhaps Dursa, perhaps another. Nortima didn’t know if it was returned for our sake, or for the mountain, only that we must return it with haste. For a storm would soon come. The old woman did not describe the storm, but it was clear in her voice that it was a thing we should fear.

I thought I would find relief leaving that strange, cramped house but once outside we could all smell the storm. Christian commented on the black clouds on the horizon, as though seeing them was even necessary.

We set off for the mountain, to find the mountain’s spirit in the caves far beneath but it was clear that the mood amongst the group had changed. The meeting with Nortima had spooked them. Olgar grumbled that she was hiding something. Christian and Garlena argued that we should not be so quick to give up the moonstar. Even Barnabus worried over the dangers of the mountain. That the caves beneath were forbidden and even miners feared to go there. Only Lita stayed brave and silent, gripping my hand as we entered the cave. Her skin was soft but her grip was firm. With her there I felt safer. I desperately wanted to touch her with the moonstar, to see her face again. But it was not the time.

The cave was dry and dusty, the air thick and old. Nothing grew, no beasts lurked, it was all stone and earth, the mountain had expelled all else. Barnabus kept muttering about turning back, Christian started to agree. Somehow I knew though, that the moonstar was nearly home.

But the others could not feel it. Christian kept questioning why we moved so quickly. He did not believe in the storm, better to face the storm than to face the mountain he said. Garlena tugged on my sleeve and whispered to me that the mountain meant us no good will. It would take back the moonstar and would punish us further. I firmly said no to them all and kept going. Olgar and Lita kept supporting me, a fact that warmed my heart.

Olgar carried a burning torch to light the way for the others. I felt so helpless, Lita leading me. The others could see, they could see me, I could see nothing except the moonstar and my own hand, could feel nothing but the stone floor through my boots and Lita’s hand in mine.

The tunnel wound deeper, and with every step my companions grew more worried, but at the same time I grew more determined. The moonstar needed me, it was so close but the others could never take it all the way to its home. Only I could. I felt like telling the rest to turn back, that I could complete the quest on my own. I no longer needed to be led. The moonstar could lead me the rest of the way. I stopped, ready to address the group, but just then I was struck by Christian and he grabbed the moonstar from me.

From then it was chaos, Barnabus fled to the surface, Olgar leapt towards Christian, who fled down the tunnel further, Lita and me joining the pursuit. Garlena could have been anywhere.

Round the corner and there was the moonstar on the ground, but no sign of Christian, till Olgar was floored by a tackle. Christian kept screaming the mountain was evil, that we shouldn’t help it.

The others fought, fought in anger and desperation, but with their torch gone they were as blind as me. Blinder than me, for I could see the moonstar still, I did not need light to see it like they did. Then I followed the tunnel walls deeper and deeper.

By the time my boots touched water the voice of the mountain spoke to me. It thanked me for returning its star, and said it would restore the villagers once more, that the pain was at an end. All I said was thank you, and dropped the star into the water, and like that it was gone.

I returned to the surface finding Lita, then Olgar and Christian, who had stopped their fighting when they realised I had left with the moonstar. I even found Garlena and Barnabus, both lost in the dark, helpless without sight, unlike me.

Once we reached the surface the others marvelled at their bodies, they could see each other perfectly, but I still could not. At first I was disappointed. Somehow I thought that the curse applied to my sight as well as to all of our appearances, but it was not the case. The others didn’t know how to respond to me, they tried to comfort me, and to describe my appearance again but I told them to stop. I may not have been able to see the curse but I still had been cursed. To be blind to the world can be a gift, but to have the world blind to you is a truly great curse.

The village rejoiced when we returned, all except Nortima who had disappeared completely. Madame Jordane declared the village be renamed Fairface, for all the fair faces they could now see. My companions never spoke of the troubles underground, they didn’t boast of heroism, nor did they share their shame.

Meanwhile I just enjoyed the moment. Even though the blind cannot share in the joy they felt. Yet thanks to the moonstar I did see her, and I’ll never forget her face. And I’ll always have her hand to hold.

The Search for Ravenblade

Letian was a curious boy but his curiosity was often more of a curse than a blessing. His house, in a building high above the Market of Mages was usually so easy to find, next to the monolithic Mage Guild. But today, since the skies had opened up he could no longer see the way home. Instead, all he could see was the mist and rain. Majestic buildings, like cliffs of diamond, were hidden behind a blanket of mystery.

He had been following his hero, Ravenblade. The mighty slayer of monsters had marched powerfully through the streets below Letian’s house, black sword strapped to his back. Letian had chased Ravenblade through the crowd like a fox after a rabbit but could not catch him. He chased too far, and when Letian next looked around could find no landmark he recognised. He was far away from his usual places of play. With nothing familiar and night approaching fast Letian felt a great fear, like he was hunted by the beasts Ravenblade fought.

He tried to think of what his hero would do. Ravenblade never felt fear in his heart. He would make a plan or do something amazing to solve his problem. He would face his fears, sword in hand with a smile. He would be the hero to the end with nothing to aid him but the blessing of the gods. But Letian was not a hero, he needed help. Nobody stopped for him though. Street urchins were common and were likely to pretend to be lost just to find a free meal or even a wallet to steal. Letian was not a street urchin, his father was a successful candlestick maker, but none would believe such a story.

What would his father think now? Countless bad thoughts, his father hated that Letian read all those hero’s stories. He said it was a waste of Letian’s time. That a boy his age should be learning his father’s trade, not dreaming of adventures abroad. Letian stumbled through the mist, helpless as a blind cow, tears combining with rain in his eyes. His father didn’t understand how important Ravenblade was to the city. He gave them all hope and he defended them selflessly. His father was no hero and could never be one.

Looking round the streets were deserted, except for men too fearsome for a small boy to approach, so he slumped onto the ground. The towering buildings glared at him like he was a murderer on trial. Where was Ravenblade? Why did he never stop to speak with his people? Why wasn’t he saving Letian now? As he thought those thoughts a strong hand rested on his shoulder. The boy turned to see a huge man with jet black hair. He had come to the rescue after all. His father, what a hero.