Necromancer

NECROMANCER

Necromancer by Dune Elliot

Smashwords Edition

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Review from author Mary Adair

"The land of Ilyria is bruised and dying under the growing evil power of Morgeth. And the evil is spreading. All of Alatheia is in danger. As you read Necromancer you slip into a world of magic and mystery, both good and evil, that only a master storyteller could weave. Expertly woven into the tapestry of Alatheia is a small band of would-be heroes. Bound together by prophecy, held together by love for their land and each other they will set out to save their world. Their journey is not easy, and there are those in the band that will pay the ultimate price, but they will not falter in their quest to rid their home of the evil Necromancer.

I loved this story. It contains everything a true believer in fantasy could want. The pages come alive with the quest and keep the reader enthralled right to the end. And like any true believer in fantasy I can hardly wait for book two. In my opinion, Dune Elliot is a true storyteller. I look forward to reading many more of Mr. Elliot's novels. On a scale of one to five stars, I give Necromancer a strong five stars."

Prologue

They urged their horses on, hooves merely a blur beneath them. They had to stay ahead and maintain a distance. Spurs flashed in the moonlight sending shards of silver into the night, disappearing into the deep forest. Four pairs of legs willingly carried their masters with as much speed as they could muster, despite the weariness that edged its way into their lean muscles. The riders’ mounts were built for such endurance but even they could not run forever.

A ruthless-sounding horn blasted a hole in the quiet night; the valkar were gaining on them. The distance between them was closing at a rate that could not be matched by any human, elf or horse. The lights from houses glinted in the distance. They were a league out and spurred their horses onward. The horses blew streams of white frosted air into the night with every breath; every step counted here.

They riders pulled their mounts to a halt having imperceptibly passed all the dimly-lit houses in the town. A dark-cloaked man mounted upon a silver-white horse waited patiently in the middle of the Rathos Firth. His face was not visible beneath his hood but without hesitation the child carried in the arms of a fair-headed elven maiden was placed in his arms. They could only hope to chance, luck and fate that they had chosen true. Without a word the stranger turned his horse into the current and flew upstream away from the elf and the man.

The two remaining riders eyes met and as another horn blasted behind them they urged their horses forward through the foaming water toward the far side. If they could only keep these foul creatures on their trail for a few more leagues – before they finally had to turn and fight. Their horses lurched up the damp earth along the side of the Rathos Firth and charged into the inky night. Hooves struck against the stones and loose soil that covered the ground scattering showers of damp earth into the night. Leagues flew by and the moon passed overhead as the creatures closed the gap. They reached a small clearing surrounded by gnarled oak trees. Reining their horses to a sliding stop at the far side they dismounted and turned loose their weary steeds. They were prepared for battle.

The horn blasted again and a grey-black mass tumbled through the clearing’s far edge. The valkar were an army amassed for one thing – to kill and destroy; they were an army of demon soldiers.

The valkar were hideous beings, lean and tall without a single hair on their ash-grey bodies. Their eyes were milky-white as though they were blind, but instead they were large and depthless pools of soulless malevolence. They had small human-like ears and had hooked and pointed noses that jutted sharply downward. Thin-lipped sneers revealed barbed teeth. They wore chain-linked armor over slate grey tunics which only served to emphasize their empty eyes, and they carried roughly-crafted short swords at their waists. Broad shields with a large crest upon them – a red-eyed crow’s head crossed by two swords – were held up by muscled arms, and maces were swung wildly above the creatures’ heads in anticipation of bloodshed.

The elf readied her bow and nocked an arrow, training it upon the dark shape of a valkar. Her flaxen hair was held in place by a pearl circlet, away from her elegant face, revealing slightly pointed ears and the faint blue outline of a dragon’s eye behind the left. It was the mark of an elf. She was slight in size but this belied her true abilities in battle. At her side she carried a long and slender elven blade, built for speed and strength. It was light to wield but deadly to all those it touched. Etched along its center were elvish runes. Her bow was of the finest elven craftsmanship and a quiver of skillfully-made arrows hung across her back. Her robe was of silk and she wore a slim silver and leather belt at her waist to carry her sword.

The man wrapped a stout hand around the gilded hilt of his own blade and drew it from its leather sheath. He was muscular and lean with a dark mass of hair flowing to his shoulders. His eyes shone blue even in the dark night as though he were seeing the ocean from some far flung place. On his hand he bore a ring – a silver and gold band garnished with elven script engraved both inside and out and crowned with the symbol of a red sun. His clothing was simple and raw – that of a simple peasant. The same faint red sun on his ring was also found behind his right ear. It was the mark of a leader of men – through blood, not war.

He nodded at the elf, their eyes catching each other for a brief moment as she released her arrow and whispered. "Sii fila nomentu (Fly without mercy)."

The arrow shot straight and true towards the ignorant valkar. It struck the temple of one, driving deep into his skull; he did not have time to make a sound. He hit the ground and a red glow built around him, throbbing and pulsating. The rest of the valkar withdrew in fear but did not move far, dividing their attention between their fallen comrade and the elf who had already nocked another arrow.

She released the second arrow without a sound and it pierced the heart of the red orb that had grown from the pulsating light. It shattered and shards of vibrating magic flew into the hearts and skulls, legs and arms of the valkar. No sound but the guttural gurgling of the dying and wounded interrupted the night. The man who stood alert beside the elf, sword drawn in readiness for battle, looked neither surprised nor affected by the display of power.

Something snapped eerily behind them. Before either could turn to face the new enemy a voice dripping with a sense of evil so rhythmic it was alluring spoke three words. "Il nekra gordeak (Bind their essence)."

Neither the elf nor her companion could move; they were bound as if with ropes. The bindings were not of twine or hemp but of magic and they did not restrain just the bodies of the elf and man. She thought through the words needed to break the bonds but found that the curse also bound her memory. She could not break the invisible barrier around them.

Zoruna – for that was his name and the elf knew it as surely as her own although she had never laid eyes upon him – stepped from the cloaking darkness of the trees. He was not man, dwarf or elf-kind. Neither was he Valkar although he held some sway over them it seemed. He was one of the Darklings; a secretive race who dwelt in the deepest recesses of the mountains of Ascaroth and were bound by black magic.

His face was white but it did not reflect the silver light from the stars or moon an had a translucent, death-like quality about it. His hair was of the same color as his face but had the texture of the finest spider silk – it barely existed. His faint and shallow-set eyes were black with hints of writhing flames, revealing the demon within. All that the elf could see of his garb was a flowing red robe which reached below his feet, brushing the ground with each step he took. The rise of the robe to his left side was evidence of a sword, heavy and well worn. She knew this sword; tales of it and its master plagued even elvish stories of the past. Its name was Karuth and many men, elves and gnomes had fallen beneath it.

Zoruna was flanked by four other individuals of similar features and garb. They were of smaller stature but they instilled no less fear in those that stood or knelt before them. Despite the success against the valkar the she-elf and man felt all hope draining from their hearts.

Where is the child? A grating and penetrating voice came from Zoruna. Tell me and I will spare your lives.

They knew he lied; he would never release them alive no matter the what they said. The elf bowed her head but the man by her side closed his eyes and spoke. I will tell you only this: You have followed us like dogs for many days and over many leagues but we are without the child. He perished within days of our departure from Caervasa and we have been in flight for the safety of our own lives and no more.

You lie, growled Zoruna and raised his sword. The man and elf bowed their heads, knowing they would never see their son grow. The elf struggled through her memories. She grabbed desperately onto the magic she needed while she fought Zoruna’s invisible restraints and uttered four elvish words, "Sumen noreth fi andu (Veil out of sight)." As Karuth fell the elf’s sword and the man’s ring disappeared into the night, and man and elf knew no more.

Her name was Gith’rael Rohallion – the daughter of the Lord of Elves.

His name was Gannon Sunweaver – the son of Marden, deceased King of Ilyria.

Seventeen years were to pass before the son of Gith’rael and Gannon would learn his destiny – before the prophecies of old were to be fulfilled.

PART 1

Chapter 1

A loud, persistent knock against the aging oak of the door roused Caradoc Daggerfell of the Raharu Clan from the most disturbing sleep he had had in many a long year. His dreams were vivid and troubling; images of the valkar and war clouded out any view of peace that were more usual for his times of rest.

The knock came again, louder and seemingly more persistent if it were possible. He threw off the rough woolen blanket, slowly pulled a pair of weather-beaten boots onto his feet and stood. He felt old on cold mornings such as this, and although he had many years behind him he knew he had more than twice as many ahead of him – if the tip of a sword didn’t find him first.

He grumbled to himself as he made his way across the rough-hewn floor of the room that had served as a hideout for the past few months. Soldier numbers had been increasing steadily around Telarius, one of Ilyria’s main cities, and they made Caradoc none too comfortable. They weren’t specifically looking for him but still he tried to avoid trouble; if they found him only Morgeth would know who and what he was.

The morning was unusual, not just for the odd dreams that had plagued him but because specific orders had been given that he was never to be disturbed – under any circumstance. He drew his sword – an ancient elvish blade that had seen many years of use – before he turned the tarnished brass handle and pulled the door inwards. There was no one there – or more accurately no man was there. In the doorway sat a cat; red with blond streaks and amber eyes. It picked up its paws, ambled through the door and into the room as if it owned the place.

Caradoc closed the door and slid his sword back into the sheath. This was no enemy. He watched the cat grow and change form until a man of middling years with streaked auburn and blond hair stood before him. He was tall and bore an austere expression tainted with a slight sneer of superiority. From the man’s shoulders hung a floor-length iron-grey robe, a shady cowl hiding his face. He leaned upon a silvered ash staff topped with moonstone; it was threaded through and around with red filigree which shimmered in the faint moonlight that pierced the window.

Caradoc my old friend! His arms outstretched as the two embraced and the stranger’s stern manner relaxed. Far too long it has been, yes…far too little time we have…not enough time.

Caradoc avoided pleasantries; it was not his style. Fen it is always a pleasure to see you…but solemn times are always what bring you to me.

Yes, yes, solemn times are ahead. It has been almost seventeen years since you saw the child? Caradoc nodded as Fen pushed back the cowl of his robe. His dual-colored hair cascaded half way down his back. I have spent the years since he was hidden away with the elves of Dath’erim studying the elven prophecies that speak of him. They also speak of the people who will aid him – those that will help him to fulfill those prophecies and bring an end to Morgeth’s power. The boy cannot do this alone Caradoc. He is vulnerable until the sword and ring are re-united in his hands. Only his blood can do this…of that the elves made sure.

Caradoc felt confused; he had thought hiding the boy would be enough. What changed?

Morgeth changed. He is no longer content with tyrannizing Ilyria and its inhabitants. He threatens war on every land that opposes him. He looks for the boy; he knows the legends. The boy he wants for his own, to kill him; he has not used a puppet king to draw his power from since the death of Marden.

Caradoc dropped his gaze to the floor. Somehow through his own dreams he knew this; knew of the war and of the unrest; of Morgeth’s quest for ultimate power until all the peoples of Ilyria, and then all the kingdoms of Alatheia, were under his iron fist. This also explained the increasing numbers of soldiers marching through Telarius at all hours of the day and night.

You have come to me for a reason Fen...this is no social visit. What is it that you need from me old friend?

The scroll that contains the prophecy tells of those who must be found: An elf from the lands beyond Sam Nuthen; from Tunitha, a girl of few years; a magron from beneath the Baur Mountains; an elven horse from beyond the northern edge of Ilyria… he paused, his eyes sad, …for a man of many and little years, and of a half-breed with magic within him…and of course the boy.

Caradoc knew why the mage’s eyes were sad for the prophecies talked of them both. He knew they talked of a journey fraught with danger and he knew that some of them would not see the end. He nodded. If this is what we must do, and without us the boy will not succeed, then my life is forfeit against whatever it is I must do to protect him. You know this already; you know that upon my honor I cannot refuse…would not choose to refuse.

A thin smile formed upon Fen’s worn face. No doubt I had, my friend, that you would find honor in this task and that you would shoulder this burden. Outlines only do the prophecies give us, and we must find them before the boy turns seventeen.

The horse was already with the elves of Sam Nuthen; across the mountains she came to them from Dath’erim and with me she came to Telarius. Take her and find the girl; sixteen also she will be, born the same day as the boy. A mark she bears below her heart where she was pierced by an arrow. One blue eye she has and green the other will be. She is human but she will have ears like an elf.

I will find her…but what of the others? What do the prophecies say of them? His voice was curious but grim.

The elf? I know not whether they are he-elf or she-elf but born under the highest sun and brightest moon they were. They will be skilled above all others with a bow and also from the elven land of Dath’erim. The magron we will find when we get there for most vague the prophecies are about them.

Get where?

"Once your task to find the girl is completed take the horse to Darrow where you left the boy. Leave the horse and watch the town. You will know when the boy is ready to leave. To Malior you must bring him for that is where we will meet…and find the last member of the company. Send the girl there and find her a horse.

I must depart now for Sam Nuthen for age wears on me; I am not the man I used to be. Before he turns seventeen the boy must be gone from Darrow. Find the girl in Tunitha you will. He pounded the floor three times with his staff. His form changed once more as he morphed back into the tiny red and white cat that had first entered. He climbed onto the window ledge of a window set ajar and disappeared onto the roof below.

Caradoc leaned against the wall his arms outstretched, feeling the rough plaster beneath the palms of his hands. His head hung heavy on his shoulders and he allowed it to drop forward to stare at the floor. He felt as though he hadn’t taken a breath since Fen had entered the room and now he sucked in the air. His whole body felt weak and he shook his head. He was feeling his age; in human terms he was almost eighty. With the blessing of the mage at his birth and with the blood-line of his clan he would live for more than three times that of most humans, without the effects that great age would normally bring.

He knew it wasn’t really his age he was feeling but the weight of the future that Fen had just drawn him into; he knew he was called to do this. He was one of only a few of his lineage left and not one of them knew where the others could be found. He was a great swordsman and none but the greatest of elves could outclass him in a fight; his heritage saw to that. The boy needed him and he would not fail.

Caradoc traveled light for he had want for little and needed less. Since he was the last son of his tribe substantial wealth had been left to him after the most recent battles against Morgeth. His boots were already on his feet but he gathered the few belongings he had. His sword was in its leather sheath standing beside the door where he had left it. He buckled it snugly around his waist. Around his shoulders he wrapped an ankle-length, hooded elven cloak. Despite its light weight it shielded him from the worst weather Ilyria, or any other country in Alatheia, could throw at him. He retrieved a small dagger from beneath the pillow and slid it into a scabbard on the opposite side of his belt to the sword. He glanced around the room; it looked bare and barren as though no one had been in the room for months. The only sign that anyone had been staying there was the slightly warm and wrinkled sheet covering the mattress and the rumpled woolen blanket that had slid to the floor.

Was this really a way to live? He wondered. He pulled the hood over his head hiding his face as best he could. He would have preferred to have left and travel under the cover of darkness but Fen’s urgent arrival and hasty departure meant there was little time to wait.

He opened the old oak door which separated the bedroom from a dark corridor. Hurriedly he stepped through, closing the door and sealing off the light from the dingy space now surrounding him. It was still early. When Fen had left the sky still had a slightly purple tint to it. The sun was barely awake.

He listened. Except for the occasional scurrying mouse above him in the rafters no one else was yet stirring. The inn seemed almost deserted as he stepped as quickly and quietly as he could over the slightly creaky floorboards. At the top of the winding stairs he paused to listen again. Still he heard nothing and crept down the darkened staircase to the vestibule behind the mead room. He lifted the latch of the rear door, pulling it inward and allowing the new air of the morning to refresh the musty air of the inn.

The purple had departed the sky and it was now a rich lingering blue. It would not be long before people were starting to move in their beds, stirring to a new day and the same repetitive labors. With the chance that someone was looking out of a nearby window Caradoc did not want to arouse suspicion and he strode confidently to the stables not twenty paces from the rear door of the inn. His grey stallion, Elthed, had been confined to one of the back stalls. He nickered quietly when he heard Caradoc’s stealthy steps. In the adjoining stall stood a large black mare; she was of the same rare breeding as Elthed. She was akin in build and character to the grey equine, and in her eye was an unusual intelligence. She was the elven horse Fen had left him; she had been left un-haltered and there would be no need for one now.

The door bolt of the stall that Elthed occupied slid back with a rough grating sound but the door itself opened silently. The horse bowed one knee and allowed Caradoc to climb upon his graceful back then he stood and waited.

Looking into the eye of the black mare Caradoc whispered a few elven words. "Namen I thena ur (Follow me my friend)." She nickered soft and low and he nodded.

"Sin Tunitha, Elthed fur dulenia inr’a (To Tunitha we must go Elthed)." Elthed stepped forward, pausing only to allow Caradoc to reach down and release the bolt of the door black horse's stall. The gate swung open and the two horses picked up a swift trot as they left the shadowed barn.

Caradoc whistled softly, almost too quietly for human ears as they emerged from beneath the low timbers. From behind him came a hawk. She swooped down towards him in an arc pulling up a hair’s breadth before she collided with Elthed, turning and landing on Caradoc’s outstretched arm.

Good morning Esra. The tiny hawk cocked her head. "Thi’sen yuna Esra (Good sun-up [morning] Esra)." She ruffled her feathers, flitting to his nearest shoulder.

They turned from the yard onto the cobbled streets of Telarius. Caradoc pulled his hood low to his eyes but no one even glanced their way and soon they were through the East Gate and the whole of Ilyria lay before them.

He had chosen to leave though the eastern entrance and circumnavigate the city to head south-west. He didn’t believe anyone had an interest in him but now Morgeth was searching for the boy he didn’t want to be remembered. He was determined to cover their tracks and disguise his true destination with simple diversion tactics. He whispered to Esra who immediately took to the skies. His spy above watched the lands around them for any trouble that they would want to avoid.

Elthed continued at a trot until the sun was a hand’s breadth above the horizon. Then without urging, and with the understanding of a horse bred by the elves, he stretched out his long legs beneath him and raced along the banks of Lake Tela. Sand flew as each foot was placed against the ground and pushed the refined equine body through the air; a silver arrow above the ground. Each footfall was echoed by the sleek black mare which ran with him, side by side. Their coats glinted in the early morning sun and plumes of warm breath escaped their velvet noses.

The ground disappeared in a blur beneath Caradoc and he rocked back and forth rhythmically to the movement of the animal beneath him. Horses like this were never broken and to place a saddle on their back or a bridle in their mouth would be an insult. They would consent to being ridden only by those they had chosen and it was their position to keep you upon their back.

Tunitha lay four long days of riding to the south west of Telarius. There was only one other town which lay between them and Tunitha. Faerug was small but it was a place he knew could purchase another horse for the girl. He would not see Faerug until the sun was at least at its zenith on the third day. It was only a day’s ride from Tunitha.

As dusk drew in Elthed slowed and at a copse of trees Caradoc dismounted. Esra had gone hunting but he knew she would be there at sun-up; he did not worry about her. Elthed nickered to the onyx mare and they ambled away in search of soft shoots of grass. Whether because of the sun or the speed and distance they had traveled – or both – the two horses shimmered with sweat. They rolled, glorying in the dust they kicked up. As if they were one being together they stood, shook the dust from their coats and nuzzled each other.

Elthed squealed and stomped the ground with his foot. Still horses, Caradoc laughed to himself as the two animals faded into the dwindling light.

The sun was already well past its peak on day three before Caradoc saw the low-lying buildings of Faerug. It wasn’t long, at Elthed’s fast pace, that the southern gate would be before them.

Again, Caradoc did not want to draw attention to himself and his horses. "Guthera Elthed (Slow Elthed)." The horse slowed and finally stopped. His sides moved in and out with heavy breaths but it was not labored.

"Thegua qu’eren, agu delenia inr’a dunah’tha Faerug. Se’I fur hutha thi’in lu (Black horse, you must go around Faerug. At sun down we will meet). The black mare trotted away towards the east. He whistled for the hawk and as she settled upon his arm he spoke to her. Kuro namen, kuro raethar (follow her, watch her)." She took flight after the disappearing mare.

Elthed looked on, a hint of unhappiness in his eyes. I know you like her my friend but she’ll only be gone a few hours. First we must acquire a horse for this girl. It would appear odd for us to need another horse when it looks as though we are not using one we already have. Caradoc laughed despite himself. Elthed understood Ilyrian as well as he understood elvish but he rarely listened. Why do I talk to you as such brother?

Elthed nickered and picked up a trot towards Faerug. Soon they were walking beneath the timbers that stood sentinel against the Northern Plains. Guards were posted and looked up as Caradoc and his mount passed by them, nodding their heads in his direction but paid him little notice. He didn’t stand out then.

Faerug was small. It was a place he had passed through on more than one occasion for various reasons. Elthed kept a steady pace along the dusty streets until they reached a small single-storey building, unobtrusive except for a palm-sized sign above the blue front door that said ‘Inn’. It was one of those places you went if you didn’t want to be found. It was full of the nastiest sorts of creatures, mostly on the run from ‘work parties’ – punishment set out for the worst offenders of Ilyria by the guardian. It was not the inn that Caradoc sought but a gate beside it.

Sliding from Elthed’s broad back he rapped sharply against the newly-painted gate. A peep-window opened through which poked an ugly, rough-shaped nose. It sniffed.

Caradoc?

Yes Goro Goldhammer…now let me in.

The peep-window closed, the gate swung in, and man and horse slipped deftly through the opening. Before Caradoc stood a gnome, a little more than half the man’s height but stocky, and who smelled like he’d been sleeping in the pig trough. The long beard that hung from his chin to his chest was matted and particles of food had been caught it in like flies in a spider’s web.

Ever think about taking a bath Goro? You smell like the stalls you clean. The gnome looked at Caradoc from beneath his caterpillar eyebrows and grinned sheepishly.

I ‘ad one when th’ moon was full las’.

Caradoc shook his head in bewilderment as the last full moon had been five nights prior. You mean the one before we just had? Goro nodded guiltily. Caradoc kept a fair distance so as not to be continuously assaulted by the smell coming from the little rock of a gnome.

Goro, I need a horse. I want a good one mind you...nothing that will let me down.

What you need one of ‘em fer? He looked puzzled. You go’ tha’ great grey beastie there…an’ he’s bee-utiful to boot.

We both know where Elthed is from Goro and we both know he won’t take a saddle. Now I need a saddle horse to carry provisions, no questions asked.

Goro’s eyes looked as wide as dinner bowls and a knowing smile could vaguely be seen beneath the shrubbery that grew from his face. He winked.

Got you there, won’ be no trouble. You need a saddle an’ bridle then too?

Caradoc nodded.

The gnome disappeared through a half-sized door and Caradoc could hear him lumbering back and forth through the straw and hay. The occasional clink of metal against metal could be heard along with the slap of leather. Time passed and he watched the shadows moving slowly across the compacted dirt of the stable. He was beginning to wonder what was taking the half-sized creature so long when a thunderous crash echoed throughout the yard. A full-sized door, around the corner from the convenient gnome-sized one, was heaved open with too much effort and banged back against the wall.

Out came Goro, huffing and puffing, and what could be seen of his face as he stared at the ground was flushed. This was a surprise to Caradoc for the gnomes were a yellow-skinned race. The gnome grumbled to himself as he led a golden horse with white mane out of the darkness and into the light of the morning. She was beautiful but no elven horse. Caradoc stood, a keen eye watching her movement as Goro stepped her forward. Her muscles flexed and he saw no sign of lameness in her legs.

She’s good. Caradoc nodded, pulling a leather pouch from beneath his cloak. How much?

I owes you sir, you saved me ‘ide before. She’s yours. ‘er name’s Dai’eth, no elven ‘orse mind you but she’s a good ‘un. There’s also provisions tucked int’ them there bags. Goro pointed towards two rather large bags tied to the rear of the saddle. Blanket an’ water too.

Caradoc nodded again and smiled. Gnomes never forgot a debt owed but still he removed two gold coins and placed them into the pocket of the gnome’s tattered and filthy tunic.

Goro looked horrified. Sir, my ‘onor is at stake ‘ere; I can’ take no money from you.

You can and you will, Goro, my friend. I’m just paying for your baths for a whole year so you have no excuse. Purely for my benefit you understand.

The look of horror disappeared from the poor gnome’s face and his whole body twisted as he let out a huge guffaw. He roared with laughter until tears streamed down his cheeks and into his beard.

Got it my frien’, will take me baths. He hobbled back through the human-sized door, pulling it closed as he went. Caradoc could still hear the occasional laugh through the walls as he opened the gate to the street. He led the sun-colored addition to his herd through the narrow portal. Elthed followed, dipping nimbly to a knee as Caradoc mounted, attempting to draw little or no attention. With a set of reins in hand leading the palomino mare they left Faerug without so much as a glance from another inhabitant. Caradoc tipped his head at the two guards at the north gate who returned the gesture then refocused back on their card game. He doubted he would be remembered by sundown let alone seven days hence.

Several leagues beyond the outskirts of Faerug, as the shadows were growing long and the sun was making haste towards the western horizon, Caradoc could see the vague shape of a regal horse. She was blurred by bushes and the evening light and she had taken to a place that offered hiding should she need it – or had the rider and horse not been Caradoc and Elthed. Elthed paused, sniffed the air and nickered as the black horse stepped boldly out of her veiled waiting place. It was a good place to stop until the sun rose.

Chapter 2

The grass stood taller than Max as she stared at the playful clouds with her back against the warm ground. She smiled as she felt the long leafy stems, forced to dance by the mischievous breeze, brush lightly against the bare skin of her arms and legs. She wanted to hide and they could look for her for hours out here without ever finding her. She closed her eyes. The aggressive afternoon sun burned red against the backs of her eyelids and the warmth of it seared her skin. Beyond her feet lay the creek that ran through the town of Tunitha. The town was not her home but it was where she now lived, although definitely not by choice.

Max thought of her home; she only had vague memories of her mother and father, some of them fond and some of them less so. Her mother had been young when she had given birth to Max and had been married even younger. She knew her mother’s family had been poor. They had sold her to Max’s father’s family in exchange for land and livestock. He had been a drunk and although he provided for them he had gone into a rage one night. Fueled by mead he had beaten her mother until Max heard bones break. Max never saw her mother again.

A lonely tear formed in the corner of her eye. She allowed it to fall unchecked down the side of her sun-browned face. She had only been seven when her father had broken their family, and although he had never even spoken an unkind word to her she hated him. He was the reason she was here, working for old man Tyrant. That was the name she had for her master; that was what she called him behind his back. His name was really Thyran. It made her giggle.

She really wasn’t meant for this place – she was meant for bigger things. She knew Thyran would never let her go; he owned her. She fantasized on days like this, when she could escape the house, about elves and gnomes and life in Telarius – all the merchants and ships, the excitement and the royalty. She knew she would be beaten when she finally went back but a few hours out here like this were worth a few lashes of Thyran’s cane.

Over the rustling of the grass stems she heard the sounds of horse hooves against the dry-packed dirt of the road. She rolled over and peered as best she could between the narrow leaves. She could make out three horses but only one rider – that made no sense in the first instance. The horses were all different colors; a black, a grey and another graceful one the color of sunshine. They made her smile. Max liked the elegant beasts which everyone else rode but they were so far beyond her knowledge that they seemed almost mythical. What was even stranger in Max’s thoughts was that the horse which carried the man wore no saddle or bridle and the great midnight beast wore no halter. It was only the sunflower-colored one who was in full riding attire.

The rider, an agile and flowing man, slid from the horse colored like the moon, seeming to talk to it, and the two un-saddled horses trotted away out of Max’s view. She so wanted to lift her head from the grasses to see where they went. She wanted to watch their lithe bodies run but she kept her head down and watched him remount the golden equine. Deftly he guided his second mount towards Tunitha at a trot. Keeping her distance Max followed like a snake in the grass, silent and watchful. The stranger showed no knowledge that he was being followed.

Max knew that going back into the town now would mean a beating sooner but her curiosity overcame her fear of Thyran. Tunitha saw few visitors and even less strangers, especially one as unusual as this. She didn’t think he was passing through because he had left his other mounts outside the walls. She guessed he was probably headed for the only inn in town.

* * *

Anyone else might have missed her, hiding in the grass fifty paces to his left, but not him. He ignored her; Esra would watch her.

He had been to Tunitha once long ago, back in his childhood –and not much had changed. The old buildings still barely held themselves up. It seemed that if a stiff enough breeze were to blow it would simply knock them all to the ground but they had been here this long and would probably outlast him.

Caradoc knew the town was home to only one inn along the main thoroughfare, almost to the other side of town. It took no more time to find the inn than it did to build a good fire. The sign was hanging from one corner and the door was badly in need of replacing but Caradoc knew good mead and good food could be found there. The girl stuck to the shadows; she was watching him. She was small, skinny and in need of a good meal. Although all he saw of her was out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw bruises on her arms and legs. He continued to pretend he hadn’t seen her as she was of little consequence to his mission. He tied Dai’eth, pushed open the creaky door of the tavern and stepped inside.

The barkeep raised his head at the intrusion, nodded his head towards his guest and went back to cleaning glasses.

Good sir, Caradoc said as he crossed the ten paces from the door to the bar. The barkeep again looked up, putting down his glass and towel. Do you have a room and a stable for one horse?

Yup, stable’s round back. Got no stable boy...‘ave to feed ‘im yerself. Room’s up them stairs there, las’ door on yer right.

Caradoc pulled out two silver coins and handed them to the barkeep who nodded.

’ow long you goin’ t’ be ‘ere fer?

One night, maybe two at the most.

The barkeep growled an acknowledgement and went back to cleaning his glasses.

Caradoc bedded Dai’eth down. He tossed her some hay and fed her some oats before venturing back into the tavern and negotiating the stairs to the next level. It was almost as if he was still in Telarius. All inns seemed the same; all dark, damp and yet still somewhat home-like. The room he had been given was sparse; a bed, a lamp and a solid table with two chairs but still it looked clean and the sun had warmed the musty air. He removed his cloak, sword and dagger and set them upon the bed. He noticed a wash tub standing upside down in the corner and he set about building a fire to heat water.

Steam soon swirled out of the pot which balanced precariously over the hot embers like mist over a swamp. He located a bar of soap and washed himself vigorously, the dust of the road still clinging obstinately to his skin. It always amazed him how much better he felt once he was clean. He dressed, thinking about what the prophecies said of the girl he had to find; her odd colored eyes, her age, her ears and her scar. How would he find her without arousing suspicion? People often start to talk when a stranger comes to town; gossip closely ensues when that same individual starts looking for someone by description only, especially when the description was unusual.

The room smelled like mold was growing everywhere and Caradoc opened the window to allow the fresh air in. She was still watching. He didn’t know how she knew which room was his unless he was the inn's only visitor. He was growing more and more curious about her as the moments passed. He didn’t feel threatened by her presence; he was more interested about why she was creeping around town. Still, he ignored her; he thought that if he acknowledged her she would disappear and he wanted to know more about her.

The afternoon was drawing to a close and a chill was floating on the breeze. Long shadows were forming, stretching their fingers away from the buildings as though trying to claw away from their creators. Caradoc stepped away from the window, drawing the open casement towards him. He left it slightly ajar to refresh the musty space. He secured his sword and dagger to his person, pulled his cloak about his shoulders and left the room. The corridor carried sounds and smells from the tavern below which was rapidly filling with customers. It was probably the best place in town to find the girl he sought. Mead loosed tongues and tempered memories; hopefully the townsfolk would forget the questions he asked by morning.

Voices and laughter grew louder as Caradoc reached the last step and strode towards the bar. A few lifted their heads to watch him as he passed but quickly went back to their own ales, friends and raucous conversation. The occasional argument would flare up suddenly but was quickly quieted by another round of ale.

The barkeep nodded at him. A mug o’ the bes’ mead outside Telarius?

Wouldn’t say no. He set a copper coin on the bar. A mug of amber liquid was put in front of him and the copper coin removed. Caradoc took the cold mead and turned to watch the rowdy patrons; his eyes and ears were constantly alert for the smallest clue of the identity of the girl he sought. One group of three older men near to the fire piqued Caradoc’s interest. It was obvious they had imbibed a fair quantity of mead or ale and their talk flowed loudly and quickly. Caradoc motioned to the barkeep and ordered a round for the gentlemen. When free mead showed up at their table they seemed a little taken aback, but when Caradoc lifted his glass to them they did what he had hoped and motioned for him to join them.

* * *

Max had watched the stranger through the window from the shadows of the buildings opposite the inn. The afternoon had grown colder and the muscles in her legs cramped but she hadn’t dared to move. She hadn’t wanted the stranger to see her and she didn’t want to miss him leaving the inn.

Shadows were filling the spaces between the buildings creating streets like caves when the she heard him leave his room. She watched the door but he did not leave the inn; he’d stayed inside. Now she crept to the window trying to see into the tavern. The thick glass was smeared with years of pipe-smoke residue. Her only saving grace was one tiny hole, no bigger than the head of a pin, that had been struck through one pane of muted glass. She flattened her face against the cold panes, her eye pressed to the hole, squinting until she could see him seated at the bar. He was watching the other patrons of the tavern, paying particularly close attention to a table she couldn’t see and sipping on a full mug.

She gasped. A large and roughly-calloused hand grabbed her neck from behind, pulling her away from the window. A second hand seized her arm, turning her to face the outraged face of Thyran. His grip was that of iron as he half-dragged, half-pulled her away from the inn.

What DO you think you are doing you filthy little rat? He raged as he strode along the street. He growled and cussed and grumbled until finally he threw her to the ground.

You are the worst waste of money I have ever set eyes on. Spittle flew from his lips as he ranted at her. Why I ever took you in I’ll never know. He raised a hand bringing it down hard against her face. Never work; always dreaming…stupid girl.

Max refused to flinch or cry; she had learned very early that it only made things worse. The blows rained down on Max until his rage abated.

I’m done with you girl; there’ll be no more home for you with me or any one else in this town. He marched back the way they had come, towards the tavern.

Had she heard him right? Was she really free? As she stood she winced at the pain of the blows but none of it mattered; she no longer had to work for Thyran. She allowed a shrill whoop out before she hurriedly silenced herself. She may be free of Thyran but as a girl, without him, she was vulnerable to those who 'hired workers' and she slipped back into the shadows.

* * *

Caradoc seated himself in a spare chair and brushed away the men’s thanks. They raised their glasses and he followed suit. He needed their help.

You gentlemen seem to know this place well… he started.

We ought to; been ‘ere all our lives we ‘ave, one interjected. I’m Thron, Thron Detmer. The man stuck out his hand towards Caradoc who reciprocated the gesture. Thron was a heavy man with a baby face, closely cropped blond hair and a handshake that could crack rocks.

Tha’ there’s Jolas Burnek. He motioned to the man sitting to Caradoc’s right, a small wiry man with a shock of bright red hair and covered in freckles. They shook hands.

An’ this ‘ere’s Regus. He put his hand on his friend’s bony shoulder. No one knows ‘is las’ name, not even ‘im. Caradoc took the hand of a dark-skinned, long-haired giant. He could only imagine how low the man had to stoop to walk through most doorways.

Gethrin Halas, Caradoc lied.

Wha’ brings you to this ‘ere part of Ilyria, my friend? Jolas fixed his eyes on Caradoc.

Looking for someone; my wife’s niece.

Was ‘er name?

Caradoc attempted his best guilty look, I’m afraid I forgot it. My wife would never forgive me if she knew; I’ve got no head for names.

Yeah, me either…prob’ly forget your name by the time you leave. Jolas fell into a fit of laughter, followed closely by his companions. Well ‘ow you goin’ to fin’ ‘er?

She looks like my wife...but younger. She’s sixteen I think, got kind of pointy ears and odd colored eyes.

The threesome stopped laughing. You serious? Thron asked. This didn’t bode well for Caradoc; she was obviously well known.

I’m afraid so. You know her I take it?

Thron smiled. Yeah, you could say tha’; nothin’ bu’ trouble tha’ one.

How so? Caradoc was curious.

She belongs to Thyran who runs the butcher shop ‘ere in town. Wha’ you wan’ with ‘er?

She’s a slave? Caradoc said with as much disdain as he could muster. Slavery had been outlawed by the king more than fifty years ago. He avoided answering their question.

"You’d bes’ go ‘ave a talk