Archynora: The Accounts of G’Anthor

Copyright © 2013 by Bryan Thomas.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-8784-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8786-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8785-0 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 05/29/2013

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

For Cindy

CHAPTER 1

Liberation

Deep within the realms that lie well hidden from our own exists a world that is neither outside nor within ours. Betwixt the realms of Good and Evil and the world known to us, this world was at a time similar to our own distant past. It was a time when the Races of Elves shared the land with those of Dwarf and the fleeting yet noteworthy Humans, among others. Some of the others, who were of evil, entered that world by an ill-fated mishap and imperiled it. They would reign over it, were it not for the efforts of the good peoples of the world. This is the story of those good people: the Story of Eriuntera.

The tale begins in a land named G’Innethin, a spacious plateau upon which lay numerous hills, and a great, deep lake named Nevinora-Dyl. From the lake pours a stream that winds through the barren hills and disappears into a small cavern hidden underneath the entrance concealed in a shower of vines and thick mosses. There, under the hills, lived a small, closely knit society of dark and magical elves, the Nevinare.

They were not the kind of elves that most humans had either seen or heard about—those who spent the day frolicking and dancing among vast fields of poppies and daisies, casting light-hearted spells that put one to sleep or make one romantically inclined. No, the elves in this cavern were dark and grim, their eyes dulled and deep from eons of war, famine, and the arcane side effects caused by their addiction to magic. Cast out from the societies of the fair and tree-dwelling elves, these elves had ventured into the deepness of the under-realms, leaving them free to do research and practice their magic as they would. Long had they dwelled there, at least as long as the most ancient among them could recall in the tales of great battles passed from the great-great-grand folk of the past to the rapidly dwindling numbers of ancients who sat by the story-time fires now.

Throughout ages forgotten by the elves, the small stream slowly carved tunnel and room, crack and well, so that the upper levels—those adjacent to the stream—were dry and dead. That is to say, they were no longer being worked by the powers that water has on rock and ground.

The lower levels were a lively and constantly evolving network of natural tunnels, forbidden holes, and great rooms of glistening limestone—glistening if one was fortunate enough to have brought some sort of light with him. Though the elves of the under-realms could see well in the dark, they hung small lanterns in at least the main passageways. The cavern was not as vast as some of the other underlands. However, one would be wise not to wander off the main ways, for the elves had taken advantage of some the natural features of the caves and set any number of ingenious traps and creative and amusing ways to confuse or kill hapless visitors.

The stream meandered down a slight grade for a handful of miles, finally dropping off into the darkness in a roaring waterfall that marked the edge of what the elves called their realm. Some ventured down into the deep—those with the heart required for such an undertaking—and gingerly descended along the side of the waterfall with hook and rope, some never to be seen again. Those fortunate enough to have the grace of the gods with them returned with tales of caverns even more immense, populated with creeping things and awesome creatures of fantasy and terror, and even tales of a vast city of denizens of the darkness.

The walls of the upper, benign levels of the cavern were made of limestone, plain and unworked but utilitarian, without the intricate adornments one might find in the abode of the other, surface-dwelling elves. While exploring the elves’ underground realm, one would think that it was a temporary home, that things could be ready to be picked up and moved in a heartbeat if need be. Even the floors of the main passages and living quarters, while clean, were the naturally smooth rock featured in water-made caves.

The elves used powerful magic to aid in carving out a number of private rooms meant for individuals and families. Some were single holes with plenty of room for one to live comfortably, while others were larger with a few rooms attached. Still others had small networks of rooms and were used as hotels for the Queen’s guests. The elves used only a minimal amount of magic to create rooms that were comfortable and free of the creatures with which nature typically populates caves. Once in a while, some wild beast would enter the cave, perhaps thinking it had found a new home. But if the beast was a boar or deer or some other less tasty type, it usually found itself on the Queen’s dinner table with an apple stuffed into its mouth and its innards crammed with herbs and breadcrumbs.

The elder elves told stories of long ago, when the elves first made the caves their home. Every so often some dark and terrible creature would find its way up from the depths of the cave, either lost or looking for something to eat. The Queen’s forces would quickly scramble to confront the intruder and put it down before any harm was done to the citizens, but sometimes the loss of a wandering child or a warrior during battle was unavoidable.

Though the elves’ lust for magic and the exploring and researching of more and greater magical powers was constant, necessity required some to train in the ways of warriors. The routine tasks of weapons-making, sword practice and basic maintenance of the community were assigned to those who demonstrated the desire and aptitude for those fields, guarding the borders and politicking and such. However mundane these duties, the elves still maintained the traditions of their surface counterparts, that is, the necessity of making (and drinking) fine wines, doing bow-work, and playing. From time to time, all enjoyed sitting around with friends in front of a great fire with seemingly endless jugs of wine, philosophizing and bloviating upon the finer concepts of magic. Some expostulated the nature of nature and second-guessed the gods.

It was definitely not in one of those comfortable caves of home in which the young elven mage named Grindgy currently found himself. He was sitting upon the floor, his back resting against the solid concrete wall of a human-worked dungeon cell. The cell was actually in a makeshift dungeon that had been quickly constructed by the humans. It served as a temporary holding area, as the need arose, while the keep itself was being built. The humans had partitioned the upper levels of an already existing cavern system, creating a combination of concrete walls and natural stonework that transformed the caves into a small labyrinth of holding areas.

The room was dark and oppressive, as any good dungeon should be. The scents of life in morbidly slow decay were repulsive to those not used to such things. Even time itself smelled rotten here, and Grindgy had had plenty of that. So far, he reckoned he had been down there for about three seasons. Time had also given him little else to do but to consider his situation and let his mind wander, imagining life’s simple things, such as walking through and exploring an uncharted cavern, wearing clean cloths, or eating food that did not taste like putrid bat droppings…

At least he was not alone. No, he was in a common cell, one that his human captors had designed so they could cram four into one room.

Each prisoner had his own little area, just a thin mat of dank, moldy straw upon which to sleep. They were fed a small bowl of unidentifiable pasty mush at sunup and sundown. Their hands and legs were not bound; they were free to move about the room during the day. Actually, this room—and there were a number of others like it—was used to house those who had committed certain transgressions but whose fate had not yet been decided by the human lord who owned the room.

That thought brought Grindgy to the heart of his predicament. Grindgy had had the honor of being the elven Queen’s primary taryche, or rock-and-land specialist. He had been charged to survey whatever cavern areas Queen Elluira desired before she executed the order to start building. She would contract Grindgy to certain allies from time to time so that he would perform his surveying tasks for them as well. Now, the human lord happened to be a prospective ally of the Queen, thus one with certain strategic benefits to the Nevinare elves. He had been engaged to build quite an impressive keep. However, halfway through the construction work the small castle had collapsed into the marshy ground upon which it had briefly sat. The lord was furious with Grindgy, convinced that it had been Grindgy’s task to know enough to prevent this tragedy from happening in the first place. The elven mage was soon imprisoned, and messengers were sent back to G’Innethin—about a month’s ride in itself—to inform Queen Elluira of her lead taryche’s incompetence and the negation of the compact between the humans and the Nevinare elves. The thought of all that devastated Grindgy, knowing that he, once again, had failed the Queen, his family, his kindred folk, and everyone else. All his life, it seemed, he was trapped in an endless cycle of bad luck, as if the universe itself despised him and wanted him to abandon all hope of having any kind of contentment in life.

Grindgy never deliberately went out of his way to find trouble. But just when his life appeared to have positive prospects for the future, undesirable happenstance would ambush him. Grindgy honored Law, and he always helped others who were in need and strived to do the right thing. Regardless of how he truly felt about any given subject or situation, he figured that willfully acting against the elven codes of societal behavior would thrust him into a world of woe in which he really did not care to indulge.

Now, having been stuck down and consigned to a gloomy dungeon for almost a year, he could not occupy his time fruitfully. He soon discovered sleep was his best friend. Sleep allowed him to be anywhere he wanted at any time he wanted. The walls had no control over that. Elves do not sleep, at least not in the way that humans and other races slept. Elves fall into more of a waking dream state, when their body is allowed to renew itself for the next day. Sleep devoured the time otherwise spent lying on his fetid pile of hay, his eyes fixed intently on the opposite wall as if to bore a hole right through it to freedom.

The entire experience of being thrown into a dungeon forced Grindgy to gravely reflect upon his life. What was the purpose, if any, of this experience? What was life trying to teach him, if anything? If that was so, why were the circumstances so extreme? If, finally, he did understand, how was he to implement the lessons he had learned, stuck here?

Grindgy absolutely understood why the lord, a man named Baituindor, was angry with him. But it was not entirely Grindgy’s fault that the keep had sunk into the marsh. Grindgy had emphatically stressed that construction on wetlands was not a good idea, that there was much more solid ground not far away where the lord could safely build his stronghold. But Baituindor would hear none of it, stating something about proper defensive strategy. He waved Grindgy off with a brusque You must honor your obligations! There was no arguing with him. The newly constructed keep stood for a number of weeks, but the soft ground ultimately claimed the building, which slumped worthlessly on its side. To right the castle, Grindgy saw it as an opportunity to cast a spell in which he was yet tested, and ended up torching the keep in a great inferno.

One of Baituindor’s nephews was severely burned by the otherworldly fires.

Grindgy sighed in resignation as his gaze fell from the soot—and slime-coated rocky ceiling down to a fat rat sniffing around the corner opposite him. Still, his youthful defiance prevailed over his momentary dispiritedness. After all, he had been in much worse situations. He surreptitiously glanced around the room at the others, all of them wearing the same dreary expression on their face. There was one Liunare, or Noble elf, who was being held for publicly using herbs permitted for use only by Liunare clerics in their rituals.

Now you see that deific smile and that smug wisdom of yours didn’t save your hide this time, eh, elf? Grindgy thought.

Grindgy had never encountered the Liunare in his work. From what he had read or heard about the Liunare, they were said to be as close as anything one would ever get to being godlike in the world, with their supernatural beauty and legendary wisdom. But this one, sitting atop a pile of moldy hay opposite him in a ragged robe and sporadically blurting out ancient poetry and inane babble, was certainly nothing like the ideal noble depicted in any of the books Grindgy had read.

"Deedle-doo, a weed or two,

So happy in the pastures breezy,

Feedle-dun, our work is done,

Our noses now are sneezy!

Needle-day and seeds and hay,

We gather in the mornings.

Once you’re dry, we’re flying high,

Our lives no longer boring!"

And so the elf carried on, as such, seemingly oblivious to the rolling of eyes by the others in the cell.

Grindgy was annoyed by the Liunare’s smug attitude toward him. It was some kind of racial superiority game, probably to help pass the time, Grindgy reckoned.

Grindgy’s gaze wandered around the room and then fixed on a short, stalwart Dwerghas—or Dwarf, in human tongue—who was being detained for illegally mining under the human lord’s realm. He glanced past the dwarf to a female ogre, who was being detained for prostitution right out in the open, on the lord’s common grounds. Grindgy shuddered at that thought as his gaze soon fell back upon the rat in the corner.

Despite the circumstances, Grindgy figured his current predicament was not all that bad. He had quickly adapted to his new environment, minding the rules of dungeon life: keep to yourself, don’t go poking into other’s business, try not to do anything to stand out, and never, ever talk or rat to the guards about another captive. Unfortunately, though, he had no idea about how much more time Baituindor expected him to remain in that dreary, loathsome place.

Footsteps echoed increasingly louder outside. Soon the cell door swung open, and a heavily armored human guard stepped into the room, accompanied by another guard. They placed small bowls of indescribable starchy gruel in front of each captive.

If I must eat one more spoonful of this slop, I will surely go insane! the dwarf cried.

You’re not going anywhere, Miner, said a guard as they both quickly left the cell. The slam of the door echoed in the room.

Everyone in the cell had a nickname; no one ever went by his or her real name. The ogre’s alias was Sugar, and the Noble elf called himself Green Thumb. They called Grindgy Spooky because of his pale skin and because of how he spent the whole day staring at the wall, as if in a trance.

For sure, agreed the Noble elf. That’s what happened to Squeaky over there. He nodded at the rat.

Grindgy raised an eyebrow and creased his nose.

Kaithir his name once was, but now he thinks he’s a rat, the ogre said, without any hint to Grindgy as to what gender the ogre actually was.

"But I am a rat!" the rat said.

"But it is a rat," Grindgy said.

The dwarf rolled his eyes. Oh, no, not you, too!

Yes, said the ogre, eyeballing Grindgy suspiciously. The dungeon’s no place for rats.

Lying on her stomach in tall grass and thorn-covered brambles, Valisare watched the oblivious sentries, who were standing about a stone’s throw from her, the way a great cat stalks its prey. It had taken her almost a week to creep painstakingly on her belly from the edge of the thick woods to the perimeter of the human encampment. Luckily for Valisare, the portal that led to the dungeon itself was situated at the western edge of the moors, set apart from the main encampment at the bottom of a small canyon.

Even at such a short distance—about the length of two archery practice fields—her movement had to be extremely slow, so that she would not be noticed. Her body was covered with twigs and small, leafy branches so she would blend in with the underbrush. She had painted her face, neck, and chest with earthy tones that matched those of the surrounding bush, as were her form-fitting pants and shirt. She was able to move only at night, because the human sentries regularly patrolled the perimeter of the camp mostly during the day. But for some reason this night, there were two additional patrols. She carried only the most essential things with her: a small amount of food that did not require cooking, a map of the local terrain, and her most prized possession, the dreaded sword Veofal.

As the glow of the late autumn sun faded into darkness, Valisare knew the time to make her move was upon her. She had picked a time when she knew there would be a moonless sky, and this night favored her even more. A thick blanket of dark clouds filled the sky. She knew that rain would be upon her soon, and while her training had prepared her well for operating in any environment, she would rather not lie in cold mud for a week or more. She had to wait only a little while longer, until just about the time when the sentries changed their shift.

The previous sentries would not be as alert as a fresh pair, and they would be eager to get out of the cold and into their bunk for the night. Valisare slowly reached down for the long, wooden tube she had tucked deep into her boot and strapped to her leg. She produced a long dart from a similar case, then retrieved a small glass vial from a little leather pouch. She opened the vial and dipped the needlelike point of the dart in the thick, clear fluid inside. She capped the vial, stowed it away, and carefully loaded the dart into the wooden tube. Aligning the tube with her target, as she had practiced countless times before, she slowly inhaled. She extended her left arm and held the end of the tube, as she raised it to her lips. Bracing herself, she held the long tube as steady as she could. She waited, her lungs full of the crisp winter air, until the guards stood close to each other.

She blew the air into the tube, ejecting the deadly missile with a faint whoosh! Valisare sprang to her feet and leapt into the air the instant the missile hit the sentry in the neck, just below his right ear. He collapsed onto his knees, and she knew he would soon be dead as she closed in on the second guard. Her slender, well-toned arms quickly morphed into thin, leathery black wings that propelled her high into the air. She wheeled and plunged toward the unsuspecting sentry, streaking out of the night sky like a dark shadow of hate and ruin.

Her wings reshaped into human arms as she landed, and she reached for her sword.

Valisare lifted the onyx-black sword Veofal with her right hand and landed on her feet directly behind the bewildered guard. Her boots firmly planted on the frosty ground, she extended one lithesome leg and crept toward the remaining guard. She gripped the sword with both hands and thrust its point into the back of the sentry’s neck, just under his helmet, severing his spine. The guard let out a gasp and dropped to the ground, paralyzed. Valisare knew that the wound would not be instantly fatal. It left him fully aware but not able to move his arms and legs. She returned her sword to its scabbard and crouched over him. She produced the same small glass vial she had used to wet the deadly missile and displayed it to the terrified young guard.

I have severed your spine, Valisare said, her voice like a snake sliding through grass. You will soon pass out and die. This vial contains a magical potion that will make your neck as good as new. I will give it to you if you tell me in which cell the elven mage named Grindgy is being held.

Wha—what are you? the dying guard said feebly.

You are wasting precious time, Valisare said.

The elf is with three others in the greater northwestern common area, at the end of the main passage.

Valisare tilted her head to the right, flashed him a wry smile, and said, I thank you.

She took the stopper off the vial and put it to his lips. He drained the vial. Valisare stood up, capped the vial, and put it away. She grinned at the sentry. He coughed once and then lay still on the cold earth, white foam frothing from his mouth. His face, now as frigid as the night air, still wore the look of hope.

Valisare tore the keys from the dead man’s belt and sprinted toward the iron-clad portal—the entrance to the human lord’s makeshift dungeon. She keyed the lock, ducked inside, and swiftly descended the steps, moving as silently as a panther. Her sources had told her that she would not encounter any other guards from this point on. Now she had only to find the mage’s cell, extract him from it, and take him to a pre-designated safe point, not far from the encampment. When she got to the bottom of the stairway, she quietly withdrew her sword. Occasional wall-mounted torches dimly lit the stone passage. A layer of grit covered the solid stone floor. As she hurried along, Valisare noticed that the ceiling was getting gradually lower as the tunnel sloped slightly downward.

This is much different from any dwarf stone works, she thought. Dwarves wouldn’t require even half as much light as these humans do, and the stone cuts themselves would be much cleaner and the passages straighter, because dwarf tunneling was an art in itself. Not that I care all that much about art, of course.

She forced her mind to return to its present task. The air was not as cold as the outside air, and it was somewhat drier. It didn’t matter. Valisare hated caverns profoundly. She had been in only a couple of them before. She loathed the stifling, stale air and the confining spaces through which she was at times required to crawl. Still, if there was one good thing she could say about caves, it was the darkness. Valisare took comfort in the darkness, an enemy of her enemies. It was a longtime friend on which she knew she could almost always count.

Valisare soon came to the end of the main passageway, which branched into a T, with a cell door on the opposite wall. Supposedly, her target was being held here. She used another key to open the door and crept inside, holding Veofal at the ready before her.

Valisare scanned the dimly lit room. Her gaze fell upon an elf sitting on