The Adventures of Trik the Elf

An old man in a fine blue robe hurried across an open vineyard, his leather boots leaving faint prints in the soft summer earth. Behind him stood the white walls of Castle Linden, towering above the thick tendrils of the emerald grapevines. “Trik,” he shouted as he neared the edge of the vineyard.

The elf stood at the edge of the vineyard with a young woman hanging on his arm. He was dressed in a dark tunic and gray trousers. His long hair draped over his shoulders and covered his ears. “Yes, My Baron,” he said, surprised.

The Baron halted in front of Trik. He was out of breath, and his brow was slick with sweat. “I request your company,” said the Baron to Trik. “Yours and yours alone.”

Trik glanced at his fair companion, a young woman with dark eyes and curly brown hair. “Excuse me, my lady,” he said to her. “I won’t be long.”

Trik joined the Baron for a walk along the edge of the vineyard. For a while the Baron said nothing as they walked in the dying light of the evening. Then he turned to Trik and said, “Certain matters have come to my attention.”

“Matters?” said Trik.

“Duke Mortimer of Gipoli,” said the Baron. “I believe you know him.”

“I have heard of him,” said Trik, “and what I have heard I do not like.”

“What you have heard,” said the Baron, “is only a fraction of what there is not to like. I have come upon worrying news from my spies in the east. They warn me that the Duke is in league with King Orodrin of the Dwarves, who is even now readying a great army to march upon the Empire.”

Trik halted in the shade of an oak tree, and his brow furrowed. “Orodrin,” he said.

“Yes,” said the Baron, halting beside Trik. “I know of your misfortunes at the defense of Alaquonde so many years ago.”

Trik looked to the east, at the Darken Hills and the mountains beyond. “Not so long ago for me,” he said.

“Be that as it may,” said the Baron, “I have need of you now.”

“Need, My Lord?” said Trik.

“Yes,” said the Baron. “My spies inform me that Duke Mortimer is headed for the capital of Rule with his army. He has promised the Emperor his aid in defense of the city. But in secret, he seeks the throne.”

“The Emperor welcomes a spider into his house,” said Trik.

“Exactly,” said the Baron, “a spider who weaves webs of lies. Mortimer has told the Emperor that Orodrin intends to attack from the south, but my spies tell me that he will march north over the frozen tundra.”

“That shall put Orodrin only a hundred miles from Rule,” said Trik. “The legions could not arrive in time to defend the city.”

“You are seeing the truth in it,” said the Baron, “as I knew you would.”

“What response have you planned, My Lord?” asked Trik.

“I will send my son Durben with a message to the Emperor,” said the Baron. “The Emperor knows me and trusts my counsel. He must be warned of Mortimer’s betrayal.”

“He will need an escort,” said Trik.

“Yes,” said the Baron, “and I have chosen you.”

Triks’s eyes widened. “But I am not a knight, My Baron,” he said.

“My son requests it,” said the Baron. “You are the one man I know I can trust.”

“My Lord,” said Trik, “it would be better to send Sir Morgen to protect your son. I am no friend of the Emperor. Sir Morgen is wise and strong. He would—”

“You must go,” interrupted the Baron. “You must protect my son.”

Trik sighed. “My Lord,” he said, “I do not think it wise.”

The Baron’s expression hardened. “I’ll decide what is wise,” he said.

“Yes, My Baron,” said Trik.

“My son will depart with you in the morning,” said the Baron. “You will ride to the city of Rule and deliver this message from me.” He handed Trik a sealed scroll. “If what my spies say is true, I fear dark times lie ahead.”

Trik tucked the scroll into his tunic. “Have no fear,” said Trik. “The Emperor will receive your message.”

The Baron patted Trik on the shoulder and smiled. “I knew I could trust you,” he said.

*

In the morning, two horses were made ready in the courtyard of the Baron’s castle. Each was laden with provisions for a week. Trik stood in the courtyard, wearing a black cloak and riding pants and a wide-brimmed hat. At his side was strapped a scabbard with his sword. Durben joined him there, a young man of seventeen with shaggy blond hair and pale gray eyes.

“I’m nervous,” said Durben.

“There is no need to worry,” said Trik.

“I have never been to Rule,” said Durben. “It is far. The people are different.”

Trik tightened the straps of his saddle and re-buckled them. The horse lowered its head and relaxed its ears. Trik climbed onto the horse and steadied himself. “You’re a man now,” said Trik. “It’s time to let go of childish fears.”

Durben mounted his horse and took the reins in his hands. “Don’t you fear anything?” he asked.

Trik looked out at the gate and the grassy hills before them and the sun rising in the clear morning sky. “At my age,” he said, “I fear only boredom.” He tapped the flanks of his horse with his heels and rode forward.

Durben slapped his reins and rode after Trik. When he had caught up with Trik, he faced him. “What is Rule like?” he asked.

“Haven’t you paid attention in your studies?” asked Trik.

“Yes,” he said, “but the instructors are boring. They never tell me the truth.”

“The truth,” said Trik, rolling his eyes. “Rule is a big city, much larger than Linden and your father’s castle. There are many people from all over the Empire in Rule.”

Durben raised an eyebrow at Trik. “Are there any more like you in Rule?” he asked.

“No,” said Trik.

They rode under the portcullis and out past the drawbridge. Trik looked out at the horizon before them. The wind rushed over the heather of the hills, making the long grass ripple likes waves on a sea. A dirt road stretched out past the castle and disappeared over a hill.

“Not so much as one,” said Durben.

“Not in all the Empire,” said Trik.

*

They traveled west, riding by day and camping by night. The weather was fair, and they made good time. In two days they crossed the Linden Plains, north of Gladden Lake. By the morning of the third day they reached the east banks of the Great River, a large vein of water that flowed from the Frozen North to the South Sea, cutting the Empire in half. At the river, they turned north and followed it upstream for three days, reaching the outskirts of the city of Rule on the third day. As they got near the city, the faint impression of the Stormdrake Mountains appeared in the north.

Trik and Durben stopped on a hill looking down at the city and the river valley before them. Trik pointed at the alabaster walls of the city of Rule in the distance. The city was on the far side of the river, a mere few miles from its west bank. A tributary of the river ran west from the river and connected to the city. “Tonight,” said Trik, “we will sleep under a roof.”

Durben turned to Trik. “I don’t see a bridge,” said Durben.

“Look there,” said Trik, pointing at a quay on the river. A ferry boat floated in the water beside the quay. “There is the ferry that will shuttle us across the river, for a small fee.” He tapped the flanks of his horse and rode down the hill toward the quay, and Durben followed him.

An old ferryman met them at the quay. His face was ragged, worn by weather and time. “My Lords,” said the ferryman, “you are far from your homes.”

“You have guessed well,” said Trik. “We are traveling from Baron Linden’s castle to Rule and request a ferry across the river.”

The ferryman’s eyes narrowed. “My Lords might consider another destination,” he said. “The Stormdrake Falls are a fair sight in summer.”

“We must get across now,” said Durben.

Trik glanced at Durben. “Let me,” he said. He faced the ferryman. “We will pay.” He took a silver coin from his purse and dropped it in the open hand of the ferryman. “We require passage for ourselves and our horses, nothing more.”

“As you wish,” said the ferryman. “I will make the ferry ready.” He turned away and walked down to the ferry.

Durben looked at Trik. “He was nervous,” said Durben. “Did you see the way he looked at us?”

“He was afraid,” said Trik. “Something is amiss.”

The ferryman prepared the ferry as Trik and Durben waited on the shoreline of the river. When the ferry was ready, the ferryman whistled to them from the boat. Trik and Durben dismounted from their horses and led them over the dock and onto the boat. The ferry was not a large vessel, but there was enough space for both horses.

“We’re away,” shouted the ferryman, as he released the vessel’s mooring line.

As the ferry floated across the river, Durben watched the west bank approach. The west bank of the river was some distance, even at the narrow point they crossed. But the current was strong and moved the ferry swiftly across the river.

“Look there,” shouted Durben. He pointed at a run of salmon beneath the clear surface of the river.

“Migration,” said Trik.

Durben watched with a broad smile as hundreds of migrating salmon passed under the ferry and continued upstream.

When they reached the west bank of the river, the ferryman tied the ferry’s mooring line to the receiving quay. Trik and Durben led their horses from the ferry onto the wooden planks of the receiving quay.

“Take care,” said the old ferryman.

Trik and Durben passed the ferryman as they made their way to the end of the quay. Before them was a cobbled road that led from the river to the city of Rule.

“Are you ready?” asked Trik.

“Yes,” said Durben.

Trik climbed onto his saddle and pointed his horse toward the city. “Let’s go,” he said, slapping his reins.

Durben mounted his horse and rode after Trik. They had not gone far when the east gate of the city towered before them. The gate itself was closed, and many people were being turned back. Red banners were waving outside the gate on wooden poles, and there were several guards wearing red cloaks in the road.

Trik’s expression darkened.

Trik and Durben halted before a group of guards. “We request entrance,” said Trik to the first guard.

The guard looked them up and down. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I am Trik,” said the elf, “and this is Lord Durben of the house of Baron Linden. We seek a council with the Emperor.”

The first guard grinned wickedly. He turned to the other guards. “They’re here,” he said. “You have your orders.” Six guards with spears and shields surrounded Trik and Durben.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked Trik.

The first guard drew his bastard sword and pointed its blade at Trik. “You are under arrest,” he said.

“By whose order?” asked Durben.

“By order of Duke Mortimer,” said the guard.

Durben glanced at Trik, his eyes widening.

*

The royal court was being held in the great hall of the Emperor’s palace. Colorful banners waved from the high rafters of the hall, and fine woven tapestries hung below its arched windows. Wooden benches lined each side of the hall, and seated in those benches were the various members of the court: the butlers, the chamberlains, the chancellors, the chaplains, the confessors, the knights, the lords and ladies, and many others. All were dressed in fine clothes, and all were mingling quietly with one another. At the far end of the hall stood the royal thrones of the Emperor and Empress of Rule, two ornate stone chairs that faced the court. The Emperor and Empress looked down at the court from their high seats.

Into this hall was led, his hands shackled behind his back, the dark-haired and fair-skinned elf. He wore his rugged leather tunic and his black cloak, but his hat and his sword had been removed. At his sides marched tall guards wearing bright red cloaks.

The Emperor, a middle-aged man with gray hair, bushy brown eyebrows, and large imposing eyes, looked down on them from his throne. His expression was firm, and his fists were clenched. In the throne beside him sat the Empress, a royal beauty, the Queen of the East. She was dark-skinned and dark-haired, but her eyes were blue and beautiful.

Mortimer stepped onto the marble dais below the Emperor’s throne, a tall and thin man with a long pointed nose, deep-set blue eyes, and short curly hair. He wore a bright red uniform, and he carried with him a scroll. He unfurled the scroll, and read from it. His voice was deep, but possessed a feminine grace to it. “Your Imperial Highness, King of the West, Lord of Rule,” he said, declaring each title with distinction, “I bring before you the wanton elf-man Trikodemos.” He held out his right hand and gestured to Trik, who was standing beside the dais with the two guards. “I bring him before you to face your justice.”

The emperor rose from his throne and spoke with a voice that seemed large for a man of his stature. “Duke Mortimer,” he said, “you have acted bravely in your capture of this thief who has plagued my Empire for too long. Your service to my Empire and city will not be forgotten.”

Mortimer bowed his head to the Emperor. Then he stepped down from the dais and walked to the benches on the left side of the hall. There he took a seat next to several ministers dressed in red uniforms.

The guards pushed Trik onto the dais. “Kneel,” said one of the guards to Trik, an ugly man with fierce dark eyes.

“I have bad knees,” said Trik to the guard. “Surely His Highness will accommodate.”

The guard produced a baton from his cloak and smacked Trik with it, such that he stumbled forward and landed on his knees.

“Trikodemos,” said the Emperor, “I have heard of your deeds, and I have known your name for some time.”

“And yet you treat me as an enemy,” said Trik, “when I have been mostly a friend.”

“Quiet, fool,” whispered one of the guards. “It is the Emperor.”

“Duke Mortimer has informed me of your deeds,” said the Emperor, “both good and bad.” His eyes looked upon the court, at the many brightly-dressed ministers upon the benches, before returning again to Trik. “It seems you have been both a curse and blessing upon my Empire. Let it be known that good deeds cannot erase bad deeds. A man who has committed evil must be punished for his crimes.”

“If it is evil to pursue personal gain,” said Trik, “then is not every man evil?”

“You forget your place,” whispered the guard.

“I have thought long on this case,” said the Emperor. “It is true that this elf has done many great deeds, not the least of which is the defense of Alaquonde, my daughter state. Yet, I cannot forget his many dark deeds. Blasphemy, disturbing the peace, theft, poaching, and many other crimes too numerous to mention.” He raised his royal scepter, a short gold staff capped with the white head of an eagle. “Therefore, I pass this judgment. The elf who is named Trikodemos shall be hung from the neck until dead.”

“Justice indeed,” laughed Trik, under his breath.

The Emperor turned to the guard. “Take him away,” he said, and he waved his royal scepter.

The guards grasped Trik by his arms and led him away from the dais. As he passed the crowd of court ministers, some among them threw rotten vegetables and fruit at him. Others jeered at him. As Trik was led past Duke Mortimer, the Duke stared coldly at him.

*

The guards led Trik down a dark staircase to a narrow stone hall lit only by candles. At the end of this hall were a few small cells with nothing in them but straw. The guards shoved Trik into one of these cells, and then they shut its heavy iron door.

“Well, well,” said the guard with the fierce eyes, “you’re not so tough now.” He turned a key, locking the iron door.

Trik’s eyes narrowed on the guard. “What of my shackles?” he asked. “You must remove them by Imperial Law.”

The two guards looked at each other for a moment, and then they laughed. The fierce-eyed guard faced Trik, peering at him between the bars. “Someone will be along to take them off, eventually,” he said, and then he laughed a deep mean laugh.

Trik kicked the iron door, and it rattled on its hinges. The guard with fierce eyes laughed again. “You’ll look pretty at the end of a noose,” he said.

Trik cursed and backed up against the mossy stone wall of the cell. He was taken aback by the reek of the dungeon, an acrid mixture of bad water, feces, and mold. The smell was so foul that it left a taste in his mouth. He looked about the cell. There was nothing in it except for a pile of hay and a small hole in the floor that drained into the sewer. “That traitorous spider,” whispered Trik, as the two guards walked away.

“Trik,” said someone from the adjacent cell. “Is that you?” A young man concealed by shadow moved into the light and pressed his face against the bars. “It is you.”

Trik faced the prisoner in the adjacent cell. “Lord Durben,” said Trik, “For once I am sorry to see your face. For what crimes were you imprisoned?”

“I was never charged,” said the young noble. “The guards brought me here after they arrested us.”

“All of this is Mortimer’s doing,” said Trik. “If only the Emperor knew what vermin infests his court.”

“He will never know,” said Durben. “We alone know of Mortimer’s plot against the Emperor.”

“I still have your father’s letter,” said Trik. He took the scroll from a secret pocket in his tunic. “There is still time.”

Durben laughed grimly. “Yes, time,” he said, “a lifetime behind these bars.” He gripped the bars in his hands.

“There will be an opportunity for escape,” said Trik. “We must bide our time until that opportunity arises. Even the Emperor would not risk killing the son of a noble.”

“But Mortimer might,” said Durben.

“I have seen the way the other nobles look at him,” said Trik. “They have little love for him. That gives us hope.”

“Hope,” said Durben, grimly, “I would prefer help.”

“Patience,” said Trik. “We must be patient. Our time will come.”

*

Each day in the dark dungeon, a boy brought a piece of bread and a slice of mutton to the prisoners. Three days passed such, measured only by the dancing flame of the candle in the dim hallway. But on the third day, a different boy came with the food.

“Do you know who I am?” asked the boy. He stood at Trik’s cell with a tray of food in his hands.

Trik stepped out of the darkness, his hands still shackled behind his back. His eyes moved over the features of the young lad, his curly brown hair, his ruddy skin and gold eyes.

“I am the son of the Emperor,” said the boy, “his rightful heir.” He placed the tray of food on the floor beside the cell.

Trik’s eyes widened. “Your Highness,” said Trik. “What are you doing here?”

“My father is mad,” said the young prince. “Have you not heard?”

“Why should a prince of Rule visit a condemned criminal in his father’s dungeon?” asked Trik. “What do you know?”

The young prince glanced at Durben in the next cell, before once again turning his gaze to Trik. “I know enough,” he said. “I know that Baron Linden is a fair and honest lord, and that his son is innocent. I know that you are not a criminal. My father is under duress to keep the peace with Mortimer.” The prince cleared his throat. “I know that a time of great trials is approaching, and that Mortimer is exploiting it for his own purposes.”

“King Orodrin,” said Trik.

“Yes,” said the young prince, “I have heard he is preparing an army in the high mountains of his kingdom. He has not forgiven the Empire for its defense of Alaquonde.” The prince narrowed his eyes on Trik. “I know that it was you who defended the high walls. I have heard of your great deeds.”

Durben crept out of the shadows of his cell and approached the two in the candlelight. “My Lord Prince,” he said, “you should not be here.”

“Wrong,” said the young prince, turning to Durben. “It is you who should not be here. It is my father’s folly.”

“You are brave, My Prince,” said Trik, “but that will not be enough in the days to come. Mortimer wants the crown and any head that wears it.”

The young prince frowned. “And he has the support of some of my father’s court, whether they give it to him freely or not,” he said. “Some believe he will make peace. Even my father drinks his poisonous words.”

“What will you do?” asked Trik.

The young prince sighed. “I will free you and Lord Durben,” he said. He produced a black key from his pocket and held it up to Trik. His eyes grew fierce. “You must promise me that when you are free you will kill Mortimer.”

Trik stepped forward. “You have my word,” he said.

“And mine,” said Durben, his gray eyes glittering in the darkness.

The prince placed the key in the lock of Trik’s cell and turned it. The lock was released, and the iron door of the cell swung open. He walked down to Durben’s cell and used the same key to open his cell.

Trik and Durben stepped out of their cells.

“Your shackles,” said the young prince to Trik. Trik turned around. The prince worked on the lock of the shackles, until at last the shackles clicked open and fell to the floor.

“Even if we manage to get upstairs,” said Trik, “the palace guards will arrest us.”

“You must go through the sewers,” said the young prince. He glanced down at the sewer grating that covered the open drain beneath the hall. “It is a foul journey,” he said, “but it is the only way.”

Trik lifted the grating from the sewer drain. The passage was only large enough to crawl through, and there was sewage flowing in it. He stepped down into the drain.

“Lord Durben,” said Trik.

Durben was standing over the drain and pinching his nose. “This is no journey for a Lord,” he said.

“Is it not better than imprisonment?” asked Trik.

“Curse you, Trik,” said Durben. “If I live through this, I am going to get you back.”

“Hurry,” said the prince. “The guards will be back soon.”

Durben stepped into the drain and got onto his hands and knees. Trik crawled forward in the drain, and Durben followed him. Durben’s hands trembled as they touched the wet and foul-reeking floor of the drain. “I will vomit,” he said.

“Then vomit now and get it over with,” said Trik, crawling through the dark beneath the hall.

“Can you see anything?” asked Durben, crawling behind the elf.

“I see well enough,” said Trik, as he crawled.

They had not gotten far when there was a clank of iron as the young prince replaced the grating over the sewer drain. For a moment Trik halted, and Durben halted behind him. Trik sighed softly, and then he started crawling again, and Durben followed him.

*

After a while, the dungeon drain opened into the main sewer, a long narrow corridor that ran beneath the city. They climbed out of the drain and got to their feet on a narrow walkway. There was an opening above them to the city streets, and sunlight passed down through it into the sewer. The light revealed the corridor before them, a long narrow passage that stretched into darkness both ways. There was as narrow walkway on each side of a center trench, which was filled to the brim with sewage.

“This way,” said Trik, pointing to the right.

Durben wiped his hands on his thighs. “What do you see?” asked Durben.

“This corridor continues to the east side of the city and empties into a tributary of the Great River,” said Trik. “Come,” he said, and began walking down the narrow walk-way on the right side of the center trench.

Durben followed him along the narrow walkway. “We need to speak with the Emperor,” he said. “He will be in the palace.”

Trik halted and looked over his shoulder at Durben. “If we step again into the city, Mortimer’s guards will arrest us,” he said. “And you can be sure that they will not be so kind with us again.”

Durben nodded, sullenly.

Trik turned back to the dark corridor and continued marching along the narrow walkway. Durben looked over his shoulder into the darkness. There was a scratching sound that echoed from somewhere in the dark passage. He turned back to Trik with a fearful expression. “Wait for me,” he said, and he ran to catch up with the elf.

They had not traveled long when the scratching sound echoed again in the corridor. “Do you hear that?” asked Durben, trembling.

“Yes,” said Trik, “since we entered the sewer I have heard it.”

“What is it?” asked Durben.

“Rats,” said Trik.

“Oh, rats,” laughed Durben, stopping in the sunlight beneath an iron grating in the street above. His eyes narrowed, and his expression hardened. “A sound like that from rats?”

Trik turned back to him. “Here in the sewers,” he said, “they grow larger than ordinary rats.”

“How large?” asked Durben, looking back at the way they had come.

“Very large,” said Trik.

Durben trembled. “I have no weapon,” he said.

“Nor I,” said Trik, and as he said this, out of the darkness behind them came a great hiss. Trik looked over his shoulder, and his eyes widened. “Run,” he said.

“What do you see?” asked Durben, looking into the darkness.

“Do as I say,” said Trik. “Run now.” He started running along the narrow walkway, his boots clamping against the wet stone.

Out of the darkness and into the light crawled a hideous creature, foul smelling and fetid, a rat, but larger than a wolf with black fur, long black claws, and beady black eyes. Its long narrow snout sniffed the air. Durben gave a cry, and raced past Trik as he ran down the narrow walkway.

Durben halted when he reached the end of the main sewer. There the sewer corridor ended, and the refuse of the city plunged ten feet into the tributary of the Great River below. “Jump,” shouted Trik. He stepped out of the sewer and fell into river below. Durben did the same, falling into the rushing water.

They climbed out of the water and onto a grassy plain that stretched for miles beyond the city of Rule. The plain extended to the east of the city, interrupted only by the Great River. North of the city, the high peaks of the Stormdrake Mountains pierced the sky.

Trik smiled as he looked upon the open fields. “We’re free,” he said.

Durben looked at him, frowning.

*

The window shutters hung open at the Inn of the Firehound, lighting the parlor room of the small establishment. Above the fireplace was a painting of a black hound with flames in its mouth. Durben and Trik were seated across from each other at a table beside the fireplace. Durben was staring at the painting above the fireplace. He turned from the painting and faced Trik. “I should never have come,” he said. “I should have stayed home.”

Trik was not looking at Durben. He was studying the mountain peaks through the window over the table. He scratched his chin, but still he said nothing.

“Did you hear me?” asked Durben. His eyes narrowed on the elf. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

Still Trik remained expressionless, his eyes set on the peaks north of the inn. At last he turned to Durben. “Don’t think for a moment that Mortimer will stop at Rule,” he said. “If Rule falls, he will march next on Linden and your father.”

“At least in Linden I would have my father’s army,” said Durben. “Here there is nothing.”

“I promised your father,” said Trik. “I promised him that I would deliver his message.”

Durben nodded. “Oh,” he said, “and what a fine job you’ve done. If you had done any better, we would be dead.” He tapped the fingers of his right hand nervously on the table. “I must get home,” he said. “If you won’t come with me, I’ll go myself.”

Trik glared at him. “Mortimer’s men will find you,” he said, “just as they did before.”

Durben shook his head. “How did I get mixed up in this?” he asked, his expression turning to grief. “I’m a farm boy, not a fighter.”

“You’re a Lord,” said Trik, “like your father before you. Act like it. What would your father say if he could see you now?”

Durben sighed. “Probably that I am disappointing him,” he said.

“Your father,” said Trik, “the tactician. Remember,” he said, “it was your father who discovered the truth of Mortimer. It was your father who sent us to Rule.”

“Perhaps,” said Durben, “Mortimer will forgive me. I’ve only just become a man. He would show mercy.”

Trik shook his head. “He would kill you,” he said. “You know that. Whether he wanted to or not, he no longer has a choice in the matter. Mortimer has turned against the Emperor, and his men have taken the city.” He turned toward the window again. “He would certainly kill me.”

“But what can we do now?” asked Durben. “Mortimer’s men will be looking for us. We can’t go back to Linden, and we can’t stay in Rule.”

Trik scratched his chin. “There is someone I know,” he said.

Durben glanced over his shoulder. A group of men were walking over to the table behind them. He looked back at Trik, and whisepered, “We should go now.”

Trik nodded. “I know a place,” he whispered.

“Then why do we sit here?” asked Durben.

“Come,” said Trik. He got to his feet.

“Well,” asked Durben, standing, “where is it?”

“You won’t like it,” said Trik, walking away from the table.

“I hate when you say that,” said Durben.

They stepped outside together. The sun was low in the west, and soon it would be dusk. The mountains loomed before them, cold and gray and with peaks white with snow. “Come,” said Trik, and he marched toward the mountains.

“Where are you going?” asked Durben, running to catch up with him.

“To see an old friend,” said Trik.

*

Their clothes were dry by the time they reached the foot of the first mountain of the Stormdrake Mountains. The mountain towered above them, its lower slope carpeted by a pine forest. The sun was low in the west, and the shadows of the trees stretched long.

The sun descended as they climbed, and soon it was dark. They halted at a high rocky point in the pine forest. The moon was bright in the sky above them, and its light illuminated the mountainside. In the distance a small vein of smoke spiraled above the trees.

“What are you looking at?” asked Durben.

“Come,” said Trik, stepping into the pine trees before them.

“You’re so secretive,” said Durben, following Trik. “I wish you would just tell me.”

They approached a clearing in the pine forest. In the center of the clearing stood a small wood cabin with smoke rising from its chimney. A stack of chopped wood leaned against the cabin, and nearby an axe lay on a tree stump.

“There is something I don’t like about this place,” said Durben. “There is a strange feeling in the air here. A sort of heaviness.”

“I feel it too,” said Trik.

Durben gave Trik a troubled look. “What are we doing here?” he asked. “You said you knew someone who could help us.”

“So I did,” said Trik, “and so he will.” He knocked loudly on the cabin’s front door.

For some time, there was no answer, but then footsteps could be heard inside. The door creaked open, and a man with a thick gray beard peered out at them. He wore leather sandals and a long black robe. His fingernails had not been trimmed and hung well past his fingertips. “You again,” he said gruffly, and he scowled.

“Mage Nob,” said Trik. “This is Lord Durben, Baron Linden’s son.”

“Go away,” said Nob. He backed into the cabin and began to shut the door.

Trik grabbed the door. “Nob,” he said. “I need your help, and you know well that you owe me.”

“There is no magic,” said Nob. “I can’t help you.” He walked to the fireplace inside the cabin. The fire roared in the fireplace, filling the cabin with golden light. There was a chair before the fireplace and a shelf beside it covered with many books. He sat in the chair. “What do you want?”

Trik stepped into the cabin with Durben close behind him. “A long time ago,” said Trik, “I saved your life. That day you promised me your aid, should I ever need it.”

“That was long ago,” said Nob, picking up a book from the shelf beside him. He opened it and pretended to read from it.

“The time has come,” said Trik. He closed the door behind Durben. “This is Baron Linden’s son.”

Nob looked up from his book. “I don’t care if he is the Emperor’s son,” said Nob. “I did not ask for your company, and you are not welcome here.”

“Nob,” growled Trik. “Duke Mortimer’s men are in the city.”

“Is that so?” said Nob, sarcastically.

“You know as well as I do that Mortimer wants the throne,” said Trik. “Ever since Prince Rodorick became emperor, he has sought it.”

“He’ll get it too, no doubt,” said Nob.

Trik’s expression hardened. “If the Emperor dies,” said Trik, “there will be a civil war in the Empire. Thousands will perish.”

“Let them,” said Nob.

“You were once the Emperor’s mage,” said Trik. “Were you not sworn to protect the Empire?”

Nob shook his heavy bearded head. “The Emperor has no need for magic any more,” said Nob. “The practice of the Old Art is dying. I am the last mage. When I die, magic will die with me.”

“You have become truly terrible in your old age,” said Trik, “and to think I once counted you among my friends.” He looked over his shoulder at Durben. “He’ll be no aid, this one. He hasn’t the power.”

Nob placed his book on the shelf beside him. “What did you come to ask?” he said.

Trik turned slowly to face Nob. “We need disguises,” he said. “The city is under duress. There is no way to enter as we are.”

“Disguises,” said Nob. “That’s it.” He laughed. “Yes, I believe I can do that.” He got to his feet. “Come this way,” he said.

“And a room for the night,” said Trik.

“You’re pushing your luck,” said Nob. “If I relent, what will you ask of me next?”

“Nob,” said Trik. “You owe me that at least.”

“One night,” said Nob. “In the morning, I will disguise you. Then you will leave, and never return.”

“You have my word,” said Trik.

Nob led Trik and Durben to a ladder leaning against the wall in the back of the cabin. Nob turned a handle and dropped a door to a loft above the room. “You will rest here,” said Nob. “There are blankets and hay. It is warmed by the fire.”

“It will do,” said Trik.

Trik climbed the ladder to the loft. There were blankets set upon the hard timbers, but the ceiling was low and damp. Durben joined him in the loft.

“Your friend is a mad man,” whispered Durben.

“Perhaps,” said Trik, “but he will help us.”

*

Trik awoke in the morning. There was a half-light seeping into the loft from cracks between the timbers of the walls. Durben lay beside him asleep under a sheepskin blanket. He had slept through the night, while Trik had had slept little and awakened early. Trik crawled around Durben and stepped down the ladder from the loft.

Nob was sitting in his chair beside the fireplace as Trik stepped onto the floor of the cabin. The mage was plucking leaves from a strange plant in his lap and placing them in a bowl in the stand beside the chair. Nob did not look at Trik as he walked over to him. “You know you can’t win,” said Nob.

“What do you mean?” asked Trik.

“I have divined the future,” said Nob. “A terrible fate awaits you, and your precious Emperor.”

Trik sighed. “You were never that good at the Old Arts,” he said.

“You speak proudly for an exile,” said Nob. “Tell me, why do you suddenly throw in your lot with humans.”

“I have lived too long in the Empire to see its end,” said Trik.

Nob’s eyes focused on the plant in his lap, and he fiercely plucked the last remaining leaves from it. “You shouldn’t have brought the boy into this,” said Nob. “You know that.”

Trik’s expression hardened. “It was his father who sent him,” he said. “The Emperor would not have believed me, had I gone to Rule alone.”

Nob snorted. “You truly believe that Rodorick can do anything now?” said Nob. “He is as helpless as a baby in Mortimer’s hand.”

Trik’s eyes narrowed on Nob. “You still hate Rodorick,” he said.

Nob turned away and did not look at Trik as he hissed, “yes.”

“He was only doing what he thought best when he dismissed you from court,” said Trik.

“His father would have disagreed,” said Nob, turning to Trik. “But I suppose the time for that advice has passed, along with his dynasty.”

“Rodorick did what he thought was best for the Empire,” said Trik.

“Himself, you mean,” said Nob. He dropped the last of the leaves into the pot. “He did it to secure his throne. And look what has come of his decision.”

“Is the spell ready?” asked Trik, glancing down at the pot of leaves.

“Yes,” said Nob, lifting the pot off the stand. “Wake your young friend.”

“I am awake,” said Durben, standing on the ladder. His eyelids were still heavy from sleep. “What have I missed?”

“Nothing of importance,” said Nob.

Durben stepped beside Trik and looked down at the old mage. “I remember my father telling me stories about magic,” he said. “He said magic is an evil thing.”

“I suppose then you won’t accept my help,” said Nob, glancing at the young lord.

“I only meant magic itself,” said Durben, “not you, Mage Nob.”

“Mage Nob,” repeated Nob, and he laughed. “Once, that was my title. Now I am only Nob.” He took a granite pestle from the stand and began to smash the dark leaves in the pot with it. When the leaves were crushed he set the pestle aside on the stand and looked at the two before him. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said Trik.

The old mage whispered some strange words, and then he blew upon the crushed leaves in the pot. The residue from the leaves wafted over Trik and Durben.

“Mint,” said Durben, and he smiled. “It smells of mint.” He was surprised, however, because his voice was not his. He looked down at his hands. They were the hands of a soldier in Mortimer’s army. He wore a red cloak and leather armor, and there was a dagger in a scabbard hanging from a leather belt around his waist. He looked at Trik. The elf was adorned in a red cloak and silver armor, and he wore a silver helmet on his head. The body of the elf had changed in appearance as well, to resemble one of Mortimer’s people. His hair was short and curly, and his skin was brown. It was only his eyes that remained as they were before, blue-green and glowing with elven light.

“You are disguised,” said Nob, and he groaned as he got to his feet. “My work is done.”

“You have my thanks,” said Trik.

“You shouldn’t be so pleased,” said Nob, looking up into the eyes of the elf. “It is a bad spell.”

“Will it last long?” asked Trik.

Nob shook his head. “Impossible to say,” he said. “I should think a few days at least.”

“Then we leave now,” said Trik. He turned to Durben. “We have much to do.”

Nob walked up to Trik. “I have one more gift for you,” he said. “I penned it this morning.” He reached into his dark robe and withdrew a scroll. “Mortimer’s men will interrogate you at the city gate.” He handed the scroll to Trik. “Show them this. It is a copy of military orders.”

Trik looked over the handwritten lines on the scroll, carefully reading the words there. When he was done, he nodded. Then he turned to Durben. “We leave now,” he said.

*

Trik and Durben approached the city from the north, taking the Imperial Road to the main gate. There a crowd had gathered, some on horseback and others on foot. A group of guards wearing red cloaks blocked their entrance to the city. Trik and Durben, in their disguises, marched past the crowd and halted before a group of guards at the main gate.

“You two,” said a tall guard, pointing at them, “what are you doing away from your posts?”

Trik approached the guard, and Durben followed at his side. “Captain,” said Trik, “we were ordered to search for the escaped prisoners.”

“I never gave any orders to leave the city,” said the captain, his dark eyes studying Trik’s face under his silver helmet.

Trik cleared his throat. “The orders are from the Duke himself,” he said.

Durben glanced at Trik, his eyes wide. Trik reached under his cloak and withdrew the scroll that Nob had given them. He handed it to the captain.

The captain unrolled the scroll and glanced over the text on the lambskin parchment. “Says here,” said the captain, “you were to search every traveler from Rule to the mountains.”

Trik nodded. “And so we have,” he said.

The captain glanced over Trik’s shoulder. “I see no captives,” he said.

“There were none to take,” said Trik. “If the prisoners went then this way, they are already in the mountains.”

The captain studied Durben’s disguised face, his nostrils flaring. “I don’t recognize you,” he said. “Are you with the brigade?”

“We serve directly under the Duke,” said Trik.

“Is that right?” said the captain.

“Do we have your leave to return to our posts in the city, Captain?” asked Trik.

The captain faced Trik and his eyes narrowed on the elf’s eyes. For a moment he said nothing. Then he handed the scroll back to Trik, and turned aside. “Return to your posts immediately,” he said.

Trik glanced at Durben, and Durben nodded. They started toward the main gate. The red-cloaked guards cleared a path to the gate. Trik and Durben marched under the portcullis and into the city.

Even though it was a weekday, the city streets of Rule were empty. Few people were outside, and those who were, clung to the shadows. On the corner of every street, two of Mortimer’s soldiers were posted, each armed with a spear. “Mortimer must’ve put the entire city under martial law,” whispered Trik. “I’ve never seen the streets so empty.”

“How could Mortimer give such orders?’ asked Durben. “The Emperor would never allow it.”

“It is not the Emperor,” said Trik, “who rules here.”

One of the soldiers whistled at them as they walked past him. Trik and Durben halted on the road. The soldier walked up to them. “Where are you going?” he asked.

Trik faced him. “We are returning to our posts,” he said.

“Under whose orders?” asked the soldier.

“The Duke’s,” said Trik. “We are to report to the palace immediately.”

“I shall speak with my commander,” said the soldier.

Trik’s expression became fierce. “Sergeant,” he said, “I am a captain of the guard. I will not tolerate insubordination.”

The soldier’s mouth snapped shut, and he jumped to attention. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Carry on, Sergeant,” said Trik.

The soldier saluted him, and then he stepped back and returned to his post on the corner of the street.

Durben laughed softly.

Trik and Durben continued along the street, passing under many tall stone buildings, until at last the golden spires of the palace towered in the distance. The seven white towers loomed high over the gray stone buildings of the city. At the top of each tower was a spire, and waving above each spire was a flag that displayed the Imperial Emblem, a golden crown against an eclipsed sun. Below the palace stood a group of ten soldiers wearing red cloaks. Each soldier carried a sword and a shield, and each wore a helmet with a red feather rising from the top of the helmet.

“The Imperial Guards have been removed from the palace gate,” said Trik, “and replaced with Mortimer’s soldiers.”

“Shall we turn back?” asked Durben.

“No,” said Trik.

They approached the ten guards at the main gate of the palace. Of the ten guards, one of them stepped forward to speak, a tall lieutenant with a broadsword. “Halt,” said the lieutenant, “that’s far enough.”

Trik and Durben halted before the gate. “We are in a hurry,” said Trik. “We have urgent news to deliver to the Duke.”

“Come here,” said the lieutenant, pointing at Trik.

Trik stepped forward and halted before the lieutenant. “We must be on our way without delay,” said Trik. “We have urgent news for the Duke.”

“What is this news?” asked the lieutenant.

Trik took a step back. “It is for the Duke’s ears alone,” he said.

“I am the Duke’s ears,” said the lieutenant. “Whatever you wish to tell him you must report to me.”

“What is your rank and number?” asked Trik.

“Excuse me,” said the lieutenant.

“Your rank and number,” said Trik, “so that when the Duke asks why I am late, I can report the cause.”

The lieutenant stiffened. Sweat glistened on his brow. He glanced at the other soldiers standing before the gate. “Let them pass,” he said, waving at the guards. The soldiers stepped away from the gate.

Trik nodded at the lieutenant. He walked back to Durben, and together they passed through the gate and into the palace courtyard.

As they approached the doors to the palace, Durben whispered to Trik, “I thought we were done for.”

“Never doubt a soldier’s fear of his commander,” said Trik.

*

The Emperor had retired to a small office adjacent to the great hall. He did not wear his crown and royal robes, but was dressed instead in a gray coat and a tunic. He sat behind a large stone desk and was writing something on a parchment with a quill pen.

There was a sudden knock at the door. One of Emperor’s guards, a man dressed in gold and black, opened the door and peered inside. “Your Highness,” he said, “there is someone to see you.”

The Emperor looked up from his writing. “I’m not aware of any meetings this afternoon,” said the Emperor. “Send him away.”

“My Emperor,” said the guard, “he tells me it is important. He says he is an emissary of Duke Mortimer with a message from the Duke himself.”

The Emperor frowned. “Hurry up then,” he said. “Let him in.”

The guard opened the door. Standing outside was Trik disguised as Mortimer’s emissary with Durben beside him. They stepped inside, and the guard closed the door behind them.

The Emperor’s expression hardened. “Who are you?” he asked. “I don’t recognize you.”

“Emperor Rodorick,” said Trik. “I don’t have much time to explain.”

“I have a lot of work to do,” said the Emepror. “What does Mortimer want now?”

Trik took a few steps forward. “More than you know,” said Trik.

“Is that so,” said the Emperor. He dropped his quill pen on the desk. “I’m not one for riddles. I have much work to do, and you are wasting my time. Either give me Mortimer’s message, or be on your way.”

“The message is this,” said Trik. His elven eyes shined in the candlelight of the room. “Your Highness, his throne and palace, and his Empire are all in peril.”

“That is not news,” said the Emperor. “I know of King Orodrin and his army. The Imperial Legions are already deployed to counter his forces in the south of my Empire.”

“What if I told you that Mortimer is close with King Orodrin,” said Trik. “That his defense of your realm is only a feint, and that even now he is in league with King Orodrin.”

The Emperor’s eyes narrowed on Trik. “That is a grave accusation,” said the Emperor. “Why would the Duke betray his Lord and Empire?”

“Because Mortimer wishes to be Emperor,” said Trik, “and King Orodrin has promised him that he will be. After you are deposed.”

The Emperor studied the soldier who stood before him. “You are a captain in Mortimer’s army,” said the Emperor. “How have you learned this information?”

“I am not one of Mortimer’s,” said Trik. “I am in disguise, with the son of Baron Linden, who brings you this message.”

“And where is this son you speak of?” asked the Emperor, glancing at Durben. “I don’t see him.”

Trik turned to Durben. “Step forward, Lord Durben,” he said.

Durben stepped forward. “It is true, My Emperor,” said Durben. “I was sent to deliver this message from my father, but Mortimer arrested me when I reached the city gates.”

“You do not look like Durben,” said the Emperor. “I know the boy. I have seen him at his father’s castle.”

“I am him,” said Durben. “Mage Nob put this spell on me. Hear my words. I am the son of Baron Linden. My father sent me to warn Your Highness.”

Trik placed the Baron’s scroll on the Emperor’s desk. The Emperor unbound the scroll and read from it. His eyes widened.

“My father,” said Durben, “warns you of Mortimer’s treason.”

“If what you have told me is true,” said the Emperor, “then I have many things to do.” He looked down at the scroll on his desk.

“There is not much time,” said Trik. “Even as we speak, King Orodrin’s army is marching west across the Frozen North.”

“Mortimer tells me King Orodrin is marching south,” said the Emperor.

“That is a lie,” said Trik. “Mortimer knows that with your legions in the south there will be nothing to stop King Orodrin from attacking the capital.”

The Emperor picked up a glass of ink from his desk and hurled it at the wall. The glass shattered against the stone. “Curses,” he shouted. “I have opened the city to a traitor.”

“It is not too late,” said Trik. “Have your Garrison retake the city and arrest Mortimer.”

“My Garrison is stationed in the barracks outside the city,” said the Emperor. “They have been ordered to await deployment with the Legions.” The Emperor looked at Trik. “You will need a letter,” he said. He took his quill and a new piece of parchment from his desk and began to write. When he was done, he stamped the parchment with candle wax and the signet from his ring. “Take this,” he said, holding out the rolled parchment.

Trik stepped forward and took the parchment. “Your Highness,” he said, bowing.

“Take these orders to the Captain of the Garrison,” said the Emperor. “Make sure that none other than he sees it. Do not tarry, even for a moment.”

“We will do as you command, Your Highness,” said Trik. He and Durben bowed before the Emperor.

“Go now,” said the Emperor. “The fate of the Empire is in your hands.”

*

Trik and Durben made for the palace doors, but their armor was heavy and encumbered them. Everywhere about the palace Mortimer’s soldiers lurked. As Trik and Durben reached the palace doors, the magic that disguised them began to ware, and little by little it faded.

“Your arm,” said Durben, as Trik reached for the palace doors. Trik’s arm, once covered with leather, was now bare.

Trik glanced at his naked flesh. “Nob,” he cursed. “The magic is fading too quickly.”

They stepped out into the courtyard. Across the courtyard was the gate, and it was patrolled by Mortimer’s guards. “We won’t make it through the gate,” said Durben, and as he said that, Trik’s helmet disappeared and was replaced by his own long dark hair.

Trik’s eyes narrowed on the guards. “Yes, you will,” said Trik. He turned to Durben. “Take this,” he said, handing Durben the rolled parchment from the Emperor. Give it to the Captain of the Garrison. Make sure he gets it.”

Durben placed the parchment in a pocket in his cloak. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Go now,” said Trik, “before the magic wares off.” He pushed Durben ahead.

Durben walked up to the guards at the gate, and there he was stopped by the lieutenant. “Where are you going?” asked the lieutenant.

Suddenly one of the other guards shouted, “the prisoner.”

Both the lieutenant and Durben looked back at the courtyard. Trik was running across the courtyard, and making a good amount of noise.

“Get him,” shouted the lieutenant.

As the guards rushed into the courtyard, Durben slipped through the gate. The guards surrounded Trik and drew their swords. The lieutenant approached Trik, smiling at him. “The elf prisoner,” he said. “Mortimer will be pleased to see you.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Trik, glaring at the lieutenant.

“Search him,” said the lieutenant to one of the young guards.

The young guard searched the elf, unbuttoning his shirt and emptying all of his pockets. After finding nothing, the young guard stepped back. “He’s clean,” said the young guard.

“So,” said the lieutenant, “you were foolish enough to return. You’ll regret that soon enough.”

“I regret nothing,” said Trik.

The lieutenant nodded and smiled. “We’ll see,” he said. He clapped iron shackles on the elf’s wrists. “Come along now,” he said. “You don’t want to be late.”

*

Trik was led, with his hands shackled behind his back, to a room in the tallest tower of the palace. There, he was brought before Duke Mortimer. The Duke was dressed in his finest red robes, and he held Trik’s sword in his right hand. Two of the guards remained in the room with Trik and Mortimer, but the others returned to the gate. The Duke approached Trik, holding his sword. “This is a fine blade,” he said. “It’s a pity that it once belonged to a thief.” He placed the sword on a small table in the center of the room. “Where is your friend, the boy my men arrested?”

“There is no criminal greater than a traitor,” said Trik. “You are a villainous spider.”

Mortimer smiled as he stepped before Trik. His tan skin was glistening with oil. He might have been beautiful, if it were not for his nose. “A spider is foolish,” he said, his voice tinged with a soft grace. “When a spider weaves its web, the spider knows nothing. I, on the other hand, know exactly what I do.”

“You commit treason,” said Trik, glaring at the Duke.

Mortimer made no expression. “I am the Emperor’s closest confidante,” he said. “My half-sister is the Empress. I have no need to take what is already mine.”

“Then why do your men patrol the streets?” asked Trik.

“I am here in the Emperor’s defense,” said Mortimer. “The Emperor requested my aid, and I have given it freely.”

“With one hand you hold the city,” said Trik, “but with the other you reach for the crown.”

Mortimer shook his head. “How many good deeds must a man do?” he said. “I have come to the Emperor at his need. I have bolstered the city for his defense.”

“Soon,” said Trik, “all will know that you are a liar and a traitor.”

Mortimer smiled grimly. “Is this how you beg for my mercy?” he asked. “I serve the Emperor and see that his will is done.” He pointed a long slim finger at Trik. “You will hang,” he said, “but first your lying tongue will be cut out.” He glanced at the guards behind Trik. “Take him to the dungeon,” he said. “Put a guard on him at all times. I don’t want a moment to go by that he is not watched.” He turned away from Trik and walked toward a desk at the far end of the room.

The guards moved forward, and grasped the elf. “I will see your head,” shouted Trik, as the guards struggled to take him away. “I will see it on a spike.”

Mortimer did not turn, nor did he give any expression, as the guards dragged Trik away from the room and down, down the many dark passages to the dungeon.

*

Trik lay in a cell in the dark dungeon beneath the palace. He had not eaten nor drank in nearly two days, and his face was pale and sunken. A guard stood outside his cell, clutching a spear. Trik’s mind replayed the events of the previous days. Nob’s spell had worn off too soon. Nob the fool! Had Durben been captured? Why had Mortimer not killed him? Where was Durben? Was he alive?

When three days passed without food and without water, Trik began to hallucinate. He imagined eyes peering at him from the shadows of the dungeon, eyes watching his every move.

On the fourth day, Trik lay against the bars of his cell, unable to stand, his eyelids fluttering. His lips were dry and cracked, and his throat was too hoarse to shout or even to speak. “Water,” groaned Trik, the word barely a whisper.

The guard posted at his cell did not move. The candlelight played on his face, making terrible shadows. The eyes peered from those shadows. “Your accomplice,” asked the guard, “where is he?”

But Trik said nothing, whether because he no longer understood the words or because he had not the strength to respond.

On the fifth day, reckoned only by the change of the guard, Trik lay on his back in the cell. He knew that he would die soon, and the demons in the shadows would take him. He heard the clamor of armor and boots and the rattle of spears against shields. He saw the cell guard drop dead before the cell.

“Hello,” said a voice that Trik did not recognize in his stupor. “Look this way.”

“He’s dead,” said another voice. “Let him be.”

“He’s not dead,” said the same familiar voice. “Look at him. He’s moving.”

Trik tilted his head toward the corridor, and his eyes peeled open. The guard lay dead on the floor, and in his place stood three of the Emperor’s soldiers and a young blond man wearing the armor and weapons of an Imperial Guard. “What have they done to you?” asked Durben. He turned to the soldier next to him. “Give me water.”

One of the Imperial Guards handed the young blond man a goatskin canteen. Another unlocked the cell door. The young blond man entered the cell. As he approached the elf, he dropped to his knees. “Here, drink this,” he said. He pressed the canteen’s mouth against Trik’s dry cracked lips. “Drink.”

Trik drank, slowly at first, and then faster, until he had drained the canteen. “Give me another,” shouted the young blond man. A guard handed him a full canteen. The young man again made the elf drink.

At last, Trik had the strength to get to his knees, and as he did so he looked into the eyes of Durben. “You’re alive,” he groaned.

“Yes,” said Durben, handing the goatskin canteen to Trik.

Trik drained it and threw the empty canteen on the floor. He looked about. There were three soldiers with Durben, each dressed as Durben was in the Imperial colors. “What took so long?” asked Trik, his voice hoarse.

Durben smiled. “Get to your feet,” he said. He stood and held out his hand to Trik.

The elf took Durben’s hand, and with some help, managed to stand. He glanced again at the Imperial Guards. There was blood on their armor and shields, and dents from the blows of swords. “What happened?” he asked.

Durben handed Trik a broadsword. “The Imperial Garrison is taking back the city,” said Durben, “but there is still fighting. And Mortimer has the Emperor locked in the palace with him.”

“I will kill him,” said Trik, and he stepped clumsily forward.

Durben grabbed the elf before he fell over. “First,” said Durben, “you need to recover your strength.” He put his shoulder under Trik’s arm.

Trik shook his head. “Help me out of here,” he said.

Durben looked at the guards. “Help me with him,” he said. “Let’s get him to the street.”

*

The Imperial Guards assisted Trik up from the dungeon and out into the light of day. It was morning, and the sky was red over the city. The city streets were filled with rubble and corpses, even as the golden spires of the palace shined in the sunlight.

“Mortimer and his soldiers have barricaded themselves in the palace,” said Durben. “The Duke says that he will kill the Emperor and his family if we try to enter.”

“The coward,” said Trik, his voice regaining some of its timbre.

A man with a golden helmet and a trim silver beard and white eyebrows joined Trik and Durben. “Captain of the Imperial Garrison,” said Durben, “Lord Ulrick.”

Lord Ulrick smiled. “I see Durben was not fooling me. You are indeed an elf. And, I hear you are a good fighter.”

Trik’s face hardened. “I’m better when I am not starved,” said Trik. He glanced at the palace. “Where is Mortimer?”

Lord Ulrick faced the highest tower and pointed at a balcony about thirty feet above the ground. “He is in there,” said Lord Ulrick. “We estimate there are still forty guards with him.”

Trik looked at the force of the Imperial Garrison arrayed in the street. “We have five times that number here,” he said.

“Yes,” said Lord Ulrick, “but Mortimer is not stupid. He holds the Emperor and his family hostage in the tower. We risk their lives, should we attempt to enter the palace.”

“We are at an impasse,” said Trik, his brow furrowing.

“I am afraid so,” said Lord Ulrick.

“And King Orodrin is marching,” said Trik.

“My scouts tell me,” said Lord Ulrick. “Orodrin’s army is three days away.”

“And the Legions?” asked Trik. “Where are they?”

“The closest is seven days march,” said Lord Ulrick. “I have sent messengers to alert them.”

“We do not have time to play Mortimer’s game,” said Trik. “We must free the Emperor, if there is any hope to defend the city.”

“You are not wrong,” said Lord Ulrick, “but Mortimer refuses to come out.”

“What have you offered him?” asked Trik.

Lord’s Ulrick’s eyebrows rose. “Offered him?” he said. “Duke Mortimer is a traitor. My Lord Emperor would never permit me to bargain with a traitor.”

“This is not an ordinary day,” said Trik. “King Orodrin’s army is marching. The Emperor must be free to defend the city.” His eyes narrowed on Lord Ulrick. “We must offer terms Mortimer will accept.”

Lord Ulrick’s face hardened. “And what sort of deal do you think we should offer the traitor?” he asked.

“Send a messenger,” said Trik, “tell Mortimer that we are prepared to offer him safe escort from the city—for him and his men.”

“Never,” shouted Lord Ulrick.

Trik turned to Durben. “Lord Durben is the son of Baron Linden, the Emperor’s closest confidant,” he said. “What does he say?”

Durben sighed heavily. “I say that we offer the Duke a safe passage,” he said.

Lord Ulrick frowned. “So be it,” he said. “I will arrange the meeting with the Duke.” He pointed at Trik. “And you will be there with me. If this should fail, it will be on your head.”

*

Duke Mortimer walked onto the palace balcony with three of his guards. Each guard held a member of the royal family, who were bound and gagged. The hostages were the toddler son, the teenage daughter, and the young prince who had freed Trik and Durben in the dungeon. A knife was at the throat of each hostage. Mortimer walked to the end of the balcony.

Below the balcony stood Trik, Durben, and Lord Ulrick, without weapons and without helmets.

“Lord Ulrick,” said Mortimer. “How fares the Lord of the Garrison?”

“I am here to oversee the proceedings,” he said, “not to discuss trifles. I believe you know my comrades.” He turned to Trik and Durben.

Mortimer’s face became menacing for a moment. Then he spoke in a sweet tone. “I have the Emperor, the Empress, and his three children in my care,” he said.

“We offer terms,” said Lord Ulrick, “a safe departure for you and your men from the city.”

Mortimer smiled. “We shall keep our weapons,” he said.

Trik nodded at Lord Ulrick.

“You shall have it,” said Lord Ulrick. “Your men and you are free to go. You will not be harassed in your departure. You may keep your armor and weapons.”

“I will keep the prince with me until we pass the city gate,” said Mortimer, “as a measure of good faith.”

Trik frowned. “The spider,” he hissed.

“So be it,” said Lord Ulrick.

Mortimer smiled as he looked down at them, his vilest and most perverse smile yet. And he cast a grim eye on Trik. “We have a deal,” he said.

There was a brief period of waiting. Then the palace doors were unlocked, and several of Mortimer’s guards issued forth. Behind them marched Mortimer’s himself, with the young prince close beside him and with his hands bound behind his back. The prince’s shaggy brown hair lay over his blue eyes.

Lord Ulrick issued the orders for his men to stand down. The Imperial Garrison departed from the streets, opening a path to the north gate of the city. Duke Mortimer’s party marched toward the gate. As they filed past Trik and Durben, once again Mortimer cast a dark glance at the elf. In the Duke’s right hand was Trik’s sword, shining silver in the morning light.

After Mortimer and his party had departed from the city, the Emperor and his Empress emerged from the palace. Their hands had been unbound, and they were unharmed. With the Empress were her two youngest children. “Your Majesties,” said Lord Ulrick, as the Emperor walked out to him.

“Where is my heir?” asked the Emperor. “Where is Prince Rickor?”

“My Emperor,” said Lord Ulrick, “Mortimer has taken him as a good faith measure. He will not be returned until his men are free of the city.”

“You fool,” shouted the Emperor. “The Duke will not free him.”

Durben stepped forward. “My Lord, it was my idea,” he said.

“No,” said Trik, coming between Durben and the Emperor. “It was mine.”

“The elf,” said the Emperor. “I know your voice.” He stepped toward Trik. “It was you.”

“Yes,” said Trik. “Mage Nob disguised Lord Durben and me, so that we might enter the palace.” He turned to Durben. “Lord Durben delivered your message to the Garrison. It was he who freed your city.”

The Emperor looked at Lord Ulrick. “Is this true?” he asked.

“It is true,” said Lord Ulrick.

The Emperor looked at Trik. “Then I owe you an apology, and a debt of gratitude,” he said. “At the very least you have earned a pardon.”

“Your Highness,” said Trik, bowing his head.

One of the Imperial Guards rushed down the street to the assembled party in the palace courtyard. He halted before Lord Ulrick. “My Captain,” he said, “Lord Mortimer has left the city. They are on horse, and are headed for the Frozen North.”

“And my son?” asked the Emperor.

The guard bowed low before the Emperor. “My Emperor,” he said, “they have taken the prince with them.”

The Emperor faced Lord Ulrick. “Then it is as I feared,” he said.

“But the city is safe, My Emperor,” said Lord Ulrick. “The Imperial Garrison has retaken it in full.”

The Emperor looked him deep in the eyes. “And I thank you for what you have done,” he said. He turned to his Empress and his two children. “We have much to be thankful for, and we have much to do.” He looked at Lord Ulrick. “Convene the war counsel. Alert my nobles. We have a war to fight.”

Lord Ulrick bowed his head. “Yes, My Lord,” he said.

The Emperor faced Trik. “And you shall have a seat in my counsel,” he said. “I am indebted to you.”

“I will fight,” said Trik, “until the traitor is dead and your son returned to you. I have made that promise.”

“Give me your sword,” said the Emperor.

Trik handed the emperor the sword that Durben had given him.

“Kneel,” said the Emperor.

Trik knelt before him. The Emperor placed the point of the blade on Trik’s right shoulder. “Trik, I pardon you in full,” he said. He placed the point of the sword on Trik’s left shoulder. “And I raise your status to a Knight of the Empire. “Now rise,” he said. “Rise, Sir Trik, Knight of Rule.”

Trik got to his feet. “My Emperor,” he said.

Trik and the Emperor faced the men of the Imperial Garrison, and as they did so, the soldiers cheered them, and a great cry of victory rang up from the city.