The Adventures of Trik the Elf

They were riding by moonlight. The sun had set long ago, and the stars were twinkling in the night sky. Here and there a lone firefly ignited above the tall grass of the southern prairie. Before them, the gray terrain swept downward until it reached the coast of the South Sea. The elf pulled on his reins, bringing his stallion to a halt.

“Ozymandias,” said Trik, turning to his companion, a dark stranger riding a black charger.

Ozymandias flung back his hood, revealing a face scarred and worn by time. His hair was long and gray, and his right eye was covered by a leather patch. “I no longer go by that name,” he said, “not in many years.”

“Then what do I call you?” asked Trik.

“Oz,” he said. “Just Oz.”

“Oz,” said Trik, “tell me again how you learned of the crypt.”

“A man who called himself the Black Scourge of the Isles,” said Oz, “told me the tale of a great Elf Lord who dwelled in these parts before the world was changed.”

“Asrael,” said Trik.

“He did not use that name,” said Oz, “only mentioned that he had seen a crypt in the Finn Swamp.”

“Did you the see the crypt with your own eyes?” asked Trik.

“I did,” said Oz, “but only once.”

“After all these years,” said Trik, “you have not forgotten?”

“It is not something I can forget,” said Oz. “It is burned into my memory.”

“The crypt,” said Trik. “Take me there.”

“My lord,” said Oz, “it is deep within the swamp. There are many terrible things that dwell there in the dark.”

“Then we’ll rest here tonight,” said Trik. “In the morning, you will show me the way.” He tapped the flanks of his horse with his heels and rode down into the valley before them. At the valley floor was a copse of cypress trees watered by a little brook. Trik dismounted from his horse beside the brook.

“It would be better to find an inn,” said Oz, riding up to him.

“The closest inn is at Anoka,” said Trik, grabbing some things from the saddlebags of his horse. He laid them out on the ground.

“I’m an old man,” said Oz. “Too old for these things.”

Trik peered at Oz in the moonlight. “We’ll need firewood,” he said.

Oz dismounted awkwardly, nearly falling as his boots hit the ground. He walked toward Trik with a limp and halted. “You are paying me,” said Oz, “and I do not forget that. Yet do not command me. I am not a slave or a servant.”

“Nor am I,” said Trik, dropping a heavy blanket on the ground, “but if we do not start a fire, the night will be cold.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Oz, smiling a half-smile. He turned and limped toward the copse of trees.

By the time Oz returned with firewood, Trik had finished making camp. He had pitched a leather tent and placed two blankets inside. He had dug a pit for a fire, and had kindled a small flame in it. As Trik sat by the fire, Oz dropped a dozen pieces of dry timber by the pit.

Trik took two of the timbers and placed them in the flame. The flame caught the dry timber, and smoke swirled above the camp as the fire grew. Trik placed another piece of firewood in the flame. Then he positioned a metal pot over the firewood. There was water in the pot from the little brook and meat from a rabbit Trik had shot with his bow.

As the water in the pot began to boil, Trik dropped some vegetables and roots into it. Oz was sitting on the other side of the fire with his hands on his knees. “Tell me, my lord,” he said, “why do you seek this Asrael?”

Trik stirred the pot with a twig. “I am not a lord,” he said.

“You are rich like a lord,” said Oz.

“And you are a pirate,” said Trik, looking up at Oz.

Oz’s single eye widened in the firelight. “I never uttered such a thing,” he said.

“I have known for some time,” said Trik. “I discerned it from you at the market in Anoka.”

“You said nothing then,” said Oz.

“I’ll say nothing now,” said Trik. “I don’t judge a man for his past, nor will I accept judgment for mine.”

“Tell me,” said Oz, “why do you seek this crypt?”

Trik glanced at the moon in the sky. It was nearly full and quite bright. “I do not seek the crypt,” said Trik. “I seek what is in the crypt.”

“And that is?” asked Oz.

“A weapon,” said Trik. “The bow of Asrael. It is said that with his bow, Asrael vanquished armies and conquered nations. With it, he was invincible.”

Oz laughed.

“Why do you laugh?” asked Trik.

“If he was invincible,” said Oz, “then why is he dead?”

Trik did not answer. He looked at the pot on the fire. The water bubbled around the brown rabbit meat. “The stew is ready,” he said. He took the pot from the fire and placed it on a log.

*

In the morning, Trik and Oz awoke before sunrise. Trik stowed the tent in his saddlebag while Oz doused the coals in the fire pit with water from the brook. Trik’s bow and elven rapier hung from the saddle of his horse. Trik took the reins of his horse and led it down to the brook. There he let it drink from the babbling water as the red sun broke over the horizon in the east.

Oz joined Trik by the brook, leading his charger by its reins. The stallion was strong and young, a stark contrast to its owner. “I wonder,” said Oz, “have you ever been to the Finn Swamp?”

Trik petted the flank of his horse as it drank from the brook. “I have never had the neeed,” he said.

Oz mounted his charger, an ordeal that left him out of breath. He looked down at Trik. “There’s not much to like,” he said. “The smell alone will turn your stomach.”

Trik looked up at him. “You’re rather sensitive,” he said, “for an old pirate.”

“There is no pirate law that forbids a fair scent,” said Oz.

Trik mounted his horse in one quick and smooth movement. He clutched the reins of his horse and turned the beast away from the brook.

Oz half-smiled and tapped his heels against the flanks of his charger. He followed Trik to the rim of the valley. Before them lay the Finn Swamp, a great black stain on the green plain. “Like a bad memory that refuses to fade away,” said Oz, looking out at the swamp.

Trik turned to Oz. “Do all pirates bury their treasure in such foul places?” he asked.

“A sea cave works better,” said Oz.

“Did you never think of using a vault?” asked Trik.

Oz laughed a light-hearted laugh. “Not on your life,” said Oz. He tapped the flanks of his horse, and galloped down the hill toward the swamp.

Trik followed Oz, trotting his horse down the hill toward the dark green cypress trees.

*

They halted under the eaves of the swamp. Twisted cypress trees with ridged and mossy trunks grew submerged in the dark and stagnant water. Large mosquitoes and swamp flies buzzed above the putrid smelling muck. Branches from various trees floated in the mire. Here and there were patches of high ground covered by moss and dark green ferns.

Oz pointed into the swamp. “Look there, the water is shallow,” he said. He shook his reins and eased the horse forward into the dark water.

Trik followed Oz on his brown stallion, the dark water rising to the knees of his horse. As they rode into the swamp, daylight faded into a gray twilight. Trik’s eyes adjusted to the light, and his ears adjusted to the chorus of the swamp—the buzz of the flies, the croaks of the frogs, and the quiet slap of an alligator’s tail on the surface of the murky water.

“This was all a fair forest once,” said Oz, on his charger, “before the Great River changed course and flooded it.” His horse was tramping through the dark water, frightening the flies and mosquitoes that buzzed over the top of the water.

Trik caught a large swamp fly as it buzzed past him. He held it between his thumb and forefinger. “How do you know?” he asked.

“I read and I listen,” said Oz. “You see there isn’t much to do on long voyages across the sea, but read and listen to tales.”

Trik flicked the swamp fly into the water. “It appears I’ve misjudged you,” said Trik.

“There’s a power in words,” said Oz, looking at Trik and half-smiling. “They consume you as you consume them.” As he said this, the water beneath him began to bubble and churn. He looked down.

“What’s the matter?” asked Trik.

“I don’t know,” said Oz, looking down at the bubbling murky depths. He took his saber from his saddlebag. Suddenly, he and his horse began to ascend, as if they were being raised by some unseen force.

Trik drew his sword from his saddlebag and peered into the churning water. Oz and his horse were being lifted out of the water on a mossy hill—but, no, it wasn’t a hill. It was a patterned shell, the shell of a giant swamp turtle.

Oz’s horse leapt from the turtle’s back into the water, and reared about to face the monster. The turtle continued to rise above the surface of the murky water. The turtle’s giant head appeared above the water with a gray beak and black beady eyes. Swamp debris and slime rushed off its polished shell. The giant turtle munched on a fern, oblivious to the two adventurers.

Trik slid his sword back into its sheath. Oz laughed as he clutched his saber. He turned back to Trik. “Didn’t I say we’d have fun?” said Oz.

Trik watched the giant turtle as it swallowed the last of the swamp fern, and once again submerged itself below the murky water.

“Come along,” said Oz, pulling on his reins. He turned his horse away.

*

As they traveled deeper into the swamp, the swamp flies swarmed them. Trik took to swatting the flies with his reins, but it had little effect on them. Oz rode ahead of him, his horse trotting through the murky water at a steady gate.

“How much farther?” asked Trik.

Oz looked back at him. “Not far,” he said. “There should be a limestone pinnacle. Looks like a finger, rising out of the water.”

“A finger,” said Trik, his eyes narrowing. He looked about them. There were twisted trees and murky water and ferns, but no structures that resembled a finger.

“There were great wars fought her once,” said Oz, “wars between men and elves.”

“That so?” said Trik,

“Before the Empire,” said Oz, “the elves lived with mortal men. Some lived in harmony and others in open conflict. Once when this swamp was a forest there was a great war fought here between men and elves.”

“I have heard this myth,” said Trik. “Asrael fought in this war, and it was then that he was defeated.”

“It is no myth,” said Oz. He pointed with his finger at the murky depths. “Look there in the water.”

Trik glanced into the water. There were skeletons under the water, many of which lay half-covered in grime and muck. The elf and human remains were interspersed about them, and among the remains lay rusted weapons. “There are elves,” said Trik.

“Many elves,” said Oz. “This was a great battlefield. It is here that men drove the elves from their ancient stronghold.”

“I have heard,” said Trik. “The elves of the Finn Forest, driven from their homes, then departed from the shores of Estern, never to return.”

“Even to this day,” said Oz, “it is a mystery what happened to them. Some say they still sail the ocean blue. Others say they are long dead, and yet others claim that the elves migrated far to the east. But whatever happened, they are all gone.”

“Not all,” whispered Trik, beneath his breath.

Oz cried out excitedly. “Look there,” he said, pointing at a pinnacle of limestone in a clearing among the twisted trees. “There is our marker.”

Trik glanced at the limestone pinnacle. It was in the shape of an index finger, slightly tilted, and rising to the height of the small swamp trees. There were engravings near the base of the limestone, which had been cut into the rock with the point of a dagger.

“Now we turn west,” said Oz. “The next marker will be a river.”

“What sort of river?” asked Trik.

“A black river,” said Oz. “Its source is unknown, but it flows all the way to the south. There it empties into the sea.”

“Is the crypt near the river?” asked Trik.

“The crypt is many miles upstream,” said Oz.

“Many miles?” said Trik, his horse trotting over the remains of an elf warrior holding a rusted sword. “When you described it in the tavern, it seemed much closer.”

“I was drunk then,” said Oz, with a grin.

*

A thin vein of black water flowed through the swamp, emerging from some distant foggy place and crossing their path not fifty paces before them. The water was foul-smelling, and as dark as oil. “Ahoy,” shouted Oz, pointing ahead. “Look there.”

“I see it,” said Trik.

“We’ll follow the river now,” said Oz. “It’ll take us to the crypt.” He turned to Trik.

Trik was looking sullenly into the dark. There were shadows on his face.

“Why so glum?” asked Oz.

Trik’s eyes narrowed on the river before them. “There is something in the water,” he said.

“I see nothing,” said Oz. He smacked his reins and rode toward the river. Trik followed him. As they approached the river, bubbles floated by in the black water.

Trik looked into the river. It was so dark that not even his eyes could pierce its grimy surface.

“This river flows to the sea,” said Oz, “but we will not go that way. Our destination lies many miles to the north now.”

“There,” shouted Trik, pointing at the slimy black surface of the water. “Did you see that?”

Oz looked at the river. “I see nothing,” he said.

“A tentacle,” said Trik, and as he said this a tentacle slipped out of the slimy water and grasped Trik’s horse about the ankle. Trik reached for his elven sword. The horse pulled back, its hind legs flexing and its front legs lifting off the ground. The tentacle tugged, pulling the horse toward the river.

Trik hopped from his saddle onto the damp ground. He approached the tentacle with his sword in his hand. As the tentacle tugged his horse toward the river, Trik raised his sword and struck the tentacle, cutting through its dark flesh. A great cry rang out from the river.

A strange black creature with long slimy tentacles rose out of the water. The creature had a long black snout and two bright white eyes that peered at Trik. Four of its tentacles splashed out of the water and grasped the elf. Trik dropped his sword. “Oz,” he shouted. He struggled as the tentacles pulled him toward the creature in the river.

The pirate charged the creature with his saber, slashing the slimy black tentacle wrapped around Trik’s right arm. The swamp creature cried out, and in that moment Trik reached for his sword. With his sword firmly in his grasp, Trik cut the tentacle wrapped around his right thigh. The swamp creature cried again, and the last two tentacles released the elf and slipped back into the water.

Trik lay by the edge of the black river with two dark tentacles wriggling in the brush beside him. He looked up at Oz. “Do you believe me now?” he asked.

Oz shrugged. He looked at the water. A trail of bubbles floated downstream in the river. “I have never seen such a creature,” he said, “never on any voyage nor in any book.”

Trik got to his feet, brushing grime and dirt from his trousers. “It was an ancient dark thing,” said Trik. He placed his sword in its sheath, and stepped up to his mount.

“We’ll be more careful from now on,” said Oz.

Trik climbed onto his saddle. He turned his horse to face north, and then he tapped the flanks of the beast and headed upstream.

*

As they rode beside the swamp river, a faint yellow glow appeared in the distance, the glow of fireflies swarming over the river. As they got closer, Oz said, “do you see that?”

Trik nodded. “I have seen it for a mile now,” he said.

In the river about a quarter of a mile upstream, with fireflies swarming about it, was a crumbling stone ruin. The structure was square, and its stone facade was weathered. It stood on a little moss-covered island in the river.

They halted on the bank of the river. Trik dismounted, but Oz remained on his horse. The river was slow moving, but its depth could not be discerned. He looked back at Oz. “I don’t trust the river,” he said.

“As you shouldn’t,” said Oz. “It is deeper than it appears.”

Trik reached into his saddlebag and produced a small wax candle and a flint. He placed these in a pocket inside his tunic. Then he took the reins of his horse and tied them around the trunk of a swamp tree. “Are you coming with me?” he asked.

Oz looked down at him from his horse. “That wasn’t part of the deal,” he said.

Trik stepped up to the edge of the river. The dark water flowed before him. The island was not far from the bank, a hundred paces or less. Trik looked at Oz. “I won’t be long,” he said.

Oz nodded.

Trik stepped into the water. It was cold. He took a few steps forward, and the water rose to his knees. He looked back at Oz.

Oz sat on his horse with a smile on his face.

Trik turned back to the island and to the weathered stone structure that jutted from it. He continued to cross the river, until the surface of the water rose to his chest. The cold liquid seeped into his clothes. He looked at the island. It was close. He started again, driving himself against the current. At last, he climbed out of the river and stepped onto the island. He turned back to Oz. “I’m across,” he shouted.

“Wonderful,” shouted the pirate. “Now hurry down there, and let’s see what we’ve got.”

Trik took his wax candle and flint from his pocket. He struck the flint to light the candle wick. Then he turned to the stone structure on the island. The grim monument towered over him. There were moss-covered stairs leading up to a stone platform, and then beyond that a dark set of stairs that descended into the black depths of the structure. He held out the candle as he climbed to the top of the platform. There were no marks upon the rock, or if there had been, they were long weathered. He peered down at the steps leading into the depths of the structure. He could not see to the bottom, even with his elven sight.

*

Trik had descended nearly a hundred feet before reaching the bottom of the stairs. Before him stretched a long dark hallway. The light of the candle flickered, casting his shadow on the walls. There was the sound of dripping water, which echoed softly against the limestone.

As he walked, the hallway opened onto a large chamber filled with stone sarcophaguses. There was a central path between them that continued to an altar with a large sarcophagus set on it. Trik glanced at one of the sarcophagus lids. There was elven writing on it, and a weathered image of an elven warrior chiseled into the stone. He read the words out loud, “Modius, Lord of the Southern Woods, who fell at the Battle of the Finn Woods, lies entombed here for all time.”

Trik stepped toward the sarcophagus on the stone altar at the far end of the chamber. It was larger than the other sarcophaguses, and its lid was finely inscribed. But there was moss and dust over the elven writing. He wiped his hand across the sarcophagus lid, removing much of the dust. His hand trembled as he read the Elvish script. There upon the sarcophagus lid was hewn the elvish words, which in the common tongue were, “Asrael, Lord of the South, Greatest of the Elves, who fell at the Battle of the Finn Woods, lies entombed here for all time.”

There was then a draft in the chamber, which swept across the sarcophaguses and nearly extinguished the candle in Trik’s hand. Trik placed the candle on a stone table beside the sarcophagus. He braced himself, and then with both hands he pressed against the lid of the sarcophagus.

At first the lid did not budge, but then little by little it gave way, until a gap formed between the lid and the case. Trik pressed harder, widening the gap between the lid and the case. He looked into the sarcophagus. Inside of it lay a withered skeleton with an iron crown upon its head. “Asrael,” he gasped.

Suddenly the room grew cold, and a draft blew so hard that it extinguished Trik’s candle. The chamber darkened. Then a glow began to rise from the sarcophagus, a dim green effervescence, which rose above the sarcophagus, and took the form of the elven king. The spirit cast his gaze upon Trik, who stood beneath him.

“My kin,” said the green spirit floating above the sarcophagus. “Why have you awakened me?”

Trik trembled before the spirit, unable to look it in the eyes. He fell to his knees and bowed his head to the floor. “My Lord Asrael,” he said, “I beg your forgiveness.”

“You have disturbed my slumber of a thousand years,” said the spirit. “Why have you done this?”

When Trik raised his head, there were tears in his eyes. “Forgive me,” said Trik. “I wrongly sought for the bow.”

The spirit frowned. “You seek power,” he said, “when you should seek truth. The world is changing. Can you not feel it?”

“I do, My Lord,” said Trik.

“Then go,” said the spirit, “seek no more for lost treasures. Go now, and trouble me no more.”

“As you command, My Lord,” said Trik.

*

Trik ascended from the stone structure on the island in the river. Fireflies swarmed him as he stepped away from the crypt. He looked for Oz, but the man was no longer on the bank of the river.

As Trik crossed the river, he saw that his horse was tied beside Oz’s charger. Oz had set up a camp, and he had pitched their tent. As Trik walked over to the tent, Oz looked up at him from inside. “You are alive,” he said.

“Of course I’m alive,” said Trik.

“I thought you were dead,” said Oz. “You have been gone three days.”

“Three days?” said Trik, his eyes widening.

“Yes,” said Oz. “I feared you were killed by some terrible creature in the crypt. Forgive me, I dared not follow.”

“How could it be three days?” asked Trik. He looked at fireflies flying over the island in the river. He looked at the black water beneath it.

“Were you not aware?” asked Oz.

Trik’s eyes narrowed. “I must have been under some spell,” he said.

Oz glanced at Trik’s empty hands. “But where is the bow?” he asked. “You spoke of a bow.”

Trik shook his head. “It was not there,” he said.

“You found nothing then,” said Oz.

“No,” said Trik. “I found Asrael.”

“Asrael is long dead,” said Oz. “You said it yourself.”

“I saw his spirit,” said Trik, facing Oz. “His gaze held me. I could not look away.”

“What did he say?” asked Oz.

“Words that I will not utter here,” said Trik.

Oz rose to his feet. “We leave the swamp with nothing,” he said.

“No,” said Trik. “I leave with his words.” He faced the island structure. “I have seen Asrael. I have felt his presence. And I have heard his warning.”