The Adventures of Trik the Elf

In a dark corner of a smoky tavern sat a stranger wearing a black hooded cloak. His right hand clutched a tall bronze mug, and his left arm dangled at his side. An elven sword hung from a leather strap on his belt and was neatly concealed beneath the folds of his cloak.

In another corner of the tavern by a large fireplace stood a big man with a thick black beard. He was dressed in rough leather armor, and he carried a jagged knife tucked under his belt. He was accompanied by three other men who were dressed in the same fashion. He glanced in the stranger’s direction, and his dark eyes narrowed. He signaled to his three companions with a wave of his hand and led them away from the fireplace.

The stranger lowered the hood of his cloak over his eyes as the four men approached his table. They halted at the table, two on either side of him. The stranger placed his mug on the table.

“My friends and I have made a wager,” said the bearded man. “They have insisted that you are not what I believe you are. They have offered me three silver coins if I can prove that you are what I think you are.”

The stranger turned slowly, his face veiled in shadow. “What is that?” he asked, his voice tinged with a soft accent.

The bearded man grinned. “That thieving elf,” he said.

“You’re wrong,” said the stranger, in the same soft accent. He turned away and reached for his ale, but the bearded man reached down and swiped it off the table. The stranger reached for the sword hanging from his belt and wrapped his fingers around its short leather handle.

The bearded man grabbed the stranger’s hood and pulled it back from his head, revealing a tuft of long dark hair, two long pointed ears, and narrow blue-green eyes. “Well, well,” he said. “Trik, isn’t it?”

The elf released the sword from its sheath and held it with its polished blade pressed against the inseam of the bearded man’s leather pants. His blue-green eyes shined fiercely at him. “Brudolf,” he hissed.

The bearded man looked down at the elven blade pressed against his crotch and cringed. “Perhaps,” he said, “I was mistaken.”

The elf nodded slowly, his blue-green eyes fixed on Brudolf’s dark brown eyes.

Brudolf placed the mug on the table in front of the elf and backed slowly away. The others followed him.

The men had not gotten far when Brudolf suddenly turned to his companions and shouted, “Get him.” Two of the men grabbed the elf from the table, while the third man disarmed him. As Trik struggled, the two men dragged him across the tavern and out of the doorway into the darkness.

*

Four men were silhouetted by the golden light of the tavern windows, Brudolf and his three companions. Trik lay on the ground before them, his face bruised and dirty. Brudolf withdrew the short jagged blade from under his belt. He stepped toward the elf in his heavy black boots. “Where is my horse?” he asked.

“I sold it,” said Trik.

“Fool,” shouted Brudolf. “Let’s see how proud you are when I have cut off your pretty ears.” Two of the men rushed forward and grabbed him. They held him on his knees as Brudolf walked up to him and grabbed the collar of his cloak. Brudolf lowered the knife against one of Trik’s earlobes.

“Let him go,” shouted someone standing at the tavern door, a short and stocky man dressed in a colorful merchant’s tunic. At his side stood a large dark-skinned companion holding a war bow. A quiver of arrows was strapped to his broad back.

Brudolf faced the short man at the tavern entrance. “This matter does not concern you,” he said. “Leave us, and take your fool archer with you.”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” said the man, “I said, let him go.”

“I won’t kill him,” said Brudolf. “I only want one of his ears. The rest I’ll leave to you.” Brudolf’s companions laughed.

The man at the tavern entrance nodded at the archer. The archer grabbed an arrow from the quiver strapped to his back. In less than a second, he placed the arrow, drew the bowstring, and shot the bow. The arrow struck the ground between Brudolf’s black boots.

Brudolf glanced at the arrow between his legs, and his expression hardened.

“I will not say it again,” said the man at the tavern entrance. “Let him go now.”

Brudolf pointed his finger at the man at the tavern entrance. “You will regret this,” he said. “I promise you that.”

The archer notched another arrow and aimed it at Brudolf’s chest. He pulled back the bowstring of the bow.

Brudolf released the collar of Trik’s cloak. He tucked his knife under his belt. “You’re lucky tonight, elf,” he said, looking down at Trik. He signaled to his men with a wave of his hand. They swarmed around him. He stepped away, and the others followed him, walking off into the dark.

Trik dusted off his dark linen cloak as he got to his feet. There was a line of blood across his right earlobe where Brudolf’s knife had scraped his pale flesh.

The man in the colorful tunic stepped down from the tavern entrance. “Who was that man who attacked you?” he asked.

“Brudolf,” said Trik, “a petty bandit leader.”

“You should know better than to pick a fight in these parts,” he said, “especially with you being an elf.” His eyes focused on Trik’s long pointed ears.

“I started no fight,” said Trik, his eyes shining brightly in the darkness.

“Even so,” said the man. “It is better not to travel alone in these parts.”

Trik raised the hood of his cloak over his head. He turned around and began to walk toward the desert moon, which hung low over the peaks of the mountains in the north.

“Elf,” said the man, before Trik had gotten far.

Trik halted.

The man held out Trik’s blade with the handle facing the elf. “Your weapon,” he said.

Trik turned around and peered at him with his blue-green eyes. He took several steps forward, his light leather boots throwing up motes of dust as he walked. He halted before the man, looking down at him. He took the handle of the blade with his long elven fingers.

“I am called Fenn,” said the man. “I am a merchant from Soros. This is my companion Ebon. What is your name, stranger?”

The elf did not look at him as he sheathed the blade. “Trik,” he said.

“Trik the Thief,” said Fenn, grinning, “I have heard of you.”

Trik turned away.

“I have gold,” said Fenn. He retrieved a leather purse from his coat and took from it a single coin and held it out to the elf. The moonlight glinted off the polished face of the coin.

“What do you want?” asked Trik.

“You must help us,” said Fenn.

“No,” said Trik.

Fenn reached into his purse and retrieved a second gold coin. “Perhaps, we can come to an agreement,” he said. “I offer more, of course, but only if you will listen.”

Trik looked at the moon. It would soon fall behind the black peaks in the north. The warm desert wind was tossing the tendrils of his dark hair over his eyes.

*

Trik was seated at a table near the tavern fireplace, and his hood was over his head. Nearby, Ebon stood as still as a sculpture with his arms crossed over his chest. Tall yellow-orange flames danced in the fireplace beside him.

“You see,” said Fenn, carrying a bronze mug to the table, “I am organizing a party for a quest.” Fenn placed the mug on the table in front of Trik. “I cannot say more until I know that I have your confidence on the matter.”

Trik picked up the mug and raised it to his lips. His eyes narrowed on Fenn as he drank.

Fenn took a scroll from his vest, unrolled it, and stretched it out on the table before them. He dragged his short plump index finger along the text of the scroll. “Long ago, the Elves of the First Sight dwelt in a city deep underground in this land. But over a thousand years ago, a great sandstorm buried it under the desert, and the elves were never heard from again.”

“A rumor,” said Trik. He drank.

“A legend,” said Fenn.

“You will find no gold there,” said Trik.

“How do you know?” asked Fenn.

Trik lowered the mug to the table. He looked from Fenn to Ebon and back again. “Because I have been there,” he said.

Fenn glanced furtively at Ebon and smiled. “Then you are the right person,” he said. His eyes narrowed on Trik, and he moved closer to the elf. “I don’t seek gold, but there is something else, something which I will pay dearly for.” He placed three gold coins on the table. “I request your assistance as a companion. What do you say?”

Trik drained the last of the ale and placed the empty mug on the table. “No,” he said.

“Why not?” asked Fenn. “Are you afraid?”

Trik shook his head. “It’s too easy,” he said.

“Too easy,” squealed Fenn. He glanced wide-eyed at Ebon. “Too easy, he says.”

Fenn’s eyes narrowed on Trik. “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying,” said Fenn.

“Listen,” said Trik, pointing his finger at him, “before you were born, I raided dragon nests in the Stormdrake Mountains.”

“Tell him,” said Ebon, in a deep rumbling voice.

Fenn leaned forward and whispered. “We are looking for a handstone,” said Fenn.

“A handstone,” said Trik, leaning back. “They’ve all been destroyed.”

“Not all,” said Fenn. “Not this one. It has remained a secret for all of these years, deep within the elven city under the sands of the Wastes.”

“A lie,” said Trik.

“I paid a hundred gold coins for this scroll,” said Fenn. “I would not pay that sum for lies.”

Trik’s eyes narrowed on the coins set upon the table. The light of the fire gleamed upon the gold.

“Come now,” said Fenn. “Is this not a fair challenge?”

Trik placed his hand over the coins on the table and moved them closer to him. “I will take your gold,” he said. “Then we shall see if your tale is true.”

“Good,” said Fenn, smiling. “I have purchased a room for the night. In the morning we shall ride north to the Wastes. Ebon knows the way.”

Trik glanced at Ebon, who had not moved from his position at the fireplace. The flames of the fireplace danced within his dark eyes.

*

The morning sun was rising in the east, silhouetting the sandstone pinnacles jutting from the desert far to the north. The dirt road that led to the tavern abruptly ended at the tavern, and no roads led north through the desert to the mountains. Trik and Fenn were standing by the stable behind the tavern. Fenn wore a thatch hat with three colorful feathers tucked into the leather band that wrapped around the brim of the hat. Trik wore the same hooded cloak from the previous night. “I have paid the owner for his three best horses,” said Fenn.

“Good horses in these parts are stolen,” said Trik.

“Good horses,” said Fenn, “are good horses.”

Ebon approached them holding the reins of three stallions, a tall white stallion, a small black stallion with a silky mane, and a palomino with a red mane. The horses had been saddled and laden with supplies. Ebon led the palomino to Trik and held out the reins to him.

As Trik took the reins, the horse threw back its head and neighed. Its eyes flashed with anger, and it stomped the ground with its hooves, throwing up motes of dust.

Trik lightly caressed the stallion’s neck with his long slender fingers. He peered into the stallion’s dark eyes and whispered something in Elvish. The horse grew calm.

Ebon mounted the tall white stallion and placed his boots in its stirrups. He looked down at Trik and Fenn. “We’ll reach the Wastes by midday,” he said.

Fenn removed his hat to wipe a line of sweat from his brow. “The sun is already hot,” said Fenn.

“The sun god smiles upon us,” said Ebon. He rode his stallion away from the stable.

Trik peered at Fenn. “Who is this companion?” asked Trik.

“I hired him in Gipoli, a great desert city many leagues west from here,” said Fenn. “His people are great warriors. Ebon can fire a bow, but do not let that fool you. He is better with a sword.”

“I know the people of Gipoli,” said Trik. “Backstabbers and murderers.”

“I have paid him well,” said Fenn.

“Let us hope,” said Trik, “well enough.”

Fenn mounted his stallion and struggled to get comfortable on his saddle. When he was done his fine red boots only just reached the stirrups. He looked down at Trik. “How, may I ask, have you found yourself so far from the green lands of your own people?” asked Fenn.

Trik swiftly mounted his steed and settled onto its leather saddle. He lowered the hood of his cloak over his brow. “A misfortune,” he said, and he gently tapped the flanks of the horse and rode away after Ebon.

“Misfortune,” said Fenn, grinning. “Curious.” He tapped his heels lightly upon the flanks of the black stallion, and rode after Trik and Ebon.

*

The bright sun beat down on the companions as they rode across the windswept dunes of the desert. A scorching lake of sand stretched from the tavern to the mountains in the north. The companions were riding in file with Ebon in the lead and with Trik and Fenn trailing behind him.

“Ebon, how much farther?” shouted Fenn.

“Soon,” said Ebon, “but I am afraid.” He pointed to the west. There was a great black cloud low on the western horizon, and there was a vast shadow beneath it.

“A storm like that,” said Fenn, “in the desert?”

“It is a storm of sand,” said Ebon. He pulled on his stallion’s reins and halted. As the others rode up to him, he wrapped a square cloth over his nose and mouth and tied it behind his head.

“How much time do we have?” asked Fenn, staring at the dark cloud.

“Not much,” said Ebon. He pointed at the pinnacles in the distance. “We must reach those rocks.”

Ebon tapped the flanks of his horse and galloped toward the pinnacles in the north. Fenn and Trik did the same and raced after Ebon.

As they galloped across the desert, the first dark tendrils of the storm stretched over them like the fingers of a great black hand. Fenn’s thatch hat was swept from his head by a great gust of wind. Then the storm sands engulfed them, plunging them into darkness.

Trik’s horse was tossing its head as it galloped. As Trik rode along the lee side of a dune, he saw Ebon riding ahead of him with an arm stretched across his face. Trik tapped the flanks of his horse and rode after Ebon, yet as quickly as Ebon had appeared, he disappeared once again in a cloud of dust.

Trik had not gotten far when his horse suddenly halted. He tapped its flanks with the heels of his boots, but still it would not move. Trik hopped down from the stallion onto the sand. He petted the stallion’s nose with his cloak, wiping away sand and debris. At that moment, there was a brief break in the storm, and in the distance a stone pinnacle was revealed. Trik covered the stallion’s head in his cloak and led it to the pinnacle on foot.

*

The winds had died, and the desert was silent. In the air, a red veil of dust lingered, and the sun glowed dimly behind it. Trik removed the cloak from the stallion’s head. The horse flared its nostrils. Trik took the reigns of the horse in one hand and mounted himself on its saddle.

As Trik rode, the faint outline of three stone pinnacles appeared before him. They towered over the red dust of the desert, casting three long shadows. As he approached the pinnacles, two human figures appeared in the shadows beneath them.

“Hello,” shouted Fenn, waving from the shadow of the tallest pinnacle.

Trik rode toward him.

“You are alive,” said Fenn, as Trik rode nearer. Fenn was covered with red dust from the top of his bald head to the toes of his leather boots.

Ebon was on foot near the horses. He was shaking the red dust from his stallion’s saddle, flexing his muscular arms as he worked.

“You had said this would be a good day,” said Trik to Ebon.

Ebon did not reply.

“Bad luck,” said Fenn. “But all will be right soon. You see, we have only to pass over these mountains. Then we are at the Wastes.” He pointed at the faint outline of the three peaks before them.

“That is Brudolf’s land,” said Trik. “His men will be on the road.”

“After this storm, they will not bother us,” said Fenn.

“We shall see,” said Trik, staring at the mountains.

*

The companions took the Upper Pass, a gravel trail that led over the mountains. As they climbed the air grew clearer and cooler. The way was rocky, but here and there a shrub or a flower grew at the side of the trail. Fenn was talking, as the others rode in silence.

“I thought all of the elves had departed long ago,” said Fenn to Trik. “That’s what all the histories say. Yet, you remain. May I inquire how you came to find yourself in Rule?”

“An accident?” said Trik, his expression hardening.

“If I may be so bold,” said Fenn, “what sort of accident?”

Suddenly Ebon halted and held out his open hand before them. Fenn and Trik rode up to him on the rocky trail. “What is it?” asked Fenn.

“There are men on horseback riding this way,” said Ebon.

“Who are they?” asked Fenn.

“Bandits,” said Trik, peering into the distance.

“I do not know,” said Ebon, “but they come quickly.”

“Hide,” said Fenn, “hurry.”

The three of them dismounted. They led their horses away from the trail and into a rocky crevice in the mountain. From the crevice, they peered out at the trail.

A single rider approached, a large man in light armor with a sword. He passed the crevice without stopping, his horse clomping on the loose gravel of the trail. Three other men followed him, and among them was a black-bearded man wearing rough leather armor.

“Brudolf,” hissed Trik, reaching for his sword.

“Easy now,” whispered Fenn.

Another four men rode past them on the trail, their horses stirring up dust from the trail. Then for a time, there was silence.

“Are they gone?” asked Fenn.

Trik peered out of the crevice. “Yes,” he said.

Ebon pulled on his stallion’s reins, leading it out of the crevice and onto the trail. Fenn and Trik led their stallions out of the crevice behind him.

“That was no hunting party,” said Fenn. “They were looking for someone.”

“They are looking for me,” said Trik.

“Tell me truly,” said Fenn, “why do they seek you.”

Trik mounted his horse. When he was seated with the reins firmly in his hands, he looked down at Fenn. “I stole Brudolf’s horse,” he said.

Fenn glared at Trik. “Why did you steal his horse?” he asked.

“The horse was already stolen,” said Trik. “I simply returned it to its rightful owner. For a price.”

“Let us hope,” said Fenn, “that we do not see them again.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Trik, looking out at the trail and the open sky before them. “Brudolf is as persistent as he is stupid.”

*

Trik and Fenn rode up to Ebon, who had halted at a cliff’s edge. Before them, a great red canyon sundered the land to the distant horizon. Here and there were pinnacles, windows, arches, and other rock formations in the red canyon. “Why did you stop?” asked Fenn.

“The Wastes,” said Ebon.

“The city,” said Trik, looking at the ground below them.

Fenn looked at the rocky ground beneath the hooves of his stallion. The wind swept across the loose sand, lifting the red dust into the air.

“Come,” said Ebon, riding away from the other two. “There is a way down.”

Ebon led them down a sloping path into the canyon below. As they descended, the walls of the canyon rose steeply above them.

After a while, they came to a shaded area beneath the high canyon walls. Ebon halted there and dismounted from his horse. He led it to a shady tree growing near the canyon wall. “We’ll rest here,” he said.

Beneath his hood, Trik surveyed his surroundings. Red boulders were strewn about the canyon floor. The canyon walls were striated and worn smooth by water and wind. Above the canyon rim, a sliver of blue sky could be seen.

Fenn dismounted, and led his stallion to the tree where Ebon had tied his horse. He tied his stallion beside Ebon’s big horse. Trik did the same, lacing his reins between the branches of the gnarled tree and tying a knot.

Ebon walked up to a smooth red boulder carrying a leather satchel from his saddlebags. He laid the satchel on the ground, and began at once to spread the contents of it upon the boulder. There were salted meats, dried fruits, and many nuts and seeds.

“Here,” said Ebon, holding out a strip of salted pork to Trik as he passed by.

“Elves do not eat pork,” said Trik. He walked up to the canyon wall and lightly touched it with the palm of his hand.

Fenn took a bite from his salted pork. “More for me,” he said, and he laughed.

A scratching sound echoed against the canyon wall as Trik ran his hand across the smooth stone, halting at an opening in the rock that formed the entrance to a cave.

“He is behaving like a ranger,” said Fenn, grinning.

There was a loud crowing. Fenn and Ebon turned toward the cave as a gray bird as large as a man with a wide yellow beak and long scaly legs burst out of the darkness. More than anything it resembled an oversized rooster. “Cockatrice,” shouted Trik.

Ebon got to his feet and attempted to draw his sword, but the cockatrice rushed forward and pinned him to the ground with the heavy black talons of its right foot.

Fenn reached for a nearby rock and hurled it against the scaly breast of the cockatrice. The red quills on the head of the cockatrice fanned out above its small yellow eyes. It pecked at Ebon’s chest, drawing blood from a wound under his armor.

Fenn threw another rock. It struck the cockatrice upon the head, and, for a moment, dazed it. The cockatrice removed its talons from Ebon’s chest and turned toward Fenn.

Fenn got to his feet and ran from the cockatrice, halting at the canyon wall. There he stood with his back against the wall, staring up in terror as the cockatrice lunged at him. But as the yellow beak of the cockatrice snapped at him, Trik drove his blade into the creature’s scaly yellow belly. The cockatrice shrieked, and its head snapped toward Trik. As it prepared to strike the elf, Ebon swung his sword at its long feathered neck, separating its head from its body. A fountain of bright red blood shot up into the air. While the severed head of the cockatrice flopped upon the ground, the body dashed into the canyon wall, and fell in a heap of feathers, scales, and blood.

Fenn cowered against the canyon wall, still shaking. Trik held out his hand to Fenn. “It’s alright,” said Trik. “It’s dead.”

Fenn glanced at the body of the cockatrice, which lay still upon the ground near him. He took Trik’s hand and stumbled to his feet.

Trik turned toward the cave. Around the cave’s entrance, elven runes had been etched into the stone. A cool breeze emanated from the cave’s mouth and blew off Trik’s hood. “There is your entrance,” he said.

Fenn walked up to the cave. “The secret way,” he said, his eyes growing wide.

Trik stepped up to the cave and glanced inside. It was dark, but tall and wide enough to enter walking upright. “We will need light,” he said.

“The torches,” said Fenn to Ebon. “Get them.”

*

The three of them walked in file inside the cave with Ebon in the lead and holding a burning torch in his hand. Jagged spikes jutted from the walls of the cave like the teeth of some mongrel hound. A cool wind from somewhere deep within the cave blew ceaselessly, threatening more than once to extinguish Ebon’s torch. At nearly four hundred steps, the cave widened, and its walls became polished and smooth.

“What a foul place,” said Fenn. “Why should an elf or any thinking race build a city in this hole?”

“It was not always this way,” said Trik. “Once the desert was green. Once it was fair and lovely.”

“Have you lived so long?” asked Fenn.

“Many of your lifetimes,” said Trik.

“No wonder you are so weary,” said Fenn.

Ebon called back to them. “There is a light in the distance,” he said.

They emerged from the mouth of the cave in a great cavern with a giant red pinnacle at its center. Sunlight peered down through a crack in the cavern roof and illuminated the pinnacle, which stood alone above a lake of sand. Before them a long and narrow stone bridge stretched from the mouth of the cave to the pinnacle. A hundred fair abodes were hewn from the red rock of the pinnacle, and in the center of the pinnacle was hewn a high tower of polished red stone.

“It does exist,” said Fenn, his eyes widening, “the city of the elves.”

Trik shook his head and laughed. “Well, of course it does,” he said.

“It will take many days to search this place,” said Ebon. He extinguished the torch by pressing the end of it against the ground.

“We need not search everywhere,” said Fenn, pointing at the tower in the center of the city. “Look there, the palace of the Elf King,” he said. “The scroll speaks of the palace as the resting place of the handstone.” He rushed onto the narrow bridge, knocking loose a few rocks that fell over the side.

“Stop,” said Trik.

Fenn halted and turned around. “What now?” he asked.

“There is something in the sand,” said Trik, looking over the bridge into the depths below.

Fenn stepped up to the side of the bridge and peered over it into the darkness. The lake of sand was fifty feet below him, but it was shrouded in darkness. “I see nothing,” he said.

Suddenly there was a low rumbling growl that emanated from the dark depths beneath the bridge. The bridge trembled, and sand and dust from the roof of the cavern rained onto them.

“Earthquake,” shouted Fenn.

Trik peered over the edge of the bridge into the dark depths below. A great plume of dust shot above the bridge as a huge diamond-shaped head with black eyes and two long red mandibles burst from the sand. “Worse,” said Trik.

“What is it?” asked Fenn, staring fearfully at the creature.

“Giant centipede,” said Trik.

“Will it leave us alone?” asked Fenn.

“I’m afraid not,” said Trik.

“What do we do?” asked Fenn, looking up at Trik wide-eyed.

“We run,” said Trik, turning toward the bridge.

Trik ran onto the brige, and Ebon and Fenn raced after him. Of the three, Trik was fleetest, and raced far ahead of the others. They had not made it to the center of the bridge when the centipede’s hideous head rose over the bridge before them.

As Trik raised his sword, the creature lunged at him. Trik dodged its mandibles, and struck the head of the creature with his sword. The sand centipede made a horrid cry, and it lurched away. Trik struck again, his sword slashing the hard armor plating of the centipede’s segmented belly.

The head of the centipede reached down, and one of its long mandibles wrapped around Trik’s waist. “Little help,” cried Trik, as he was lifted into the air.

Ebon fired his bow from the bridge, and its arrow pierced the centipede’s head below its beady black eyes. This creature hissed and swung its head. The mandible that had grasped Trik loosened, and Trik fell to the bridge on his back. Ebon fired a second arrow, which pierced the creature’s armored belly beneath its head.

The giant centipede hissed again as it dived away from the bridge. As the giant creature burrowed into the sands below the bridge, Trik retrieved his sword and got to his feet. “Thanks,” he said to Ebon.

“Hurry,” shouted Fenn, rushing past them.

The three adventurers raced across the bridge to the city on the pinnacle.

*

Trik, Ebon, and Fenn leaned against the rock-hewn wall of the city. Trik looked out from the city at the narrow bridge spanning the cavern. The sand was still and silent in the depths beneath the red pinnacle. “It’s gone,” he said.

Ebon put away his bow, and Trik sheathed his sword.

“Are you sure?” asked Fenn, staring at the bridge. His hands were trembling at his sides.

“Come,” said Trik. He turned away from the other two and stepped onto the hewn road that led into the city. Ebon followed him.

“Wait for me,” shouted Fenn.

They walked along a street hewn from stone, but polished so finely that their reflections appeared in its glassy surface. The road continued for a long way, winding among the hewn stone abodes up to the high tower. There the road ended, and a great stair began that spiraled to the crown of the tower.

“Very fine construction,” said Fenn, looking up at the tower.

“Some climb,” said Trik.

They began to climb the tower stairs, and once again Trik was ahead of the other two, but this time Fenn was far behind.

As they arrived at the top of the tower, Fenn was out of breath, but Trik was smiling. Before him stood two large doors, sealed without any handle or lock.

“Wait,” said Fenn. He took his scroll from his tunic and spread it out before him. “There should be a password or a secret way or something like that.”

“Allow me,” said Trik. He reached out with his hand and placed his palm on the doors. A moment passed, and then the two doors shuddered and opened inward.

“Elven magic,” said Fenn. He rolled the scroll and returned it to his tunic.

“A simple barring spell,” said Trik.

They entered a great hall with polished walls and a high ceiling. Above them, the ceiling of the hall was of a transparent kind of stone, and light passed through it and illuminated the hall. The hall extended for some way before opening onto a large throne room.

“After you,” said Fenn to Trik.

Trik drew his sword and began walking toward the throne room. Fenn and Ebon followed him.

As they entered the throne room, Fenn shuddered. “What is that there?” he asked, pointing at something on the floor before them. Light from the transparent ceiling shined upon the withered bones of a former warrior. They looked around. Everywhere about the throne room floor lay skeletons, some adorned in armor and others in tattered and worn robes.

“Unwelcome guests,” said Trik.

At the end of the throne room was a high throne and sitting upon it was the remains of an elf adorned in fine armor and wearing a silver crown. And in his right hand was a green gem, yet fairer and greater than any natural gem.

“The High King of the Elves,” said Trik.

“The handstone,” said Fenn, his eyes gleaming upon the stone. He rushed toward the throne and reached for the handstone.

“Stop,” shouted Trik, before Fenn could grasp the stone.

Fenn turned around. “What now?” he asked.

“Look around you,” said Trik. “It’s cursed.”

Suddenly there was a soft laughter. The dark orbits of the Elf King’s skull began to glow green, and its jaw began to shudder. “Beware,” said the Elf King. “No unworthy man may touch this stone and live.”

Fenn backed away from the throne. Ebon drew his bow, but Trik sheathed his sword.

“My Lord,” said Trik. “You have borne this burden for centuries without peaceful slumber. Let me relieve you of it.”

The Elf’s King’s glowing orbits faced Trik. “What makes you worthy?” asked the Elf King.

“I am Trikdemos, My Lord,” said Trik, “Prince of the Green Elves of the Forever Forest.”

“Hmmm,” said the Elf King. “Trikodemos, step forward.”

Trik stepped slowly toward the throne and halted before the Elf King. “My Lord,” he said, and he bowed before the throne.

The glow of the Elf King’s eyes faded, and the bony fingers of its outstretched right hand unclenched the stone. “Trikodemos,” said the Elf King, “you may have it.”

Trik faced Fenn, who stood to his left.

“Well, go on,” said Fenn. “You heard him.”

Trik stepped forward and took the stone from the Elf King’s hand. He admired it in his palm, a green gem about the size of an egg. It was smooth and polished, and there was a light in its center. He took a cloth from his cloak and wrapped the stone in it.

“Let’s go,” said Fenn to Trik, “before he changes his mind.”

*

Trik bore the handstone in his cloak as they returned to their horses in the canyon. The sun was behind the canyon rim, and the canyon was shaded and cool. Ebon mounted his white stallion, and Fenn his black steed. Trik placed the handstone in his saddlebag before mounting his own horse.

“All this time,” said Fenn, looking at Trik, “you had us fooled. You are not a thief, but a prince.”

“I was a prince,” said Trik, “once long ago.”

“I must know the tale,” said Fenn.

“It would be a long tale,” said Trik, turning away. His eyes narrowed on the passage before them. Some men were riding horses between the canyon walls.

“Who are they?” asked Fenn.

Trik’s eyes narrowed on the rider at the front of the group. “Brudolf,” he growled.

Ebon reached for his bow.

Brudolf and seven of his men rode toward them. The other riders halted some distance from the three companions, but Brudolf rode forward to meet them. “Well, well,” said Brudolf, “look who it is.”

“We are leaving,” said Fenn.

“No, you’re not,” said Brudolf. “I want what you have got there,” he said. “I know that you did not come all this way for nothing. You have taken something.”

“We will not give you the handstone,” said Fenn. “We have won it fairly. It belongs to us.”

“If it is in this land,” said Brudolf, “then it belongs to me.”

“You will not have it,” said Fenn.

Ebon took an arrow from his quiver and prepared to fire it with his bow.

“No,” said Trik, looking at Ebon. “Let him have it.”

Fenn glared at Trik. “I have not come all this way for nothing,” he said to Trik.

“Trust me,” whispered Trik. He stepped down from his horse onto the canyon floor. He took the handstone from his saddlebag and unwrapped it.

Brudolf’s eyes grew wide. “Give it to me,” he said.

Trik walked up to Brudolf, his eyes narrowing on the bandit leader, and tossed the stone to him. Brudolf caught it in his hand.

Brudolf’s eyes narrowed on the stone. “Marvelous,” he gasped. “Truly remarkable.” He raised up his hand to show the stone to the others. But as he held the stone, a strange green light emanated from it. Brudolf’s eyes widened, and he cried out. The stone burst into a green flame in his hand.

The other bandits grew nervous, and some turned away.

The flame spread, enveloping Brudolf’s right arm. “Help me, you fools,” he shouted at the bandits.

The bandits fell into disarray. “Magic,” they shrieked. “The Elf King’s curse.” They turned their horses away and fled.

Brudolf turned to Trik. “You,” he growled. “You’re doing this.” With his left hand he drew his sword from its scabbard. The flame spread again, enveloping his shoulder and chest. He cursed and dropped the sword, but he did not release the handstone. The flame spread over his chest, and he fell to the ground still clutching the green gem.

After the green flame had burned out, Trik walked up to the handstone. The stone was still in Brudolf’s grasp, but the bandit leader was no more than a skeleton. Trik unclenched the bony fingers of the skeleton and took the handstone from it.

“Are you not afraid?” asked Fenn, as Trik wrapped the handstone in a cloth.

Trik took the reins of Brudolf’s horse and led it back to his stallion. “Not of death,” he said to Fenn, “only boredom.”

*

The sun was setting, and its light silhouetted them against the desert as they rode south toward the tavern. Trik led Brudolf’s horse behind him as he rode. Their shadows stretched long on the desert sand. “What will you do with the handstone?” asked Trik, turning to Fenn.

“I will take it to Soros, said Fenn. “I own a shop of fine goods.”

Trik’s eyes narrowed on Fenn. “After you have seen its power,” he said, “you will sell it like some trinket?”

“I did not say that I would sell it,” said Fenn. “The stone has a great power.”

“A doomed power,” said Trik.

“Perhaps,” said Fenn, “but a great power all the same.” His eyes narrowed on Trik. “Now tell me honestly, before we part ways,” he said, “were you not challenged by this quest?”

Trik turned back to the desert before him. “More so than I had imagined I would be,” he said.

Fenn laughed. “Then I have cured your boredom,” he said.

Trik’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he said, “only delayed it for a while.”

“Well, a temporary remedy is better than none,” said Fenn. He turned to Ebon. “And what of our quiet companion?” he asked. “What are your thoughts?”

Ebon stared into the distance, toward Gipoli many miles away. “I am eager to see my wife and children,” said Ebon.

Fenn’s eyes widened. “You have children?” he said.

“Four sons,” said Ebon. “Three daughters.”

Trik rode up to Ebon. “Their father has fought bravely today,” he said to Ebon. “It is good to know there are those such as you in Gipoli.”

Ebon bowed his head, but he spoke no more words.

“Here, here,” said Fenn. “When we return to civilization, we’ll all have a drink to celebrate our triumph.”

“Save your drinks,” said Trik. “I’ll take a room with a bed and some good food.”

“You’ll get it,” said Fenn with a smile.

They rode onward in the last light of the setting sun, toward the tavern far in the distance, with the smoke from its fireplace rising into the darkening sky.