The Blackfire Annals: Chasing Ghosts

Vadhyl

Two days later

Luthe looked out from atop the wall, squinting to see through the storm.

“Do you see anything?” Olaf asked.

The dark elf shook his head. “Not much,” he answered, “But enough to know that they easily have thousands of men. Which, in case you failed to notice, happens to be a far larger number than we have.”

“I know they outnumber us,” the dwarf replied, keeping his voice steady to hide his anger at being spoken to so condescendingly. “But the question is by how much. We don’t know by how much as long as this storm lasts.”

“We know that they have six thousand men, at the least.” The dark elf looked away from the parapet, his brow furrowed. “The king’s army should be here by tomorrow.”

“And then what?” Olaf asked. “They fight? These Vanahym aren’t like men. They’ll annihilate the entire force. Unless…”

“Unless we can somehow reduce their numbers?” Luthe surmised.

“Exactly.” Olaf looked out into the storm. “With weather conditions like this, an elemental spell is out. After the last quake spell, I doubt that I could pull a second one off. Besides, they’ll be expecting something along those lines. Will you be all right if I leave for a few hours? I’ll put Qural in charge. He knows what he’s doing, so you shouldn’t have any problems.”

“Where are you going?” Luthe asked.

Olaf picked up the satchel at his feet, his mouth set in a thin line. “To even the odds.”

Frostspire Castle

Enlin sat in her aunt’s library, poring over a book of spells. It had been three days since she had last seen Olaf, and that troubled her. The dwarf generally let her know if he was going to be out of contact, and he had failed to do so. She pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on the spells. Enlin rehearsed the spell one more time, making sure she had the incantation just right.

“If you keep saying that, you might end up casting it.” She whirled, surprised at the sound of another voice there. Except for her, the castle should have been abandoned. There he was, his arms folded across his chest.

“Olaf, you could have told me you were coming,” she admonished. “What if I had been practicing spells with magic?”

“Then you would have stopped.” He stepped into the library. “Impressive,” the dwarf remarked. “You said she had a library; you didn’t say how big it was.”

Enlin closed the book and turned in her chair, shifting her dress. “What do you want?”

“I’m here about a mutual problem we have. A problem six thousand strong.”

“Ah, the army,” she murmured, rising to her feet and clasping her hands in front of her. “Yes, that might present a significant problem.”

“I think you understate it,” he replied.

“True. Do you want a spell?” She asked. “I might have one…”

“Not a spell,” he said. “See, I used a quake spell to destroy their skirmishing force. And…” Olaf swayed unsteadily, clutching his head. “I don’t think I can handle another one.”

“You what!?” Enlin cried.

“It was the only thing that could stop them,” Olaf protested. “We needed some kind of defense.”

“And a quake spell seemed like the best choice?” She asked, her hands on her hips. “You know that could easily have killed you.”

“I had no choice!” He exploded. “If I had not stopped them, our men would have been exhausted for the battle ahead.”

“And now that you used it, you are,” she countered.

“Not quite. I just…” Olaf’s voice trailed off, and he looked off into the distance. “Can you perform a replenishing ritual without Issavea here?”

“I can,” Enlin responded slowly. “But that will be far from easy. And the ritual is time-consuming. Perhaps I could be of some help on the battlefield?”

He shook his head. “That might not be a good idea. Issavea has yet to openly oppose Murethal, and if you do, her duplicity might be discovered. Forgive me, but I doubt she would want to be revealed.”

“True.” Enlin moved over to one of the shelves. “She has several manuals of spells here. Between all of them, we should be able to find one that has a ritual in it.” Olaf nodded; because of his stature, he was relegated to searching lower shelves. He went through the books…wildlife, healing magic, illusion magic, color magic, magic for…oh, Maker have mercy, did that really need a whole book? History…he took one of these off the shelf and began to read. He turned page after page, reading as he went. An account of history since the war, and account of the war itself…he stopped cold. His fingers reached out of their own volition to touch the page.

“Enlin?” He called.

“Yes?” She asked.

“Would you know your aunt’s handwriting if you saw it?” He queried.

“I would. Why?”

“Because I need you to read this,” he said, putting the book down on the table with a smack. “Tell me, is this her hand?”

Enlin looked down at the book momentarily and then picked it up. “Hmm…yes, this is…” she got to the part he had read, and she stopped as he had. “This cannot be.”

“I thought so, too,” he agreed. “But in truth, I think it is.”

She sat down in a chair, running her hand through her hair. “She cannot be that old. We would have...there must be some explanation.”

“I cannot understand it, either. You specialize in vitality magic, Enlin. Is there any possible way to so prolong your life?”

“None still known.” She got up and started taking books off the shelves again. “But perhaps one that someone so old might remember.”

He resumed his search, rifling through stacks and shelves of books. Then, after four cases and half a dozen piles, he found them. Three books, marked as Terrestrial Codex, Offensive Spells of the Elements, and Battle Magics. He took all of them off the shelf and put them on the table.

“Are these the ones you’re looking for?” He asked. Enlin paused briefly to look over.

“They should work for after the ritual,” she said. “But we need something that tells us how to regenerate your magical energy. Try over there in the healing spells.”

“Why would it be in healing spells?” He asked.

“Because my aunt has no concept of proper sorting,” Enlin snapped. “But that is where they ought to be.”

“All right, all right. No need to get feral on me, sweetheart. I was just asking.” He went over to the shelf of healing spell books and pulled half a dozen out. The dwarf grunted in surprise; those books were far, far too heavy to be only healing spells. He took them and, clearing the edge of the table, set them down with another thump.

“There. That should do to start.” Enlin walked over to the table and spread all six books in front of her. Then, she closed her eyes and started mouthing words in Hevriac.

“What are you doing?” Olaf asked. “That’s not…” Suddenly, all the books on the table, not just the ones she had spaced, started glowing with cerulean light. Each rose into the air and opened in turn, their pages flapping like standards in a breeze. “Enlin…what are you doing?” He repeated.

“Finding out how to make you stronger,” she replied. “The ritual is important, but we will need a bit more than your power to make this work.”

“Make what work?” He asked.

“Murethal’s dragon would be impossible to kill under normal circumstances,” she explained. “But I have a spell that might give us the weapon we need.”

“And what weapon is that?”

“Beast control,” she replied.

“So why do I need more than normal power for that? Beast control isn’t exactly difficult, even for me.”

“True, this would ordinarily be child’s play for you. I know that, darling. But this is a rather…special version of the spell.” Her eyes stopped glowing, and all the books except for three hit the table again. These remained in the air, static now. The pages had stopped flipping, revealing scripts and instructions for a complex series of incantations. One, he saw, seemed to be permutation of the restoration ceremony that allowed sorcerers to replenish their power. Another was an intricate beast control spell specifically designed to control animals from afar. The third…he shook his head.

“Enlin, this is madness. How do we even know that there are any of these left?”

“We do not, true.” She took the last two books and tucked one under each arm. “But we can try.” Enlin gestured to him. “Come on. We need to get you past full strength.”

He shook his head again. “I think this is a very, very poorly-conceived plan.”

“If you have a better one, feel free to share,” she replied irritably.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t the best option we have. I’m merely suggesting that the best option might be a desperate gambit.”

“Is this your first time at war?” Enlin suddenly asked.

“What?”

“Is this your first time going to war?” She repeated.

“I…yes,” he answered. “Yes, it is.”

“As it is mine.” She gestured down the stairs. “But, from what I have seen thus far, desperation seems to be the only course of action open to most.” He nodded.

“I think you’re right,” he whispered. “Maker have mercy on us for this. Let’s go.”

“Listen while we walk,” Enlin told him. “I have a plan for after all this is over, but I need you to hear me out.”

“And why is that?”

“Because otherwise, you will dislike me immensely,” she replied. “As plans go, this one competes for prizes in insanity.” She told him as they descended the stairs into her aunt’s spellcasting chamber. And, as she had said, he disliked it.

Western Road

Two days later

Carsten surveyed the marching troops, his left hand on the hilt of Sorrow’s Bite. They had stopped for the second time in nearly four days to rest, and they exhaustion showed on every face except Deyann’s and his own. Of all the Outlanders he had met, the dark elf alone seemed to share or at least have some measure of dwarven hardiness. The days of marching left the men footsore and hungry, but Carsten and the dark elf agreed that they needed to keep moving to reach the fortress around the same time as Oriem’s forces.

They had no choice but to stop, however, when the weather impeded their progress. One of the Outlands’ peculiarities was its weather; today for example, it had been clear for most of the day. By early afternoon, however, the sky looked angrier than a jilted lover and, by dinnertime, had unleashed their wrath in the form of a disgusting half-snow half-rain precipitation. The dark elf king would need all the reinforcements he could get to destroy the invading force.

“It won’t be enough,” he murmured to Deyann as they watched the men taking shelter from the rain overhead.

“What?”

“It won’t be enough,” the dwarf repeated. “We don’t have the men or the strategic advantage to defeat six thousands of these…whatever they are, even with Oriem’s help.”

“We still have to try,” the dark elf said. “You of all people ought to know about not giving up in the face of insurmountable odds.” He surveyed the camp, squinting to see through the pouring rain-snow mix. “Should we let them rest for the night?”

“Even if we wanted to move, we can’t.” Carsten absently reached out and stroked Spitfire’s head. The massive bird had curled itself up under the eaves of the tent, but it looked far from happy about so much water. “Not in this weather, anyway. If it clears, we might be able to.” The dwarf noted red lights inside some of the tents. “It might be wise to ration our firewood.”

Deyann nodded. “I will give that order tomorrow. For tonight, though…” Carsten slid on his cloak, giving a sigh of resignation.

“Tonight’s mess is going to be one all over again, yes.”

Outlands

Southern Road

Oriem sat on his horse, shifting in the saddle uneasily; the animal’s pace was nowhere near what he would have reached in the midst of a cavalry unit. Then again, his rider was not leading the cavalry into battle yet. Luthe’s Airknights should have reached the fortress several days prior, which meant that the dwarves would have at least a fighting chance if the trap should be sprung before the Outlanders’ force arrived. The dark elf king believed, or rather suspected, that the others, save Sigurd, might secretly be hoping for such a thing. After all, if the raiders focused on Olaf and his men, they would be less likely to anticipate a flanking attack. Oriem harbored no such secret hopes. He knew as well as his daughters did that, should the fortress fall, the Vanahym raiders would have an ideal position they could defend against nigh any assault. True, that gave the dwarves, men and sundry other species defending Vadhyl more than a chance against them, but Oriem suspected that the raiders might have more at their disposal than an army of several thousand. The sound of hoof-beats snapped the dark elf king out of his reverie, and he turned to see one of the rear pickets moving rapidly up the line of soldiers and supply wagons.

“Sire!” One of them called. “We have urgent news.”

“What is it, Captain?”

“We…” The Captain gestured behind him. “Our army is being followed.”

“Followed?” Oriem’s mind instantly shifted to defensive strategies. Out here, in the open, with minimal cover, they might as well be naked. Further, someone behind them would know his army’s speed, numbers, and armaments, in the event that they had been surveying his forces.

“How many of them?” Oriem asked. “And who are they?”

“They…” the scout hesitated again. “They are Freemen.”

“How many of them?” The king asked.

“That is the problem,” the captain replied. “It seems that they have an army, too. And they are going to the same place we are.”

“Send messengers to them at once. Go yourself if you must,” the king ordered. “Tell the Free come to us.” He turned to the others in his group. “Send orders to the rest of our forces. We make camp tonight, to be broken before dawn. Go.” The soldiers wheeled their horses away, and Oriem squinted into the horizon behind them. He could indeed see a force of some size behind him, but where they had come from he could not say. Nor could he safely say how many of them there were, although he was willing to bet there were several thousand at least. Here is hoping they brought a spirit of cooperation with them, he thought. Though, knowing the Free, cooperation was probably the last thing on their collective mind.

The army moved on steadily, with pickets periodically reporting in. The news seldom sounded good to the dark elf king. A destroyed village here, a small refugee camp there, all of it spoke to a land ravaged, and he fought back a rising tide of anger and dread. He hated these…whatever they were for the chaos and destruction they had sown, but he also feared that his forces might not have the power to defeat them on their own.

“My king!” Oriem turned on his horse and saw the young captain riding back. His pale face was flushed, and he was breathing hard. That was the rider; the horse looked far worse. His flanks glistened with sweat, and the eyes glowed bloodshot red in the fading light. “My king, the Free have agreed to meet,” he said. “But they request that we leave our weapons.” Oriem unbuckled his twin swords from his horse, handing them to Sigurd. The dwarf had ridden much of the way with him on one of their domesticated boars, but had fallen behind. The recently slower pace had given him an opportunity to catch up, and now here he was.

“Keep these till I return,” the dark elf king instructed. “I am leaving you in charge, so make sure that the army keeps moving.” The dwarf nodded.

“Should I tell any of the other leaders to come with you?”

“No.” The dark elf kicked his horse, sending it off at a trot. “I can do this myself.”

Outlander Army Column

Several Leagues Away

Carsten walked along behind the other scouts, his eyes roving the hills around them. Although he could see no clear danger, reconnaissance officers naturally thought they were being followed. To get a better view of the road in front of and around the army, the forward pickets had moved into the craggy knolls and small hills around them. While thus far they had found nothing, with every moment, Carsten’s apprehension grew. Of course, the piles of bones did little to help; since they had entered these red rock hills, he had noticed piles of stark white bones. Not neat piles, as travelers might build for the dead, but haphazard jumbles of varying sizes, ranging from a simple scattering to stacks almost as high as Carsten himself.

“Has anyone else noticed how quiet it is?” One of them whispered.

“It’s always quiet until you open your mouth,” another answered.

“That’s not what I meant,” the first said. “Listen. We’ve listened to obnoxious birds overheard for days now. Even as they head south for the winter, they’re landed and made those awful white messes we’ve seen before.”

“There aren’t any here,” a third whispered. “Is that a bad sign?”

“Well,” Carsten asked, sliding a bolt in front of the firing pin of his crossbow, “Why don’t we ask ourselves why birds would avoid this place at all?”

“Perhaps a lack of water?” One of them suggested.

“No, there’s water.” The first one, said, jerking a thumb. “We’ve passed several small ponds the rain made into lakes.”

“Inhospitable terrain?” Another suggested.

“Unlikely,” Carsten said. “There’s grass here. Insects, too. Even if the birds were vegetarian, they would have food.”

“Meaning something else is keeping them away. That would explain all the skeletons,” One of the elven scouts muttered, nocking a pair of arrows to his bow. “I don’t see what could be, though.”

“Neither do I,” Carsten muttered. All of them had weapons in hand, their eyes scanning the rocky terrain as they slowly moved ahead. “Wait.” Ahead of them, the hills turned into hundred-foot walls of sheer red stone, which extended in both directions as far as Carsten’s vision went. The only opening that they could see in the stone was a narrow canyon between the cliffs, through which the army behind the scouts would have to pass. Throughout the canyon, Carsten could see more of the bone piles. What could be eating all these creatures? He wondered.

“Come on,” one of the scouts said, “We should at least explore it before we report back.”

That was when it happened; the man took several steps in front of Carsten, and the earth erupted beneath him. It happened so fast that the only thing left behind was a lingering scream, a sound swiftly cut short by a nauseating crunch. The massive shape that had burst from the ground now coiled itself up, and Carsten could see it was a serpent, but one much larger in size than even the largest snake he had ever seen. Its jaws dripped with blood, and it lunged at them. The scouts and rangers dove out of the way, scattering like leaves in a windstorm. Carsten and a dark elf bowyer were the first to find their feet, and they loosed a volley of crossbow bolts and arrows at the monster. Most of the shots rattled harmlessly to the stony ground, but several punctured exposed flesh between the chinks of the beast’s armor. It gave an earsplitting shriek and cracked its body like a whip, sending a spray of stones and dirt into the air. Carsten ducked behind a nearby outcropping as the hail of rock pounded against it. Then he rolled from his cover and opened fire anew, one knee raised and the crossbow sighted. The dark elf archer had assumed a higher position, on top of a knoll, and he loosed two arrows, taking the beast in the left eye and right nostril. It shrieked again and went for him, but the elf dove from his position, raking the beast’s side with his hunting knife as he did. Suck a glancing blow failed to pierce the skin, and the iron-like scales actually snapped the blade in two. The snake wheeled, and one of Carsten’s bolts struck it just beneath its scaly lips, lodged behind its right fang. It snarled and struck again, this time aiming at the dwarf. Carsten rolled and drew Sorrow’s Bite; the beast had slammed into a rock and was momentarily dazed. It got up and shook its head, looking for its prey. But it failed to see Carsten; it scanned the terrain, looking for the dwarf with its good and semi-functioning eyes. Suddenly, another arrow whistled through the air and slammed into its left eye and rendering it completely non-functional. The beast’s good eye narrowed, and it reared to strike…only for Carsten and Sorrow’s Bite to fall from above, driving the sword right through the beast’s skull and brain. It screamed and shook itself, and Carsten struggled to hold on. After the spasm ceased, Carsten got to his feet and drove the sword down a second time. The animal thrashed again, but no sound came out. The snake’s head rose one last time, and then crashed to the earth. The dwarf yanked his sword out of the animal’s brain matter and leapt from its head, rolling as he hit the ground.

“Well, that explains a lot,’ the dark elf remarked.

Carsten nodded, wiping off his sword. “I suppose we know why the birds stay away.” He gestured to the other scouts. “Move up. Watch the ground; I saw it crack just before that thing showed up.”

“There are most likely more of them up ahead,” the dark elf growled. “We should head back before the army comes through here. Maybe we can find a way around.” Suddenly, Carsten’s eyes widened.

“I know where we are,” he whispered. “You’re right, we should head back. I have an idea.”

“What kind of idea?” The dark elf queried.

“One that could get us to the fortress faster.” He grinned malevolently. “And that with a weapon.”

Free Peoples’ Camp

Oriem rode up to the picket line, reining his horse several feet out of bowshot. The Freemen had set up camp several miles south of his own, which made riding there hard in the Outlands’ inhospitable terrain. The Free had entrenched themselves behind hastily constructed earthworks, accompanied by wooden stakes, called palisades, driven into the ground. That way, a charging cavalry force would try to jump their earthworks, only to impale themselves on the spikes. Many such old camps existed in the Outlands, and more than a few horses, ponies, and oxen had met their deaths at such sites. At least Oriem had reined in before he suffered a similar fate.

“Halt,” a voice shouted from behind the hastily-erected wooden palisade. “State your name and your purpose here.” The dark elf king could see a variety of weapons behind it, indicating that this was not one people group acting alone. The Free had unanimously, or at least popularly, decided to fight for them. That is at least a good sign, he thought. Perhaps our cause is not lost after all.

“I am Oriem, King of the Dark Elves,” he replied. “And I have come to speak with your king about a possible alliance. I believe we journey to the same place for the same purpose.”

“If you are who you say you are, wait here,” the elf said, raising his head above the trench. He was young, but he had grown a beard to at least partially conceal the fact. Why was it that the young ones think the beards make them look older? Oriem wondered. “I need to confirm with my superiors that you are in fact allowed here.” He leapt up out of the trench, light-footed, and went off at a brisk pace. Oriem dismounted, rubbing his horse’s flanks as he did so.

“Easy,” he whispered. “Calm down, Alder. It will be fine.” The dark elf king looked back up at the palisades, seeing the weapons gleaming in the fading sunlight. Oriem repeated the words, even though he felt uncertain of it himself. “It will all be fine.”

Everwinter Waste

Turnback Harbor

Issavea stood on the frozen shore of the island, her fur-lined cloak flapping in the wind. She had been waiting for what seemed like ages, and yet the benefactor had yet to arrive. The rest of her entourage had been constrained to travel with the Vanahym army southwards, but she had come her, for a final consultation with their anonymous leader. She looked back up the beach, not seeing anyone. The frigid water lapping against the shore and the winter wind whipping in her ears were the only sounds to be heard.

“Welcome.” The voice was low, rough, and even. In fact, one of the things that caused Issavea uneasiness was the fact that he always seemed to speak completely devoid of emotion. “You seem troubled.”

“Of course I am troubled,” she replied, turning to face him. As usual, he was wreathed in a black cloak that covered every possible area of bare flesh. Even his face was wreathed in darkness. “You gave Murethal a weapon that could defeat Shargann. I thought the plan was to remove him from the field as soon as possible.”

“That was what the weapon was intended to do,” the benefactor explained. “But our plan went awry. Apparently, Murethal learned to use the darkstone by some means.”

“A darkstone?” Issavea yelled. “He could have killed him with a weapon like that!”

“I know. But Shargann’s magical knowledge far superseded Murethal’s. That alone should have made it an easy victory, never mind Shargann’s swordsmanship advantage.”

“Whatever the case, Murethal won,” Issavea said. “Worse, Olaf has been marked before time, and he married Enlin before we had planned.”

“We expected them to get married,” he replied dismissively. “Timing is immaterial.”

“Not in this case. I needed more to tell Enlin the whole truth. If she learns on her own, she might subvert us. As I had planned it, he would control the Savages, and she would control him. Without that avenue, and with the Seal, he could easily become a force against us.”

“She may try, and he may indeed counteract us.” He folded his arms and looked off into the southern horizon. “But both of them will serve our purposes. They can do nothing else.”

“Do not be so certain,” she cautioned. “We believed that Arcaena and Carsten would be married by now, and that with a child on the way.”

“True,” he acknowledged. “I assume you set your niece up for the contingency plan?”

“I did,” Issavea answered. Then, she asked plaintively, “Are you certain we can do nothing else? It seems rather cruel, does it not?”

“To let so many die?” The benefactor asked. “Yes. Originally we believed that there would be no need for war, but apparently the enemy has been countering our moves. We have no choice but to allow the war on this continent now.”

“Will they be strong enough if we permit it?” She asked.

“I believe so.” He turned back to her. “They are moving more quickly now, Issavea. We are running out of time. They will be here before the year’s end, and we need a united continent.”

“But is the best way to do it?” She asked. “I pity my niece. First we prevent her from having a child, and now we start a war to stop another? Where does it end?”

“Where is unimportant,” he answered. “But how; how matters. We cannot allow another world conflict, and you well know it. So we do what must be done to forestall such a war.”

“What price is too high?” Issavea asked, her eyes glowing with white light. “When do we stop exacting usury from others? We should be paying the price ourselves.”

“We have paid, Issavea. We paid more dearly than anyone. Have you forgotten? Have you not remembered the price our friends’ parents paid? They have to make this right; and look on the bright side. We played matchmaker for four people who deserve at least to be happy.”

“Enlin will not be happy for long,” she snapped. “And she will be even less so if the future I have seen comes to pass.”

“Ah yes. I think your fear is justified. She longs for a family; let her have one. It might provide us with the control mechanism we lack.” The sorceress shook her head.

“Is there no end to the manipulation?” She asked.

“Yes,” He answered coldly. “Our enemies’ demise. Only when we have safeguarded the future can life return to peace.”

She snorted. “Some peace this turned out to be.”

“Agreed. Perhaps the next will be more…cordial.” And, with that, he vanished in a swirl of black mist. He left one parting thought in the air, though: “This audience is over. Set about your work.”

Frostspire Castle

Olaf sat in the chair, his bare arm in front of Enlin. “Are you sure about this?”

“Please stop complaining,” she said, holding a red-hot needle in her right hand. “You have other tattoos. What makes this one any different?”

“I wasn’t talking about the tattoos,” he countered. “I meant the pattern. If you don’t get it exactly right, the spell won’t work. And I’d rather not get marked up for nothing.”

She smiled. “I also happen to be an artist in my spare time, darling. I should be fine.” He shook his head.

“If you’re certain,” he said. Olaf pointed to a spot on his upper arm. “Go ahead. Put her there.” Enlin lowered the needle and began to draw. She momentarily raised her eyes, seeing Olaf’s eyes set in concentration.

“Are you all right?” She asked.

“I am,” he replied. “It’s just…I’m worried about what’s going to happen. You’re sure the Seal works that way?”

She nodded. “I am. We should both be perfectly fine.” Enlin quieted momentarily, her mouth set in a thin line. After several minutes in such a position, she sat back, a satisfied smile on her face. “There. I finished. Fancy a look?” He stared down at the set of runes, and then nodded approval.

“You weren’t jesting when you said you were an artist. This is beautiful!”

Enlin’s pale cheeks flushed with pleasure and pride.

“Thank you. I try.”

“You certainly did more than that. I thought Hevriac calligraphy was a lost art.”

“I found it again,” she said, smiling. “Now come. We need to find the proper channeling item for the spell.” The dwarf closed his eyes.

“What did you have in mind?” He asked.

“I have an idea,” she said. “Did you enchant your weapons?”

“Divide and Conquer?” He queried. “Yes, I did. Why?”

“Did you use any of the power?”

“About a quarter in the quake spell,” Olaf answered. “Why?”

“Because we could use them,” Enlin answered. “Come on, I can show you how.”

He nodded. “And when we’ve finished?”

“Issavea is not due back for another hour,” she answered. “There are things we could glean in the library.”

“Like what to do after…you know?”

Enlin nodded. “Come now. You and I both know we happen to be long overdue for a honeymoon. And this is hardly the place to have it; keeping warm is challenging in a castle like this.” His lips quirked upward.

“We could manage.”

“But why bother?” She asked. “There are so many other places we could go. Do you not want to see the world?”

“I want to spend my life with you,” he told her. “I don’t much care where we do it.” Enlin hid a smile behind her hand.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Now come on. You have an incantation to learn and runes to carve.” He nodded.

“Let’s go.”

Carving the runes into steel took quite a bit of time, but with Enlin helping, it took less than it might have otherwise. She had decided to use a fire element spell to help with the cutting, while her husband had decided to use a shilthain knife instead. After an hour, they finished with the cutting, and Olaf took another ten minutes to learn the spell script. That done, the couple proceeded to search Enlin’s library for every book on geography and history with notes or script in her hand. The hunt took time, but it yielded a wealth of information.

“Now this is interesting,” Enlin murmured. “Apparently there are four continents, not merely one. But only one of the people groups have developed ships durable and large enough to cross the sea. That must be why we never heard of them afterward.”

“And the wizards before,” he muttered. “That is just wonderful.”

“And my aunt was one of them.” She sighed. “I truly am sorry for all of this. I had not wanted to drag you into this; you must hate me.”

“Hate you?” Olaf shook his head. “You didn’t perform a collective memory wipe to erase the worst part of the War of Sundering. How could I possibly hate you? The only thing you’ve done is love me.”

She smirked. “Stop it. Did you find anything?”

“Yes,” he said. “The different races that inhabit the lands across the sea. Here, you have a look.” She flipped through the pages, her eyebrows rising with each line.

“Well, it seems that they are just as nice as the people here,” Enlin muttered. “From the sound of things, the western continent would be the least dangerous to live in”

“Wait a minute.” Olaf’s face went white. “Do what? Enlin, you’re not talking about getting a cottage on the Free border. We would be leaving behind our homes, our families…”

“And what have our families done for us?” She asked, her eyes narrowed. “Mine rewrote history, started wars, manipulated wars, and did unspeakable things to thousands. What has my family ever done for us?”

“Even if yours is complete scum, mine isn’t,” He answered. “So Issavea’s complete scum. But mine kept me, sheltered me, taught me, raised me. I can’t leave Neena behind, Enlin.”

“Then we take her with us,” she said. “But I want to leave. I have had it with these people and their politics. They will tear each other apart, darling. You saw it in Telara, just as I see it in my aunt. We have to leave if we want to be free of them. And the only way to do that is the plan I laid out.”

“It seems…cruel,” he protested halfheartedly. “Such heartbreak.”

“It is a heavy price to pay,” she acknowledged. “But in the end, is it not all a fair exchange?”

He nodded. “It is, I suppose. That still doesn’t make me feel right about doing…this.” Olaf sighed. “All right, the time has come. I should go.”

Enlin nodded. Then, on and impulse, she pulled him close and kissed him for a solid minute. When she finally pulled away, she whispered, “Meet me at Dragon’s End. Six days from today. I will be waiting.”

“So will I,” Olaf murmured. Then his form shimmered, and the dwarf was gone.

He apported to his meditation room, and he made a hurried exit. As he rushed through the fortress’s torch-lit hallways, he knew something was wrong. The people he could usually see were not there. It was not until he entered the courtyard underneath the wall that he understood why; the soldiers had gathered on the wall in full battle gear, and the alarm call was being blown over and over again.

“What’s happening?” He asked one of the men in line.

“There you are,” the fellow said. “Qural was looking for you. The raiders started building earthworks. They already surpassed the rubble you dumped on their last force, and they started trying to build their way up the wall. Thanks to the ground being frozen, they aren’t making much progress. Still, they’ll surmount the all in two days’ time. The Airknights have been harassing them, but they have too many men to be stopped so easily.” The dwarf nodded, looking over the ice-covered parapet. True to the report, the Vanahym had begun building an earthen ramp up to the wall. He could see the dragon-and-gryphon-riding Airknights above them, firing arrows down on the workers beneath. While the dark elves’ keen aim ensured that almost nine out of ten arrows hit their targets, they still could not wipe out the attacking forces with so few arrows. Olaf knew that they lacked all the arrows to destroy a force that large, even if they had the archers.

“Where’s Qural?” The dwarf asked.

“Over here,” came the minotaur’s voice. “And I’m happy you’re back. Their army made it to our doorstep, but as you said, they’re just waiting.”

“They’re playing for time,” the dwarf muttered. “Waiting for their weapon.”

“The dragon?” Qural asked.

“Yes.”

“What dragon?” The man asked.

“The dragon I have a plan to deal with,” Olaf countered. “But we lack a timetable. We need to know when they plan to bring their game-changer into play.”

“I would bring the beast into the field before the earthworks are quite finished,” the minotaur suggested. “That would let them finish. Or they might have ladders they could use. Although they would merely be cleaning up the mess that the beast made. Speaking of, how could they protect their men from the monster?”

“We’ll see,” Olaf said. “For now, we bombard them. Do we have any cauldrons?”

“And oil,” the minotaur said. “Let’s see if we can’t light a fire under the working class. Oh, too soon?”

“What’s the appropriate time for that to not be insensitive?” Olaf asked.

“Good point.”

The night was passed in fitful sleep for many on the walls, all except Olaf. He watched the torches of the attacking force, his eye glowing in the dim light. Suddenly, he saw them. Lights beyond the main attacking force. The dwarf shook Qural, who was lying beside him.

“Do you see that?” He asked, pointing. The minotaur wiped sleep from his eyes.

“See…what?” He inquired, pulling himself up so that he could see over the wall. Then, he saw the lights, and all weariness left his body. “Yes, I see them,” Qural said. “Any idea who they might be?”

“Oriem’s forces, perhaps?” Olaf asked.

“The force looks large for that, even with the Nagai inflating his numbers,” the minotaur replied. “Mayhap he found others along the way?”

“Who?” Olaf challenged.

“Good point.” Qural slowly got to his feet. “You don’t think the Free might have decided to join the fight?”

“I’ll wait for morning to make judgments,” the dwarf told him. “But I think our luck just had a turn for the better.” Even so, he stayed up the rest of the night. Not that he expected to be attacked in that time, but being vigilant only hurt thieves and miscreants.