Tales from the Green
Book Three: Spider’s Web
S.D. Best
Copyright 2012 S.D. Best
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The Tales from the Green series
Book Three: Spider’s Web
Dedicated to my daughter Julie,
Who does everything in her considerable power
To prevent me from finding the time to write.
Far away, in the land beyond the mists, hides the world of things unseen. It is a place of mystery and magic, where dreams and legends walk freely, a land of soaring mountain peaks, deep dark caves, crystal seas, expansive deserts, and ancient kingdoms. In the center of all of this is the forest. None know how deep it goes, for walking its twisted paths is sure to get one hopelessly lost. As far as anyone is concerned, the forest simply goes on forever, endless woodland filled with ancient magic. The forest goes by many names, but to those who live here, it is simply the Green.
Timothy McIntyre, PhD, was quite an accomplished man, all things considered. A robust man with only a mildly receding hairline, he had been practicing in the field of child psychiatry for nigh on twenty years, now, and was considered to be at the top of his field…at least in the tri-county area. His prestige was heightened by the many accolades he had won over the years, not to mention the many books he had written on subjects ranging from adolescent rebellion, teenage depression, and, oddly enough, the beneficial mental health benefits of fly fishing. Everyone needed a hobby. Needless to say, there was little in his field that could surprise him anymore, least of all the plight of one Alexander Samuels.
The Samuels child was a fairly standard case: emotional detachment, apathy in the classroom, stunted social development. If he had $125 an hour for every mopey teenager that shuffled through his door he'd have a lavish five-bedroom house on the good side of town, which he did. It was actually all quite boring working with the child, but his family paid in advance every month and so the good doctor suffered through. It was a shame that the one factor which made the case interesting had all but vanished over the years. Alexander had originally been brought to him due to a lengthy history of vivid dreams and outright hallucinations of the most fantastical nature. Practically from birth the child had been frequently exposed to a complex series of make-believe stories of some juvenile tale of a land of magic faeries and dragons and the like. For most children this was actually quite normal, but it was the way in which the Samuels child reacted to these tales of adventure that had been so intriguing. Rarely in all his long career had Dr. McIntyre ever seen such a young and otherwise well-balanced child form such complex and intricate delusions. This was no simple case of a wayward imaginary friend; the boy had crafted a whole ecosystem, complete with the most unusual flora and fauna which he could describe in vivid detail. The line between fantasy and reality hadn’t just blurred, it had been obliterated.
As expected these odd ideas and disturbing dreams had caused quite a bit of concern for Alexander’s mother and father. By the age of four he was conversing with shadows, and by five he would disappear for hours on end only to show back up in the most peculiar of places. They had been almost frantic during those first sessions, but of course the good doctor had no trouble getting to the root of the issue fairly quickly. An end was put to the hallucinations and dreams by merely keeping the boy away from the source of his fantasies for a period of time, namely the grandfather who had told him the stories in the first place. A relatively mild regiment of medication and a push by his parents to get him to focus on other more down-to-earth pursuits and the patient had been well on his way towards being a withdrawn yet otherwise normal functioning member of society. It had been years since anything about the child’s visits had been the slightest bit out of the ordinary, so it went without saying that Dr. McIntyre certainly hadn't expected any major incidents such as the one the child's father was describing now.
“I just don't know what to do, doctor,” James Samuels said, repeating the refrain of woe spoken by countless parents who had come before him. “Sure, Alex was skipping classes, and there was that whole thing with the baseball team, but I thought we were making improvements. You said he was making improvements!”
The good doctor frowned slightly as the man’s tone became more accusatory, but he was quick to smooth his expression. Overprotective parents like Mr. Samuels were his bread and butter, so to speak, but they expected results. Word of mouth carried far in this business, and failure to reign in Alexander might well cost him in the long run. This had to be handled just so.
“Well you see, Mr. Samuels,” he began slowly, parsing his words with care, “the fact is that Alexander's act of running away is merely an act of juvenile rebellion, nothing more. In fact, you should be celebrating the fact that it was his grandfather to whom he ran. This is a major step forward.”
Mr. Samuels looked skeptical. “It is, is it?”
“Oh yes,” Dr. McIntyre continued eagerly. “You see, Alexander's original malady was caused by the inability to distinguish fantasy from reality, a condition fueled by your own father's fanciful tales of his 'adventures' in this 'Green' land of his. Your son is no longer an impressionable child, though. At thirteen years old he balanced delicately between the child he was and the man he will become. As such, by running off to his grandfather he was in reality rushing back to the source of his original childhood delusions. Once the nostalgia wears off and he realizes once and for all that his grandfather's fairy tales were indeed just that your son will finally be able to move on from that portion of his life permanently. Why, before you know it he’ll be all about girls and sports and whatever it is kids do these days and you won’t have a thing to worry about! It's quite frankly a textbook case at this point, Mr. Samuels.”
The boy's father did not seem convinced at his off-the-cuff explanation, but at least he no longer seemed on the verge of ending their professional relationship. After a few more laps around the room Mr. Samuels finally stopped his pacing and sat down on Dr. McIntyre's couch as if he were a patient himself. The man certainly seemed stressed enough to warrant psychiatric care, and since he was being charged for this session despite his son's absence the doctor was kind enough to indulge him.
“You still seem troubled, Mr. Samuels,” he said, a casual invitation for the man to share his feelings.
“It's all...it's all just so strange,” James replied, eyes distant and brow furrowed. “What you said all makes sense I suppose, but the night Alex disappeared...do you remember what Alex's dreams used to be like?”
“I seem to recall,” Dr. McIntyre responded, surreptitiously flipping through his notes to find what he had written years ago on the subject. When he failed to find them he selected a page at random and nodded sagely anyway. His patient didn’t notice.
“It was just the sounds coming from his room that night,” Mr. Samuels continued. “The things I thought I heard, they all reminded me so much of my father's stories, like they were really happening! It was all so strange…”
Dr. McIntyre chuckled wryly in response. “Mr. Samuels,” he said, trying his best not to sound too patronizing, “consider what you are saying for a moment. You’re a grown man, a business man, in fact! I think we can both agree how absurd such a notion is. Really now, which seems more plausible, Alex sneaking out the window and catching a bus to his grandfather’s house or Alex spiriting himself away to some far away land of sprites and goblins?”
As he had intended Mr. Samuels laughed along with him, but the sound retained a sort of nervous edge. It was the laughter of a man who desperately wanted to find humor in the situation but couldn’t, the laughter of a man who wanted to believe what he was being told. It was the laughter of a man who found sprites and goblins no laughing matter.
“Sometimes I wonder,” Mr. Samuels said, growing serious again far more quickly than the doctor had hoped. “You know, I used to have dreams about the Green, too.”
Dr. McIntyre raised an eyebrow. This was new. A simple childhood hallucination was one thing, but a family history! Why had he never mentioned this before now? Considering the sheer complexity of the delusion it was the sort of thing that got papers published, and it had been some time since his name had graced the byline of a medical journal. At any rate it added an extra twist to a case that could certainly use some spice. Though it would have been unprofessional for him to say as much to the boy’s parents the stories young Alex used to tell had always been quite entertaining.
“Go on,” the doctor prodded, concealing his true interest behind a professionally concerned facade.
“It was just one dream, really,” Mr. Samuels said, looking a bit embarrassed by the admission. “My father, he had this old wooden flute that he brought out every now and then, hand carved.”
“The flute he gave your son just before he ran away?”
“That’s the one,” Mr. Samuels affirmed. “Alex didn’t think much of it when he got it, but I knew how much it meant for my father to give it to him. It had always been his favorite possession, the one thing he’d never share with anyone. He wouldn’t even let my mother hold it, and he never even showed it to my sisters. But he showed it to me. He had always told me that the Elf King had given it to him for safekeeping, and that someday he would pass it on to me if I wanted it. Of course I didn’t believe that it was magic like he said it was, but the music he could make it could play…”
“Well, anyway, when I was fourteen I had a dream about that flute. In the dream, I heard that music, and when I woke up, well, woke up in the dream, my father and I were in this forest. Only it was more than a forest! There were these trees, you see, but they were more like trees should be, if you get what I mean, and the sky and the birds…I had heard about the Green my whole life the same way Alex had, through my father’s stories, and this place was exactly as I had imagined the Green to be! I was pretty freaked out, but my dad said it was alright, that this could be my destiny if I wanted it and….I’m sorry, this is crazy. We were talking about my son.”
“No, no, please continue,” the doctor said encouragingly. “Do go on. I want to hear this.”
Several appointments would be cancelled that afternoon, and several irritated parents would be calling the next day, but for the moment that was of no concern. The story the man wove of his short time in a world beyond worlds was breathtaking to say the least, even if it had been only a dream. It had been years since Dr. Macintyre had first begun treating young Alexander Samuels, but it was only now through his father’s confession that day that the doctor began to see the sort of pull these stories had on people. If only he could speak with the grandfather to see where all of this started! What sort of tales may yet to be told?
What sort of wonders awaited those who ventured into the Green?
*
It was amazing the sort of wonders one could encounter in the Green. From trees that talked to stones that walked and even a little magic here and there, it was a place that never ceased to amaze and astound the uninitiated. Even to one born and raised there it remained a world unlike any other, a place of enchantment to tantalize the senses and stagger the imagination. This went double if one were still a child with an open mind and an open heart that could take in all the splendorous sights that life had to offer. However, one would always do well to remember that the Eternal Forest is no paradise. It is a place where wild beasts prowl and storms rage, a place of trolls and goblins and creatures best left to the fireside tales of dwarves who had had a bit too much to drink. Yes, the Green was a wonderful place at times, and yet it could also be a place of grave danger and misfortune. It was not so long ago that one young child learned this very same lesson, though the cost would be dear.
Exactly how long ago this happened doesn’t necessarily matter. Suffice it to say that it was yet a few years before a certain disaffected youth from a small town from a small planet known as Earth to its local inhabitants escaped an attack by fairytale monsters in his bedroom only to wake up at the Mossy Mistgate a scant hour’s walk from the outer environs of the city of Ghome. During this time Eyell’sevvet was still king over the tribes without question, his chancellor Ishari still by all appearances a loyal servant and trusted advisor. It was a time of celebration as well as mourning, for though the three Warlords of Antoch were no more Tiralia, the beloved Queen of the Elves, had also fallen in that final battle. She had been the last to be lost in the centuries of War against the wyrms, the final casualty in a seemingly endless conflict that had taken so much from so many. So many things had been taken by the armies of Ssvalith that could never be replaced, but for now it was enough to be alive and to know that the ancient enemy which had plagued them for so long had been defeated at last.
That day, not so long ago, it had at last been decided by the elders that the woods were safe to travel once more. The wyrms were gone they all said, their masters turned to stone by the sacrifice of the lost queen, and as for the dreaded dragon which had spawned them all…well, no one had seen Ssvalith for over two hundred years! Surely he had fled to some far distant land long ago, or better yet had succumbed to the wounds he had sustained during his final battle with the legendary hero Alexander. At any rate such monsters certainly weren’t a concern for a certain elf child that fateful day. It was such a short journey, after all, and in such well patrolled lands. The tribes weren’t as mighty as they once were, but surely they could keep their own territory safe from whatever lingering harms the dragon might have left behind. On such a beautiful day with the sunshine dripping through the gaps in the boughs overhead worry and fear were the furthest thing from the young elf’s naïve little mind.
They appeared suddenly, as danger often does. Indeed, the tribe’s elders had been telling the truth when they declared that the wyrms really were all gone, but not all who served the dragon were themselves reptilian. Though the certainly did strike with the speed of a serpent those that descended upon the traveler that day wore familiar faces and bore familiar names. They were friends, family even, but though they appeared as elves on the outside inside their souls had long since been tarnished by the evil promises of their new master. Gone were the kind words and sweet fellowship the child had always known from these folk, replaced only by cruelty and wickedness. Defiance was met with physical rebuke, tears with cool disdain, and pleading questions only with hopes that the Master’s will be done.
They bore the child far away from the familiar valleys and streams of home, heading south with all possible speed with their prize. Beyond the Tangles and the Forest of Mists, around the Spritewood and past the city of Ghome they went, until at last they arrived in the fetid swamps of the Gobbledymuck. Further and further they traveled, going ever deeper into that dark and foreboding place until at last the child arrived at a place where the water boiled and great jets of steam erupted from the very ground. There a great chasm yawned, and it was there that those the child had once called friends and loved ones departed. Ah, but the child was not alone, you see. Somewhere deep below lurked a presence, a looming darkness that beckoned the traveler to come forward, to venture down into the void where destiny awaited.
“Come to me,” the voice said soothingly in a voice like the rumblings of a distant storm.
“I want to go home.”
“You have no home,” the voice responded.
“I do so!”
“You do not. Those whom you love have abandoned you. They betrayed you.”
The flow of tears stopped then as fists clenched and brow furrowed. Through all the long and terrible journey there had been a hope that there had been some mistake, some misunderstanding to cause those who had once claimed to love the child to act as they had. That hope was gone now, snuffed out by the stark and terrible reality of what had occurred. The voice only confirmed what the child had been thinking all along.
“Ah, you know that I speak the truth,” the voice continued, sounding quite pleased with itself. “I know your thoughts, child. Now say it! Speak the words your heart knows are true.”
“I have no home.”
“Yes.”
“They never loved me.”
“Yes!”
“They never loved me!”
“Yesss!” hissed the voice in triumph. “Now, come to me, child. Come to me and I will ensure that those who betrayed you will pay dearly for their crimes. They are nothing to me, mere pawns! But you…you are the one I need, the one whose coming was foretold to me! Come to me and you will have the love of whomsoever you desire! Come to me and be reborn…”
The child hesitated but a moment before taking that first step down into the darkness. The journey was not so far.
*
Part One: The Forest
Chapter 1 - Evil Marching
Far above an endless ocean of gently swaying treetops the Helionauticus soared through the heavens, its prow slicing through the clouds like waves on the open sea. A ship of the skies, sleek of hull and expertly crafted by the finest aeronautics engineers ever to come out of Ghome, there were nothing to match her. Her name was legend amongst all who dwelt in the lands of the old Empire, her mere shadow on the ground far below enough to cause merchants to quake in their boots and clutch their gold more tightly. Bane of greedy dwarves and meddling gnomes, a menace to high-strung elves and cowardly satyrs, she was truly one of a kind. At times he still couldn’t believe that he had her back.
Riley ‘Fleetfeet’ Haussenfeld, notorious captain of the Green’s one and only crew of gnomish sky pirates, was at peace at last. Here amidst the clouds he was free. That’s what a ship was: freedom. It was freedom from the bureaucracy which had stifled his efforts in his days as an inventor, freedom from the enforced slavery at the hands of maniacal elf sorcerers. Most of all, it was freedom from dragons…and from those who would throw their lives away to fight them. Aboard his ship he could outrun it all, simply set sail for the next horizon and leave his troubles behind, all while acquiring a great deal of loot along the way. That was the plan, anyway.
The Eternal Forest was vast, infinite if the stories were to be believed. Captain Fleetfeet certainly did. The forest stretched out to all four points of the compass, horizon to horizon to horizon to horizon. From his unique vantage point he could make out only the smallest gaps in the trees, signs of ruined elven settlements that used to dot the area in the old days and overgrown roadways. Even great cities such as those were but tiny islands in his great ocean and he paid them no mind. Anything the elves had left behind had all been picked over by looters and treasure-seekers decades ago. He should know, especially since some of the best were part of his crew. Besides, thoughts of elf cities brought thoughts of the monster that had ground their civilization to dust, and today was much too fine a day for thoughts of that nature.
“Report, Mr. Jimmerson,” Riley said as he stepped onto the raised poop deck at the aft end of the ship. Up here near the helm the wind blew more fiercely, whipping at his mustaches and threatening to send his prized feathered hat sailing off into the blue. That was by design, of course; to properly sail along the clouds a good helmsman had to be one with the wind, had to feel its every caress and bluster. To do otherwise and they might as well land on a lake and put about like a regular boat. Inconceivable! Fortunately for the captain, First Mate Able Delano Jimmerson was one of the best.
“A fair tailwind today, captain,” the staid gnome replied as calmly as one could whilst shouting over the wind. “Wherever it is we’re going we’re making excellent time.”
“Well in that case, full speed ahead,” Riley said with a cackle. He hopped down over the railing to the lower deck where the rest of his crew went about their tasks. Gnomes one and all, each were diligent in their appointed duties. Keeping a craft so large aloft like a feather on the breeze took constant maintenance and expert calibration. Forget to watch the tension on the balloon lines or let a propeller seize from lack of oil and the Helionauticus would suffer for it. So it had been under Ishari’s command. That stinking, rotten, sorry excuse for spit elf and his wyrms hadn’t gotten nearly half the ship’s true potential out of her that Riley’s crew could. They could never know what she really was, not like these stalwart sailors.
“Good day to you, captain,” each greeted him quickly as they passed by. He acknowledged each with a grunt and a nod as he went. The crew didn’t mind his terse behavior. With all the work to be done there was no time for formality on his ship, and that was just what he preferred. Of course, not all were content with a mere tip of his hat and demanded a bit more attention.
“What’re on the prowl for today captain?” asked one, a brawny gnome so stocky he could’ve almost passed for a dwarf. Indeed, he wore a gold-inlaid dwarven breastplate over his vest, spoils of a raid on a passing caravan not one week ago. The dwarves were getting antsy in these troubled times, but there were still good pickings to be had for raiders of their caliber. Besides, Thad ‘Fisticuffs’ Dresdner, Riley’s chief of security, was always eager for a little action. It was difficult to believe that Fisticuffs had once upon a time found employment as an accountant for a mortgage firm back in Ghome. As it had been with his captain he too had found freedom aboard this ship, freedom from chains he hadn’t even been aware that he wore until he had been shown the sky.
“Let’s just see what the wind brings us,” Riley answered with a grin, pleased by his friend’s enthusiasm.
“The wind won’t bring me jack squat that I can send home to my wife,” he shot back. “Now I hear the treasure vaults of Tarin’gal were a sight to see, and I recall they were around here somewhere.”
“I thought no one ever found Tarin’gal’s treasure.”
“That’s ‘cause they were saving it for us,” the big gnome replied with a wink. “We should be over old King Sinder’in’s land about now Why, there’s the old Shining Tower of Bersalle herself right over there!”
Riley gave a hoot. “Well maybe we will give it a shot. I have a good feeling about today.”
“Captain! Trouble!” shouted the lookout from his perch above the twin cylindrical balloons which held the Helionauticus aloft.
Riley cursed under his breath. He just had to open his big mouth.
“What is it, Klein?” Fisticuffs called up.
“Birds, sir. Off the port bow,” the lookout yelled back. “Lots of them!”
“Birds? In the sky?” Riley asked incredulously. Fisticuffs was snickering. “Whatever shall we do? Honestly, Mr. Klein, do you want to be put on propeller wiping duty?”
“I think you should listen to him, captain,” Mr. Jimmerson shouted from his place at the helm. As always he had a keen eye for trouble. “Look.”
Riley noticed then the swirling black mass the filled the eastern horizon that several other crewmen were already watching with trepidation. Whatever they were there had to be thousands of them. Fisticuffs was no longer laughing.
“I’m not liking the looks of that one bit, sir.”
“Get me my telescope!” Riley ordered. He turned and scowled at the crewmen assembled around him. “What are you all staring at? This ship won’t fly itself!”
In truth the beauty of the Helionauticus’s design was that it really could fly itself with minimal supervision under calm conditions, but this was no time to let the crew get sloppy. The crew scrambled back to their posts, with one of the deck boys returning momentarily with Riley’s prized telescope. Of all the technological innovations on his ship, this simple tool was perhaps the most useful. Riley held it up to his right eye, cursing again as he realized that he was wearing his stylish eyepatch over that eye today. Flipping the patch to the other side he again brought the telescope up, bringing the strange flock into crystal clear view.
Riley’s stomach lurched. “Those aren’t birds,” he said grimly. He’d know those scaly beasties anywhere: wyrms. The only problem was that wyrms ordinarily didn’t fly, but these did, soaring on spiny webbed wings not unlike those of the dragon that spawned them. Riley hadn’t been much caught up in the first War back in the old days, being involved as he was with his research, and unlike elves or dwarves the memories of a gnome tended to fade with time. It was not without reason that his race was so obsessed with cataloging and filing away everything they could get their hands on. For Riley events of centuries past had already begun to grow hazy and vague except in regard to his beloved ship, but still he remembered the tales he had heard of these creatures well enough. Stories like that stuck with you.
“Drakes,” he spat, collapsing the telescope.
“They’ve spotted us,” Jimmerson called as a portion of the mass broke off and turned their way. “Orders, captain?”
“Turn us about, Mr. Jimmerson,” Riley ordered. “And be ready to fight.”
“You heard the captain!” Fisticuffs bellowed. “Turn about! Full battle stations! Ready the steam guns!”
“Aye, ready the guns!”
“Ready the guns!”
Designated gunners dropped whatever other duties they had been carrying out and took to their battle stations. At intervals along the railing sealed crates were stashed, from which an assortment of shining steel and copper tubes were pulled. These where quickly snapped together into a single device which was then attached to swivels on the rails themselves. Whilst the gunners did their part with trained precision deck boys uncoiled tubes connected to the ship’s central boiler and ran them across the deck, attaching them to the back end of each assembled gun. The weapons began to shake and hiss as the steam valves were opened, building pressure in preparation for the coming conflict.
“You won’t get me you overgrown geese!” Riley shouted defiantly at the approaching drakes, though they were far too distant yet to hear him. “Mr. Jimmerson, take us higher and find us a stronger tailwind that’ll get us out of here. Mr. Dresdner?”
“I’ll take it from here, captain!” Fisticuffs pledged with a salute. The security officer turned on a heel and faced the crew as they eagerly awaited his instruction. “Gunners, fire first volley at one hundred yards. Keep it tight, no wasted shots! Ammo is cheap but time is of the essence!”
The Helionauticus was the fastest thing in the skies if the winds were with her, but she couldn’t turn on a dime. The drakes would intercept them before they could change direction. Well, Captain Fleetfeet wasn’t about to give up his ship without a fight. The enemy closed in. Six hundred yards, four hundred, two hundred…
“Fire!”
The crack of the steamguns resounded from the port side of the ship. Pressure driven lead bullets flew out in a deadly wave, and when the resulting cloud of vapor cleared the approaching drakes were definitely fewer. Fewer, yet not deterred.
“Gunners reload!” Fisticuffs yelled, waving his stout hammer over his head. “Fire at will! Prepare for boarding!”
Riley removed his eyepatch altogether as the drakes latched onto the sides of his precious ship and began to scamper over the railing. He drew his own slender cutlass from its sheath and clutched it tightly. He couldn’t help but notice that it looked woefully small next to the size of his foes.
“Somehow this is that boy’s fault,” he muttered. If he lived through this he’d have to find him to tell him so. The first drake approached, and with a primal scream the captain waded into battle.
*
Far to the east along the borders of the land known as the Forest of Mists the same foe which beset the intrepid crew of the Helionauticus waged War against another folk. Though it had only been a few short months since the wyrms had begun to appear once more in the peaceful woods already their numbers had swelled with startling speed, so much so that the Thirteen Tribes which served the Elf King Eyell’sevvet were hard pressed to hold them at bay. Fortunate it was, then, that there existed amongst those proud and ancient people warriors of the caliber necessary to turn the tide. Therihal’al’vindir was one such warrior. Though he was a noble by birth and a chieftain by circumstance, Therihal had never been meant for politics. Through heredity and blood he had been born to a life of privilege and authority, true, but the court with its Assemblies and its Councils and the like had never held much appeal to one such as him. He was a soldier first and foremost, a general tested time and again on the field of honor. It was not through the blood in his veins that he had earned the trust and admiration of his tribe, but rather his willingness to shed that blood alongside those he led. Though his official title as chieftain of the Weeping Sky was that of Grand Marshall his warriors called him by a different name: Warchief, and a better title he could not imagine.
He could not help but feel a surge of pride as surveyed his soldiers, for without a doubt they finest the Empire had to offer. No, he reminded himself, they were not of the Empire anymore. King Eyell had changed all that, doing his best to strip away the trappings and pomp to return to the old ways set forth by the Firstborn so many millennia ago. It hadn’t taken root. Funny, how the mind was so hard to change even after so much time had past. To him it seemed as though the glory days of the Empire were but a few short days prior, that all he had to do was reach back and take them and he’d be home once more. Failure on such a massive scale was a hard thing to come to grips with, it seemed. His old home was gone, the Empire brought low by the seemingly endless wyrm hordes of Ssvalith. And it had all been his fault.
Once, back during the glory days of the Empire when the Gleaming Halls still stood and being a member of the Assembly actually meant something his tribe had gone by another name, that of the Azure Sky. Unique amongst the tribes, they alone had no cities or lands to call their own, but rather they were welcome in all cities and fiefdoms as keepers of the peace. The Knights of the Azure Sky were known far and wide as protectors of the heartland and defenders of the Jeweled Cities. While each individual city-state may have only been concerned with the affairs which took place within its own walls they lived to defend all from harm. Commissioned by decree of King Sinder’in himself, theirs was the honorable task of safeguarding the borders of ever-expanding Empire, patrolling the roads, policing the wilds, and keeping the Empire safe so that all could rest easy in their beds at night. Through constant vigilance they sought to ensure that no citizen need ever taste the cruel sting of War upon their land.
They failed.
When the wyrms came the Knights of the Azure Sky met them on every front, and on every front they were defeated. In their zeal to carry out their duty to the letter they spread themselves too thin, and rather than upholding their sworn task of ensuring that not even an inch of elven land ever felt the sting of an enemy’s footfall they found themselves giving ground with each passing day until the whole Empire had collapsed beneath the black tide of serpentine warriors. If not for the arrival of the human Alexander and the wondrous return of the Sword of Oaks all might have been lost. Even then only a fraction of the tribe had survived, for the most part young children and spouses left behind in the care of other tribes. With their honor shattered and their warriors slain they became the Weeping Sky, forever penitent for the ruin which they were unable to prevent. Though every tribe shared in the blame for the fall of their once great civilization it was they who bore the brunt of that anger and disappointment, and thus they who sought more than any to restore what had been lost by any means necessary. None felt that drive to redeem the honor of the tribe more than Therihal himself.
When the traitorous Ishari had promised a return to glory, Therihal had listened. When Ishari had cursed the rightful king by twisting his own magic against him and seized the throne by subterfuge, Therihal had been complicit in the scheme. To work to unseat a sitting king was not so unusual; during times of peace tribes often toiled against each other in order to increase their own standing, if rarely on such an ambitious scale. However, the Warchief should have known from the beginning that the chancellor’s schemes were more than a simple upset of the status quo. The very fact that the sorcerer had somehow worked out the creation of wyrms (weak and spindly specimens that they were) should have been a sure sign that more sinister works were afoot. Even then it had taken the arrival of a mere human child who somehow managed to single-handedly expose Ishari for what he really was to make the Warchief finally see the light. History was repeating itself, complete with a new Alexander and a second return of the Sword. Rarely did one ever get so obvious a second chance in life, and this time the elves of the Weeping Sky would not repeat the mistakes of old.
To that end every able bodied soul old enough to hold a sword or tote quivers of arrows had been gathered here on the banks of the River Dae’r. This time they would cede no ground. This time the wyrms would only pass over their cold dead bodies. The camp spread out before him was a work of precision. Each tent was spotlessly white, each line taut, every cook fire evenly spaced and every rhea well-groomed and ready for battle. The forest had been cleared here for miles around after the human fashion of old, the felled trees used to construct a sturdy palisade around the whole perimeter. Smaller branches had been sharpened into stakes which formed a second line of defense around the wall, and pits and trenches had been dug to ensure that any massed charge against their position would be all but impossible. Some harangued him for his adoption of human tactics, especially considering the ultimate fate of the Knights of the Red Lion, but when one campaigned long enough one had little choice but to recognize that a good idea as a good idea. Vicious though they were, wyrms were cowardly creatures by nature, prone to sudden strikes from the shadowy boughs of the forest. Here, though, they would be met with open fields and guard towers from which they would be cut down by an endless barrage of arrows.
To the north across the wide expanse of water a similar albeit smaller structure had been built by the small force provided by the Flamewalker tribe, led by the able Captain Telath. He was new to his command, his commanding officers having been killed one after another along the long and bloody path his tribe had suffered as they were pushed back from the front lines. At least Telath knew the value of a strong defensive position, not that it’d be needed. Therihal’s own warriors had the way to New Odyssey well secured. While other tribes hunted wyrms in the creeks and valleys and meadows the Weeping Sky would stand firm here at the edge of the Mists. They were the last line of defense, the final barrier against the black tide of Ssvalith’s hordes. Let them see that the sons of the Empire still have some fight left in them. There was no way he would allow even a single clawed foot to defile the sacred Forest of Mists.
Oddly, enough, they didn’t seem to care to try. Though the enemy forces had been steadily growing for days on end the wyrms waited patiently just of out bowshot, not sending as much as a sortie against their walls to test their strength. They hadn’t even tried to harass their patrols or cut off their supply lines. Were they truly daunted by his carefully planned fortifications? Had they finally been convinced that there would be no getting past the Warchief? Even with the pride he felt for his tribe’s strength and prowess Therihal was not so arrogant as to believe that. They were waiting for something. Night was coming, and though the elves were creatures of the moon and stars as much as they were the wind and sun he still felt that he was missing something. Wyrms were duplicitous creatures like the serpent that spawned them and Ishari even more so if that were possible. Though he doubled the patrols and urged the scouts to greater vigilance he could not help but feel that the wyrms would not be waiting much longer.
The still twilight air stirred, alerting him to the presence of another and distracting him from his musings. Syltae, one of the finest of the new generation who had never seen the Empire, approached without hesitance and knelt before him. Though the air was chill a sheen of sweat glistened on her face and her cheeks were flushed from exertion. Therihal’s brow furrowed deeply; officers in a hurry were never a good sign. With a gesture he bid her rise and report.
“My Warchief, one of our scouts has returned from the eastern bend of the Dae’r bearing grave wounds. The wyrms are attempting to ford the river on rafts in great numbers. Their entire army seems to be on the move.”
“Has his account been verified?”
“No, Warchief,” she admitted. “The rest of his unit did not make it back. They are presumed lost.”
“I see,” Therihal said as he mulled over the situation. Rafts? He knew the wyrms had been planning something but he would have never thought they’d try something so desperate this early on. There was no doubt that some of Ishari’s forces had slipped over the river but it was madness for them to try it en masse right under his nose! It was either bold or stupid, but either way there was no time to spare in second guessing the tactics of the dragonspawn.
“We cannot allow the enemy to gain a foothold on the northern bank. Send a runner to the Flamewalker encampment and have them meet the wyrms on their side. I shall lead a contingent from here and catch them as they attempt to cross. If we hurry we can catch them divided by the waters and crush them here and now.”
“You will lead us, Warchief? But what if this is a ruse of some kind? You cannot risk…”
“You have your orders, lieutenant.”
“Then I shall ride at your side.”
“If you must.”
Therihal concealed a smile as he watched her go. He greatly valued the loyal idealism of the tribe’s youth; while older, more experienced warriors may have been a more effective personal guard they were also more prone to questioning his decisions, whereas these children would march into the dragon’s maw if he bid them to. There was much to be said for such devotion.
In short order the palisade gates swung open and fully half of his two thousand knights rode east in the dying twilight along the bank of the river to where the enemy gathered. Though he felt a moment’s unease as the gates closed again behind the last rank of soldiers he quickly shook off the feeling as he raised his sword overhead to signal the march. Naturally he was loathe to leave his carefully prepared battlefield, but he had waited far too long as it was. The wyrms could not be allowed to mar elven forests with their presence for one moment longer. The Warchief would not allow it.
*
Deep within the labyrinthine tunnels which lay far beneath the Boiling Fens of the Gobbledymuck the dragon known as Ssvalith waited patiently, as he always had. For the first time in a long time, though, he really was patient, content for the time being to simply wallow and bask in the great mound of treasures he had accumulated over so many centuries of conquest. He had earned this rest, for though he had been in exile for two long and agonizing centuries only now did he truly feel as though his strength was returning. After nigh-endless days locked in the darkness with naught but weakness and agony to keep him company he was practically giddy with relief that it was finally over and his ascension could well and truly begin. And to think, all that misery had been due to one tiny splinter of wood.
It was such a tiny object, something barely worth noticing to those who did not know its true worth. Most could walk over it everyday and never notice it once, not even to brush it out of the way. So small, so very small, and yet in a way the fate of an entire world lay within it. The sliver was but a fragment of a mighty weapon, the Sword of Oaks. Forged from the living wood of the ancient sentient tree known as Autumnus and filled with the might of the Eternal Forest it was a weapon which had no equal. Such was its power and singular drive that even now as just a shattered fragment clutched in his talons it fought him still, seeking to finish the job started by the False Hero so long ago. Considering how very close it had been to his heart it had almost succeeded. Their daily conflict had very nearly been lost a thousand times before he had marshaled the strength needed to expel it. How amusing would it have been to have the dragon slain in his lair while the outside world still prepared for his coming? It would have been enough to bring tears to his eyes had he been capable of such weakness.
That fight was over now. He had won. How ironic, then, that a weapon crafted with the singular purpose of destroying the likes of Ssvalith would now serve his purposes so deliciously. There was but little strength left in the sliver after so many years, but sometimes that little bit was all it took. A little magic left to change, a little magic left to corrupt. Had he worked a thousand years he could not have come up with anything as devious as this tiny splinter of wood which he held now in his talons. In wounding him Alexander had given him the tool with which he would unmake the entire Green.
“What say you, Kezerik?” Ssvalith said in a voice like the rumbling of distance thunder. “Will it work?”
In his other talon the dragon held a small crystal prism which he regarded now with wry amusement. It contained what had been until recently his favorite prize, the soul of none other than that of a true wizard, Kezerik Voltaire. They were linked, the two of them, paired together like opposite sides of the same coin. The human would likely have disagreed if he still had the freedom to do so, but Ssvalith knew better. It was none other than the heavy hand of Fate which had brought them together, ever since the day Kezerik had used his fledgling magic to call him forth from the darkness which lay between worlds. The man did his best to avoid the dragon’s gaze, but such was the nature of the prism that he was powerless to resist.
“The Tainted Sliver seeks the Sword, fallen prince doth lead the Dragon’s horde. But prince shall fail when all is told, as Spider’s web ensnares the soul.”
Those unaccustomed to the facial expressions of reptilian beasts might not have recognized it, but Ssvalith gave a fearsome grimace at the obscure prediction. Still, the answer, though delivered as always in an annoying rhyming couplet, was invariably true if only it could be decoded. As a wizard Kezerik had a rare gift for seeing what lay ahead through the murky paths of time. By making proper use of the wizard’s foresight Ssvalith had set into motion countless plans in his quest for dominance over this verdant world. Each had unfolded beautifully, though not always in the way he had thought they would. Now his greatest plan was being set in motion. Soon all the Green would burn.
“Tor’goth! Attend me, my son.”
From out of the shadows of the dragon’s cavernous lair his favorite Warlord emerged. Tor’goth, the Flame of Ssvalith, was a mighty wyrm, great of stature and cunning of mind. His reptilian visage was not unlike Ssvalith’s own: his skin covered in emerald scales so dark that they appeared almost black, his proud head crowned with slender horns, his eyes aglow with barely contained power. Had he not been so stupidly loyal he might actually be a threat to his creator, but that would never be an issue. Tor’goth could do naught but serve; the dragon hadn’t gifted him or his brothers with the capacity for free will, not like he had the other. It was a good thing, too, for he had spent the better part of a decade trying to keep his youngest child in line. Then again, Spiders were such independent creatures…
“How go our preparations?” Ssvalith asked, though he already knew the answer. There was not a wyrm living which he could not feel as if they were of his own flesh. Still, there was no harm in humoring his child. Tor’goth did so love to play the part of soldier.
“Your armies swell, my liege,” Tor’goth declared proudly. “My own wyrms augment the elf’s pitiful specimens, and already Isen’s drakes darken the skies. Once our new capital is properly fortified we will have the capability to strike anywhere within the boundaries of the elven lands at our convenience. Your enemies remain divided and suspicious of each other’s actions. They shall be easy prey once the spring arrives.”
“Excellent,” Ssvalith hissed. “Now I only lack a general for my armies, one who can lead them to dominance.”
“Ishari would think the position already belongs to him,” Tor’goth pointed out. The dragon’s answering laughter shook dust from the cavern’s ceiling and toppled piles of ill-gotten treasure.
“Ishari is a useful creature, but he is far too ambitious.”
His Warlord nodded, a useless gesture for he could not help but agree. “There are others amongst the elves who are more pliable who could easily take his place, father,” he suggested. “The one who directs the Serpent’s Strike in New Odyssey has proven himself to be quite cunning.”
“Cunning, yes, but also a simpering sycophant,” Ssvalith scoffed. “No, the one I have in mind is much more suitable.” Ssvalith dropped the sliver of the Sword of Oaks on the ground in front of his Warlord. Tor’goth dutifully scooped it up, no doubt already sensing its intent. “Take this, my favored son. Go to the grave of the Red Lion and await the coming of my general. Set him upon his proper path.”
Tor’goth lifted the tiny piece of wood reverently, the fire in his eyes blazing in anticipation. “I understand, my master. I have been looking forward to meeting this new Swordbearer.”
*
Chapter 2 - Swordbearer
He sat perfectly still amidst the deep undergrowth of the forest floor, not minding at all the prickly branches that poked at him through the thick wool of his cloak. Ok, maybe he minded just a little bit, but at the moment he had bigger things to worry about than a few inconveniently placed twigs. A battle was soon to take place here, a skirmish in a much greater conflict which even now was unfolding across the width and breadth of the land. Soon the gentle afternoon breeze would carry on it the cries of battle and the screams of the dying, the ring of steel on steel and the snap of bowstrings as yet another small portion of the Green was cleansed of the taint which threatened to spread to all corners of the Eternal Forest and beyond.
The ruckus of battle would break the still soon enough, but for now the forest was as silent as a tomb. The only sound in his ears was that of the quiet song sung gently under his breath. It was a special song, one of hidden places and secret things that dulled the senses and fooled the eyes of anyone who may be watching. Anyone passing by would only see a mound of leaves and branches and if at a second glance they noticed that the mound bore some slight resemblance to a young boy they would merely believe it a trick of the light. Such was the power of the Song, the voice of the Green made manifest. Such was his power…or at least the parts of it he had figured out so far. He had come far in recent months but he had barely scratched the surface of the limitless well of knowledge that the Song held. Back when school had still been in session, back when he had been a normal kid living a normal life on a normal planet, he hadn’t even believed in magic. Magic was fairy tale fodder, just unicorn farts and make believe to entertain snot-nosed little children. It was certainly not something that a discerning and mature young adult like himself would ever consider. Recent events had changed his perspectives, to say the least. That and he had an excellent teacher in the ways of the Green’s strange music, an excellent teacher with long brown hair and lightly tanned skin, with eyes so green and vibrant that…
Something tapped his shoulder and he flinched despite himself, though fortunately his song did not waver. It wasn’t just himself that he was trying to keep hidden, after all. With a bit of effort he focused his eyes around the effects of his own melody causing the tree trunk to his left to coalesce into an elf, a tall thin fellow with sweptback ears and amber eyes that appeared almost golden when the light hit them just right. Like everyone else he was swathed in the grey-green cloak of a Forest Song ranger, though his was clipped with a small silver clasp symbolizing his rank as a captain.
“Wyrms coming up the path from the west,” he murmured. “Patrol, no more than fifty.”
The boy nodded and kept singing. They were outnumbered, as usual. Though Captain Isedrel’s company counted a hundred rangers in its number they never left camp in bands larger than twenty, all the better to keep their presence a secret when traveling this far into enemy-held lands. Not that numbers were going to be a problem, though; after doing this probably a dozen times in the past several weeks he knew that there was nothing to worry about. Well, most of him knew, anyway: his breakfast certainly seemed to be doing some interesting twists and turns as he waited for the inevitable clash. Still, he knew his part by rote by now and would not dare disappoint. He’d keep the cloaking song up until the very last second. When the wyrms moved into position Isedrel would give the signal and the rain of arrows would begin. Most would be dead before they ever knew what hit them. The rest would barely have time to register that the rocks and trees that lined their path were actually fierce elven warriors, and by then it’d be too late for them. It was almost too simple, which is what made it so effective. Who said the good guys had to fight fair?
They came around the bend in the trail slowly, scaly forms moving in two tight columns. The wyrms moved cautiously, forked tongues tasting the air, reptilian eyes scanning relentlessly for any sign of their ancestral enemies. He shuddered as some of those eyes passed right over him: the gaze of the wyrm brought fear, not to mention more than a little nausea. There went his breakfast again; he really should stop eating so much before a raid. Hopefully they’d all be dead before he had to go toe to toe with any of the horrid snakemen, though he was well prepared for that eventuality. His other teacher was also excellent, if much less easy on the eyes…and the body. He was far more likely to get injured sparring with Leomund than he was against any number of wyrms. In fact he would already be going into this battle pre-bruised from last night’s bout. It had been worth it, though, for the man had taught him much of what it meant to wield a sword and even more of what it meant to be a warrior.