I. A Nagarathi bedtime story....

[Headshot]

Part One

Altdorf! Capital city of Sigmar’s Empire. The wealthiest and largest city of the realms of man. Its size, measured in the souls that lived their lives, joys, and sorrows within its limits, was by far the greatest in the Old World. It was said that in all the world, its share teeming masses could only be rivaled by the Jade cities of distant Cathay, or the towering stone ziggurat temple-cities of Ind and Kush, in which untold legions of workers toiled day and night in the service of the Serpent and Monkey gods. The counters at the Imperial College liked to say that there were a million citizens in Altdorf. But no one paid them much heed. Everyone knew that those numbers were based on tax records. And of course tax records were annals of perfidy and deceit. Who knew how many impoverished souls dwelt in the shantytowns alongside the Reik River? Or the true numbers of men, women, and children, who lived stacked, like salted cod, in the towering tenements of Altdorf’s slums? All that was known is that Altdorf was a city of many. And of many contrasts. For here was the ‘jewel of the empire’ – the place where the vast wealth of many domains and burghers was concentrated into the hands of the few. Lords and Ladies would prowl the streets in golden carriages, with silk clad footmen spraying rose-oil in their wake. Knights wearing shining armor, with lineages traced to the barbarian followers of Sigmar, could be found guarding barbicans. Proud merchant patriarchs, would count the treasures they commanded, while sitting in gardens of their walled homes filled with jewel-studded fountains. Sometimes the leaves on the very trees were dipped in gold or silver, to give just that extra ‘shine’ for festive lunch gatherings. At night these merchant kings could retire to the bosoms of the most comely courtesans; every groan received at the cost of a small kingdom.

But then there were the wharfs of Altdorf. A separate realm run by the cunning and ruthless. Rival gangs with colorful, but unimaginative names, like the Fish or Stilettos, would fight for the control of coppers ‘til blood ran more often than rain in the night-watch streets. Orphans and the pitiable, some affected with the most crippling and hideous of diseases, some only play-acting, would crouch in the gutters, hands and eyes seeking for the smallest of sustenance. And then there were the backroom and sidestreet whores. Young and old. Willing to sell the last semblance of virtue to a man for two coppers. Sometimes less.

Yet this tale is not theirs. This tale begins in the highest and mightiest of places. The shining beacon of hope and ambition, fortune and might; the pillar of Sigmar’s valor and strength: the Imperial Palace of Altdorf. Home of Emperor Karl Franz, and his family, courtiers, and legions of servants, guards, stewards, and administrators of all stripes. It was a veritable city of its own; one in which white marble halls wound about spacious courtyards and columned overlooks for miles in every direction.

It is in this palace on one star-lit night that our tale begins. In Karl Franz’s most magnificent ballroom; the one that was columned so high that the glass ceiling was a distant luster to the marble floor below. And the walls were so far flung that the cleaners would sometimes, with a mischievous intent, amuse themselves by making echoes in the room. Yet on this night, no such thing was done. For the room was filled to capacity! Hundreds of the Highest had gathered there, dressed in a riot of competing opulence: silks from Cathay; furs from Middenheim. Some ladies wore hairs gathered in heights that required the assistance of finely dressed servants equipped with poles to keep them from falling off their crowned heads. Or crush them with their weight. Three different orchestras, in three different corners of the room, filled the air with the playful and saccharine sweet ballads that the Emperor preferred. Long tables, dressed with the bounty of a dozen hunts, abutted the walls of the room. Punchbowls, large enough to serve as a child’s wading pool, sat at their heads.

The Emperor was there; watching young and old alike dance in long lines in the regal, geometric fashion that was popular in Altdorf this season. A half-a-dozen of the Elector Counts – the highest military and civil authorities of the Empire (after the Emperor of course!) were there as well. A few of the most wealthy merchant princes had offered a year’s income to the Crown in order to be seen that night. And at least a dozen sages and masters from the Colleges of Magic could be found strewn about the room, muttering to themselves, or their lackeys, as the mood befitted them.

Yet no one paid any of those high personages any heed. For there, standing to one side, was the purpose of all this magnificence: a small group of tall and aloof beings. The Embassy of the Eternal Empire; visitors from the secret realm beyond the mists. The Elves of Ulthuan. The most noble, and fey, members of that disappearing race. It was the first embassy from that mysterious realm in an age….

There were only five in the party, and yet each one was the object of hundreds of eyes. The bearing, manner, and comportment; the sheer grace with which they moved. The way they seemed to drink their surroundings with their alien gazes. All of these things riveted the room.

Two of the party were men, dressed in glimmering armor, the likes of which were unknown in the Old World. They towered nearly a head taller than the human men of the room; their long blond hair, fell in golden strands in braids, or free to the middle of their backs. Gems were set in bands upon their brows. But these were no ordinary gems; they glowed and glistened, and seemed to respond with different hues to the change of music in the room. Each wore an elegant broadsword at his hip. But neither were these of ordinary craft. One noble’s boy, braver than his companions, was able to creep close to the group, and hid behind a column. For the rest of his days, until he died many years later, grey and feeble in his dotage, he swore to all that would listen, that one of the swords sang, in a soft, sweet voice.

Two members of the party were women. But that word scarcely gave them credit. They were beauties of such poignancy, that men were willing to fall to their knees and gasp in a bittersweet agony between desire and surrender, if only for the hope of the touch of a passing glance. Both were as tall as the tallest of men, but lithe and shaped in a delicate manner, like crystal birds; as graceful in their stillness as in their movement. One was fair, with hair of morning-gold, curled into ringlets that fell like a cascade down her shoulders to the backs of her calves. Her skin smooth and unblemished. Her eyes, an azure of a tropical sea. She gazed across the room as a goddess might. Her pouting red lips the fantasy of nearly every man in the room. Next to her, as different as evening to the dawn, stood a black haired beauty. Her long silken hair, pulled into a single elegant tail, fell to the small of her back. Unlike her companion, her ivory skin was not colored with any touches of oils or cream. But she was no less lovely in her perfection because of that. And her eyes! The strange almond eyes of that alien people had manifested in her in a solid silver sheen. They shone, like polished metal, as she watched the dancers in the hall.

The last member of the party was the most noteworthy of all. An elfchild! A thing that most in the room had scarce imagined, let alone seen with their own two eyes. He was a boy. And as a human child, he would be accounted tall. But his face and build showed him to still be newly come to this world. If of the man race, perhaps a child no more than seven or eight years of age. He was black haired, and pale skinned. He stood beside the raven beauty, and watched the proceedings around him with a curious detachment.

The blonde elf-woman spoke in her own tongue. “They act with such pride. Don’t they know that this room could be swallowed in the smallest of the Phoenix King’s outer halls?”

“They do not,” her dark companion replied. “But that is no reason to deny them any of the pride of their own accomplishments.”

A slight grimace spoiled the countenance of the fair beauty. She looked about to say something. Then stopped herself. “One approaches.”

A tall and broad, and what his companions would say, handsome, man, approached their small group. He wore blue velvet robes, trimmed in grey fox fur. His hair and beard were trimmed short, in the military fashion. And he was at that happy age that men considered neither ‘young’ nor ‘old’. He bowed to the group (though faced the ladies most directly).

“I bid you welcome, my lords and ladies,” he said in a good-natured baritone. “I am Baron van Kant. Third cousin to the Countess of Nuln.”

The two elf ladies watched him with unperturbed gazes. The dark haired one inclined her head in the slightest of nods. Slightly nonplussed by the absence of reaction, the baron continued:

“I understand you hale from the fabled land of Ulthuan.” He smiled. “Several of my cousin’s good traders visit your country with our wares every few years.”

The blonde continued to look at him as if studying some insect. The silver-eyed beauty filled the silence: “They would have traveled to Lothern then.”

“Ah, yes, perhaps. Is that where you come from, my lady?” the baron asked.

“I am from Nagarythe,” she responded with an enigmatic smile.

“Is that-“ the Baron started.

“It’s in the North. Far from any streets your merchants know,” a voice interrupted.

The newcomer was a small and stooped man, of such advanced age that his little ebon stones of eyes were lost in the folds and wrinkles of his face. He wore a long white and silver beard that seemed to sweep the room as he stumble-walked with the aid of a short wooden cane. He was bald; and wore a small skullcap, of deep purple. Dark robes of black and burgundy hung loosely about his withered frame. Chains of gold seemed to drag at his scarecrow neck. A young man walked beside him, a hand on his shoulder, seeming to be part of the mechanisms surrounding the venerable one; all designed just to keep him erect and moving with a vague purpose.

A slight smile tugged at the corners of the raven beauty’s mouth. “Master Nicodemus,” she greeted. “It has been some time. I trust you are well.”

With some aid from his attendant, he attempted a bit of a bow. “As well as can be expected, my lady,” he said with a near toothless grin. “They tell me that I am indeed a very old man now!” He gave a wheezy laugh. “But I always tell them that for one of the Asur, I am barely into my adulthood!!!”

The lady inclined her head. Seeming just to acknowledge the truth of his statement.

“I see you know our esteemed Master of the Amethyst College,” the Baron intruded again. “Why he is said to be the eldest in Altdorf.” He gave another one of his musical laughs. “He was old when I was still a lad!”

“I was old when your grandpappy was a lad, Baron,” the wizard countered with a glimmer in his eye. “A…perk…of my profession.” He turned back to the dark elf-woman.

“My lady, I heard from my – contacts - about what happened with your husband,” he said carefully. “I want to say that you have my deepest condolences. And, my respect.”

The smile fell from the woman’s face. She responded once again with a noncommittal nod.

The young man at the wizard’s shoulder cleared his throat. “Oh, how forgetful of me,” the old mage said. “This is my apprentice, Viktor.”

“Honored,” the young man said. With a click of his heels he gave a formal bow. He was dressed in a short tunic and long pants of colors similar to the wizard’s. He had platinum blonde hair, oiled back above his brow. Mortal women would probably have found him handsome, and of a marriageable age. The elf only greeted him again with another slight inclination of her head.

“We came, because we thought your son might be interested in this,” the wizard continued. From his robes he pulled forth a short tube made of leather, with a piece of glass, or crystal, at the end. “I call it a kaleidoscopus!! Here lad.” He proffered it to the elf-boy. “You hold it to your eye and look through it.”

The young boy looked to his mother and then reached forward and took the tool.

“What does it do?” the woman asked; just a hint of concern in her voice.

“It is a marvelous invention of my own make!” the wizard replied. “With it you can see the light split into the colors of the very winds that make our world! Someday I hope to use it to track the very winds of magic themselves!”

“Oh yes,” the elf woman said with a nod. “The first year apprentices at Hoeth make these,” she mused.

“Do they now?” the wizard answered with a scowl. “Damnit! It took me nearly half a century to get that thing right,” he finished with a grumble.

The elfchild pressed it to his eye, and for the first time his expression betrayed some emotion. A smile played about his lips, while he turned about the room, gazing hither and yon with the tube to his eye. “It is wondrous,” he said, beaming. The mother smiled down at him, and stroked his black hair.

“If the child likes them so much,” the apprentice, Viktor, began. “Perhaps he would enjoy the larger ones we keep in the observatory here. I would be happy to take him. Morrsleib is in its zenith now. It would make good viewing.”

“Can I, mother?” the child looked hopeful.

The woman frowned. “Perhaps together….” She looked to her companions. One of the armored elflords gave a curt shake of his head.

“No, we must meet with the human emperor soon,” he said.

“It is fine, my lady,” the wizard Nicodemus began. “I will be happy to take the child myself. I don’t mind those steps so much anymore.” He said with a grin. “Long years of climbing have locked my joints into the proper alignment!”

The elf-lady hesitated. “Master Nicodemus….”

“Please mother!” the child tugged.

“Very well,” she relented. “Only to the tower here. Master Nicodemus, I entrust him to your care.” She said. Then added with an earnest look, “Please know, he is my only child. All that I have.”

“I will guard him with my life,” the old wizard said solemnly. “Now come lad. Let us go split the moonlight! Much more interesting then these tired strains, and the boring gossip you’ll get among politicians!”

***

“Tea, Viktor!” the wizard Nicodemus called as he fiddled with the mechanical levers to open the skygrate. The elfchild was already standing at the end of the massive metal observatory scope. Eye pressed against the little aperture.

“I see nothing,” he said with a little concern.

“Ah, no worries lad!” the wizard responded with a chuckle. “That’s just the nature of the metal. It blocks the light and the winds of magic alike. Too many alchemical concoctions in here. After the last expl-…I mean after the last incident, the Emperor insisted on it.” He climbed down from the apparatus, which was now clicking with the sound of moving chains.

“Soon Morrslieb’s dower glow will fill the room. As will the night chill!” the old man said. “Viktor, tea! If you will! Something hot to keep these old bones limber!”

The apprentice entered the room at that, arms laden with a brass serving-tray, on which were arrayed three porcelain cups. “Master,” he offered one cup to the old wizard. Then held the tray forth to the boy who, curious, took one. Eyeing and sniffing at the strange substance.

The old man drank deeply. “Now then! That’s the spot! That’s the spot!” He turned back to the giant scope, while the apprentice set the tray down on a nearby table. “Now then, if we open this aperture. And set the crystal, like so…. We’ll get-“

Suddenly the old man gasped, and grabbed at his stomach. With a strange gurgle he tottered, and then collapsed from the machine onto the cold stone floor. Sucking on the air like a drowning man, he looked up, and in a raspy voice said, “What is this?”

“Cathayan Black Lotus,” Viktor responded with a smile, slowly walking across the room and coming to a stop in front of the old man. “Don’t worry ‘my master’,” he continued with a smirk. “The paralysis you feel in your limbs now will soon spread to your heart. Ending what must be a very tiresome life.”

The old man looked up, eyes wide and blinking. “But…why?!”

Viktor hunched down over one knee, and stared the wizard in the eye. “I wish I could say it was all business,” the apprentice answered smugly. “But I do find myself enjoying this.” He finished with a sardonic smile.

“However, sadly, there are other reasons.” He nodded across the room. Three other men had entered, dressed in the regalia of royal guardsmen, though their faces were concealed by masked helms. Two of them seized the elf child and started to drag him out of the room. “We have needs,” Viktor said with a slight shrug.

The old wizard stared aghast at what was transpiring. “No Viktor! Don’t do this. Please, I beg of you,” the wizard implored. “If you do take that child…” He shook his head. “If you take him, you will awaken an enemy so implacable! So fell! You cannot imagine!! You will doom yourself! And who knows how many others!!”

The earnestness in the old man’s voice gave the apprentice a moment of pause. He studied the old man’s face for a few seconds. Then snorted in disgust. “I grow so tired of your wind-blowing, old man! Just do us all a favor. And die now!” With the last words he pulled forth a narrow dirk from his black leather boot and buried it to the hilt in the wizard’s chest. The light died in the old man’s eyes.

Viktor removed the knife, and cleaned it on the old wizard’s hem before returning it to his boot. Standing, he turned to his compatriots and said, “Bind the boy. And let us depart.”

***

Deep in the Reikwald Forest on a rocky crag overlooking a river, sits a squat fortress of gray granite. It is an old structure lacking opulence or decoration. It is a serviceable building with little to recommend it other than a history of defiance. In its days it has repulsed beasts and goblins, orcs, and marauders. Its sturdy walls have resisted all kinds of nightmarish siege engines, and crude assault parties, alike.

Within the bowels of the fortress sat a man on a wooden chair. If the fortress had desired to spawn a man, through its history of blood and violence, surely the man would be one such as he. His face was square and granite hard. His hair was cropped scalp short. A neatly trimmed beard, black, speckled with silver, adorned his chin. Blue-grey eyes stared with a harsh intensity over an oft broken nose. He was dressed in the fine linen doublet and hose that marked him as one of the nobility of the Empire, but the calluses on his sword-hand attested to more than a privileged birth in his past.

Boar spears and great claymores, well kept and oiled, lined the walls behind him. Scattered about the dingy fortress room stood a half-a-dozen men at arms, likewise baring weapons and armor with a comfortable familiarity.

One of the great wooden doors to the hall boomed open, presaging the entrance of his steward.

“My lord. He is here,” the steward announced.

“Send him in,” the noble responded curtly. In moments three men entered the room. In the center, the black-clad, blonde haired, apprentice Viktor. Flanking him, two armored huntsmen. Behind them, led by a short rope tied to bound hands, a young child, hooded.

“My lord,” Viktor said with a bow and a smile. “We have been successful!”

“This is it then?” the noble responded, and pointed at the bound child with one gnarled finger.

“Yes,” Viktor replied with confidence.

“You must be sure! It will only work with the offspring of a noble.”

“I am sure, my lord. This is the child of the most noble. A son of a prince of that land!” Viktor responded with a beaming smile.

The human lord grunted, and settled back into his chair. Staring at the hooded child he said, “Show me.”

Viktor turned and removed the hood. The face of the black haired elf-boy was revealed. He looked about the room with a cold, almost alien, appraisal. No sign of the weeping or the fear that a human child of his age would most surely have been experiencing. Instead its little black eyes just turned slowly across the room, as if drinking in every detail.

“Does it speak?” the lord asked.

Viktor scowled at the boy, and tugged on its leash. “You heard the lord. Say something!” he snapped.

The elfchild looked up to where the old warrior sat upon his throne. Stone gray eyes met obsidian black ones. In a clear, calm voice the child said, “My father will come for me.”

Then, his eyes roving across the men in the room, he added:

“You are all going to die.”

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

Can't wait! I've been waiting for you to start up in here ^_^

[Prince of Spires]

+1

Nice read. Lots of detail etc. I liked it.

Although I must say I missed the bleak outlook on the world from Tim

Rod

[sulannar]

I don't know how you do it, but this is captivating! Wish I had half your talent!

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

Don't sell yourself short sulannar, your work is pretty well done.

[Headshot]

@Tiralya

I hope you continue to enjoy the tale sharing! Oh, and thanks for the cameo!

@Sulannar

I too think that you have one wicked fierce pen, my friend. Please keep at it!

@Rod

Your wish is my command....

[Headshot]

Part Two

Narrin’Tim tied the windschooner to the edge of the stone landing. He drank in the crisp air with a smile on his face. For over four years now he had been in the Host of Nagarythe. He had fought hard battles in the name of the Phoenix King, and seen more of the world than he ever would have imagined. But now, for the first time since he was selected, he was home, in the western foothills of Nagarythe. The place of his people, the Nagarathi Roma. It felt very good to be back.

He climbed up to where rigging met railing at the edge of the little craft, and looked back the way he had come. The noonday sun gave an excellent view of the spectacle of western Nagarythe. For it was here, all those millennia ago at the time of the Sundering, where the Cabal of Night Sorcerers, those warlock’s of evil, but awesome, powers had first raised the Black Arks, to escape the cataclysm that they themselves had unleashed. Those potent magics of merging earth with sky had…unintended consequences. And there before him, in the noonday light, Narrin’Tim could gaze at it: the majestic Floating Isles of Nagarythe, the Skystones. Dozens of stones, ranging in size from large boulders, to towering mesas of hundreds of tons, drifted lazily in the breeze. The tops of the tallest stones like ship’s masts would carve into the creamy whiteness of the lowest clouds, making a mirrorplay of Hawkships’ rudders cutting the ocean in the distant west. From some of the stones, Narrin’Tim could see slender rivulets of water, the last remnants of last night’s rain, cascade off their rough shoulders, falling the thousands of feet to the land below. Clustered about the flat surfaces of the largest stones were great oaks, ash, and pine, clinging to the uncertain footing with great, gnarled roots, which wrapped about the stones, and here and there, dangled below them, naked in the sky.

And there amongst the great floating isles, a few windschooners – light wooden craft of delicate curves and shaping, filled with a ballast of skystone – that harnessed the power of the wind in triangular sails to pull the craft about in the service of the elf navigators. For the Nagarathi were nothing if not survivors. And it wasn’t long after the Sundering when the first of his people, the Roma, or the “People of the Wind”, had managed to make their way up to the skystones. Here they found a place relatively immune to the raids from the North, and over the long millennia they had adapted their lifeways to match the stones. The largest of the stones had great wooden halls and rounded towers upon whatever flat promontories they offered. The isles thus served as places of refuge, as well as homes, for hundreds of elves. From here Tim could see the wood-fires burning within the hearths of the closest manor; white wispy smoke escaping out the slender chimney.

“It’s spectacular!” the princess from Chrace, Tarabeth, exclaimed. Tim beamed at her. She was the only other passenger on the schooner, and the reason for his trip to the valley below. It had been nearly a year since he saw her last. She was of one of the Great Houses of Chrace - her brother was a Prince who oversaw the defense of much of the western Highlands - and so had responsibilities in her own land, but for some reason had found a way to return to Nagarythe. Tim was gladdened by her return. Though she was just barely out of her childhood, she had a fierce courage, and near dauntless spirits, that were infectious. And with her long braided scarlet hair, rosy cheeks, emerald green eyes, and the…generous curves of her figure (that Tim couldn’t help but notice her white ermine cloak was struggling to conceal), well…made her a welcome sight in more ways than one. She also happened to be a student in the winds of power; trained to a deadly proficiency by her mother in the ways of the totem spirits of the evergreen forests and hidden vales of Chrace.

“Come,” Tim urged, as he swung out onto the stone platform with an ease brought on by long familiarity. “We can visit my home! Perhaps get something to eat, before we go to the Prince. There is no hurry,” he finished with a smile. Tarabeth smiled back at him, with a strange glow on her cheeks, and she held out her hand. Tim took it and helped her climb up.

***

Annalyth of Saphery was having a terrible day. She had been practicing the 912 principles of the Meditations of Glass, and had forgotten one! Inexcusable! Foolish! Her masters at the White Tower of Hoeth, the greatest center for study and practice of the mystical mysteries in the known world, had warned her that the pursuit of a command of True Magic - the unblemished magic, the harnessing, embracing, guiding, and immersion of the raw stuff of Being! – would be much more difficult than the practice of any of its diluted forms, that were congealed in the winds of this world; magic so simple that it had reputedly even been taught to mankind, mortals who barely knew four decades of life before they hurried into decline. True Magic took centuries to understand. And many more to master! And while Annalyth hadn’t yet reached the midpoint of her second century, she was regarded by all her masters at the Tower as being one of the most promising pupils in an age. Maybe even since Master Teclis himself!

Hmmph, she snorted. As if! And now she made mistakes on some of the basic meditations! It was all the fault of this stupid ‘practical education’. Master Teclis believed that all senior apprentices had a duty to fulfill to the Crown. And so for a period of time almost every apprentice was sent to the far corners of the Empire to serve in defense of the People of Asuryan, in one capacity or another. Master Teclis had given a lecture last year on the “Magic of Praxis”, and had argued in front of all the White Tower faculty that this experience actually improved the ability of the mages to harness the winds. Most of the faculty had looked dubious, but were far too much in awe of Teclis – the man who had faced down the WitchKing himself! - to contradict. Of course, a select few students, those with the greatest potential, were often given deferrals, so that they could stay at Hoeth and advance their education. Annalyth had quickly applied as her time approached. And been rejected! Then when she had been called to her master’s office she couldn’t believe the news of her posting. Nagarythe! The hind end of the Ever Empire!! She was sure there was some sort of mistake! But there was no mistake. And then she was sure that it was all due to the mechanizations of one of her rivals – probably that wench Kelsee! – but before she knew it, she was packed off on a Hawkship with nary but a bag of sundries and a handshake.

Sigh. But she’d been here for over two years now. It was high time that she requested permission to return to Hoeth to complete her studies. Or at least a transfer…. One thing was for certain, if she didn’t do….something, she was going to lose her talent for the True Magic soon. She needed more training. It was so complex. It was hard to remember everything.

She sighed again. Maybe she should just return to studying the Lore of Jade. She had always found the life magic to come easily to her. She was from a seaside town in the north of the Finuval Plain originally, not far from the border of Averlorn, the enchanted forest-realm that was the home to the most sacred of the Asur, the Everqueen, and her sylvan court. Her parents had always said that she had a touch of Averlorn in her, and that was why the magic of tree and root, life and stream, came easily to her, even as a child.

But no! She wanted a challenge! And so had competed to be the best in all her classes so that she could be amongst the select few chosen to learn the inner mysteries of True Magic.

What was she going to do?

She should ask to leave. But the thought of going to the Shadow Prince’s pavilion…. He wouldn’t stop her; she was sure of that. No she was afraid that she would see something else in his eyes. Disappointment. And that chilled her to the core. She could never do that!

And then….there were other reasons to stay. She thought of Narrin’Tim. He was her age, and both had come to the Host of Nagarythe at the same time, so it was only – natural – that a bond, of a sorts, had occurred. Of course it was! And it wasn’t like he was particularly ugly. Not that he was handsome either! He was just a plain boy really; and with his shaved head, except braid and queue, he looked one step away from a Druchii!

But…she sighed. That last step was so vast…. And when he smiled, it was without any of the duplicity that the boys back in Saphery used. When she looked in his grey eyes she just saw an earnestness. A solidness. An openness. Just like a winter’s sky….

But that idiot! Ugghhh!! She had worn her new robes this morning – just arrived from her home village in Saphery - and he had said nothing! NOTHING!! Arrgghh! Didn’t he know ANYTHING?

She stomped over to the mirror hanging on the wall of her guest quarters. She looked at the reflection there. She knew she was beautiful. She had dark blue eyes, and short golden hair (trimmed because she hated the way it got in her face when she was trying to read!). But even though it was trimmed, it was still curled; if she grew it out again, she would have a lion’s mane of ringlets to contend with! And her face was comely; full lips, high arched eyebrows. All the boys back in the Tower had been after her attention. Even some highborn sons from Lothern. People the like Narrin’Tim would never be able to dine at the same table with! Hmmph!

He was such an idiot.

He should be back by now, she thought. Maybe I’ll just wander down….

She gathered her few things and placed them into her shoulder bag. Then she adjusted her robes in the mirror to best show off her slender figure. (Maybe this time he will notice!) And left the guesthouse.

The nature of skystone living meant that the Roma village was more vertical than horizontal: the small clusters of buildings on every level surface were connected by narrow paths, or twisting wooden stairs, and in a few cases, just a ladder. Fortunately, down to the dock-landing from the guesthouse was just a narrow path. She started on it. She hadn’t gone far when she came upon two figures she knew. The Hawkship Captain Aaryn’Flynn of Lothern. He was suave and always dapper; she had yet to see any one of his long blonde hairs out of place. And Tim’s cousin, the tall one, Kiff. (Or was it Kipp? She could never remember).

“Anna’Lis,” the tall cousin greeted her in that stupid Nagarathi accent (she had given up trying to correct them). Flynn gave her a wave as well. She nodded back to them. They fell alongside of her. The cousin continued, “Are you headed to see if our erstwhile adventurer is back yet?”

“No. I was just…walking,” she finished lamely. Flynn smiled at her.

A minute later and she could already hear that chattering Chracian airhead, Tarabeth. “And then at dinner, I was trying to tell Kurnion all about the battle. And he just said, ‘Un huh. That’s nice.’ And then he started talking about his new lion! Can you believe that?!”

Tarabeth was on the landing below next to the airship. Narrin’Tim was standing next to her.

And they were holding hands!

***

Narrin’Tim saw the approaching party, and somehow immediately became very conscious of the fact that he was still holding the princess’ hand. He discreetly (he hoped!) let it go.

Aaryn’Flynn gave a low bow with a flourish. “Princess, you are looking as lovely as ever! Why is that a new tiara you are wearing? What happened to the gromril one?”

How do people notice details like that? Tim wondered.

The Princess wrinkled her nose. “Oh that old thing? I left it with my mother’s things back at the castle,” she said with a wave of her hand. “This one is of pure white ithilmar set with blue sapphires!” She smiled broadly. “It was a gift from Loremaster Tiralya himself! You know he is one of the Keepers of the Histories in Hoeth.”

“It is lovely,” Flynn said with another bow.

“It looks a little small for that…head,” Anna’lis greeted. “Are you sure you are comfortable?”

“Anna’lis,” the Princess greeted back. The two of them were both smiling at each other. But somehow Tim was reminded of a pair of Nagarathi wildcats, fangs bared and hackles raised.

“Tim was just going to take me to his house to meet his family,” the princess said sweetly.

Anna’lis arched an eyebrow. “Oh was he? The same house he said he was going to take me to then.”

“Ugh, I mean,” Tim started. “Of course, its just that the Princess is so young! I mean she’s just a kid. And I mean, you are so very much older! I mean. Very old. That, I…”

Both of the elf maidens were now looking at him with icy expressions. Tim suddenly felt like he had fallen over the edge of the floating isle and was plummeting to the valley below.

“I think I will find my quarters now. Alone,” Tarabeth said and stalked off.

“I have things to do,” Anna’lis said, and marched off down a different path.

Tim watched them leave, mouth agape. “What did I say?”

Flynn gave him a clap on the back. “We should bottle that repellent magic of yours Tim. We could make some money off of it. Somewhere.”

His cousin Kiph laughed and shook his head. “Well since my club-footed cousin is obviously done for the day, maybe I will follow after the Chracian lady and see that she is settling in alright,” he smiled while eyeing the swishing figure of the retreating Tarabeth.

“Certainly. Be my guest,” Flynn responded. “But just a bit of advice. Be careful and don’t make her angry.”

Thinking of Bretonnia, Tim added: “Yeah. You wouldn’t like her when she’s angry.”

***

The Shadow Lord, Commander of the Host of Nagarythe, had no residence. He traveled to wherever the needs of the People, or the Phoenix King, took the army. And the needs were never ceasing. Currently, his pavilion was pitched on the mesa at the top of the skystone, among the elder trees of the grove left to grow freely there. Tim followed Aaryn’Flynn up the stairs and ladders to the grove, still pondering the imponderable secrets of elf maidens.

Once he climbed the last ladder and stood in the grove proper, it could have been like standing in any other high mountain forest. Except of course for the clouds that would occasionally drift through the trees, like a fast moving mist. The grey and brown patchwork pavilion was set up in the center of the grove, alongside a half a dozen other tents that held warriors and supplies of the Host. The rest, like Tim, were garrisoned in the village below. It was a brief but comfortable respite. Tim knew that they would probably be setting out in the next few days. Rumors of Norsca raiders sighted along the coast. So he was determined to enjoy the rest as much as possible.

The familiar tall and gaunt figure of the Shadow Prince, dressed in the black and gold armor of his station, was standing in front of his pavilion, in conversation with Shadow Walker Tanith, the elf rumored to be the eldest of the Host. Certainly the most fearsome looking. Palin’Tanith was one of the hardy Nagarathi who dwelt in the isles to the north; far too close to the haunted Altar of Khaine; and always the first to bear the brunt of any raids from the North. His silver hair was strung in a nest of knotty braids that hung loose about his head. And his face was riddled with vicious looking scars; including a bright red one across his throat. The last gave him a distinctive gravelly voice that could carry across the camp easily; and instill terror in the new recruits. Tim, unlike most, knew that he had acquired his many scars at the hands of the Druchii. A thought that chilled him still.

Tim waited with Aaryn’Flynn politely to the side. The news of Tarabeth’s return was not unexpected, and thus not particularly urgent.

Suddenly, another Nagarathi emerged over the top of the ladder. Tim did not know him, either from the village or the Host. But he wore the armband that marked him as a messenger, and was thus granted free passage and speed throughout Nagarythe. Without formality he ran up to the Shadow Lord and handed him a small sealed tube. The Shadow Lord received it, broke the seal, and pulled out the parchment within. He gazed at it.

As he did so, Tim watched him. At first it seemed as if it was something well met. The Shadow Prince’s eyes showed a delight, and a smile played across his lips. But then the eyes widened in horror. The Shadow Lord clenched his fists, crumpling the paper between them, and threw back his head and uttered a howl of pure animal rage and pain!

***

That night Tim couldn’t sleep. He slipped out the window of his father’s house and, stealthily as possible, returned to the elder grove. A light burned within the Prince’s pavilion, despite the late hour. Tim could hear soft voices. Feeling conflicted, Tim crouched down and began to crawl on elbows and knees closer to the side of the tent. He had only gone a few feet when he realized that there was somebody else doing the same thing just a little off in the trees. Princess Tarabeth looked over at him, surprised. He crawled over to her.

“What are you –“ they both whispered at the same time. They stopped when they heard a muffled ‘ouch’ behind them. Looking back Tim could see Anna’lis holding her foot in one hand. He waived her down. She crouch-walked closer and Tim ‘shhhhhed’ her.

“Don’t shush me!” she snapped.

“Quiet or they’ll hear us,” Tarabeth warned. Still feeling guilty about spying on a brother, Tim alongside the elf-girls, crawled a little closer to the tent.

Miraculously, none of the tent’s occupants had responded to their arrival. By the glowworm light (much safer and easier to transport than candles!), Tim could see three silhouettes.

“I will go alone to Elthin-Arvan,” the Shadow Lord said. He seemed to be busily stuffing things into a bag.

“We could-“ Tanith began.

“No! This is not the business of Nagarythe. The Host cannot be involved,” the Shadow Lord answered. Then he continued solemnly, “For that reason, I will be leaving the Armor with you, Tanith.”

“My Prince!” Tanith barked in objection.

“It cannot go with me,” the Shadow Lord replied firmly. “You must keep it here, with the Host. And guard it with your life. If…if I have not returned in three months time, then you will present it to the Council, so that they can pass it on to the successor.”

“My Prince, I am not worthy-“ Tanith started again.

“Please my friend,” the Shadow Lord said softly. “Do this for me.”

They could hear Tanith swallowing loudly. “Very well, my lord,” he said reluctantly. “I don’t need to remind you of your oaths. But you realize that if the Council learns of this, you will walk under Anlec….”

“Then I will go at their command,” the Shadow Lord answered with a finality. Silence filled the tent. Then a throat was cleared.

“This is all very Nagarathi,” the third member, Aaryn’Flynn, said. “But what about the rumors that there will be a Conclave of Princes soon?”

“What is it this time?” Tanith grumbled.

“Oh it’s some Caledorian High Lord I heard, so what else? Probably another plan to retake the Empire. For our everlasting greatness I’m sure,” Flynn answered.

“Khaine’s eyes!” Tanith swore. “I wish their fathers would just give them all a hug! Maybe then we wouldn’t always have to be spilling blood to prove some honor or other!”

“Peace, Tanith,” the Shadow Lord said. “They are our brothers too.” He continued packing. “If I am not back in time, and if the Council hasn’t appointed a successor, then you will have to go instead.”

“Wonderful.”

Outside, Tim rolled over on his back. He couldn’t believe his ears. The Shadow Lord was leaving them. Traveling alone back to the Elthin-Arvan. The ‘Old World’ of the man countries. But why? And how could he go alone? Looking to either side he saw his confusion and worry reflected in the face of the elf maidens. The three left the grove together in (relative) silence.

Somewhere on the ladder down, Narrin’Tim made up his mind.

At the bottom, Anna’lis grabbed his arm and said, “I know that look, Tim. What are you planning?”

“Narrith lessa kynn’barr,” Tim said. It was the Old Tongue for, ‘Never leave a brother behind.’ He continued, “He can’t go alone. He’ll need help. I’m sure of it. I’ll go with him!”

The two elf girls looked at him with a strange look in their eyes. Finally, Anna’lis said, “Not alone you won’t.” Tarabeth nodded in agreement.

“What?! You two? You can’t –“ Tim began.

Anna’lis held up her hand. “Can’t. What?” she said, hard eyed, with Tarabeth, arms folded across her chest, standing at her side.

Suddenly, with a wisdom well beyond his years, Narrin’Tim realized that this was a fight he could not hope to win. Not in thousand years. Not in ten thousand years! And in that case, it was a battle better not started.

“Ok,” he nodded. “Grab your things, and meet me at the pavilion at first light. Together we’ll convince him!”

***

First light came, and the Shadow Lord was long gone.

Tim slapped his forehead. “I’m such an idiot!”

“What now?” Tarabeth asked.

“Somebody must know where he’s gone,” Tim muttered. He and Anna’lis shared a look, and then both exclaimed, “Flynn!”

They found Flynn at breakfast in the guesthouse. “You want to go to the Old World?” he said puzzled. “Why would anyone want to do that? The women are hideous.”

He studied the three young elves in front of him for a moment. “Oh, I see,” he said. He studied them a little while longer. “Hmmmm….there is a captain I know who occasionally trades with merchant ships from Altdorf. A place where a mutual friend might be found.” He scribbled something on a piece of parchment. “That’s his name. He should be in port nearby for the next few days.”

“Thank you, Flynn,” Narrin’Tim said, grabbing the note. With a scraping of chairs, he and the two girls stood up.

“Just, do me a favor and don’t get killed,” Flynn said. “I don’t want to have to regret this for the rest of my centuries.”

***

Man, does that J. Cameron guy owe me sooo much money!

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

HaHaHa you named a historian after the griffon my Prince rides? Magnificent! BOOM!
I love the little thing between Narrin’Tim and the mages, they're all so young and foolish ^_^

[edit] Hmm... I wonder if I can incorporate that into my army fluff, perhaps after saving the young Griffon from the wolves, Elessehta names her after his favourite teacher or something to that effect.

[jwg20]

HAHAHAHAHA I love it! Kurnion would go on about his lions, or a great hunt he had! And tell Tim that my cousin Tarabeth isn't a piece of meat! . Does the Lion Prince have to teach him some manners?

Great story so far, I can't wait to read the conclusion!

[Headshot]

@Tiralya

That works for me! Unless of course, griffons can be loremasters.... Hmmmm

@jwg20

What?! I thought tarabeth was kurnion's kid sister! Now you say she is a cousin.

Argggh! I'm gonna have to rewrite everything!!!

You...bastard.

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

Tiralya is a lovely griffon and brighter than any human but loremaster is stretching it =P
This reminds me I was supposed to change my user name to my Prince ages ago...

[Elithmar]

Teehee! I do like this. I need to get on with my narrative army blog.

I think Tim needs to think before he speaks sometimes. I hope he goes for Tarabeth over Anna'Lis though. Or he could come to Eataine; there are some really nice elven maidens here. You should see the collection that Elithmar has in his court.

[jwg20]

Sorry sorry, sister, you are correct. It was Amasel that is a Cousin to your shadow prince. My mistake.

[Headshot]

@Tiralya

I don't know... a griffon in spectacles, with a great big hunk of chalk in its beak, standing in front of a class of elves, sounds pretty cool to me...

@Elithmar

I'm not sure Tarabeth would be a wise goal for Tim. I hear she has an overprotective big brother, who is handy with an axe. Likes to lop off...things.

@jwg20

Ok, I'll forgive you...just this once. But you had better buy a set of index cards to keep all these relationships straight! The Nagarathi are quick to take umbrage at the slightest break of protocol. And you know what they say about the Nagarathi:

"Short temper. Long memory."

[Headshot]

Part Three

The Peg-Legged Girl was not considered to be the finest tavern along Altdorf’s wharf. In fact, it was widely considered to be the worst. To receive a draft of ale there without rat droppings in it was generally considered cause for minor celebration. The internal décor was somewhat veiled by the smoky glass lanterns exclusively used, but that did nothing to protect the clientele from the stench of mold and urine, or the squishy-sticky feeling on the chairs, that slurped at ones posterior when either standing or sitting. And waking up beside the tavern’s one serving wench, Lazy-Eye Lysyl, was considered the most surefire way in all of Altdorf for evoking instant, and stone-cold, sobriety.

Despite, or perhaps, because, of all that, on any given night the little tavern was likely filled to capacity. Longshoremen from skinflint warehouses exchanged ribald remarks with day laborers, or out of work mercenaries; or diced with sailors who had spent their voyage’s last silver; and just occasionally, a young noble, oftentimes in ‘disguise’, came to this most nefarious of tavern slums, to see how the other half lived. Sure to have stories of his stalwart courage in all matters physical and culinary to share with his fellows the next morning.

Then of course there were the regulars. Karl the bartender, while technically manager and proprietor of the Girl, would mostly be found at the bar, in various states of slumped drunkenness. Then there was Madame Cotette, the one-legged prostitute, who despite all predictions to the contrary had reached such an advanced age that she was technically ‘retired’. Fen, the cutpurse; he had his thumbs removed after his last trip to the Bastion, so spent his evenings at the Girl wondering about the fortunes that might have been, if only the wrist had have been just a little bit quicker….

And of course there was Palstaff. Fat, old Palstaff could be found on any given day or night, filling up the width of a table, in the corner of the Girl opposite the door. He was a permanent fixture to the place; been there as long as Karl. Some said that a long, very long, time ago, old Palstaff hadn’t been so fat, and actually was something of a fearsome sell-sword. A brave mercenary captain, who had traveled the Old World. Of course that was mostly because, when the mood took him, Palstaff would spin a yarn or two, which invariably featured himself as the bravest of the brave, defeating the most villainous of Orc warlords, before crawling off to the grateful bed of Countess so-and-so. At other times, Palstaff could be found at his table (nobody ever sat with Palstaff and his mugs!), stooped and drooling, as the sweet, sweet ale did its magic, and silenced the days of living, alongside the memories of those yesterdays. It was at times like that that some people agreed with Lysyl’s theory: Palstaff wasn’t actually a man, but a great, big toadstool, that had been growing gargantuan in the corner of the Girl, fed on a diet of barley and piss, and dressed to look like a man by Karl, just in order to attract the occasional passerby with the spectacle.

Tonight was one of the ‘drooling nights’, as Lysyl liked to call them. It was late enough that the ribaldry had been drowned out of the Peg-Legged tavern, and those who remained were serious at the work of drinking. Palstaff had a half-a-dozen empty mugs standing, and tipped, on the table in front of him already. And an equal amount on the floor around him. He was staring at one half empty one in hand, wondering if there was another copper in his pocket for two more, when he became aware of someone standing in front of his table.

Slowly, and without any enthusiasm, his pig-like face tilted upwards to take in his visitor. He saw a tall figure dressed in a long black cloak, with cowl pulled over his face, concealing the visage beneath. Palstaff gave one of his grunt laughs.

“Oh come now, my good man! Isn’t that just a tad cliché?” he snorted at the stranger, while studying him with bleary eyes. “I mean, I am all for a bit of….a bit of drama, my good man! But this….there is such a thing as melodrama, don’t you know!” he slurred.

The black clad figure sat down opposite him. Straining, Palstaff tried to make him out in the dim light. There was something….. But then no! There was nothing. Nothing to see really. Just a big black cloak. No face. No nothing underneath it. It was as if one of Morr’s messengers had sat down at the table.

But if Morr’s messenger had coin, that could solve the next-round dilemma!

“Well my friend, I am not above drinking with mysterious cloaked strangers,” Palstaff said with a satisfying burp. “Everyone…I mean everyone, has a right to deal with being ugly as sin in their own way, right? Like I always say….”

The stranger leaned forward. Palstaff could see a flash of dark eyes in the hood.

“Wait. Wait. I remember something….. Something about Tilea….” He stared at the stranger and tried to find those memories.

As if summoned by Palstaff’s words, the Tilean, Salvatori, swaddled up to the table to stand behind the black-clad stranger, with Simon and old Pot - his two heavies - at his side. Palstaff blinked at him; sure he had paid him this month.

“Whose your friend, Palstaff?” Sal started. Even his words sounded greasy.

“Just…just somebody. New. Or I knew?” Palstaff managed to stumble out. He stared at the black figure; a memory was trying to emerge.

Sal was sucking on his teeth. “Well, I noticed that your friend forgot to pay the cover charge when he entered. And seeing as how he’s got a very nice cloak there,” Sal paused to apprise for a moment. “And boots. Well, I’m thinking he should pay the exemplary cover! Something with old blessed Franz’s face on it should do.” The tall Tilean rested his hand on his long cutting knife. “Or if not, I suppose we could settle on that nice, black cloak….”

His other hand was reaching out towards the stranger’s shoulder.

“Oh c’mon, Sal,” Palstaff started, a vague disquiet percolating up through the ale-laden thoughts. “We are all friends here. Just for a drink. One drink! And then he leaves. No need for any pec….pecund…pecuniary worries!” he managed to stumble out.

Sal smiled. His hand hovering just a few inches above the stranger’s shoulder.

Something wasn’t right. Something was pushing its way through the sodden mush of Palstaff’s brains. It felt like…a trickle of sobriety. (Most unwelcome!) Something wasn’t right. Then a memory….

Palstaff started. “Sal,” he said, dry mouthed; a sudden cold sweat running down the small of his back. “I…I really wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Salvatori’s hand descended. There was a swish of black cloak. And then Lazy Eye Lysyl was screaming, screaming, and screaming! And worse, Palstaff was ice-veined sober.

“Sigmar’s Holy Hammers!!” he blurted. In front of him, old Pot was sprawled on the floor; bits of the fleshy parts of his forehead still stuck to the table edge. Salvatori was kneeling and screaming in a high pitched shrill, staring at the spurting stump where his hand used to be. And the big bruiser, Simple Simon, was just standing there…his head slowly sliding from his gargantuan neck.

Amidst the carnage, the black stranger, now standing, leaned over the table.

“Morr preserve us! You!!” Palstaff gasped.

“I would have words with you, Palstaff,” the stranger said in a soft voice that somehow still managed to cut through the din. A silver coin appeared in his hand and dropped onto the table. “Walk with me.” The stranger turned and made his way towards the door, past the shrieking bargirl and the few remaining customers, cowering behind tables and chairs.

“Morr preserve us!” Palstaff muttered. “Morr preserve ME!!” And then hurried out into the night.

The stranger was slowly walking along the Reik’s edge. Palstaff hurried, his bad foot, missing three toes, slowed his jog into something of a hopping canter.

“My Lord,” he wheezed. “I…I never thought I would be seeing you again. It’s been nearly forty years….”

The cloaked figure inclined its head. “You are not well, Palstaff,” the stranger stated the obvious. “I have coin to ease your final days. But, I need information.”

A gleam came to Palstaff’s eyes. “At your service, my Lord. Not passes on these docks that old Palstaff doesn’t hear a turn or tale about.”

“An elf child was taken from Karl Franz’s palace,” the stranger said. “Quietly, and without alarming the guards.” The stranger continued forward along a bend in the river. “Something like that does not transpire without money changing hands. Money to willing hands. Money to turn eyes.”

Palstaff was rubbing his chin now.

The stranger stopped and turned to Palstaff. “Tell me about the flow of coin, here along the docks….”

***

Watch Sergeant Hal Turnbull had pretty much seen it all in his thirty some odd years of patrolling the wharfs. He wasn’t a man given to easy sympathies or displays of emotion; he was well known for his cast iron stomach, unperturbed by the most gruesome of displays that poverty and desperation could produce. But something was bothering him that morning in the Peg-Legged Girl.

“Poor Simple Simon. That’s a real smooth shave!” Guardsman Tom said with a guffaw. “Looks like we’re gonna need an extra bag to move him.”

Hal knew Simple Simon. He was a bruiser; a mountain of a man, always for hire among the petty schemers around the wharfs. Simon also liked to ‘play rough’ with the girls that coin allowed him. Hal had him ‘tended to’ more than once in the rooms below the guardhouse….

Now he was in two pieces. No great loss to Altdorf. Still…something wasn’t right about this. Nor old Pot with his brains oozing out. Or that slimy Tilean, lying there in a pool of his own blood and urine. They were small-timers. To a man. Not worth the notice of anyone beyond the wharfs. But this….this was done by someone with…skill.

And that just didn’t add up.

He scratched at his receding hair, and looked about the tavern. There were no witnesses. Never were along the wharfs. Poor people had too much sense to get involved in matters that didn’t concern them. The tavernkeep was absent this morn. Probably still in his cups, somewhere where the ale was cleaner. And the other regular, the fat one, Palstaff, was nowhere to be seen. Also likely making himself scarce. The only one left to question was the barmaid, Lysyl. She was standing behind the bar, pretending to rub a cloth along the counter. That was a lame act; the bar’s stick and stink were palpable from over here. As Hal walked up to her he noticed a glint of silver nestled in the cleaves of her ample bosom. Noticing his gaze, she quickly reached up and adjusted herself. The silver disappeared.

Silver? Here?

He held out his hand. “Hand it over, Lysyl,” Hal ordered.

She stared at him with her one good eye. And gave a noncommittal shrug and grunt.

“No games, girl. Reach in there and pull that out. It isn’t nothing I haven’t seen before,” Hal said. “Or I’m gonna have to reach in there myself. And neither of us is gonna like that, are we?”

With a pouty glower, Lysyl reached into her bodice and produced a small silver coin. Hal palmed it. He stared at it.

“Where did you get this?” he asked amazed. Nothing from the girl. “Did you get this last night?” She gave a noncommittal shrug.

The coin was of a silver sheen the like of which he had never seen before. It was like it was made out of pure silver. But that was impossible! All the mints mixed the silver with baser metals; everyone knew that. And more than that, there was an etching on it. It showed what appeared to be the branch of a tree. But the craft! The sheer detail! It was like a real tree was branded in miniature before him. No smith-coin he had ever seen could compare.

He turned it over. On the other side were some letters. Or symbols. He didn’t know them.

Hal turned, and made his way slowly to the tavern door, still staring at the coin. He clapped one of the guards upon the shoulder.

“I’m heading back to the House. Send someone to fetch the whiz kid. Have him meet me there,” he ordered.

Back at the guardhouse, Hal tossed the coin onto the desk he shared with the other watch sergeants. It was still early morning, so fortunately he had the room to himself. Otherwise there was a distinct possibility that the coin would be ‘lost’ in the processing or hustle and bustle of the watch. And Hal wasn’t done with it yet. It meant something; he was sure of it.

A few minutes later the whiz kid arrived. He was only 17; a second year student up at one of the colleges. But he was sharp as a tack, and he knew languages, histories, and all kinds of things that Hal couldn’t fathom. He was a real ‘savant’ they said around town. He also had a propensity for gambling far too much on a limited burgher son’s budget. Hal had gotten him out of trouble on more than one occasion. So now the kid sometimes did favors for the watch. A touch of ‘quid pro quo’. Or at least that’s what the kid called it.

“Hal, it’s the first day of the school week! I have classes,” the kid said in his nasal whine, while rubbing at the lenses of his owl-spectacles.

Hal slid the coin across the desk. “Take a gander at that. What can you tell me about it?”

The boy picked it up and looked at it, at first with clear irritation on his face, but soon replaced by a look of surprise. “Why this is Elvish!” he exclaimed.

“You know it then?” Hal replied.

The boy nodded. “Of course! It’s a ‘leaf’. One of the silver coins from the realm of the Elves, Ulthuan. It’s an amazingly rare find!” He turned it over in his hands and kept squinting at it. “Where did you get it?”

“At a murder scene,” Hal answered. He pursed his lips and then said slowly, “So this coin, would likely come from the hand of what…an elf?”

“Well, possibly,” the kid said with a shrug. “But coins travel, Hal. That is their nature. It’s possible that this coin was carried here in the hold of one of our traders. It’s rare, but the Emperor’s ships do visit that country. Well, sometimes. Don’t you read the broadsheets?”

Hal didn’t. He already had too much news as it was.

“An elf, huh,” he mused aloud. He had never met one. Never seen one. Seemed more fisherwives’ tales than history to him. And either way, were distant from the realities of life on the wharfs. A problem for ‘great men’ up in the towers; like big invasions of goblins. His problems were more of the type of a pimp trying to knife one of his girls….

Still, staring at the coin, he thought, it looks like these ‘elves’ are gonna become a problem for me…..

***

Thanks for the character, Willie! We miss you....

[Prince of Spires]

Again, great read. I love the sense of atmosphere you put in it. And how you show the "other side" of the high elves. They aren't all just perfect, immaculate beings, but have their own flaws and worries.

Not sure who I want Tim to go for. Tarabeth sounds great with all her curves in the right places, but Anna’lis has a certain something as well... I definatly want to see more of them though.

Can't wait for the next installment.

Rod

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

@Tiralya

I don't know... a griffon in spectacles, with a great big hunk of chalk in its beak, standing in front of a class of elves, sounds pretty cool to me...

Would be amazing!

zOMG it's like a real crime story now! You also have another place for a back story to branch off from, you're just making work for yourself!

[Headshot]

You also have another place for a back story to branch off from, you're just making work for yourself!

Or for another ambitious Asur-loving author to drag the Nagarathi misfits and miscreants into their tales!

[Headshot]

Part Four

“Ugh! Is that what I think it is?!” Princess Tarabeth skipped to the side of the crowded human street, face showing clear revulsion. “How can they just leave it lying there? That’s disgusting!”

Tim was nearly as shocked, but he had other worries on his mind. So he shrugged and said, “Well, in Nagarythe we have a saying, ‘When in Chr-‘…I mean, umm, when in a foreign land it is best to behave as the natives.”

“I’m never doing that here,” said Anna’lis, walking stiffly beside him.

“But I mean,” Tarabeth began. She was obviously not ready to drop the unpleasant subject. “Didn’t Master Teclis teach the mortals magic? Why don’t they use it? How can they continue to live like this?!” She made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the noisy, chaotic Altdorf street around them.

She had a point, Tim conceded. Not even the poorest of Nagarathi villages would live in such squalor. Their first morning in the human city of Altdorf had been a cascade of surprises. The shrill foreign tongues cried and shrieked all around them. The sewer stench of the river. The hideous carpet of matter dead, and partly dead, that seemed to cover the streets. The sickly nature of the humans who staggered here and there. And occasionally, he could glimpse one lying face down in an alley, staggering no more. Never in his wildest imaginings did he ever envisage a place such as this. Not even Naggaroth.

“I saw a human magical tome once in the libraries at Hoeth,” Anna’lis mused aloud. “All the incantations inside had to do with war…in some manner. Spells for throwing fire, or calling lightning, or vengeful earth sprites.” She hefted the hem of her robes and gingerly stepped over another steaming pile. “Yuck! Ummm…my master told me that all the human writings were like that. They only see the winds as a weapon. They put all their time and study into trying to make it more deadly. And use it in their wars, with blackpowder and other Dawi craft….”

Tarabeth looked absolutely appalled. “So…they don’t use magic to live better? Not even to clean their streets and gutters?! That is madness!”

Anna’lis shrugged. “I never said they weren’t a stupid, mad lot. But Master Teclis must have had his reasons….”

“I just wish they would stop staring at us,” Tim muttered. Even since they had left the ship…. Well actually! Tim rethought. Ever since boarding that human river vessel, the three of them had been the constant center of attention. None of the sailors had spoken to them; just stared, ever watchful. At first Tim could understand. He had limited contact with the race of man as well. Actually, almost none. So he was especially wary of them as strangers. Still….it was starting to get on his nerves. And now that they were inside a human city, surrounded by humans of all stripes and shapes, he had never before felt so alien. Or so…observed. Hundreds of eyes, of all colors, were just staring at the three of them as they walked down the street center. Human children would openly point and gawk. Men and women would whisper to each other as they passed. A few would openly leer at them.

“Let’s just find the Shadow Lord quickly,” he finished. Fortunately neither of the girls asked him ‘how’. That was turning out to be a bigger problem than he had anticipated. He had thought that finding an Elf Lord in a barbarian land a simple matter of just asking. (After all, how many Elf Lords could there be gallivanting about the barbarian lands?) But he had never imagined that there would be such teeming cities amongst the mortals. This place - this ‘Altdorf’ – was…more… than any place he knew of in Nagarythe. More….vast, than any place he had ever been to in his short life. Suddenly finding the Shadow Lord seemed to be an insurmountable task.

“Trouble?” Anna’lis said hesitatingly. Ahead of them, marching down the street, were a half-a-dozen human warriors. At least Tim took them to be warriors. They were wearing some sort of crude metal armor formed by links of iron; and wore a curious array of weapons – clunky swords, metal clubs, hooks – at their hips. But there seemed to be something uniform about the clothing they wore.

And they were definitely coming towards the three elves.

The lead human came to halt a short two-steps away from Narrin’Tim. He cleared his throat. “By order of the Watch-Sergeant! You...umm, three elves! Are to come with us!”

Tim pondered the human’s strange words. He knew the man tongue; it was simple compared to the infinite nuances of the tongues of the Asur. But he still was having trouble deciphering what was meant….

“Shall I kill them?” Tarabeth asked with annoyance in her voice. The two human warriors nearest her were staring at her. At least at parts of her.

“Wait.” Watch sergeant? Tim wondered. “Perhaps these are something like the Nagarathi Wardens? Maybe they dispense the justice, and keep the watch?” He eyed the men again; not really sure he was convinced by his own arguments. “If so, maybe they have seen the Shadow Lord.”

“I hope you know what you are doing,” Anna’lis whispered back.

Tim held his hands before him, palms up, in a Nagarathi greeting of peace. Then slowly, in the men tongue, he said, “We will come with you.”

***

Standing just outside the Sergeants’ office, Hal Turnbull gazed at the interior, and the three creatures seated in front of his desk. When he had put out word to the patrols to keep an eye out for elves he had never expected results so fast. Now, a little over twenty-four hours later, and here were three of the things! He had spent a lifetime walking, or slumming, the streets of Altdorf, and never even spied one before. And yet today for some reason, it seemed to be raining elves.

This can’t be a coincidence.

Suddenly Hal began to wonder what he had stepped in this time. And whether it wasn’t better just to step out of it just as quickly….

He chewed on a sprig of blackroot, and peered at the three creatures. They were seated facing away from him; it was a useful trick for interviews, having the chairs face the interior of the office, so that he could size things up before entering. Today though Hal took a moment and considered just turning around, heading home, and letting some other poor bastard sort through this. But only for a second. His problem was, he knew the other ‘poor bastards’ of the guard; and the most likely outcome for turning any investigation over to one of them, was a spate of speedy executions, followed by a couple bribes, and….no crime solved. No he would have to do this himself.

He grabbed the shoulder of one of the passing guardsmen. “Bring the kid,” he ordered, then stepped into the room.

As he moved around to the far side of the desk and his waiting chair, three pairs of alien eyes followed him. He was watching them just as steadfastly out of the corner of his eye. These…things, were so much more different than what he had expected. It was disconcerting. He had dealt with other races before. Brawling dwarfs in the merchants’ taverns. Or Halfling pickpockets from the Moot. Yet the eyes of those creatures, as different from a man’s in size, apportionment, color even, still conveyed the same emotions: greed, fear, anxiety, lust. He could read them, and understand the minds behind. But these….things, they just looked at him with these slender almond eyes, in which he could not read anything. Anything at all. Their faces were as blank to him, and inscrutable, as a fox’s or eagle’s might be….

How was he supposed to interrogate something that was so…different?

He wasn’t about to show his confusion though. Hal was an experienced enough interrogator to know that any sign of indecisiveness would put him on the back footing from the start. So he sat down behind his desk, and laid his hands in a relaxed pose on the chair arms beside him. (Confident that he had a dagger, brass knuckles, or bludgeon within each drawer of his desk, all within easy reach; the guard had disarmed the things, but it never hurt to be careful….) He studied them a bit more.

In the center was the only male, with some sort of barbarian hair cut. He seemed the most curious of his surroundings; his eyes would occasionally flicker about the corners of the room, and his head would tilt at the noises coming from the adjoining guardroom. He was dressed in supple black and brown leathers, the likes of which Hal had never seen before. They had a smoother sheen to them than any Altdorf tanners would. The elf man didn’t appear particularly frightened. Just…interested.

To the right of him sat a blonde that was as tall as Hal. She just watched him with, if anything, a bored expression. She wore long white and green robes, that, if Hal had to guess, were made of some type of Cathayan silk. Worth a fortune then. Though the sheen wasn’t quite right for silk. Something else then. What, he did not know.

On the male’s other side sat the redhead, with all the cleavage. Hard to not notice in the skintight white leathers she wore. (Though Hal would have noticed anyways. What a body!) She was staring daggers at him. She said something in their barbarian tongue, and received a curt shake of the head from the male.

Ok, so he was in charge….

Hal sat back. “Can you speak?” he ventured to the three.

A shared glance amongst them. Then slowly the blonde said with a peculiar languidness, “Yes. Can you?”

Well, I’ll be! Hal thought. That might even qualify as a joke. Some sort of elf humor. Well it was a start….

***

“They took my hatchet,” Tarabeth grumbled.

“Careful,” Narrin’Tim whispered. “There is one watching us near the door.” Tim had grown up stalking the wild things of the forests and hills of Nagarythe; it was easy for him to listen to the movements of the humans in the next room. One was definitely standing – and breathing heavily (because of age? Sickness??) – near the door.

“They took my hatchet!” Tarabeth repeated a little more emphatically.

“They took all of our weapons,” Tim soothed. He tried to reason with her, “It is what the Nagarathi Wardens would do if they came upon strangers.” Well actually, Tim thought, that was only partly true: if they came upon strange humans in Nagarythe, the Wardens would slay them on sight. Only elves might be given the benefit of the doubt. Even then, with the Druchii threat…. It wasn’t unknown to slay first, and worry about purpose later.

“That hatchet was a gift from my brother!” Tarabeth was obviously not placated. “I should have killed them before letting them touch it!”

“Killing them will not answer our questions,” Anna’lis muttered. Tim shot her a grateful look.

“Yes,” Tim agreed. “Let’s just try to ask them about the Shadow Lord. They probably watch for outsiders just like we do. Maybe they’ve seen him. Or even spoke with him.” He hesitated. “And then we’ll see about getting our weapons back…” He almost added ‘one way or another’. Tim didn’t like the idea of fighting so many humans. But on the other hand, he liked the idea of a bunch of humans touching his bow even less. He had carved the stave himself; and the string, made from wildcat sinew, was particularly temperamental - the grease from unclean hands could ruin it.

The human left his perch near the door, and slowly walked around the desk-furnishing in front of them. Tim watched him as he advanced. He was small and stocky like all of his race; built square, blocky, and ungainly. He had an unsightly paunch about the middle, and there was more hair on his arms than on the top of his head. What little was left on his head was brown speckled with gray, and was quickly retreating towards the crown. His face was pockmarked with the remnants of some sort of disease.

What a sickly people! Tim marveled. He couldn’t recall ever seeing one of the Asur looking so pitiable and in poor health! For a moment, Tim was amazed that the mortals lived as long as they managed – the few short decades that they were reputed to live seemed generous when looking at one specimen up close!

The human sat down and watched them with close set, pig-like eyes. His gaze seemed to linger longest on Tarabeth.

“What about this one? Can I kill it?” she asked, clearly irritated. Tim shook his head.

Finally, the man spoke. “Can you speak?” he asked, in their crude tongue.

Ever the diplomat, Anna’lis replied, “Yes. Can you?”

The man settled back. “Good,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “What are you….elves, doing here in Altdorf?”

It was an infinitely rude way of starting a conversation; being so direct. And referring to one of the Asur, the chosen people of Asuryan, as just an ‘elf’ was even more insulting. Narrin’Tim bristled, and tried to keep his temper.

Suddenly, there was a great clatter of books and quills tumbling upon the floor behind them. Tim turned and saw a young human, with a mop of messy brown hair, standing amidst a loose pile of scholarly sundries on the floor. The young man was pulling at a strange round metal frame that was set on his nose. His large eyes were blinking repeatedly as he gaped at the three Asuryans.

With a gasp, the young human stepped forward. Then in a stilted, halting Elvish, he said, “I greet you…in the name of Big King! Of Great Ruddy Red….Bird!!”

The three elves stared back.

Then Tarabeth said:

“Oh. This one, you have to let me kill. Please?”

***

So the kid was there, all as happy and fluffed up as a rooster two minutes to dawn; polishing one lens of his round bass spectacles, and trying to stare through the other. He had an idiot’s grin of pure delight painted across his face.

Sigmar’s Hammers! Hal thought. Well, at least with the kid here maybe some progress can finally be made…

But then, Watchman Tom hurried into the room. He leaned in close to whisper in the Sergeant’s confidence.

“Sergeant, there’s been all kinds of trouble down at the Fish clubhouse!”

“What?” Hal scowled.

“I don’t know the details but Eksel and Georg said you would want to see this straight away! They said it looks like the start of a gang war!”

Hal swore again, and stood up. “Alright lets get over there now.” He frowned at the three elves, and a thought struck him. “Soren!” he called to the watchman in the next room. “Grab a couple of the lads, and get the wagon!” He pointed with a grubby thumb towards the elves. “And bring them over to the Fish place.”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

Hal hurried out the door.

***

The Fish clubhouse was on one of the docks. A pair of warehouses joined by a rickety bridge that spanned a sewage canal. The whole place stank like its namesake. Still a lot of coin flowed through it; and some of the interior furnishings wouldn’t be out of place in some merchant’s boudoir up in Market Square.

Not that any of the occupants would be needing that now, Hal thought, as he finished his second perambulation of the place. The ‘lock-wagon’ rolled up, disgorging Soren, the kid, and those creatures. Hal called them over and led them inside.

Inside was a scene of carnage the likes of which he had yet to encounter in his long years of service. The bodies of the Fish gang were strewn about the interior in their dozens. He shot a look at the elves, and then slowly started walking about the room.

Hal pointed to a body. “Sword cut. One blow,” he commented. He pointed to another. “Sword. Over there, sword. This one too: sword.” He paused. “This looks like a knife blow to the kidneys. Not a good way to go… And then over here, it’s back to sword. Head clean off his shoulders.”

Hal stopped and looked at the next: “Now it looks like someone decided to get creative over here, and killed this one with a boot! Straight to the larynx. And then…. it’s back to sword on the next….”

“Looks like Little Petr took a glass mug to the teeth over here, Sarge,” Tom called. “That’s pretty creative.”

“Fine,” Hal said, and beckoned the three elves and his watchmen over to the interior office. He pointed. “But this is what I can’t understand. All of his men out there. Fighting and dying. Against…something. Another gang? I don’t know. We haven’t found one body that wasn’t a Fish. So it looks like it could all be the work of one man….” Hal could scarce believe his own words. He shook his head. “And in here is Boss Leo, a cocked and loaded pistol at hand.” He pointed at the flintlock. “And…what? He just, up and dies…. of a heart attack?! Not a mark on him!”

The slender old Fish Boss, Leonardo, one of the kingpin terrors of the Wharf district for nigh on twenty years, was seated behind his desk in the center of the small office. The flintlock pistol lay cocked and discarded atop the desk. The man himself was sprawled over the back of his plush chair, head lolling to the side. On his face was carved an expression of pure, and abject, terror.

But otherwise…nothing. Not a knife wound. No shot hole. No….nothing.

Hal was watching the three elves as he spoke. They shared a look. The boy had a relieved expression; the redhead, a slight smile. They knew something.

“What’s going on?” Hal asked, arms folded across his chest. And then it was suddenly like staring at a blank wall again: the three elves just looked at him, without blinking.

“Fine. Take them back to the House. Let ‘em cool their heels tonight. We’ll start again in the morning. With the screws, if need be….”

***

“He was there!” Narrin’Tim said after the last guard left, leaving him and the two elf maidens alone in the cell beneath the watchhouse. “I recognize the sword work!”

“Yes, I agree,” Anna’lis said. She was standing at the bars of the cell. Beyond was a short hall lit by a few dingy candles. At its end was a ladder and trapdoor to the guardhouse above. “But - why? Why come all this way? Just to show the Faran Khaine to a pack of mortal criminals?” she asked in a voice heavy with sarcasm.

The Faran Khaine, otherwise known as the ‘lightning cut’ or ‘falcon strike’, was one of the sword styles taught by the Masters at the White Tower of Hoeth. It was a form of speed and precision: the goal was that the move to draw the blade be one and the same as the killing cut. Thus it required not only a sure command of speed, strength, and agility, but an uncanny awareness of space and distance. Only a few were declared masters of the art. The Shadow Lord was one.

“I don’t know,” Tim conceded. “But it must have something to do with that letter I saw the Shadow Lord receive!” Tim pondered it. He should have asked Flynn for more information! Why had he just rushed off?!

“We need to get out of here,” Tarabeth seethed. She was pacing in the narrow confines of the cell, like a caged animal.

Tim wasn’t worried about that. “We’ll leave as soon as the hour grows late. And there are fewer human warriors above,” he soothed. “We’ll grab our things, and…”

“Yes. And?” Anna’lis challenged. “We still have no idea where the Shadow Lord went! Or why.”

Tim’s spirits sagged.

An hour passed languidly in that stink-hole. It was well after dark now, Tim thought. He was about to give the word to Tarabeth when he heard the scraping of locks. The three elves fell silent; eyes on the passageway. In a moment, a smoky lantern descended from the trapdoor, and with it the young human with the round metal wires on its face. He was carrying a shoulder bag over its brown (scholar? Do they have those here?) robes. And a large satchel. Tim recognized his bow stave peeking out from it.

The young human came to the cell door. “We…speak…must,” it said in a pained Elvish.

“Don’t hurt yourself. Or our ears,” Anna’lis barked. “We understand the man tongue. Speak.”

“Oh.” The young human looked a little disappointed. “My name is Fritz Klinski. I am a student at the College of History here. I sometimes…help the local watch. Umm…it’s a complicated thing….” He finished, blushing slightly. The elves were just staring at him. “Anyways, I’ve been thinking about what I saw…and found…. at the docks.” He took a deep breath.

“It is well known that there was an embassy from Ulthuan at the Imperial Palace last month. It is also well known that a child, the son of one of the ambassadors, went missing from the welcome gala.”

The elves were looking at each other now.

“Son?” Tarabeth looked confused.

“Yes.” Fritz nodded. “The Emperor’s Guard were searching the city for him for days afterwards. A description was put out of him….not that it was needed. Here look.” He slid a piece of parchment through the cell door to them. Narrin’Tim took and unfolded the page. He started.

“It’s crude,” Anna’lis mused. “But there is some resemblance….”

“So you do know something,” Fritz exclaimed. “I thought as much. You see I have studied as much of your history as I could find in the college libraries….I am something of a nut about it.” He smiled sheepishly. “And I knew that there was no way that the elves of Ulthuan would let that stand! Especially with the Emperor’s men giving up the search. So…now you are here! You must be looking for the boy!”

Tim stared hard at him. Then, in the man tongue, said, “Why are you telling us this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?! I want to come with you!” Fritz was beaming. “I’ve waited a life time to meet real elves. I mean, I’ve spent years looking at artifacts, and ruins, and books, and now! To meet, real, live elves! I want to help!!”

Tim continued to watch the young human. “How can you help us?”

Fritz held up a rusty key ring. “I have this! I have your things!” He pointed to the satchel. “And…I think I understand something…”

“What?” Anna’lis challenged.

“At the dock. There was a stack of blank parchment on Boss Leo’s desk. Hal didn’t think much of it.” Fritz explained. “But I was thinking. What if the Fish…I mean the gang there…. What if they helped to smuggle the boy out of Altdorf. They control half of the shipping on the River Reik here after all. So maybe someone attacked them to get that information…. And maybe you don’t have that…?”

“And you do?” Tim responded.

“Yes! The parchment was blank. But I went back with my charcoal and did a rubbing. And wouldn’t you know it, on the top sheet there was an impression. A single word. Like there had been a piece of parchment on top that Boss Leo had written on, right before he died…” Fritz explained.

He continued. “It’s a town name. Deep in the heart of the Reikwald Forest. I know it. I have worked there before. I can help you get there. If you let me…?” he looked at them eagerly.

Tim stood silent and stared at the human. He wondered what the Shadow Lord would do in his place….

He started. There was a scraping of the trap door. Four men entered.

“Fritz, you aren’t supposed to be here,” one said.

“Hal said it was okay,” Fritz responded confidently. Tim could see that he was sweating though. “What are you doing here, Soren?”

The guardsmen Soren was leading three large humans dressed in drab workmen’s clothing. Each of the three was carrying a knife or hook. “It’s a bad time to be here Fritz,” Soren said with a shake of the head. “I’m really sorry I got to do this…. I liked you kid. But the new Fish Boss pays really well. And he said no witnesses…”

The large guard shrugged, and pulled out his cudgel. He struck the boy on the shoulder, sending him into a whimpering sprawl…

***

Fritz’s shoulder burned. He couldn’t feel his arm. He looked up at Guardsman Soren, a man he’d known for over a year, slowly pulling out his long knife, and Fritz knew that he was going to die….

But then the elf boy said something. It sounded like, “Ok, Tarabeth.”

The redhead beauty stepped up to the iron bars of the cell door, and wrapped her hands around two. She had the loveliest green eyes, Fritz thought, feeling oddly detached now that he knew this was ‘the end’. Yeah, just like two burning emeralds, he mused…. But there was something different now. Where her lovely green almond eyes had been, were two golden cat irises.

Suddenly the cage door popped free of its hinges and slammed Soren and one of his compatriots into the corridor hall with the sound of breaking bone! Many breaking bones!

Then the elf boy stepped forward and threw an elbow into the throat of one of the remaining Fish. Dropping him like a stone. The fourth turned and ran for the ladder. He made two steps before a bright burning pillar of flame erupted out of the ground, filling the room with a roaring heat and light. In an instant, it was gone, and just a hideous blackened corpse remained…

The elf boy took the black bow from the satchel. He turned toward Fritz. “The town?” he asked.

“I memorized it,” Fritz answered, wincing. “Partners?” he gasped.

The elf studied him for a moment. Then nodded.

“Partners,” he said.

***

[Arcsheild]

Fantastic, as always . But what happens to the elf boy? It's awesome, wherever it's leading to

[sulannar]

Brillant! I especially like Tim learning to think before he speaks at the beginning of the tale! The boy learns! Keep up the good work.

Sulannar

[Prince of Spires]

more....more...

Rod

[Headshot]

Part Five

It was cold on the River Talabec. The wind coming off the water carried warnings of frost and ice. Along the water’s edge stood thick groves of pine and oak; the boughs were already heavy laden with snow. In a week’s time the entire river could be sealed in a case of black-blue ice.

Annalyth of Saphery was worried. For three days now they had travelled upstream. The dingy towns of mankind had slowly slipped away behind them, to be replaced by this vast, impenetrable forest of shadows and bitter cold. And as the strange, flat-bottomed boat upon which they journeyed pressed ever further north along the river, the forest seemed to assume and ever darker, and more sinister, quality. There was a…primordial-ness about it. A feel and breath of something far older, and larger, than Asur or man. It brought back memories from her childhood. A little girl, standing at the edge of the Finuval Plains. Her father holding her hand as she stared across the waters…at the forest of Avelorn; the very curve of the world seeming to be swept up in evergreen hills and vales…with the mists curling amongst the roots and limbs….. It was old. Older than even the Asur. The forest spoke of other, distant times, when the world was still yet new, and the lands laid together amidst a vast ocean. She had felt so small in front of that aged vastness. So unimportant. So foreign. She had been afraid to speak. But at least there, she felt as if the trees were dreaming, peacefully, of happier times; of golden summers and spring showers when the world was young. Here. Here in this ‘Old World’, the trees were locked in nightmares. She could feel the anger; the hostility; the sheer malice, coming from the forest. It was a place of hunger and destruction. It willed dominance. It wanted nothing other than to feed…. It was a place of evil.

And they were traveling further into the heart of it. On the back of this…contraption.

She looked over. Yes. The manchild was still there; trying to be nondescript – polishing his crude brass spectacles, while sitting on a deck keg with some human book in his lap – while he watched her. The manchild, Fritz, had been watching her in awe ever since he had seen her use that small piece of True Magic back in that cellar in Altdorf. It was he who had arranged passage for them on this vessel, the River Boat ‘Mercy’, with its strange flat-angular design, powered by the hideous grinding Dawi device of coal and steel that turned the wood paddles. Annalyth hated the sound of it; and the gasps of steam and smoke that it spat out. They had been making good time, she conceded, but still…she could feel the death the machine emitted; the very air was dying around it, with every fume it emitted…. No wonder the forest hated them.

Well, she hated it. And she hated how the manchild followed her around with a puppy’s devotion. He was in awe of her magic. And sputtered some thanks for saving his life (as if she was the only one to have done something!). But it annoyed her. The fawning attention. Worse, it reminded her of how hard that spell had been….

She shook her head and grabbed the boat railing, and tried to focus on the water. It shouldn’t have been so difficult. To call forth Asuryan’s Fire. She had used that spell before, in battle against the forces of the undead near the Altar of Khaine. There she had been able to summon forth a great pillar of fire, capable of gouging the heart out of the undead legions. Winning them the battle. The Shadow Lord himself had thanked her personally after the battle…. But in Altdorf.... it had taken all of her concentration, and precious seconds, in order to bring forth even that small manifestation of Asuryan’s wrath. What was wrong with her?

She swallowed. There could be only one answer. She was losing her command of the True Magic.

That thought made her miserable. She felt alone, and useless. She had come here to help protect…Narrin’Tim…. Uggh! She didn’t want to finish that thought.

She cast her eyes to the back of the little paddle-vessel. There in the tarp-covered aft section near the machine, Narrin’Tim sat and played cards with the human boat-master, Sam. The young elf had quickly taken a shine to the grizzled old boatswain, with all his stories and ribald jokes. Even as they played cards she could hear Sam spinning a tale while Tim laughed in appreciation. (Something about two river otters and a tanner’s daughter…. Hmmmppph. How crude!). And, of course, not too far off, standing with her arms resting on the ship rails, was the source of her irritation: that…Chracian!...Tarabeth. Annalyth noticed how she was wearing her long ermine cloak especially low about her shoulders while she smiled and watched Tim play.

Hussy!

With a huff, Annalyth strode to the back of the boat (feeling that manchild’s eyes follow her the whole way). She came into the enclosure. At least here the Dawi device ensured a bit of warmth (as nasty as the thing was). She brought her hands up near it.

“How much farther?” she asked.

White-haired Sam looked up. “Not long now,” he answered and gazed out over the railing. The sun was hanging low in the West, and the first of the evening ochre and crimson were beginning to appear in bands across the sky. “We should be in Konigsberg before nightfall.” He chewed on the straw he always carried in his mouth. “Within the hour, I’d say.”

“And you say there is nothing in this…Konigsberg?” she turned and asked. Still like a dutiful puppy, the manchild Fritz was standing attentively nearby.

The boy shook his head. “No ma’am,” he answered, while kneading his little scholar’s cap in his hands. “It’s just a small forester’s village. For the timber trade. And a stop along the river.”

“The lad’s right,” Sam agreed. “Nothing but a dimple in the forest. A handful of farms and a sawmill. Nowhere to even get good whiskey!”

Nodding, the manchild added, “The only reason I knew it is that my professor took me here on a dig last summer.”

Annalyth looked at Narrin’Tim, and switched to Elvish. “This is a mistake,” she said. “Why would the Shadow Lord come to a place such as this?”

Tim shrugged. “I don’t know. But if he is tracking the kidnappers like we think….” He finished with another shrug. “It’s our only lead,” he added (extremely lamely, Annalyth thought).

Tarabeth smiled at him. “Don’t worry, Tim! I have a good feeling about this. Last night I had a dream of this forest,” she said. “I think the Lioness is trying to tell me that we are going the right way!”

Khaine’s Teeth! Annalyth hated that girl right then…. She was about to say exactly what she thought of the little Chracian’s seercraft, when Sam stood up and peered toward the bow of the ship.

“Smoke!” he exclaimed. “There! A plume in the forest. It’s a big one! And it’s rising right where Konigsberg should lie….”

***

Just as reported, Konigsberg was the tiniest of villages. About ten sod and log structures huddled in a semi-circle facing the river and the lone dock that protruded into it. The largest building, by far, was the sawmill that overhung the mighty Talabec, near the dock. Buffeting the side of the sawmill, along some twisted pilings, were a half-dozen massive logs bound together, waiting to be shipped downstream to feed the voracious forges of Altdorf and Nuln. Beyond the village itself was a small patch of cleared land – no more than a hundred yards – where the town’s fields were kept. Beyond that, the forest, made ragged here and there by signs of the log-work that gave this town purpose.

It’s about the same size as a valley Roma village, Tim thought, as he leapt onto the dock, bow in hand. Except there the Nagarathi would use mostly wagons and tents; keeping to the semi-nomadic lifestyle of the people. But these…sod-houses, could barely hold more than two-score people, he concluded.

The plume of smoke was rising from a bonfire that burned in the center of the village. Tim slowed as he approached it. The buildings about were still. Something wasn’t right…. The fire. He could see that the fuel was of irregular shape. It seemed to be made from the bits and pieces of chairs and tables. Why-?

Suddenly an arrow flew out from a darkened doorframe. Tim had but a fraction of a second to react, twisting at the hips so that the barb narrowly missed his shoulder. His own bow came up with arrow on the string, in one smooth motion.

“Hold!! Hold!!” the boatswain, Sam shouted. “Hold your weapons!” He was waving his hands over his head as he ran up beside Tim. “We’re friends. Don’t go making us enemies!” There was movement in the doorway. “Is that you Thorn? Don’t be a fool! You know me!”

A man stepped out from the doorway into the fading daylight. He was blonde of hair and beard, and dressed in the long cloak and curious ring armor favored by the warriors of this realm.

“Is that you boatmaster Samuel?” he eyed them warily. “You travel in strange company.” The last was said as he studied Tim, and the two elf maidens. Tarabeth was standing at Tim’s side with a snarl on her face, hatchet already in hand. And Anna’lis was at this other side, hands raised, apparently ready to unleash sorcerous devastation.

“We saw the smoke,” Sam said. “What in The Great Wolf’s name is going on here?”

Thorn apparently at least partially reassured, slung the bow across his back, and rested his hand upon his sword hilt. Tim brought the tip of his Nagarathi bodkin arrow towards the ground; still with his fingers on the fletching, and string taught.

“We lit that. Hoping to signal for help,” Thorn explained. “It’s Gris. He’s back. He strung up Paul outside the village last night, with a note around his neck. If we don’t pay, he says he will burn the town tonight!”

More people were emerging from the darkened interiors of the house. Tim watched; at first alarmed. But these were just ordinary folk; men and women of all ages. There were children scattered amongst them.

Sam gave off a long whistle. “Gris, huh? Why didn’t you send to the castle? Where’s the Baron’s soldiers?”

The man, Thorn, shook his head. “We sent word this morning. I went myself! The castle was closed to us. And no one responded to my hails. There were no signs of soldiers on the walls. The whole thing looked abandoned….”

Tim was trying to follow the man tongue. “What is Gris?” he asked confused.

“’What’ is a good way of putting it,” Sam said. “He used to be the local bandit chief. Tried to levy ‘tolls’ on the riverboats passing along here from time to time. Until the soldiers chase ‘em off, that is.”

“But he went into the Deep Forest some ten years back,” the warrior, Thorn added. “And when he came out, about two years ago, he was…changed. The werelings of the forest had taken him. He is no man now. And he leads a pack of them for bloodlust and conquest.” Thorne said with superstitious dread in his voice. He made some sign in the air in front of him, and continued:

“Last Wintermas the Baron’s army defeated him and his followers in the field. I was there, with several other Forest Rangers. The slaughter was great…. But Gris was able to escape with his Bull-monsters…. So we knew it was only a matter of time,” Thorn finished with a shake of his head.

“What does he want?” the young scholar, Fritz, asked.

“Gold. And blood,” Thorn stated bluntly.

“Can’t you pay?” Fritz looked perplexed.

Thorn looked at him askance for a moment, and then shook his head again. “We could part with the gold simply enough, Altdorfian. Even though it would impoverish us. But the blood he asked for is not sheep or goat. He claims the village’s daughters. That! We will not pay.”

“Can you hold?” Tim asked. The warrior looked at him again, curiously. Before answering:

“No. I have seen the tracks. He has more warriors than I have villagers. He will overrun us in an hour.” The man paused again, eyes probing, then said, “Who are you?”

Who am I, Tim’s mind echoed. This is not my business. These mortal lives come and go in a heartbeat of the Asur’s; and our responsibility is greater than that. To Ulthuan. To the Ever Empire. My life matters in the defense of that which is most precious on this world. So that the light, and hope, of Asuryan, and The People, not be lost to the darkness….

But why do I feel so hollow inside right now? Looking about at the faces of the mortals – dirty, unwashed, fearful, confused. He felt a tinge of their despair.

“I could take a few on the Mercy….But not by half. It would swamp her,” Tim heard the old boatswain say.

Tim decided. Anna’lis was once again studying his face. (She always seemed to be watching me, Tim thought, worried.)

“Tim,” she said in Elvish. “This isn’t our concern! We have to find the Shadow Lord. And then leave!”

Tim turned to Sam. “Take as many of the children and the elderly as you can. Take them someplace safe. Take them to their kin.” Then slowly, feeling a firmness of purpose, Tim pulled himself to his full height and turned to the blonde human warrior, and said:

“I am Narrin’Tim, Shadow Warrior of the Host of Nagarythe! And I will NOT let this village fall!!”

***

“I am Narrin’Tim, Shadow Warrior of Nagarythe,” Anna’lis was still grumbling beside him. “And I am insane. And should be sent immediately to the Tower of Hoeth to have my head examined, and the demons of stupidity exorcised....”

She hadn’t stopped grumbling in the two hours since Tim had made ‘his speech’ (as she called it). And now, squatting next to him in the second story of the sawmill, she wasn’t about to quit. At least she had helped, Tim thought. The villagers with the help of the elves had hastily doused the bonfire and moved the burned remains, and whatever else they could spare, to form something of a barricade between the low sod houses. Then all those who hadn’t left on the riverboat, had fallen back with what weapons they had, to the mill. They waited below, bows, spears, or staves in hand, watching out the great mill’s doors and windows.

The curious thing is that they had done it all under Narrin’Tim’s direction. He hadn’t intended to take charge, but for some reason the humans had just…looked to him. Even the warrior, Thorn, seemed to be in awe of him. Tim couldn’t understand it.

Of course, Anna’lis wasn’t done. “…and then, when I was a child, I fell from my skystone home to the valley below, managing to hit my head on everything in between….”

Tim sighed. She was probably right. Like usual. What am I doing here?

Tarabeth was down below somewhere, with the human warrior Thorn and his fellows. She had assured him that her magic was better used there. The scholar Fritz was down there too; he had placed some, ‘packages’ he called them, inside the hasty barricades. Tim could see him waiting near the mill entrance, fiddling with a small box of sticks. He looked terrified.

Tim could easily understand. He felt terrified too! He tried to remember everything he could recall about this foe…. But the Beasts, the Vermin of Chaos, were not a problem for the Asur. Oh occasionally there was word of some sighted in the northern isles, and Tim supposed that maybe some of the other kingdoms knew of them, but in Nagarythe…he couldn’t remember any stories of battles against such a foe. Perhaps the Asur in the colonies knew more...? Didn’t High Lord Seredain fight them once….? He couldn’t recall; he needed to know more about this foe.

Tim decided to ask. “Thorn!” he called below. “In what manner shall the attack be arrayed?”

Thorn climbed up the ladder, until his head was protruding over the landing edge. “In waves,” he answered. “First the smallest, the weakest and most pathetic of their vile kind will be driven before the horde. They will die in their droves in order to absorb our ammunition and tire our spirits and resolve.” He said calmly. “And then, the warriors - the Gors - will charge. They are fearsome, and stronger than any man. Able to cleave a large man in two with a single axe blow. But fortunately, they are fewer in number.”

He said all this with the stoic-ness of a veteran. “If we survive that…. Then the real problem will emerge. The Bull-monsters. Great, hideous brutes the size of an ogre, and stronger still. They will be led by Gris himself. Who is now nearly as fearsome, and since his…change, has command of black witchcraft….” Thorn finished, and shook his head. “I do not like our chances.”

Tim was thinking. “What about this…Gris? If we slay him….?”

Thorn looked at him. “Yes. I think that would break their spirits. They are fierce when strong, but craven when not led. The beasts would probably turn and run.”

“Then that is our target,” Tim said.

Thorn was shaking his head again. “He won’t expose himself as a captain in the Emperor’s army might. He will lead from behind. Only committing himself after the bulk of his forces.”

Tim nodded, wishing he had only two more Nagarathi Shadow Warriors. They could then set an ambush…. But no. His bow was needed here. Now. And there were no more Shadow Warriors.

A great horn cried in the forest night.

“They come,” Thorn said softly, and climbed below.

Tim turned back and gazed out at the night. In the flickering light of the few remaining village fires, he could see an army of shadows disgorging from the tree-line.

Anna’lis grabbed his arm. “Tim, if we die here tonight,” she said, looking at him with a strange fierceness. “I just want you to know-“

“I know,” Tim nodded. “I am an idiot. I’m sorry that I got you into this Anna’lis.”

And then a score of flaming javelins came flying out of the darkness, and there were no more time for words. Tim drew back on his bow.

The first wave happened exactly as Thorn had predicted. A horde of stunted half-man, half-beast, things came pouring out of the forest, hurling javelins and spears before them. Tim dropped one of the creatures with every loose of the string. But the numbers were so great; it was like trying to kill an anthill with a dirk. Anna’lis, frowning and chanting beside him, was able to summon a pillar of flame. It spat sparks and illuminated one side of the clearing, scorching a dozen of the little things, and sending others fleeing. But that was only one side of the field. The rest reached the barricades and began hurdling them-

KABOOM!! A devastating rush of flame and heat, and the first barricade went skywards in a volcano’s spume of fire and rock. Another flick of flame, and then the second barricade also exploded. Tim could see the burning figures of the little beastmen flung high into the air.

Fritz was waving at him from below, smiling. He soon came aware that the hem of his robes were burning, and started dancing about looking for a bucket.

The fierce fire had broken the spirit of the little beasts. The remainder fled back into the trees.

But Tim could see their larger brethren standing there, waiting stolidly; only moving occasionally to lash out with hoof or blade at the scurrying little ones fleeing the battlefield.

“What are they waiting for?” Anna’lis wondered.

Thorn had climbed up beside them, once again taking advantage of the vantage point. He pointed. “I was afraid of that.”

A pair of massive lumbering wooden constructs, yoked to gargantuan beast-boars - more monster than animals; things that were completely covered in bristles and tusks - rolled into the field fronting the mill. Tim could see the drivers – giant ogre-men with the head of elk – whipping at the boar steeds. The brute’s eyes reflected the village fires in a glinting crimson.

“They will use those like battering rams,” Thorn explained. “They will charge those straight into this mill, demolishing the walls and structure. Then the Gor-warriors will charge forward and slay us where we lie….” He swallowed hard. Tim could see panic in his face, despite his calm tone. “Normally we dig ditches, or raise palisades to stop them. But there was no time!” He continued in a faltering voice, “Our only hope…is to slay the beasts that pull them. But they are near impervious to arrows. Aim for the eyes!!”

Tim wasn’t worried; he had a better idea. He gave a short, shrill whistle. “Princess! Please!”

Tarabeth, dressed once more in only her skin-tight white leathers, walked to the front of the building, to stand just out of shot range from the tree-line. But the little princess firmly positioned herself between the monster-chariots and the building. In one hand she held her Chracian hatchet. In the other, Tim was pleased to notice, was the curved Nagarathi hunting knife he had given her last year.

The two war contraptions trundled forward, building up to a ferocious speed in only a few paces.

The little princess stood there. Unmoving.

The chariots barreled down on her.

Then with a twist of her shoulders, she flung her axe. It burned with a bright amber fire, turning the spinning weapon into a disk of liquid-light that collided into one of the chariots with a cataclysmic BOOM!! It vanished into smoke and burning cinders. The smell of roast pork filled the air….

The axe returned to her hand, and she threw herself into a roll, coming up beside the other chariot where, with a twist of her hips, she swung the axe through the great wheel. The contraption flipped end over end, spraying timbers, and blood, as it rolled across the field, coming to a halt in a shattered heap, against the base of one of the village houses.

Tarabeth calmly turned and walked back towards the mill.

“By the Great Wolf and Sigmar’s Holy Hammer!!” Thorn exclaimed.

Tim glanced at him. “She’s from Chrace,” he explained with a shrug.

Then suddenly, there was a great bellow and the Gor warriors charged forth. Tim drew his bow and let loose his ready arrow. Again and again. The beastmen fell with Nagarathi barbs in their throats and hearts, but all too soon they were over the barricades and charging the base of the mill.

Tim swore, and dropped to the ground below. He shot his bow one last time; then the Gors were upon him. He dropped his bow, and drew his falchion as one axe-sized cleaver came crashing down at his head. With a twist of his hips he was just able to parry the blow; the force of which sent quivering shudders through his shoulders. A pillar of fire appeared in the village center. Scattering the nearest beasts. Tim leapt back, thanking Anna’lis in his thoughts.

Tarabeth was at his side now, moving with a supernatural speed and strength, lashing at any of the Gors that came close. And Thorn and some of the other men of the village were fighting with a desperate courage. But the numbers! The crude, bestial ferocity of their foes was pushing them back towards the mill entrance. In seconds they were inside the door. Tim was swinging his falchion madly. He could hear the cries of the remaining village women and children behind him. So close. This was it, he thought. He ducked one blow, only to get kicked in the side by another’s hoof. He went down. Hard. He tried to protect himself with his falchion…just waving it above him. When…

The Gors stopped. They staggered back, looking about themselves as if confused. Then just as suddenly as they had come, they turned, and ran back towards the trees. Moving with a speed as if all the forces of Ulthuan were on their tails.

Tim staggered to his feet. And felt at his tender ribs. Tarabeth was suddenly there giving him a fierce hug, her face buried against his neck.

“Ow!!”

“They are running!” she shouted in joy, and stepped back. “Look! They are running!! We won!” She did a little spin. Then stopped and faced him. She was breathing hard....

Suddenly she was holding onto his arm, and standing awfully close. Her lips looked very moist…

And then just as suddenly, Anna’lis was there looking concerned.

“Tim! Are you alright?” she said.

“Yeah," he said, blinking a few times. He shook his head and stepped out into the night.

"Why are they running?” Narrin’Tim wondered aloud.

***

The next morning the three elves, with Thorn and Fritz, went into the woods. They found the remnants of the beastmen camp near the battlefield. And in the center of the camp they found the warlock Gris, and his two Bull-guard, dead. Each of the bullmen had his head cloven neatly from his shoulders. And the Chaos warlock, was just lying there, face to the sky, without a mark on him.

But there was a look of unadulterated terror on his face.

Narrin’Tim looked at Anna’lis and Tarabeth. They shared a nod.

“Let’s find him,” Tim said.

***

[Prince of Spires]

Annalyth of Saphery was worried.

And then just as suddenly, Anna’lis was there looking concerned.

She changes her name halfway through the story?

Anna’lis grabbed his arm. “Tim, if we die here tonight,” she said, looking at him with a strange fierceness. “I just want you to know-“

“I know,” Tim nodded. “I am an idiot. I’m sorry that I got you into this Anna’lis.”

Yes Tim, you are...

love the character building. Want to see more of them (can't wait for the next part). Although I am starting to feel a bit sorry for Anna'lis. Tarabeth seems to be in the lead, with all her perfect curves and skin tight leather etc. Hard to beat of course.

Rod

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

A tense and exciting battle, poor Anna’lis, her ability to channel True Magic is blocked by her distance from Ulthuan and interference from the men? I didn't get on last night(too wrecked from the gym) and got to read two parts in one night, I feel spoiled ^_^

[Prince of Spires]

A tense and exciting battle, poor Anna’lis, her ability to channel True Magic is blocked by her distance from Ulthuan and interference from the men? I didn't get on last night(too wrecked from the gym) and got to read two parts in one night, I feel spoiled ^_^

My money is on Tim being the cause. Something to do with emotions getting in the way and being denied etc. (she already started having trouble when in Nagarythe, remember the meditating) Much more fun than those puny humans getting in the way.

(sorry if I spoil the surprise if I turn out to be right...)

Rod

[Headshot]

She changes her name halfway through the story?

Actually Rod, this is not a mistake. Her name is Annalyth of Saphery, but we only get to experience that when we are inside 'her head'. From the point of view of other characters she is Anna'lis.

See I decided that my penchant for putting little apostrophes in my elves names actually represented something of the syllabic emphasis and tempo of the Nagarathi dialect (and given the relative isolation of the various kingdoms of Ulthuan, it seemed reasonable to conclude that strong local dialects would emerge). So certain consonant/vowel combinations get altered in Nagarathi, while others are immune. So 'Tarabeth' stays 'Tarabeth', but 'Aaryienflynn' becomes 'Aaryn'Flynn', and 'Annalyth' becomes 'Anna'lis'. Most notably, Malekith becomes 'Malek'Kith' for the Nagarathi. Even outsiders like Flynn and Tarabeth have started to adopt the pronunciation style either from long association or personal affectation.

I actually first mention this (briefly) in Part Two.

It's just a bit of a 'tip of the hat' to Tolkien; figuring that the birthplace of the modern fantasy elf is in linguistic musings.

RE 'The Race' between Anna'lis and Tarabeth. Yep, there are also age issues - Tarabeth is about thirty years younger so I clock her at 15-16 years of age in 'human years', while both Narrin'Tim and Anna'lis are about 18-19 - and social class. Tarabeth is a daughter of a Great House of Chrace, so a Princess. Anna'lis and Tim are both of 'commoner' stock.

Hopefully, more of this will come out in the 'sequel'. But seeing the work load on my near horizon, I am just trying to hurry and finish this story before I get swamped. The sequel will, well, no promises.

[sulannar]

If you keep writing like this, GW have to publish it! I can't get enough!

[Anvalous]

Really enjoyed your battle reports and am really enjoying this tale. Wonderfully written and entertaining. Thank you very much for sharing!

[Arcsheild]

Breathtaking and absolutely brilliant! If it were a book, I wouldn't be able to put it down