V. The Forsaken: A Nagarathi children's story....

[Malossar]

You have no idea how awesome it would be to see these two die together in a blaze of glory!

[Aicanor]

You have no idea how awesome it would be to see these two die together in a blaze of glory!

Now I am quite sure that is not what is going to happen, not just yet. But I may be sorely mistaken, of course.

Or maybe... like this?





Edit: Or perhaps this way it will work, daid13... link

[daid13]

Can someone please describe Aicanor's pic it isn't loading on my kindle. I'm hoping Dr. Headshot has enough time to put us out of our misery by posting the next bit soon. An intresting cliffhanger, as far as I can remember the only previous cliffhanger was alot more literal.

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

It's an image of the art from a tarot deck, the tower, it features two falling from a tower.

[daid13]

Thanks for the link and discription. Strange thing is that I can see it in Aicanor's post now.

[Prince of Spires]

I do hope (and think) that they'll get a more heroic ending then "a dragon sat on them". Not realy what you want to be remembered for. Or what you want to have happen to you realy. But that's a different discussion of course.

Of course, Headshot always likes adding some extra missery and hardship on his characters. So I doupt this is the last we've seen of that dynamic duo.

Keep it comming...

Rod

[Aicanor]

Thanks for the link and discription. Strange thing is that I can see it in Aicanor's post now.

I changed the link, it's apparently where the problem was.

As Caledorians say, never consider yourself lucky (or unlucky) until the dragon tail has passed. Looking forward to read what the tale brings next.

[Headshot]

Part 18 – The Broken Tower II


The Shadow Prince of Nagarythe staggered to his feet.

He was standing on what remained of the tower roof, now only a few paces wide, with many of the stones fractured and twisted. The wind, heavy with the scent and damp of the sea, pulled at his face and hair. He could see black clouds on the horizon.

But his attention was fixed more closely at hand: perched upon the edge of the tower ramparts, like a raptor at its roost, was a great black dragon. Its slit-like eyes emitted a dire green light as it studied him with unconscionable malice. Its maw was a crocodile’s jaw of twisted fangs and drooling venom. Horns and spurs sprung about its body like the bristles on a boar’s back.

From between its shoulders the silver haired Blackguard captain, baring the emblem of the Hand of Malekith, slid down. The warrior, dressed in the finest armor of black chain, and silver plate, held a cruel double-headed glaive in one hand. With the other, he pointed into the darkness of the tower’s interior.

“Feed,” he commanded. And the great drake slid into the hole like a viper into its nest.

The Shadow Prince reached back for the Draich on his back. His body was aflame with agony. All his strength was being used just to keep him on his feet. The winds from the Beyond were all turned to preventing his fractured body from collapsing under the weight of its own life. He could feel the broken bones sliding and grinding about in his thigh and shoulder. The ruptured veins in his chest and neck. The muscles in his arms and legs were leaden as with acid, and screamed white fire with every move. He had been calling upon the winds to heal, to mend, to placate. And still it was not enough. His body was failing him. And soon the pain would be too much. Death will follow….

Just a little more….

The Shadow Prince called on the Beyond – on Khaine’s Hidden Realm – for the winds of power. Just a little more.

But nothing came. He saw it then: the black stones set about the Druchii lord’s armor. The power of the void was set in them. All about the Dark Elf lord was created a space of lifelessness, where the winds would not blow. The Shadow Prince’s power was beyond his call….

The Nagarathi pulled the Draich from its sheath and stepped forward, feeling the null space sweep over him. The life-giving White Wind ceased. And with each step he could feel the hurts of his body shriek, and his vision flared with lights and black spots, as of one staring into the last embers of a dying fire. He could feel broken bone grind on bone and ligament. Shredded muscle twist and knot trying to move the flesh forward. Blood filling his mouth, and running down his arms, rendering his grasp slick.

And yet the Shadow Prince of Nagarythe stepped forward. Until blades clashed….

***

Malossar lay coughing in the dusty darkness. He could see a ruin of stone and timber scattered leaning about him. He could see bright beams of grey sunlight streaming through the stone roof here and there like so many more toppled columns.

Yet none of that seemed that important. His body felt like it had been used by Vaul himself to beat upon the Anvil. Every ounce of flesh was raw and throbbing.

He thought about lying there, just for a moment longer. Just another breath…

But no. He was the son of Mentheus…and there was a battle to be fought! He slid from the stone he lay upon and found his feet on the earth below.

Just in time to see the great drake climbing down the ruined walls of the tower, its body sliding and slithering across the stone face like a massive garden lizard. Its green eyes were fixed on Malossar. Its jaws were parted wide in an expression the Caledorian knew well.

The beast was hungry.

He knew the creature. Had grown up alongside the great drakes in all their many guises, from egg to giant venerable wyrm. His father had set him to riding the young slender gliders from the cliff faces overlooking the ocean even before he had first mounted a horse. And when he was still in his boyhood, Malossar remembered the journey into the heart of the mountain, amongst the shadow and steam, the hunters of the netherrealms and the ancient hungers… There to find and bond with a dragon of his own. To win their respect - and their love - through courage and sacrifice…. The right of passage from boy to man…. of a lord of Caledor.

The Dragon Masters….

“Come brother,” Malossar called. “I know not what poisons the Druchii beastmasters fed your veins. But do you not know me? I am of Caledor. As are you! In your heart! Your homeland. The nest of your hatching!! We are both sons of Caledor. Brothers of scale and flesh!”

The dragon kept coming.

“Do you not know me?! I am Malossar! Son of Mentheus! And we have been brothers since the day we were born!”

The black dragon loomed before him now, studying him with its cold reptilian gaze.

Malossar stood calm, steady, before the great beast. His eye fixed on the drake’s.

And then the wyrm’s tail came about with a thunderous strike, catching the Caledorian across the chest and sending him flying through the air. He collided with the stone wall some twenty paces behind, and went sprawling upon the dirt floor.

Malossar winced where he lay. That was rib. No. Make that two, he thought. Looking up he could see the drake slowly uncoiling itself. Nearby lay his sword and shield. Malossar clambered to his feet and reclaimed them.

“So be it,” he said once more facing the beast, sword in one hand, shield in the other.

He spat out blood.

“Come.”

***

Tarabeth ran behind her brother. She ran so fast and so hard that her lungs were stinging inside her chest. Her legs felt like they were made of shell and glass. She could see the forest just ahead.

But she couldn’t understand. She was so tired. Her body and mind wasted by the weeks of ceaseless nightmare. It was hard to think.

“Where are the others?!” she called in between burning breaths. “I can’t see the others!!”

“Don’t worry! Keep running!!” Kurnion yelled without looking at her.

Tarabeth looked about her again. She could see Laicami, pale faced, running beside her. But no one else.

“Where is Prince Malossar?” she yelled, frowning, certain she had just seen him. “Where is the Shadow Lord??” She knew she had seen him. Heard his voice. The gentle touch of his hand.

“Don’t worry! Keep running!!”

They were almost to the forest. Tarabeth could feel her legs carrying her there, beneath the boughs. And yet… she shook her head.

“No. No!” she called trying to stop. “We must go back! We must find them!!”

Kurnion’s hand was so massive that it was wrapped both about her fist and much of her lower arm. He didn’t even seem to notice her protestations and pulling, and just dragged her along in his wake without any apparent effort.

“Don’t worry about it!” he said again.

Tarabeth frowned. Trying to think.

“No!” she shouted at last. “We have to find them!!” She brought her other hand up and tried to pry Kurnion’s vice like grip from her arm.

Her brother looked at her then, and she was surprised to see his tear streaked face, red from weeping.

“Don’t you understand?!” he shouted at her, still refusing to stop.

“The two best friends I have left on the face of this world… Are staying behind to die!! So that we may live!!” He turned away with a stifled sob.

Tarabeth blinked. Trying to understand. She was more being pulled now then running on her own. The trees were about them. The shadows a welcome comfort.

She tried to think.

“But I don’t want anyone to die,” she said at last, in a voice barely above a whisper.

They kept running.

“Do you hear me?!” she yelled. “I don’t want anyone to die!!”

And just as if he had been pulled short by a taught iron chain, Kurnion jerked to a halt, with a wrench that almost threw him from his feet. He looked back, surprise on his reddened face. To see Tarabeth standing there, her hand in his….

Looking defiant.

She was just a little over half his height. And maybe a quarter of his weight. And yet he could not budge her.

Her eyes flashed the golden irises of the lioness, as she shouted, “I don’t want anyone to die!!!!”

“Tara…,” Kurnion started, addressing her with the affectionate nickname he had used when she was still only a little girl. “Please try to understand!” he pleaded.

“No!!!! You understand!!!” Tarabeth shouted.

“I am a Friend of Nagarythe!! Don’t you know what that means???!!” she continued.

Kurnion shook his head, dumbfounded at the tiny princess’s wrath.

Her face set and stern, the tiny red headed girl said:

“It means that…”

“…I am Nagarathi! And….”

“…THE NAGARATHI NEVER LEAVE A BROTHER BEHIND!!”

Her one hand on her hip. Her tiny feet planted firmly on the ground. She looked to be the lioness incarnate just then. All Kurnion could do was shake his head.

“But Tarabeth…what can we do?”

Tarabeth frowned back at him.

Just then, the Sapheri maiden gasped. “Tarabeth!” she started. “You! You are glowing!!”

Tarabeth glanced down. She could see the hem of the sleeve of her torn gown burning with a bright white light. She fumbled at it. The tiny broken pendent slipped out of its hiding place into her hands.

“Athyria’s moonstone!” she cried, amazed. It was burning a cold blue light in the palm of her hands, and she could feel the winds of magic like a tornado about it. About her.

“It lives,” Tarabeth whispered. And looked into the depths of the stone.

She saw the world forest laid out before her. From the jungles of Lustria, to the artic pines of the Chaos realms. She saw them as from a great height…. From the palace of the moon goddess herself. She saw all of the elder groves of the living world, linked, as if of one being.

And within those boughs she saw something. Someone. Under black boughs...

Tarabeth smiled. And called the winds of magic to her.

***

The blades crossed and rebounded and crossed again in a flash of light and a whisper of steel. The two elf lords clashed without preamble, and parted without a word.

The Shadow Prince could feel a new cut across the flesh of his upper arm. Deep. White bone was exposed to sky, and blood was pouring out in a splattering stream.

The Druchii lord turned and shifted his glaive in his hand, surveying his opponent. Finally, he spoke:

“Pity,” he said without expression. “I expected better from the fabled Shadow Prince.”

The Nagarathi said nothing in reply. All of his strength was consumed in the act of just standing. He lifted the Draich as best he could and stepped forward once more.

Inside his mind, thousands of years, the memories of countless battles, were buffeting him. From the time of the Sundering. And before. He could see weapons used in the hands of warriors uncounted. Remember the moves and turns towards victory, over and over again.

And yet this time… The feeling arose deep within him… A strange feeling…

The Shadow Prince knew that he could not win.

The Seeker leapt forward. Blades clashed in a rain of fire and steel! Back and forth the great Draich sprung in a fury, only to be met at every turn by the blades of the glaive. Batted aside. Turned asunder. Driven back. All with surprising ease.

And then the Seeker pirouetted about with the grace of a dancer, and drove the butt of the glaive forward under the Draich.

The Shadow Prince felt the Corsair chainmail split under the force. Felt the cold steel blade bite through the flesh below. Cut through skin and tissue… And plunge deep inside his stomach.

The Seeker stood just a pace away, an icy satisfaction written across his face. He stepped back, removing the blade with a tug. A fountain of black blood erupted with it.

The Shadow Prince fell.

He felt the hard stone of the ramparts at his back, propping him up. It was still difficult to remain seated. The pain was gone. Everything felt cold. Just cold. Almost soothing in its intensity. His eyes wanted to shut.

But millennia of pain and hatred kept them open…. It was all that he was. All that he had left.

“You think this was a victory?” the Seeker spoke, and waived back towards the castle behind him. “What you did today? You think that was a triumph?! It is nothing! This place is nothing! The home of some inbred lesser lord, from the southern hinterlands! An insignificant wasteland of the Empire! You faced the least of us…and failed!” the Seeker cried with a cruel malice.

Then with a cold certainty he stepped forward, and said,

“Die now, and despair.”

The glaive was lifted above his head, ready for the downward strike.

But it remained unmoving. The Seeker’s face was twisted in surprise. His head turned, and he said,

“What is that sound?!”

Then, the Shadow Prince could hear it.

Coming on the back of the wind… the soft, lonely song of a pan flute. A gentle, high pitched melody drifted hauntingly from the south…. Almost painful in its plaintive cries.

The Shadow Prince closed his eyes. And smiled.

“That,” the Nagarathi said. “…that…is the sound of your end, Dreadlord.”

And then the flute wasn’t alone! There came the clarion call of a silver trumpet, ringing loudly, and proudly beneath the grey skies!

The Seeker moved quickly to the edge of the ramparts and stared to the south, towards the great forest. A heavy mist had descended, cutting off much of the mainland. Yet the wind was beginning to stir again, and he could see….

Suddenly a torrent of black shafted, cloth yard arrows flew out of the mist!! Hundreds of them!! Arced aloft into the sky, like a deadly rain!!! They fell down among the army below!! His army!!! Druchii died by the score!

“What is this?!” the Seeker cried.

But the mist was gone, and he could see… arrayed before him in clean lines and serried ranks….

The armies of Ulthuan!

There in the center, the black banner of the Host of Nagarythe, star filled and gleaming! A hundred archers arrayed in neat order, lifting longbows towards the sky and letting loose another volley on the Druchii crossbows outside the tower.

And to the side, another call of the silver trumpet, this time accompanied by the thunder of hooves! He could see it now: the gleaming ithilmar mail on steed and soldier! The charging line of the Knights of Caledor! Coming forward in perfect unison, driving onwards at an unbreakable pace. Coming straight towards the exposed flanks of the Druchii cavalry below.

And to the other side, where his own Blackguard were arrayed…. He saw the mighty figures of White Lions of Chrace charging forward, their massive axes held aloft. As they smashed into the ranks of the Druchii veterans….

At their fore was the little red headed princess.

And she was roaring!

He saw one of his Blackguard smashed under her axe, and another picked up off his feet and tossed against the tower base with bone-snapping force.

“This is impossible,” the Seeker gasped.

And now the Nagarathi had dropped their bows and drawn swords! All about the battlefield the cry was raised:

“FOR THE EVERQUEEN!!”

They charged forward in a relentless mass.

“This is impossible! How?” the Seeker repeated, and stepped back.

“Don’t you understand?” a weak voice came to him. The Seeker turned and saw the Shadow Prince, still seated there, surrounded by a pool of blood. His eyes were still closed; his face as pale as the moon. But the lips moved slowly. “No matter…no matter how strong your cruelty makes you, Druchii…”

“…you will never be as strong as the Asur…standing together…”

The Seeker let out a cry of rage and anguish and took up his glaive. He moved over to the prone figure and lifted the weapon for the deathblow.

There was a twang. And the Seeker stopped with a gasp. He looked down. He could see a black feathered arrow buried in his chest, extending out from a neat hole in his breastplate.

He stared at it, not comprehending. Then looked up to see an elf, swinging over the ramparts, with a silver longbow in his hands. And as the elf vaulted, another arrow was already on string…then loosed! The Seeker grunted in pain as a second shaft buried itself in his chest only a finger’s breadth from the first. Once more his armor was little more than paper to the force of a bodkin tip propelled from a longbow at the range of a few paces.

The elf was over the rampart now and charging towards him. The Seeker clutched at his glaive and tried to raise it. It was batted aside by a heavy Nagarathi falchion.

The last thing the Seeker saw was the elf warrior, spinning about, with a long black queue flying through the air…

And a straight blade of silver steel in his other hand, coming straight for the Seeker’s neck.

***

“My prince!!” Narrin’Tim cried, kneeling beside the prone figure of the Shadow Lord.

“Narrith lessa kynn’barr,” the elf lord’s voice came weakly.

“Please, help me to my feet…Narrin’Tim.”

Narrin’Tim gently put his arms about the ancient elf and with the care of a father tending to a sickly child, slowly raised him up, making sure to support most of his weight on his own shoulders.

The sounds of battle continued to echo about them, but Tim could already hear the unmistakable cries of the Druchii fleeing.

Suddenly the tower they stood upon shuddered and lurched. Tim started.

“What was that? Earthquake? Sorcery?”

The Shadow Prince, eyes still closed, shook his head. “No. It is Malossar…. He cannot do anything quietly,” the Shadow Prince added with a weary sigh. “Come, let us help him.”

They had made it to the top of the tower’s battered stone steps, when they saw a figure approaching. It was Malossar, covered in black soot and singed armor. He staggered up the steps towards them, hauling on something behind as he climbed. Upon seeing them, he jerked his burden forward and let it flop across the steps….

The severed head of a black dragon.

“Did we… Did we win?” the Prince of Caledor panted.

***







Ok, epilogue coming up!

[daid13]

Nice way to wrap it. I want to say something about cavalry but the infantry were the heros here. How did they get past two black arcs?

[Elithmar]

So this is where the shadow prince finally dies? At least he went down fighting.

The battle scene just made me think what a good film this would make.

Nice way to wrap it. I want to say something about cavalry but the infantry were the heros here. How did they get past two black arcs?

Do you mean how did they get there? I thought Tarabeth used the moonstone.

[Loran]

Bravo, good sir, bravo!

Had a busy couple of weeks at work and my cousin's wedding, so I missed a few updates. Finally had the time to read through them all. Amazing!

- Loran

[daid13]

I could understand if it was Anna'lis because she knows High magic unlike Tarabeth but as Anna'lis neatly put it all she knows is butterflies if I recall.

Changing the subject how come Tarabeth was at the White Tower as if memory serves her mother taught her rather than her going to the tower.

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

Walk between worlds?
This chapter made the long, cold walk to work bearable.

[Prince of Spires]

The Shadow Prince, eyes still closed, shook his head. “No. It is Malossar…. He…he cannot do anything quietly,” the Shadow Prince added with a weary sigh. “Come, let us help him.”

A smile and a tear. Great writing. I hope he survives, but if not, then it was a heroic end.

Tarabeth got kidnapped (or is that elfnapped? maidennapped?) from a party somewhere in Tiranoc I think. Besides, all HE mages end up in the white tower at some point.

Boosted version of Moranion's wayshard.

Rod

[Headshot]

Thanks to everyone who made it to the (almost) end of the story with me! Much appreciated.

Now, let's see... questions, questions:

Tarabeth and the Tower-

Yes she did receive her initial training in the home as a young girl from her mother (who also shares the gift). But when she came of age (not adulthood though) she was sent to the Tower to train (where she thought she was a disappointment to her teachers!) as are all/most high elves with the ability and wherewithal. She has been a student there, off and on, ever since.

I'm afraid Annalyth was a snob. Her contempt for Tarabeth's ability was rooted more in her feelings of superiority for being older and being a student of True Magic, and not that silly Beast's stuff! And this was further exacerbated by Annalyth trying to distance herself from her 'rustic past' and not wanting to study the Jade school either. Just a mess that girl was!

Anyways this all came out way back in the Dwarf battle report I believe. (Some years ago now I think! )

How'd the army get there -

Hah! Athyria is a wood elf! I plundered their book for the 'moonstone of the hidden ways'...and that whole line that they can be placed 'anywhere that is also wholly within a wood'. I was trying to imagine tree to tree teleportation from a wood elf point of view! Something like a Gaia world, in which all the forests are linked? So the Host was brought from one forest - the Black Forests above Arnheim - to another: the Great Forest of the Hinterlands near Hag Graef. Just in time to kick some Druchii tail!

Headshot

P.S.

A smile and a tear

Rod, I was bawling like a babe when Tim told me this tale! (It was so bad at one point, that the Everqueen herself got worried and threatened an intervention! )

I especially liked the part where Tarabeth showed what kind of 'damsel in distress' she makes once the manacles are taken off! Heh.

[Aicanor]

I was counting on Tarabeth. What a twist. Must have been a world dragon's tail just passing by...

[Prince of Spires]

Rod, I was bawling like a babe when Tim told me this tale! (It was so bad at one point, that the Everqueen herself got worried and threatened an intervention! )

You can tell your everqueen she doesn't have to worry. I've got you back headshot.

And a big thank you to Tim for having the heart to tell this story. It's a tough one in the end for the chronicler I think.

Rod

[Headshot]

Epilogue


One night a century, eternal Lothern, the jewel and heart of the Ever Empire, glows blue….

For on one night a century, Elenthir, the Star Prince, returns to the heavens above the world of Asur. One more stride in his ceaseless quest: the Wanderer searches the celestial voids above, and drifts through dreams and memories alike. At his approach, the city bedecks itself in his honor. The windows and balconies of all the homes, from humble worker’s cottage, to the Grand Palace of the Phoenix himself, are festooned with the glowlamps of the blue worms, which give off their own peculiar azure light. Even the great watchfires of the towers of Dusk and Dawn are enchanted such that their eternal flames sparkle a vibrant cobalt hue. By order of the King, no ordinary lamp is allowed to burn, no torch, no open flame, sheds its warm light within the city confines for one long night. And the entire span of Lothern is inundated in a ghostly sapphire hue, rippling with the motions of ten thousand enchanted lanterns, mirroring the sky above, where Elenthir crosses the heavens in a stately, shining glow; the long tail of his cloak trailing behind him in a vivid streak of cerulean.

At the pinnacle of the city, wrapped around the ancient meeting chambers of the Prince’s Conclave, rise the many turrets, towers and sweeping halls of the Grand Palace. And here on this night, the mighty in name and fortune gather in one of the largest and loftiest of the palace’s many halls. There to dance and to talk, to drink and to sing, while bathed in the unearthly sapphire light….

***

The couple swirled about the ballroom floor, keeping a careful, stately gait in time to the ethereal music. They moved with a grace that seemed to spring from the stars above: perfectly in time, their bodies just barely touching at the palms and fingers, and yet each movement, carefully, absolutely, in tune with the other. As they shifted about the floor, the many Asur lords and ladies stood still and watched. A quiet descending upon the room, as all seemed afraid to even breath for the chance that it might disturb the spectacle: the vision of beauty and an almost incandescent feeling of love that emanated from the pair, the young lord and lady from Yvresse.

The Prince of Spires watched the handsome couple dance along with the rest. Watched their majestic turn about the marble and silver ballroom, submerged within the indigo hues of Elenthir’s Night. And yet he felt discomfort. The eyes of the lords and ladies – the most powerful Houses and mages of the Ever Empire – were filled with admiration at the couple’s quiet moment. An admiration that he had not expected; and was not a part of his calculations. That so many lords, so many veterans of the incessant politics of the Court, would so openly display emotions of warmth and devotion towards that Yvressi prince….

It was something that needed to be pondered. And watched. And if necessary…undermined.

Spires nodded to himself and turned and left the gallery of watchers, making towards the edges of the grand ballroom. The vast, vaulted space, large enough to fit several ships of the line within, still managed to feel crowded, so great was the number in attendance this night. And not just lords: there were servants and attendants in two scores worth of livery standing at attention in alcoves and doorways. As well as minstrels, visible and invisible, providing the charming notes of string and woodwind. Elenthir’s Night was one of the few times when the high and mighty of Ulthuan could be found gathered together in one place.

And thus it was of the utmost importance that he attend. To make the weeks’ long journey from his distant city-state to the Asur homeland. For there was much to do: deals to make; friendships to affirm; rumors to gather. And…he had other reasons for being here this night….

To one side of the hall he spied a cluster of lords and ladies from Saphery, intermingled with a handful of the wealthy Houses of Tiranoc and Eataine. Saphery was one of the City of Spires most important trading partners: a large portion of the vials of herbs and secret spices harvested from the jungles of the interior wound up in the vaults of the magister lords of that Inner Kingdom. And the silver he received in return helped maintain the fleet – his fleet! – that dominated the Southern Ocean. It was best that he make an appearance. He drifted over to the edges of the group, nodding his greetings and exchanging pleasantries with a few of the Saphery lords he knew either personally or by reputation, when a broad-shouldered lord in the gilded armor of Tiranoc said to the group:

“I cannot believe that they have come here,” in a tone both terse and hard. “That is gall. To come here. They must know that no one wants them here.”

Spires’ eyes followed those of the lord and the rest of the group. He looked up to the railing of balconies encircling the ballroom, and there saw, standing alone among the small knots of conversing lords or ladies, a solitary figure in black.

“Why would one of them come here?” the lord from Tiranoc continued, sour faced.

“I imagine they come here for the same reason you and I do,” a woman’s voice answered. “The Phoenix King asked for their attendance.” A musical laugh followed.

It was the Lady of Tor Irian; a princess of Saphery that Spires knew only by reputation. Her raven haired beauty was sung far and wide, but now Spires could see a fierce intelligence in the eyes that were fixed challengingly on the lord of Tiranoc. Though the mouth below was bedecked in a pleasant smile with just the slightest touch of mockery in the twist of the lips.

“I do not question their right to be in attendance, my lady,” the Lord from Tiranoc quickly assured. “But I question the meaning behind their presence. For the uncouth northerners to share these halls with the refined such as yourself…” He shook his head and glowered. “Tiranoc as well suffered greatly at the Sundering, and yet we did not allow ourselves to turn into a pack of uncivilized murderers! Of barbarity, and lacking in the refined ways of the Asur…either in life or war! Bah! Scarcely better that the Betrayers themselves!” he finished with bile in his voice.

The Lady of Tor Irian’s smile stretched broader across her ivory features. “It may be true that they are a ‘pack of uncivilized murderers’,” she recounted with a subtle sweetness.

“But they are OUR pack of uncivilized murderers….a fact for which I am infinitely grateful.”

There were razors in her words but they were delivered with such skill and deftness that the lord of Tiranoc seemed unaware at the cuts he had just received and nodded and smiled in response. That was a skill to be admired…and watched.

Spires observed the lady’s eyes turn from the Tiranoc lord and drift upward once more to alight upon the solitary figure in black. An emotion blossomed within those orbs – deep and unwavering – but one that was quickly veiled.

Curious. Yes, she would need to be watched as well, Spires concluded. He made his pardons and drifted away from the group.

His feet took him to the broad sweep of stairs that climbed to the observation landing above the ballroom floor. He drifted through the world of shadow and turquoise light, until he sighted his solitary prey. Yes it was him; just as he had suspected from far below. The armor, black and gold, both baroque and worn from brutal use. The long black hair, hanging unadorned about the gaunt face. The cloak, of the darkest ebon hues, new and yet of such serviceable cut that it wouldn’t have been out of place on the back of a longshoreman standing in the rain; it managed to still seem threadbare and plebian.

The Shadow Prince of Nagarythe.

The elf lord was standing still, head bowed, facing out towards the ballroom below… and yet not seeming to see it. The eyes were fixed on nothing, or perhaps on some private distance. And the face was drawn as if listening to a dozen conversations not to be found in the room.

Spires drew to the side of the elf lord, and turned and faced the blue-lit abyss.

“You are to be commended,” Spires stated with cool confidence. “Many are comparing the fighting withdrawal of the Host from the North - a hundred leagues across mountain and desert to the forests of Arnheim - to the exploits of Aenarion’s Ten-Thousand in the Darklands all those ages ago.”

The Prince of Spires waited a long moment for a reply to his courtesy to come. The silence lengthened, and then finally, the voice of the Nagarathi lord came:

“What were you trading with the Druchii, Spires?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Spires’ mouth. Yes. This.

“It is against the Crown’s law to trade any good or service with the Betrayers to the North,” he said calmly. “I know this as well as you. And I would never willingly break the King’s law.”

He pursed his lips, savoring the moment. “Now as it did come to happen, certain ships were lost. Certain cargos claimed. By piracy of course. And as is appropriate a record of those lost ships and holds was filed here, in Lothern, with both the Admiralty and Court…. Bringing those documents was part of the reason for my presence this week.” He finished with an open smile, “I assure you all the forms have been filed, and Finubar has already expressed his personal regret at my loss….”

Spires enjoyed the moment. The thrill of the maneuver. He waited for the response.

After a moment the Nagarathi said calmly,

“Your agents in Arnheim act swiftly.” A pause. “Or are they perhaps further north?” the accusation laid bare in those words.

The smile did not leave his lips as Spires pondered his response.

“You are powerful, Shadow Lord,” he finally said, still smiling.

“But I know you,” he finished, enunciating each word slowly, holding them up to his mind’s gaze and admiring them as much as one of his beloved Tahjong boards.

“I know that despite your power,” he continued, “that you would never do anything against the Crown’s command. You are loyal to a fault, Nagarathi. You do not see the larger picture…that sometimes rules must be bent…for the greater good of the Empire. That is the only way to be a leader, and not a hound, baying to the commands of those behind you. Beneath you.”

The Prince of Spires waited, the smile still etched into his face; a flicker of life in the otherwise marble visage.

And then the Nagarathi spoke:

“Walk this path, Spires. This path you have laid before you,” the elf lord said calmly, his eyes still drifting across the dancers below.

“But measure your steps well…”

“For if you tread incautiously…if you cross that line….”

“Then the shadows will not hide you. In this world or the next…”

“And I will find you.”

***

And then he was gone. The Prince of Spires stood alone at the balcony rail.

And calculated.

***











And that's it for me. Once more I have to depart the mist-shrouded shores of Ulthuan for the duties and pressures of this other world. I leave with glad heart, knowing that so many other sentinels stand watch over the lands of the Asur, and the tales they have to share.

So as always I will just say that these stories were told simply in the hope of a distant fellowship: that somewhere, someone, laughed, smiled, shed a tear, in response to the trials and triumphs of Tim and his friends. And that the world seemed just a little smaller, a little more comforting, because of it.

And also as always, to my fellow brothers and sisters of the spirit, those enchanted by Ulthuan's siren call, let me say that you never need fear for the north...

Because the Nagarathi have got your back!

(Though if you want them to go that extra mile for you, it is best to be a Friend of Nagarythe in turn! )

Happy gaming!

Headshot

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

There was a time when the great mask balls in Yvresse would rival events like that, sadly no longer. It's always nice to cop a mention, and to see my influence this high amoung my peers ^_^

[Malossar]

So wait... he didn't die? Or does the transformation process make you like the shadow princes of yore?

[Headshot]

Alive. And kicking.

As is Mal. Unless your dice finally failed you.

Headshot

PS No physical transformation. You just put on the armor when you become Shadow Prince. And all those memories are bound up in it.

[Malossar]

Excellent. I might have to set the new army in the present then...

[Prince of Spires]

Thanks for the story Headshot. It was a great read, as always. You definatly succeeded in the smile and laugh department. More then once even

And it's always nice to see Spires scheming and calculating. I must say I like him more and more, as he keeps floating on the edges of your stories. And there will come a day when the Shadow Prince comes to him for aid. Spires will be ready, and willing to lend a hand then. Just remember that everything has a price.

Don't be too long.

Rod

[Loran]

A great read, once again! Thanks for the story mate

Can't wait for the next bit, there's still too much mysterious holes in the background. Don't wait too long

- Loran

[Aicanor]

Thanks for the story, it was great, for some reason I feel involved this time. They fought all the way back across the land? No cheating? No wonder Aicanor heard at least three versions sung in Saphery and Avelorn.
Good luck and I hope to see you back soon.

[Elithmar]

Thanks for another great part, as usual. Always good to know the Nagarathi are still there to protect Ulthuan.

I eagerly await the next story, whenever that may be...