Chapter 11

The merrymaking was fine indeed the night prior to the main event. The rulers of Hermstingle were actually present at the hall, toasting and dining along with the knights, their friend, followers, and the lucky citizens that managed to squeeze in from the outside. Qualtan sat by Lord Veltrus and Lady Marena, exchanging tales of Aurelus and his father. Glaive sat to one side, idly spinning a spoon through a bowl of smashed potatoes, looking about rather anxiously. Termenon observed them both along with Escoch from a separate table.

“The Human-Kind is a formidable opponent,” Termenon said. “And honorable as well. He commiserates with our brothers as if he was one of them. He even spent time to apologize to Elo who he bested in combat! Look at him speak to my parents. They are ablaze with interest in him. When I shared the scrolls the tome keepers had of his father’s time spent with us here, he was like a small child aglitter with excitement. There is an innocence about him, yet his manners are those of a true knight, more so than his barbarian father, I would say.”

Escoch looked at his Prince with slight confusion.

“Do you then say he is worthy to carry the sword that by rights should have been yours?”

Termenon frowned at his loyal lieutenant. “My plan remains the same. The sword that was forged with the assistance of my elf-borne father should be held by the elves, and by me. I respect the human; that is all. It is his own fault for associating with a cursed orc. That alone brings doubt to any claims he can make against wielding the sword. An orc, Escoch!” Termenon shook his head sadly. “Who would have thought such a thing possible by one that carries himself such as he?”

Escoch mused over the question. “He is his squire. Perhaps he sees it more as an act of charity, or perhaps he sees the orc as something of a pet?”

“Pay heed! Look now!” Termenon said.

Glaive motioned towards Qualtan, patting his arm. Termenon and Escoch took notice of the exchange, as Glaive whispered into Qualtan’s ear. The human warrior nodded, and Glaive rose, bowing before the rulers of Hermstingle, before leaving the affair. Termenon looked over to Escoch.

“Stay close to him! All things now come together. Quickly, now!” Escoch bowed and quickly left to follow.

Termenon repositioned himself in his chair. Escoch beckoned and three elves joined him, exiting the hall. The Prince looked again to Qualtan, as the elfin maiden who had given him her favor appeared, motioning Qualtan to dance with her as the musicians began to play in earnest. As Qualtan joined the circle of moving forms, Termenon thought inwardly, and for the briefest of moments felt slight guilt over what would soon befall the warrior.

“An honorable human,” he said at last, rising to leave.

Glaive slipped through the streets of Hermloate with ease, having studied them for days. He navigated confidently, assuredly, through crowds of partying elves that filled every avenue. The final days of the Tourney were upon them, and every last droplet of merrymaking and jollity was being extruded by all. Glaive had to pull himself free from circles of elves that groped at him to join them. “Is this all they do?” Glaive mumbled to himself, as his excitement increased the more the beaming dome of the treasury grew in size before him. The crowds died down as he grew near to it, for there were no residences or areas of repose to be found close by. The half-orc stood for a time, ensuring no other elf was near. Satisfied at last, he slyly crept onto the steps of the looming structure, and again massaged the great golden doors that vaulted high above him. Again, the doors opened invitingly, and again, Escoch the Lieutenant stifled a laugh from a nearby hiding space as he silently uttered the Words of Opening towards the enchanted entranceway that granted Glaive passage. Inside, Glaive gasped and wiped his brow. Dancing about, he felt as if he was in a dream surrounded by the overwhelming wealth. He closed his eyes and felt about the statues, the jewel-encrusted furniture, weapons, and ornate vases and plates that sat on display. He quickly skipped past the main viewing areas towards the railed sections that Escoch had led him previously.

Glaive’s eyes widened in the smoky, lantern-lit chambers that he had remembered so well. Like the rooms of a messy painter or sculptor, masses of jewels and gold coins were piled about in haphazard fashion, tossed in bags here, thrown lazily upon tables there. Glaive’s hands trembled as he thrust them into a pile of diamonds and pearls, his eyes closing in rapture. He sighed, pulling free chunks of precious baubles.

Little else of value we find in them, save as needed when dealing with other Kind. Glaive recalled the words the elf lieutenant had spoken and he smiled broadly. “Ignorant elves! Let them live in their cloudy little dreamland. If they see no worth in this then they will surely not care if a small sampling is taken by someone who can appreciate their true value, non-elf or not!” Glaive gingerly hopped from table to table, appraising various stones, leaving some while eagerly taking others. He stuffed his pockets both inside and out and hopped about, squeezing as many jewels as he could within each of his socks. He pulled open secret hidden spaces within the handles of his daggers and placed the most precious of his stolen booty within. What bounty was now his, he thought gaily! After tomorrow, they would be gone from this place, and by the time they discovered anything was amiss, it would be too late. No harm would have been done, except to delay some elfin craftsman from completing his or her project, he thought. He would be in Turinthia, rich as could be.

“Turinthia,” Glaive said, suddenly taking pause to think. They would surely be blamed for the loss. Would they go so far as to seek them out, knowing their intended destination? He would have to leave Qualtan, surely. Would they blame him as well?

“Of course not. He will be a knight. I’m just a lowly half-orcne.” He would leave a note for Qualtan, he thought, giving him details of his crime, to absolve him of any wrongdoing.

“He deserves that much at least for trusting me.” As the words left him, he stood as if frozen. All the thoughts of guilt and remorse that had plagued him earlier returned to haunt his soul. Glaive lurched from the glittering tables as one who had been starving and had stepped away in pain after gorging upon a massive meal. “I don’t do this against my friend. I do this against myself. I must be true to my nature,” he said sadly, thinking back to Qualtan’s rebuttal from a prior discussion, and his easy assumption of self-choice. Choice. Since when did I ever truly have that, he thought angrily? Choice to become a starving urchin, to become a thief? To be tricked and betrayed, forced to live by his wits alone?

“Where was my choice?!” he yelled, too loudly.

“And what have we here?” a voice said as if in response.

Glaive tensed, his hand reaching towards his wrist gauntlet. A faint flapping betrayed the presence that now hovered behind him. Glaive slowly turned ‘round to see the floating globe-body of Eunu, the treasury caretaker, with all of its multiple eyes staring suspiciously at him.

“The hour is too late for visitors. Where is your escort?” Eunu said.

Glaive was befuddled at its silent discovery of his presence. He had heard nothing until it had spoken to him and only then did the sound of its wings reach his highly tuned ears.

“I was dropped off. I had begged to see more of this place for its beauty fascinated me. I was tired of the never ending revelry and drink to be found at every street corner, and thought I could come here to enjoy in silence. I was not told this would be inappropriate.” A rather pitiful excuse, Glaive thought, but the best he could come up with. He had assumed he would not have to deal with the creature.

Eunu’s main eye squinted, unconvinced at the intruder. “It IS inappropriate. You have no guide, nor was I informed. You are a guest in Hermloate, but apparently you are taking liberties, I’d wager. No elf would “drop you off” here at this hour. You lie.”

“I swear I do not!” Glaive said, raising both hands to the air. “Can a poor outsider, not accustomed to your ways, be blamed for merely wishing to appreciate your fine works? In the Woodworm Ports, places of art are open at all hours for all to see! They are considered places of rest and sanctuary amidst visions of beauty. And you dare to say I lie!” Glaive said, feigning insult.

The caretaker floated around Glaive, its eyes taking in the half-orc with distrust and wariness. “You say you were left here by an elf?” it asked.

“Yes! At the front door!”

“And you walked in?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“All by yourself?”

“As I said, I walked in.”

“What of the guards?”

“What guards?! There were no guards about!” Glaive began to grow suspicious.

The creature closed some of its eyes as it floated about. Its long arms were folded in thought.

“No guards about and you walked in.”

“That’s what I just said! Why else would I think it was safe to enter?” Glaive said, as his own thoughts began to race. What devilry was now afoot?

The caretaker suddenly flew directly before Glaive, slowly pushing him back as it advanced. “You opened the doors?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Speak to me the Words of Opening.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do know if you entered.”

“I do not.”

“How did you enter, then?”

“I told you. I opened the doors.”

“How did you open the doors if you don’t know the Words of Opening?”

Glaive stepped backwards, bumping into a table. “The doors opened at my presence.”

“The doors opened and you were alone?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Neither does this conversation.” Glaive attempted to move around the table he had collided into but as he rounded a corner the caretaker quickly flew ahead to cut him off.

“The doors will not open without invoking the Words.”

“What words?”

“The words that you say you do not know.”

“Oh, I see. Then how do you account for my presence here?” Glaive said, backing away again from the advancing Eunu.

“The guards would have warned me of you.”

“As I said, there were no guards.” Glaive tripped over a pile of spilt gemstones.

“No one can enter without a guide that knows the Words.”

“I must be lucky then,” Glaive said, continuing to sidestep tables and chairs as he walked backwards away from the steadily approaching creature.

“You either know the Words and are lying or somehow bypassed the enchantments. You don’t look smart enough to do that.”

“I take umbrage at the insult!” Glaive said, backed against a wall.

“You are a thief and a liar.”

“And you are an insulting and rude host!”

“I will restrain you here and seek out the guards. Then we will resolve this affair.”

“Now look, I…” Before Glaive could continue, the gnarled fingers of two of the caretaker’s hands suddenly lengthened, extending forward like sharpened spears. Two of them impaled the wall, crisscrossing over Glaive’s neck.

“This is not … really … necessary!” Glaive growled, gasping for breath from the pressure of the talons pressed against his throat. The extended appendages snapped off, leaving him trapped.

“Keep your hands where I can see them. I will need to secure them as well until I return. Do not seek to deceive me! I am fully aware of the armament strapped to your wrist.”

“Of course. I wish nothing but to comply,” Glaive said, spreading his arms wide. Suddenly, two handles slipped into his hands from hidden bindings on his forearms. Before the caretaker could react, a blade snapped into place on each. He quickly sliced free from the restraining projections and lunged at Eunu. It shrieked in surprise, flying upwards to avoid the blow. Glaive rolled to one side and launched the bolts from his wrist mechanism. He filled the air with his quarrels as the caretaker agilely avoided the attack, darting behind a pillar. Glaive did likewise, cursing his bad luck.

“Your behavior proves it now. You are a thief!” a voice cried out from the large chamber. Glaive re-armed his wrist gauntlet, looking about. A flash of motion, and a fired finger projection flew towards him. He barely dodged in time as it struck through the massive support column he had just moments before stood against. Glaive returned fire into the darkness but failed to catch a glimpse of the caretaker.

“Your resistance proves you are a threat. I will unfortunately have to show you no mercy,” Eunu said, its words gravitating towards Glaive from the shadows.

“Don’t you have work to do that would be a better use of your time?” Glaive called out, running from pillar to pillar. Eunu did not respond. Glaive strained to hear any soft movement, any gentle flap of wing, but could not. Glaive pulled free his cloak, as he edged from the safety of one column to the next. He pulled out a stout rod that was secured to his side and hooked his cloak to one end.

“I will be lodging a complaint with the proper channels for this mistreatment!” Glaive taunted, looking about. He briskly shook the rod he held, and it expanded outwards from both ends, a sharpened tip to each side.

The caretaker slowly hovered about, viewing the area from above. The pillars prevented total viewing of the chamber, but there was no need for worry. Although thieves were few and far between in Hermloate, the caretaker had faced such types in many a guarded position before. It sighed to itself, frustrated with the duties it would now need to delay in order to put a stop to this nonsense. It would definitely have a conversation with Lord Veltrus on better assessment of visitors as well as a good tongue lashing for the absent guards, unless the intruder had something to do with that. Suddenly it halted, seeing a flowing black shape. Eunu moved in closer, pausing at the head of one column. The form stood behind a golden statue of an elfin warrior whose arms were raised to the sun in joy while jeweled beasts scampered by his sides. The eyes of the caretaker narrowed and it bobbed in closer. The horn-like projectiles from its skinny fingers continually reformed at its command, and it aimed its hands to launch a final bombardment. With a grunt of satisfaction, the caretaker whirled towards the unmoving form and launched four appendages towards it. They struck home, collapsing the form with a loud clatter. Satisfied, the caretaker sighed, happy to have the interruption resolved. It grew close but then paused, confused at the sight. The form was completely flattened out upon the floor. Before Eunu could rethink its position, Glaive, who had climbed atop the back of the golden elf statue, hurled himself onto the caretaker. The top of its head bore no eyes, a vulnerability he was quick to exploit. He landed atop the creature, and stabbed at its sides. The caretaker cried out in surprise and pain bouncing about from pillar to pillar as Glaive savagely held on, stabbing with one hand while shooting into the creature with his wrist gauntlet. His bolts merely bounced off the caretakers hide, but he maintained the assault. It gave a final wild shriek, and spinning rapidly, disappeared in a puff of foul smelling green smoke. Glaive fell to the ground, landing safely. He staggered briefly, dizzy from the whirling caretaker, but quickly took back his cloak, securing the expanded rod. Unaware if the thing had either escaped or died, Glaive quickly ran back towards the entrance of the treasury. He could have spent days unending here, he thought sadly, for who knows how much more wealth lay hidden in secret chambers and other rooms? As he ran, sudden thoughts raced to his mind. What “words of opening” had the creature truly referred to? What guards? Glaive began to think something was truly amiss as the doorway opened for him once more. He instantly realized the truth to his concerns as a line of guards armed with swords and shields surrounded him. As he turned to go back, the doors quickly shut. Glaive realized he was now trapped. The half-orcne paused, looking for a quick escape but there was none as the circle of elves converged.

“You cannot escape. Lower your arms or we will run you through here and now!” Escoch said, appearing from behind the soldiers. Glaive looked at his beaming face, and suddenly realized the grievous error he had made. This had been planned since from before, he was now sure of, and because of his lust for gold, he had let himself fall easily into it. He threw down his blade in disgust, more at himself than at the elves who now grabbed hold of his arms and took him away.

Qualtan stood with Termenon before the exhilarated crowd, for now the final event was to occur. The drums and trumpets were of such deafening fervor, Qualtan winced at the sounds. He was somewhat troubled for he did not find Glaive in their chambers the night before, nor had he seen him throughout the morn.

“Do not worry so, Qualtan! Your friend is probably sleeping off the night’s festivities somewhere!” Termenon said happily.

Qualtan nodded but remained concerned. “He had left the hall early last night to get away from the clamor. He was not drunk at the time.” Termenon shrugged.

“Who knows, my friend? Rest assured your friend is safe here. This is not the Woodworm Ports but Hermloate. I am sure he will present himself soon. Prepare yourself now, brother! I will grant you no mercy at this. You have gone deep into the tourney, deeper than your father had. If you do not wish to be humbled, you may decline and grant me the victory now if you so wish.”

Qualtan smiled, bringing his faculties fully back into the match. “I think not, Termenon. Let us see if we can decide upon a victor after our arm wrestling was left undecided.”

“So be it, brother knight!” Termenon said, bowing low to Qualtan. He stepped away to the farthest corner of the field of battle, to confer with other elves. Qualtan felt ready, and looked upon the faceless crowd of onlookers. Petals of flowers and colored banners floated over the field as Lady Marena rose to quiet the event.

“We at last come to that deciding occasion that is the ending of our Tourney. We have celebrated the honor of our loyal knights, the heroes of our people!” The crowd roared its applause.

“We have also celebrated through the event the fellowship and love that make us one. This journey is not just for the knights to win single honor in competition, but as a way to pay homage to ourselves, our culture, and our way of life. We are blessed to be of the High Elves of Hermstingle!” Again, voices rose up in unison.

“Never forget that,” she concluded. “We are the eldest and do not dabble with the ways of the lesser Kind that have come after us. While they strife, we live in peace and harmony with ourselves and the tree, the rock, and the stream. We are High Elves of Hermstingle!” A chorus of cheers followed her words.

“And yet, there are some from the outside that hold value to such things as honor, fealty, love, and respect. They are worthy of our friendship and our love. Qualtan, step now before us.” Lady Marena pointed down to Qualtan. He bowed, approaching the dais where the Queen stood.

“We have one of these worthy Kind among us. His name is Qualtan, and he comes from the blood of Eucradus and Aurelus, great heroes that joined us in avenging the loss of Hermsflaavil and the protection of Hermstingle.”

“Barbarian!” Termenon hissed to his fellow knights at the mention of Eucradus’ name.

“He has proven worthy of the bond of friendship given to his father and uncle. As his father did before him, he has participated with his fellow knights upon the field, and now has come to this. A contest that celebrates the virtues and truths both our peoples hold. A knight of the Order of the Bearded Lion against a knight of the High Forest!” The elves in attendance rose from their seats and benches, whirling banners and clapping with excitement.

Qualtan was overwhelmed by the outpouring of energy from the crowd. He bowed again, gently kissing the Queen’s extended hand, as Termenon did the same. He was beholden to her for he was not yet a knight, although she called him as such, as did Termenon. The camaraderie and tourney events he had won in Hermloate made him feel as if he was one.

“Now we find which Order is better,” Termenon said to Qualtan as trumpets sounded again, heralding the beginning of the match.

“I am proud of you brother!” Termenon said, as both contestants were given blunted swords and helmets. “Your presence here has brought me more fortune than you realize!” Qualtan was unsure of what the elf’s final words had meant. He looked about, still somewhat concerned about the missing Glaive, but then realized there was nothing to fear in Hermloate. He needed to focus on this battle, for Qualtan knew he was about to face a foe as perfectly matched to his own abilities as there could be. His strength would be of no advantage to him here, for the Prince was enchanted with the same power.

They circled, cautiously, checking one another as chants of both Qualtan and Termenon reverberated throughout the arena. This battle would not be held by rounds but would end only when one contestant had been soundly defeated. They lowered their faceplates, as their circling brought them ever closer to each other. Termenon was a true master of the sword, agile and sure. Their swords met, and it took little time for Termenon to quickly break through Qualtan’s defense, landing blow upon blow to his chest and arms. Qualtan was battered back, as a swift kick to the side of his leg knocked him roughly to one knee, but he rolled away and cleared himself, better prepared. Termenon smiled and charged his opponent. Again he passed through Qualtan’s attacks, striking with his elbow and fist. A blow to Qualtan’s midsection lifted him nearly off his feet, and a quick thrust with his sword knocked Qualtan’s weapon from his grasp. He fell violently and Termenon paused taking in the cheering from the crowd. Qualtan spat blood and rose, grabbing his sword once again.

“Good, good! You are ready for more of the same, then!” Termenon taunted, and his eyes gleamed red. This time Qualtan initiated the first contact. Having measured the Prince, Qualtan took the offense, with a blistering array of strikes and counterstrikes. Termenon struck his face with the pommel of his sword but as Qualtan’s body snapped to one side, the warrior followed through with a kick that stunned Termenon squarely on the cheek. Qualtan struck back now, using his own feet as weapons, using his blade first and then his legs, striking at the elf’s lower extremities, keeping him off-balance. Qualtan suddenly changed tactics, and with a powerful blow landed an elbow upon the elf’s chin. He half fell, and was forced to endure a stinging series of sword strikes that eventually caused both swords to lock. With a mighty heave Qualtan yanked the elf’s sword from his grasp, followed with a kick that sent the elf sprawling to the ground.

The crowd gasped at the exchange, and now it was Qualtan who egged Termenon on, daring him to rise. The elf Prince was angered, for no human had ever humbled him thus. He thought of Qualtan’s father holding the fabled sword of the wizards above his head in victory, and the old wound was reopened. He jumped up and grabbed his sword. The battle took on a savage turn. Qualtan realized now the level of competition had been raised, for soon both were grappling hand to hand, having dropped their swords, pulling and yanking furiously at one another in one hold after another.

“Dog, you’ll fall as your father should have!” Termenon hissed as he ripped Qualtan’s helmet off and attempted to tear through his hair. Even the King and Queen of Hermstingle took notice of the increased violence and looked toward the combatants with increased concern. Qualtan’s own eyes began to grow red as Termenon secured his head in a vice-like grip, landing several blows on his face. Qualtan resorted to the same, grabbing the elf’s hair and roughly cracking his neck back. He lifted the elf in his arms and slammed both combatants down, once, twice, and a third time before Termenon eased his hold. Qualtan butted his head onto the Prince’s face, bloodying his nose. Free from his grasp, Qualtan gave a mighty blow that hurled the elf away. Qualtan took hold of his sword once more and raced towards the elf. The Prince was not yet done for he easily danced through Qualtan’s sword blows, tumbling and rolling back to his own weapon in time to block a heavy strike from his human foe. Both contestants wrestled, pushing against the sword of the other until Termenon sidestepped, using Qualtan’s momentum to flip him over. The crowd grew silent as they sensed the rising ire of the two champions. Lady Marena looked over to her husband worriedly, for Termenon was their son after all. Lord Veltrus patted her hand gently, assuring her there was nothing to fear.

Their blows were no longer graceful. They hacked and slashed, bullying with their strength, exchanging blow after blow, as they tired and stiffened. Their breath came in loud gasps and gulps for air. Their swords were now chipped and splintered. Lady Marena grew more fearful, for the spectacle had devolved into a bloody, wild affair. She wanted to stop the battle, but her husband insisted it continue, out of respect to the combatants who strove so mightily against one another.

The end came at last. After an endless exchange of swords, Qualtan grew impatient. He moved in close, pushing his way through Termenon’s parries and struck with both fist and pommel, landing both upon the elf’s chin. It seemed a telling blow, but the elf had moved his head back, rolling with the strike, grabbing the off-balance Qualtan who had over extended himself in the attempt. They fell with his volition and the elf expertly rolled atop him, a foot placed on Qualtan’s sword wrist and the end of his weapon placed directly on Qualtan’s throat. The elf’s eyes gleamed red, like the flame rubies to be found within the jeweled stores of the great treasury. His sword edged further, drawing slight blood from Qualtan’s neck. The elf roared at Qualtan like a wild beast. As they stared at one another, Qualtan worried whether the elf had taken the battle beyond the confines of the tourney and was about to slay him, for his eyes showed nothing but seething hatred. The sudden chorus from the crowd celebrating his victory seemed to bring the elf back from the darker recesses of his mind, and his face changed. The anger seemed to disperse and he quickly pulled himself free from his defeated opponent as the victor. He pumped his sword excitedly, staggering about in a release of exhaustion as elves rushed over to happily support him.

Qualtan pounded his fist on the ground in frustration, feeling the slight wound to his throat as he rose. He had not been prepared for the intensity the elf had showed. The match had taken on a darker tone. Wearily he rose up, alone, for Glaive was still absent. Termenon was engulfed by others who helped him reach the podium of his parents, where his mother quickly hugged and caressed her injured son. The clangor that now rose was of an intensity Qualtan had never experienced before. Elves danced as an outpouring of cries of “Termenon” and “The Sword of Eagles” surged forth. Bags upon bags of flowers were released from elves who sat atop the viewing stands, and the entire scene became a snowscape of scented white petals. Dejected, Qualtan hobbled away.

That night Qualtan sat quietly in his room, thinking about the match. He was angry, feeling the elf Prince had abused him during the contest, and had used a level of ferocity unnecessary for the event. Particularly troubling were the comments he had made regarding Qualtan’s father. Still, resigned to the defeat, Qualtan attempted to look at things in a positive fashion. After all, he had succeeded past all of the other elves, knights with surely more experience in swordplay and warcraft than he. To reach the final end tournament against a hero from the Great War, a Prince and ruler to be of the high elves was a victory in of itself. Qualtan smiled, resolving his inner conflict. Yes, there was some measure of success he could claim. He took a deep breath, walking towards the balcony both his room and Glaive’s shared. His thoughts turned quickly to his companion. Where was he? He had not seen him during the final ceremony, a trophied sword that the winner of the tourney would carry for the year until called to defend it in the next. Nor had he seen him as he had given back the favor of the elf maiden that had bestowed her choice upon him at the last dinner celebration in the great hall. The Prince had been overwhelmed by well wishers and had not spoken to him throughout. Still, he thought the half-orcne would have been in his room upon his arrival, yet none he asked had seen him. Perhaps he was wagering his last, and would show up later. Qualtan leaned over the balcony, observing the pearls of light from the adjoining palaces and homes.

“Hermloate. What stories to tell in Tringolm!” he said, admiring the ethereal beauty of the city. “Who would have thought that I would end up here, contesting against the elves of the High Forest?” Qualtan rubbed through his dark brown hair, and thought back to his days learning to ride horses in Littlebig, and the long path taken from those days to where he now stood. “You’ve come quite the distance, make no mistake.” He shivered as a cool wind blew in from the North. And to think, his travels were just now starting! He felt content and at ease. They would be leaving in the morning and the title given to him here out of courtesy would be officially his. He looked at his arms, and took notice of how the wounds he had endured were already vanishing. “What stories to tell at the Sign of the Drunken Dragon, back in Littlebig, someday,” he said aloud. Wouldn’t Elizabetha be proud of him! The dark view of his future as given by the evil haegtes seemed very far away indeed.

He was awoken early in the morning not by gentle chimes but by commanding voices. Eyes bleary, he sat up, taking in a group of armored elves, swords withdrawn, circling his bed. Their faces bore scowls and their eyes were stern.

Confused, he pulled himself up, sitting by the edge of his bed, drawing anxious movements from the crowd of guards.

“What is the matter?” he asked groggily.

“Dress, and bring your belongings with you quickly! We are to escort you to our Lord and Lady at once!” the lead guard said, pointing a sword to Qualtan’s head. Annoyed, Qualtan rose as the elves gave him a wide berth.

“Will you not at least tell me what the meaning is behind this?” Qualtan asked as he began to secure his armor. The elves kept watch of his every move, but did not respond to his question.

“Can you not tell me anything? Anything at all? Where is Glaive?”

“You are to come quickly and to follow our orders, or else…”

Qualtan raised his hands after securing his sword to his side. What had happened, he thought, as the elves parted to surround him. As they marched out of his room, Qualtan became fixated with the missing Glaive. Evil thoughts began to well inside, but he attempted to pay them no mind. Other elves looked at him sadly as they passed through various corridors, keeping their eyes downcast at his approach. Had something befallen his friend? He was as anxious to stand before Lord Veltrus and Lady Marena to ask his questions as the elfin guards seemingly were to be rid of him.

Reaching the grand throne room of Hermloate once more, the guards quickly dispersed around the chamber, joining a line of armored elves already present to each side. The room was heavily guarded, more so than before. The rulers of Hermstingle sat before him, but a wooden table had been introduced and placed before them. Upon it was a bag—Qualtan could see it was Glaive’s pack—as well as a large pile of flickering coins and jewels. Termenon stood beside it, playing with the piles of baubles, running them through his hands.

Qualtan looked about, growing edgy with concern.

“You are troubled, no doubt. As well you should be,” Termenon said, as he stared at the gemstones in his hands.

“These colorful playthings. Your Kind ever makes war against your brothers to amass such pettiness. Your Kind and those of others will do all manner of fell deeds to horde such innocence. Why, I wonder?” Termenon said, facing Qualtan at last. “Why is your Kind so petty, so weak?”

“I don’t understand. What is this?” Qualtan said, frustrated by Termenon’s theatrics. He looked to the elf Prince’s parents, but they sat unmoving, observing him with little emotion.

Additional knights began to enter the audience chamber, joining ranks with the others present.

“We opened our arms to you. We welcomed you as honored guests into our home. You were given an honor that only your father had been privileged with. I treated you as a brother, and yet you have betrayed us!” Termenon said angrily, throwing the gems and stones to one side of the marbled floor. He pointed to Qualtan, his eyes narrowing.

“Thieves!”

“What?!” Qualtan said with astonishment.

“Thieves and robbers!” he added, walking back towards his father’s massive chair.

“Your companion was captured attempting to steal from the great treasury, Qualtan,” Lady Marena said flatly. “The baubles before you were taken from his person.”

Qualtan stood stunned. That is why Glaive had not returned last night. He could not believe Glaive could have done such a thing. Had he fooled Qualtan all along? The warrior grimaced, flexing his mighty fists tightly. Could he have been that devious, and had Qualtan himself been that naïve since the first day they met?

Qualtan bowed severely. “Your Lord and Lady, and Prince of the Realm, I am truly sorry. I cannot find the words to say how disappointed I am, and how surprised my companion would do such a thing. Surely there is some explanation for this!”

Termenon looked at him with quick disapproval. “The explanation is simple greed and folly in your compatriot and in your selection of squires! Your relationship with a half-orcne was enough to make you suspect, but despite that, we acknowledged the lineage that you bring … and that you have dishonored.”

Qualtan shook his head. “I cannot believe this has happened as you say.”

“You doubt the words of the high elves? We do not lie like you.”

“Please! May I at least see him? May I speak to him?”

“The penalty for such thievery and base betrayal to the Royal House is death,” Termenon said with a smug smile.

Qualtan looked at him intently, fearing the worst.

“Do not worry. He still lives, for now, as do you.” Termenon snapped his fingers and from a nearby entranceway, a troop of elves appeared. They stomped into the room and then stopped with an abrupt clang of metal boot. The jingle of chains could be heard. One of the warriors moved forward, and from behind, urged by the prodding of great golden spears appeared Glaive, his hands secured tightly within thick manacles. He looked tired, but well, and when he saw Qualtan, he smiled briefly with encouragement, then seeing the anger and hurt in his eyes, looked sadly away.

“Go ahead. Ask him,” Termenon said, sitting upon the wooden table.

Qualtan rushed to Glaive, taking him by his shoulders. “Is this true? Did you attempt to steal from the treasury?” Qualtan looked into Glaive’s eyes, hoping he was wrong. Glaive raised his eyebrows, smiling weakly.

“I did.” The assembled elves at once murmured their condemnation of the two. Glaive placed his chin on his chest, as Qualtan looked about at the faces that bore into them.

“Why? Why would you do this?” Qualtan appealed to him. He still could not believe him. There must have been a reason, any reason, he thought.

Glaive sighed. “You wouldn’t understand. How could you? How could any of you? I’m sorry.” Qualtan turned away, awash with rage. “I didn’t do this to involve you. You are my friend. Or were, probably, before this.”

“Then why?! Is this why you have been with me all this time?” Qualtan said, spinning round and shaking the half-orcne.

“No! Of that you can be sure. My injury is my own, and I’m sorry that it came when it did. The temptation was too much. It’s not your fault.”

“There! You hear his confession! He readily admits to the deed!” Termenon said. The knights pulled Qualtan away from Glaive, leaving him to stand alone before their accusers.

“Death to the betrayers!” a knight called out.

“He has done nothing!” Glaive said.

“Indeed! We are to believe your words now? Mayhap he sent you to rob from us!” Termenon said.

Qualtan was awash with anger, confusion, and hurt. This had all happened so quickly, the turn of events sweeping him along. He stared at the half-orcne long and hard. Glaive could only look back with sadness.

Qualtan ignored the rising shouts from the knights. He turned and walked towards the table where the stolen booty was laid. He looked at the Prince, and his royal parents.

“I do not know what has transpired here, but if my friend and “squire” has done you wrong, than I must apologize. I cannot offer any excuse for his behavior, save to plead for mercy.”

The Lord and Lady of Hermstingle said nothing, observing him coolly like monuments of stone.

Termenon stepped before them, arms crossed. “Mercy? You deserve none for this gross betrayal. You have lost your honor and that of your father’s and have insulted our own. However … we are not butchers, as your own folk. We are high elves.” The elf Prince paused as if in thought. He then stood on the opposite side of Qualtan, extending his arms upon the table, leaning forward into the human warrior.

“I offer you this then. Relinquish your sword in token payment for your offense to my parents and to me. You may then take your orcne and leave this place, never to return!”

His seeming self-satisfaction over these turn of events seemed to expose darker ambitions which Qualtan had somewhat sensed since the beginning, but had never thought they had run so deep. He could not help but believe this is what the elf Prince had wanted all along.

“You made this happen. You have coveted the sword since we first arrived!” Qualtan hissed back at the beaming Termenon.

“You speak madness. Elves do not covet. The choice has been given to you! I give you opportunity to keep what little honor you have left in you and save the name of your family. I also give you opportunity to save both your unworthy hides. What do you say?”

“Do you believe all of this? We’ve been tricked, and I worst of all!” Qualtan said looking up to Termenon’s parents. They sat, looking solidly on, unflinching, unmoving.

“They will not help you. Why should they, after what you have done? Give me your sword and I will let you two live!” He inched closer to Qualtan’s face. “You have no choice.”

Qualtan took a step back and looked about. Swords were raised against him. Line upon line of knights stood around him. Lord Veltrus and Lady Marena had magic powers similar to his uncle’s, and then there was the elf Prince himself, who had already bested him in combat. His position was dire. And yet, he could not give in to this scheming elf. His lies had worked against Qualtan, tricking him into believing they had become comrades, even friends. Lies, all of it, to gain the sword he obviously felt should have been his from years gone by. And here Qualtan had appeared at his doorstep, carrying the damnable thing right into his hands! Whatever Glaive had done, Qualtan felt confident in his own actions. He had not lost his honor. And to meekly give the elf what he desired would leave him less worthy of his bloodline than anything else. Turning away from Termenon, Qualtan’s eyes began to burn red with rage.

“Well? You have no time left to decide, base betrayer! The sword!” Termenon yelled out, extending his hand forcefully.

Qualtan gave a cry, a wailing cry of anger. He unsheathed his sword and attacked the closest row of knights before him. Unprepared for his might, they were easily disarmed and slammed about into their brothers. Termenon snarled happily for now he had the excuse to kill the warrior and reclaim the sword by right of defense. He shoved the table over to one side, spilling its contents over the floor, ready to join in the battle.

“Termenon! No!” The elf Prince paused, staring back at his father who had raised his hand towards him.

Confused, he paused, looking back at the scene before him. Qualtan was engulfed by green armor. Elven bodies flew into the air as they were hurled to and fro. In such close quarters with so many fighters, Qualtan had gained the advantage using his strength to clear away his opponents. He punched one elf solidly in the chest, puncturing through the elf’s armor, pitching him into five of his fellows with such force that they all collapsed atop each other. Another knight struck Qualtan’s side, biting a sword into his hip, but Qualtan quickly returned the blow, and soon the elf was lying injured on the floor.

The tide of battle was turning to Qualtan’s favor. The crowded knights could not control the human. Glaive was being slowly backed away by a trio of guarding elves until a thrown knight was sent their way causing them to scatter.

“Mother! Father! Use your powers to stop this fool!” Termenon said, eager to have the warrior humbled before him. He was assuming that was what his parents had planned to do and he stood back, awaiting Qualtan’s finish.

Qualtan barreled through a squad of knights, shedding them off his body like a rampaging beast. Lowering himself, he slid onto the floor, avoiding a flurry of hurled spears. He grabbed hold of Glaive’s pack and rose up, leaping high into the air. Calling forth the magic shield from his sword, he fell fully protected onto a spiky mass of upraised spears splintering them into pieces and damaging the elves that were battered beneath him. He took hold of Glaive who had stood to one side observing the tableau and launched himself towards a paned glass window.

“Oh no, not again!” Glaive said. With a great cry, Qualtan leapt through the window, carrying Glaive in one arm. The flying pieces of sharpened glass blew into the chamber, causing all the elves still standing to flinch and recoil in safety. Qualtan landed on the side of the great dome roof just below the audience chamber. Like some agile creature of the forest, Qualtan slid down its curving sides, Glaive screaming in terror as they reached a ring of rain gutters that circled its base, ornamented with elaborately carved gargoyles. Upon striking one of the sculptures, Qualtan took a great leap and with a still squealing half-orc tucked tightly under his arm, landed upon another domed rooftop that stood separated from the royal structure by a garden far below. The shattered gargoyle tipped over and fell, taking part of the gutter with it, crashing into the garden, driving its occupants to scramble for cover.

The audience chamber was a mass of confusion. Knights scurried about, assisting their injured brothers, rushing into various hallways to call the alarm. Termenon shoved his way past his brethren towards the damaged window, peering out at his escaping quarry. The eyes of an elf were keen and despite the distance he could see the human bounding from rooftop to rooftop like some great hopping bird. Growling, he snapped around and confronted his parents.

“Why?! Why did you stop me! Why did you let them escape?!” he demanded angrily.

At last, breaking her silence, Lady Marena spoke. “How did the orc enter the treasury without knowledge of the Words of Opening?”

“What? He stole the Words, probably overhearing them being spoken by one of the guards! We must go after them…”

“But no guards were supposedly about. The caretaker himself informed your father of this after he was injured. Why were they not at their post, Termenon?”

Termenon rushed up to stand before his mother in heated thought. He violently pointed at the broken window with his sword. “Trifles! They have betrayed our trust! They have attempted to steal from us! What else do you need to see that matters?!”

“Lower your sword before us,” Lord Veltrus said, rising from his throne. The elf Prince paused at the sight, stepping back, respecting his father’s presence, reigning in his temper. He sheathed his sword, bowing in compliance.

“Was this evil truly theirs, or was it brought about by your own?” he said accusingly to his son.

Termenon was beside himself. He had not expected this. He was losing precious time in securing his glory. He did not care what his parents thought, only that he retrieve the sword.

Ignoring the remark, the elf Prince growled with rage. “They are fugitives and will be hunted down! I will reclaim the sword for the glory of Hermstingle, with or without your help!” With that, he hopped back to the tiled floor below, and began barking orders to the knights who had remained, awaiting his commands.

As Termenon stalked through the corridors, horns of warning blared through the city. Escoch appeared as knights ran to the Prince and then fled with his orders.

“My Prince, what has happened?” he asked as Termenon reached his own quarters, a vast section of the royal building. “My parents allowed them to escape! Complacent fools!” he grumbled.

“My lord! Such words are treason!” Escoch said, shocked at the Prince.

“Enough! Do you not follow my commands, Escoch?” Termenon said as he reached for a scabbarded sword that lay secured upon two great golden claws that extended from a wall.

“Your commands are my life, my liege,” Escoch said, bowing to the Prince.

Termenon removed the sword. Its pommel was a cluster of silver and pearls, and its blade glowed milky-white.

“The sword my father had forged for me years past, Escoch. Sister to the sword the human carries. It will be mine!” He sheathed the sword and secured it to his waist.

“The sentries have been warned! There is nowhere for them to go!” Escoch said.

“We will have them!” Termenon said, a wide smile upon his slender face.

Qualtan paused in his leaping and looked about. He could see the flurry of activity on the ground, as both knights and soldiers of the realm began to amass throughout. Horns echoed from one side of Hermloate to the other and he knew their freedom would be the briefest of pauses. Escape by foot was impossible. The city was too large, its soldiers too many. Even if they made it outside of Hermloate’s walls, the fields were wide and open for many leagues about and the griffon riders would easily pick them out.

“That’s it then, the only way out of this,” he said to himself, readying for the attempt.

“What is the only way out? Put me down already!” Glaive complained under his arm.

“Silence, you! It’s because of your stupidity that we are in the thick of it! I should have left you to rot!”

“All right! I said I was sorry! Can you at least remove these damn restraints from me?” Glaive said, tugging at the metal devices on his wrists.

Qualtan looked down, his eyes still burning red. “No. I may change my mind and leave you here!”

“It’s hopeless! I’ve done us both in this time,” Glaive sighed miserably. “We stand out like two humans at a dwarven wedding! We cannot run…”

“But we can fly,” Qualtan added. Glaive squirmed to look up at him.

“Oh no. You aren’t thinking…”

Qualtan nodded as the half-orcne began to groan. Racing forward Qualtan again jumped through the air, falling fast. They landed on a walkway between two gleaming white towers. Charging, Qualtan ran towards the doorway that stood at one end. He smashed through it, dropping Glaive to one side and easily subduing the lone guard who was knocked off his chair during a quick afternoon repast. A stone circular stairwell continued upwards. As Glaive struggled to his feet, straining at his shackles, Qualtan took hold of him by the collar again and whisked him into the stairwell. Two guards were already rushing down the steps. Shoving Glaive roughly against the wall, causing him to cry out in pain, Qualtan attacked the surprised elves. He quickly disarmed one; striking downwards with his sword in one direction and then arcing back, hitting the elf on the chin with the blunt side of his sword, tumbling him down the corridor off his feet. The second elf fought back bravely but as Qualtan pushed his advantage, the elf stepped backwards, tripping over the stairs, and landing on his back. Qualtan slapped his opponent’s sword from his grasp and with one hand pulled the shocked elf up to his feet with a blade placed close against his neck.

“You … you are the Kind hosted by our lord and lady! What madness…”

“Enough talk! You will do as I say if you wish to live!”

“What do you want?!”

“A ride!” Qualtan said, smiling.

Upstairs, a knock came to the golden gate that led to the tower’s upper platform. A guarding elf ignored the sound, looking far below at the sudden chaos. “Veltrus and Marena! What has happened down there?” A second knock struck. “All right, all right! I am coming!” The elf finally said, pulling himself from the scene he had been reviewing. The elf fumbled with a ring of keys, walking past a tethered griffon that squawked loudly as he passed.

“Shush, darling!” he said gently as another knock raised his ire.

“Pialtro! What now?!!” he said reaching the gate, looking up briefly at the elf’s face that showed nervously behind it.

“I … forgot something. Let me in!” the elf replied.

No sooner did the elf unlatch the lock, the door slammed open hitting him in the head and shoving him to the hard floor, leaving him stunned and silent.

“Relock the door!” Qualtan commanded to the elf, who meekly obeyed. “You are taking us towards the Gladed Forest.”

“What? I cannot do that! You ask too much! The beast will not be able to bear all three of us!”

“Then we will drop you off as soon as we are over the city! Move!” Qualtan said, pushing the elf ahead of him. Reaching over to Glaive, Qualtan tore the shackles from his wrists.

“Being rather decisive in your commands today, aren’t you?” Glaive teased, feeling the return of sensation to his sore wrists.

Qualtan merely glowered at Glaive. “Don’t jest with me, Glaive. Don’t even try to, or I’ll push you off along with the elf, now come!” Glaive gulped, timidly complying.

“You are mad, outsider. You cannot leave the lands of Hermstingle in this manner,” the elf said as he removed the bindings that were placed on the griffon’s neck. The beast was powerful, grand, with streaks of black and tan on its muscular frame. Its red beak shone brilliantly as it scratched at its side with a large, leonine hind leg. A large bow and satchel of arrows lay secured close to its neck. The binding upon the creature’s facial harness seemed trivial, a thin, golden line that seemed more thread than metal, attached to an ornate pole. Upon its removal, the griffon reared up expanding its wings in a full display. As the elf gently scratched its head, he felt the urging of Qualtan’s sword end on his back.

“Any trick, any falsehood and you die. I’ve had enough of your elvish “honor,” Qualtan said. The elf turned back to look at him sternly. Bowing slightly, the elf climbed upon the griffon’s back.

Qualtan followed him, with Glaive barely hanging on at the saddle’s end.

“We are too heavy. She will not be able to carry us far.”

“Don’t worry, she will not have to. Go!” Qualtan said. The elf sighed, and taking the reins of the magical beast, urged it forward. The female griffon squawked, and began to run, gaining speed as her mighty wings began to beat heavily on either side. It reached the end of the platform and dived off, a dizzying freefall before wind currents under its beating wings lifted the griffon up in a wide arc into the sky.

“We’re flying! We’re flying!” Glaive cried out, holding on for dear life to both Qualtan and the saddle’s edge.

For Qualtan, the sensation was bewildering. The rush of air, the beat of the griffon’s wings, and the undulating motion of its body as it soared happily over the seat of Hermstingle.

“Tell me when we’ve landed!” Glaive cried out, burying his face into his cowl.

As they flew, riders in the sky took notice. They blared out warnings on their horns, as others gave chase. Below, Termenon paused, hearing the cry. He smiled. “They have taken to the skies, their only way out. Hah! Escoch, tell the riders to follow but not to engage! That honor is mine alone!” Escoch bowed, retrieving his own horn and blowing forth instructions to the riders high above.

“We are being followed!” Glaive cried out as three riders appeared from behind. Qualtan took notice and grabbed the elfin rider. “Can you go faster?”

The elf frowned. “You two add too much weight! To push her will cause her to exhaust herself sooner! I told you there was no escape!”

Qualtan redoubled his grip on the elf. “I don’t care! Do it now!” The elf gravely complied, urging the griffon to increase her speed. She roared back as if understanding her rider’s words (which she did) and increased her efforts. The other riders behind them followed, keeping pace, but not advancing.

“They haven’t caught up to us,” Qualtan said, spying back at their pursuers.

“They merely mark our direction. Others are to follow. It won’t be long now, outsiders,” the elf said mockingly. The city of Hermloate began to disappear below them as they entered into the open grassy plains that surrounded it. From so high above it was a beautiful sight, for the city seemed like a gleaming beacon of scintillating color, surrounded by a bed of flowered green. Qualtan was sad to see it go, knowing full well he would never see it again. He also knew the rulers of Hermstingle were already doubtless issuing communications, whether by enchanted means or through hastily sent riders, to Turinthia, and wondered if he should even continue their chosen path. Would he merely be seen as an escaping thief? Would they lay in wait to capture him and return him back to Hermstingle? Would they even make it that far? All he could do was stay on their present course, and see what came of it. For now, their primary concern was to escape the elves. The rest would have to wait.

Back in Hermloate, Termenon took control of his own griffon and flew off in pursuit, followed by a host of elfin riders, of which Escoch was also member to. The Prince himself was an expert rider, having been trained since a child. No human could harness such beasts, or endure the rigors of swift aerial movement and combat. They would be caught, and swiftly.

The rolling hills and plains swept by. The griffon at last began to grow weary, flying lower with the additional weight upon its back. Their escort of riders still hung behind them. The tree line of the Gladed Forest was slowly taking shape ahead as the open lands began to dot with great trees. Qualtan knew if they did not lose their pursuers they would be easily traced and followed. Worse, with their griffon weakening they would not make it into the deeper recesses of the forest and would be helpless in open ground on foot. Qualtan nudged their rider with his sword.

“Take her lower into the trees!” he barked.

“Are you mad?! She cannot maneuver through with the three of us, not in her current state!”

“Lower!” Qualtan commanded.

Cursing, the elf directed the griffon to fly into the slowly appearing lines of trees. Their three pursuers took notice, and followed, not wishing to lose sight of their quarry until their Prince appeared. The trees grew in size as they came within their range. The griffon cried out its displeasure as it began to fly through the cluster of trees that trickled into the elfin lands from the heart of the Gladed Forest. The other riders imitated her actions, diving into the foliage. Qualtan reached out and grabbed the bow near the griffon’s head and passed it along to Glaive along with its arrows.

“Here! Be useful!” he said as they veered in and out of the trees. A branch was ripped in half as it impacted against the beast’s wingtip, so close had it ventured near it. Realizing they could lose them, the other riders decided to move in closer. Glaive took aim and fired, missing the first griffon that came into his sights. The elves complied, shooting back.

“Faster!” Qualtan said as the elf captive attempted to comply. They dipped past trees and quickly shifted to one side and then another as the griffon attempted to slip past trees that stood close together. The other elfin riders did the same, shortening their distance. Again Glaive fired, but the griffon rider easily rolled his griffon to avoid the barrage. One of the three riders decided to fly above the tree line to maintain view of the chase, leaving the other two to harangue and harass them. The griffon was panting furiously as it banked and rolled, narrowly avoiding collision. One of their pursuers moved in too closely, and when their griffon suddenly angled off to avoid a large dead tree, the elf rider behind them failed to do so, veering his charge to one side but not enough to avoid impact. The griffon’s wing arm struck the tree and it fumbled about attempting to right itself. It crashed into another tree and both rider and griffon fell to the ground.

“Hah! That’s one!” Glaive cried out happily.

Their griffon burst through a network of branches, showering leaves and pieces of wood in all directions. Again it called out in distress and again its rider turned to Qualtan.

“She cannot keep up this pace for much longer! You will kill her!” he yelled out angrily.

“Do it!” Qualtan yelled back, angry at himself for pushing the poor beast further. Glaive took aim at their other pursuer, but he swerved his griffon away from the attack. The elf took aim with his bow and fired. The arrow struck home, impaling itself on their steed’s hind area. The griffon panicked for a moment, jerking at the impact and nearly unseating all three of its riders.

“She’s been hurt!” the elf rider said with concern.

The trees opened up and a rocky ravine took form, its sides glistening with moss. A dead streambed graced its center, filled with layers of browned leaves.

“Fly through!” Qualtan said.

The ravine gradually sloped downward, its sides guarded by trees whose limbs hung overhead. A seeming tunnel of green enveloped them as their opponent pulled ever closer from behind. Their griffon struggled and began emitting piteous wails of pain. They flew ever closer to the ground as the network of branches overhead restricted higher passage.

“What do we do?” Glaive said in mounting fear.

“There is nothing to do, outlander, but to give up!” their rider said.

Qualtan was unsure what to do. They had lost the third rider, who was following beyond the interlocking trees, assuming their direction. But their steed was injured, weak, and failing. At their speed, if they jumped off, he was unsure he could protect Glaive from the impact. Qualtan grew anxious but then realized they had a chance.

“Fly closer to the canopy above us! Hurry now!” Qualtan said.

The elf cursed, and did as he was told. Lifting his sword above his head, Qualtan began striking through the thick boughs and branches above them. Their pursuer could see the result, as the overextended arms began to fall. His griffon dodged the falling limbs and he attempted to push even closer to his prey to end the chase once and for all. Glaive continued to fire at the elf and he realized he had to keep watch of not only the arrows but the branches above that swayed loosely. Eventually, eyes glowing red with the effort, Qualtan struck a mortal blow through a heavier branch. It quickly broke free and as their pursuing rider dodged yet another shower of arrows from Glaive he lost track of the bobbing branch as it fell. The elf cried out in panic as it struck, hitting the side of his griffon. Both griffon and trunk tumbled to the ground, rolling into the dead river’s cushion of leaves.

Glaive hooted in victory, but the griffon, languishing through its forced journey, failed at last. Crying out in exhaustion, the elf lost control and it flew wildly, jolting its riders as it made for the ground. Qualtan grabbed hold of Glaive and at the moment of impact jumped off the griffon’s back, sliding through the leafy bed of the ravine as the griffon flopped over, knocking its own elf rider off its back.

“Are you all right?” Qualtan said to Glaive who coughed and stumbled out of the layers of fallen foliage. He nodded, and with that Qualtan ran over to the fallen elf, unmoving and still. He felt for his heart and was soothed that the rider was still alive. He walked over to the griffon that panted and gasped for air. He moved in carefully, attempting to soothe it with gentle words. Its back glistened with sweat. He patted it gently, apologizing for the abuse he had placed upon it.

“I am sorry, noble creature, for using you past extreme.” Qualtan took hold of the arrow that stuck out from its rump and gently pried it free, patting at the bloody hole with his cape. He looked at the creature as it turned round to stare at him. He reached out and patted its side as it panted vigorously.

Glaive stumbled close from behind. “Qualtan, we have to leave this place. The others that are coming…”

Qualtan was lost in thought for a moment, taking in the magical beast. From knight-to-be to renegade thief, he thought grimly. Glaive took his arm and tugged it.

“Qual…”

Qualtan sighed and without looking at Glaive, began to jog deeper into the ravine. “Wait for me!” Glaive said, running behind to keep pace.

The third rider flew over the tightly packed covering of trees, reaching its end. The rider became distressed when he saw no sign of their prey or the other pursuing elves. He urged his griffon high up and circled back to wait. Nothing appeared from the mouth of the green tunnel. Concerned, he flew in, keeping his crossbow at the ready. Flying low to avoid the sheltering branches above, he came upon the injured griffon, still lying to one side, weakly flapping its wings. Crying out in alarm, he landed his griffon, jumping off to inspect the other. Satisfied it was merely grounded from exertion, and only slightly wounded, he called out for its owner. The fallen elf moaned a reply, and the rider found him, pulling him free from the ground. The other elf further down in the tunnel whistled his own reply, waving towards him. The rider waved back and then focused on his fallen comrade. In their own language, he queried the elf, demanding to know what had happened. The elf merely pointed towards the tree line beyond the ravine that led into the forest.