Chapter 9

Hours lengthened into night, and then back to day. Windstorms assailed them, a fierce billowing of clouded dirt, bringing Glaive to snarl in frustration.

“Agh! Accursed wind!” he said, wiping at his eyes with a cloth.

“What is wrong?” Qualtan replied. He had grown unfortunately used to Glaive’s irritable nature.

“What’s wrong? My eyes, is what’s wrong! I’ll lose them before long!” he said.

“I begin to think you make difficulties for the fun of it,” Qualtan said wearily.

“Hah!” Glaive sneered, barely audible over the blowing roar of hardened clay.

The storm curbed their pace. The horses neighed miserably, being pushed off their path by the force of wind.

“We should find shelter!” Glaive yelled out.

“Where?! This is open land for leagues around!” Qualtan yelled back as he attempted to affix his cape in protective form around his head. “The storm will pass!”

“Taking us with it!” retorted Glaive.

They eventually found refuge beneath a large outcropping of jagged red rock. Huddling beneath it, they positioned their horses as best they could to afford them protection. For hours they waited, until at last the whistling gusts began to lessen. They slowly crept out, smacking off the layer of sand and earth that had covered their clothes.

“I hope all of Cuthbert’s larder goes sour. A fine state we’ve been put through after all of that!” Glaive said, emptying the dirt from his boots.

“Well, at least they paid as they promised. Our rations should easily last until we reach Turinthia,” Qualtan said, pulling out dried foodstuffs from their bags. As he chewed on the skin of some desiccated fruit, Qualtan thought about Deliah. His heart sank as he recalled her choice. He wondered if he should go back to Cuthbert some day. Perhaps given time they would see the error of their ways. Yes, he thought, perhaps I should. His reverie was broken by a sudden rude squawking. A large, black-bodied bird with a splash of red on its head alighted atop the slab they had sat under.

“Look there!” Glaive said. “Vultures and carrion birds have become our only friends here.”

Qualtan took in the creature. It cocked its head to stare back at him.

“I think I’ve seen this type of bird before. Yes, back in Cuthbert.”

“Then it’s as cursed as their town. No wonder it fled!” Glaive said, as he finished securing his horse.

Qualtan drew nearer to it. “Now as I think of it, Deliah had mentioned she had never seen this sort of bird before. It flew off before we could identify it.”

“Well? Can you?” Glaive said, already disinterested in the conversation.

“My uncle is well versed with their kind. I am not, surely, but this is no carrion bird as you say,” Qualtan said. The animal seemed preoccupied as it pruned itself, but with a quick check it spied Qualtan’s advance and flew off, calling out into the sky.

“Blast,” Qualtan said. Observing its form as it disappeared, he wondered if it was coincidence to have found the bird again so far from Cuthbert. Was it the same type as Deliah had seen before? Why would it travel here? Lost in the storm, perhaps? His uncle would have known. He spoke the language of birds and knew all of their kin.

“Does it really matter? It’s just a bird after all,” Glaive said as he waited impatiently.

“You are probably right,” Qualtan agreed, saddling his own steed. Still, he was curious. Perhaps the bird was an omen. But for good or ill he couldn’t be sure.

“Let’s get going before the next storm begins,” Glaive said.

It was yet another day later when they found their way back on course towards the Gladed Forest. Its long, winding wall of green could be seen in the near distance, bringing joy to the weary adventurers. As they grew closer, other objects began to grow apparent. There was a large swath of movement, and plumes of smoke, just before entry into the forest. They could hear a dull drumbeat and horns blaring loudly.

Qualtan and Glaive paused. “Look yonder! A battle of some sort!” Glaive said. They continued stealthily, as the scene grew clear. It was indeed a battle. Arrows flew. Swords clanged. Foot soldiers charged. The field before them was a flurry of violence. Black banners rose in the air, held by bearers from both sides of the melee. To one side on a bald hill stood a large ogre banging a beat on an immense, skinned drum ringed with skulls. He was flanked by caped beings of hunched humanoid form. Their snouted faces left no doubt as to what they were.

“Orcne!” Qualtan said. “Two bands of orcs!”

“Yes. Look to their banners!” A bloody fist was emblazoned on one standard, a long dagger on the other.

“Urgsh knows if they came upon each other by accident or by purpose. Either way we can’t linger here. We’ll be seen for sure!” Glaive said. “Blast it all, we’ll have to go ‘round, and follow the edge of the forest until we clear them!”

Qualtan nodded. He had never seen a battle of this magnitude and was fascinated by it. He could see the hand to hand combat; the sword thrusts; the parries. Orcs on horseback mustered with wickedly pointed spears as one band seemed intent on holding their line at the edge of the forest’s doorway while the other attempted to break through from the open field.

“Come on,” Glaive insisted, pulling Qualtan away.

They followed their path back somewhat to ensure no sentry would catch them, and then turned westward following the trees from a safe distance. The drumbeats still echoed from the valley but at last subsided as the two companions trekked away from the scene of battle. Their path was not direct, however, and clefts in the hills took them further out, preventing their crossing. Deep chasms foiled their progress and they soon found themselves veering steadily away from the forest. Qualtan and Glaive paused to review their maps.

“Confound it all! This way will take us beyond the forest!” Glaive said, fumbling at the torn pages. “We will be adding days if not weeks before we get back, and that’s just getting us to the other side of the forest, mind you!”

Qualtan looked around. The canyons angled into the distance, keeping them trapped to one side. “If our rations last us, we will still have to figure out at what point we’ve re-entered the forest and attempt to gain our bearings from there,” he said, looking at the fading trees grimly. Even more delay, he thought.

Glaive threw the maps down in frustration. Qualtan picked them up, studying their contents. “Wait. You take our route further out than needed. If we continue straight-aways from here, we will come into Hermloate, capitol of Hermstingle, the land of the high elves. The high elves! We can get help from there and be better off on our way back!” he said triumphantly. “How could you not see that? Our path leads straightly to it.”

Glaive yanked the maps from Qualtan’s hands. “Our path does NOT lead straightly to it. High elves care nothing of outsiders and rarely traverse the outside world. They guard their lands jealously against any that trespass. That’s the last place you want to go.”

“The elves are friends to our kind! They would welcome strangers in need.”

Glaive cocked an eyebrow, a half snarl on his lips. “Our kind? You mean YOUR kind. You forget I am half-orcne and the enmity between the elves and orcs goes back farther than the enmity between orcs and man. Their dreaded riders will cut us down the moment we are spotted!”

“High elves…” Qualtan said, looking beyond Glaive. He knew very well their legend. They had assisted the Alliance during the Great War, withdrawing quickly after they had foreseen the Evil Ones’ defeat. They were the nobility of the elf folk, and many elven rulers would travel to Hermstingle to show obeisance. Even Aurelus had only rare contact with them, for as Glaive had said, they were unwilling to involve themselves with matters beyond their boundaries, preferring to keep to themselves. They had declined assisting the Alliance until their sister city nation of Hermsflaavil had been destroyed by Those That Stand In Shadow, forcing their involvement. His uncle had told him the one time he had entered Hermloate it was in awe of a beauty that no human city could ever match.

Seeing Qualtan’s face, Glaive continued. “They also maintain an alliance with the Horse Folk, the Centaur-Kind, who live at the end of the Gladed Forest that only just touches near their lands. Even if we were allowed entry into the elf lands, the centaurs would not allow us to pass. They only just endure the elves, and like our sort even less. They are always busy rooting out smugglers and raiders in that part of the Gladed Forest, and view all as possible threats. We will not be going there!”

“The grand city of Hermloate. To see that would be a rare thing indeed,” Qualtan intoned.

“Oh no, you don’t! I’ve seen that starry-eyed look enough times already! We are not going to Hermstingle!”

“My uncle was their friend and ally during the War.”

“And they have since been done with that, and him, thank you. We are not going,” Glaive insisted.

“They can help us cut through the forest safely, I’m sure of it. We can save weeks of travel and they will probably guide us on our way.”

“We are not going.”

“My uncle’s name will gain us entrance, of that I’m sure.”

“Change that. I am not going!”

“They will welcome a knight-to-be of Turinthia and his noble squire,” Qualtan said mirthfully, his mind made up.

“I told you. We did this once already. Despite myself I joined you on your mad trip to Cuthbert and somehow made it out alive. I won’t be giving over my neck to an elvish axe man next! That is my final say on this!”

“Your final say?”

“My final say. You’ll not coerce me again! I refuse!” Glaive said, stomping his foot in assertion.

Later, as they traveled to Hermstingle, Glaive complained throughout.

“Why? Why do I keep doing this? I’m mad, that’s what it is. Only a madman would fall for this twice!”

Qualtan attempted to ignore him.

“A half-orc going to see elves, the high elves, no less!” Glaive continued. “I must wish to die. That’s it. I want to die. You have driven me to this. You want me to die!”

Qualtan rolled his eyes resignedly. As Glaive continued to extol upon the many ways elves would put orcs to death, Qualtan again thought to the haegtes’ final condemnation of him. Surely, an attempt to curse him, he thought, to torment him for her death. He would not succumb to her lies. He would talk to his uncle about the matter as soon as he could, to ensure no spell had been weaved upon him. Qualtan smiled inwardly. Thinking of his uncle gave him additional comfort. He would have to seek him out.

“…they’ll probably tie me to a pole and use me for spear casting practice!” Glaive continued. As they left the scorched lands of the Burnt Hills, the magical power of Hermstingle asserted itself. Meadows began to surround them, aflame with a pale golden brilliance. Blue and yellow flowers that dotted the fields seemed brighter, the sky’s color crisper, as if the intruders’ senses had been dulled and suddenly made clear. A growing luminance could be seen ahead that increased as they drew near. The legendary city of Hermloate began to materialize as if from thin air. A crystalline cluster of glassy towers coronated with billowing banners sparkled in the sun’s reflection. Its guarding ramparts were of a metal that seemed more liquid than solid. Rainbow hues played upon them and changed in intensity as clouds drew cover from high above.

“It’s as if we have trespassed into a different world,” Qualtan said in wonderment.

“A faerie world, remember that!” Glaive added. “Let’s just make this quick, shall we? This glowing land already makes my temples ache.”

As they continued on their way, the sound of trumpets rang and both Qualtan and Glaive knew their arrival had been duly seen and reported. There was movement atop the high towers and Qualtan could just see squared platforms that sat atop many of them. Objects began to detach from the platforms, hurtling into the sky towards them. Qualtan motioned Glaive to stop.

“Riders!” Glaive said nervously. “We are doomed.”

“Nonsense! Enough with your words,” Qualtan said.

“Just keep your sword arm visible and free,” Glaive said.

The flying objects numbered five, homing in on their location. Qualtan could finally make them out. They were indeed the dreaded riders of the high elves, legendary knights that struck terror in any foe that stood before them. It was easy to see why. Their steeds were enchanted beasts with leonine bodies, their legs ending in great predatory claws. Their heads were like an eagle’s, with deep, probing eyes hidden by a feathered mask of black and a wickedly tapered beak of bright orange. Muscular, brown wings thundered as they flew about. The griffons’ cries were sharp and shrill as two of them landed, one before and one behind the intruders, while the other three remained guardedly circling overhead.

Striped lances of yellow and red were drawn towards them as their owners raised their helmets’ visors. Qualtan looked at the elvish knights. Their skin was pale grey, matching the color of their eyes. White-grey hair was tucked neatly behind their cowls. Ivory stones encrusted their silvery armor. The elves looked with curiosity at the pair. A threatening cry from a griffon nearly made Glaive lose control of his panicked steed.

At last, one of the elves spoke. “What business have you riding over the hallowed lands of Hermstingle? It is forbidden to do so without invitation.”

“We seek permission to pass the halls of Hermloate en route to Tringolm, capitol of Turinthia, where I shall become knight in their Order of the Bearded Lion. My name is Qualtan, son to Eucradus, nephew to Aurelus, he who was ally to Hermstingle during the Great War.”

The lead elf started at the name. Qualtan half smiled to Glaive, confident in their response.

“From whence do you travel?” the elf continued.

“Cuthbert,” Glaive said.

“You take the long way to Tringolm,” the elf said suspiciously.

“Indeed, you could say we fought through ghuls and a haegtes to get here,” Glaive added.

“A battle between bands of orcs raged at the foot of the Gladed Forest. We had no choice but to travel ‘round. We mean no disrespect,” Qualtan said.

The elf nodded solemnly. “Cuthbert, you say. You aided in their cause?”

“Yes. Do you know of it?” Qualtan asked.

The elf sat straight, a haughty look to his face and in his voice.

“We know of it. Representatives of their peasantry dared to come here to seek aid.”

“Did you provide any?” Glaive replied with annoyed intent, causing Qualtan to give him a quick look of consternation.

The elf appraised Glaive coolly. “We did not. We do not involve ourselves in such matters. We sent them away. You are an orcne.”

“Half-orcne,” Glaive corrected.

“You ride together to Tringolm? Are you to be a knight as well?” the elf asked, incredulous.

“I … am his squire and servant,” Glaive quickly inserted to Qualtan’s amusement.

The long eyebrows of the elf rose upon his smooth brow. “I have never seen the like!” He then turned to Qualtan. “You claim to be son of Eucradus?”

“I am.”

“Do you carry the sword?”

Qualtan was taken aback, surprised by their knowledge. “Yes, I do.”

“Approach and show me.”

Qualtan complied, removing himself from his nervous steed. He walked to the lead elf, the griffon he rode staring intently. Qualtan slowly removed his sword, raising it aloft.

“I know of its power,” the elf said, leaning forward on his saddle to better review it. “I shall not touch it.” He smiled, directing his fellow rider to lower his weapon.

“The names of your father and uncle are known to us here. They grant you welcome.”

Glaive breathed a sigh of relief.

“I am Escoch, Lieutenant of the First Squadron. You are well met!” he said, bowing slightly. “Follow me. Our Lord and Lady will wish to see you.” The elf signaled to the other three riders in the sky, and they quickly dispersed, returning to the city.

“A half-orc and a knight-to-be of Turinthia. I have never seen the like,” the lead elf repeated, smiling broadly as he shook his head.

Returning to his steed, Qualtan joined Glaive and followed Escoch as he and his other rider allowed the griffons to tread on ground, their wings neatly tucked away.

“You mentioned a haegtes?” Escoch questioned.

Qualtan nodded.

“You bring stories to tell that will interest our rulers!”

“How did you know about the sword?” Glaive asked as Qualtan motioned hurriedly for him to desist.

The elf smiled, looking back at them. “Ownership of the sword was contested by our hero, once.”

“Termenon the elf, The Sword of Eagles!” Qualtan responded excitedly.

“You know his name? I am impressed,” Escoch said.

“He took part in the Trial, the contest in which great warriors chosen by the Arch Mages battled over the right to wield this blade,” Qualtan said. He remembered well the tales Aurelus had told him of his father, who had won the spirited contest.

“You will meet him as well. He is the Prince of the Realm. He will be very interested to see the sword again. Very interested,” the elf said, laughing at the words. Qualtan looked to Glaive, unsure of the elf’s intent.

The escorts led them past grand doors of carved, bluish rock. Within was a city beyond belief. Every edifice seemed to dazzle with jade, marble, gold, and bronze. Griffons danced in the sky as golden balloons floated upwards to greet them. Doorways were adorned with jewels and precious stones while glass-like carriages fringed with brass passed by, led by white horses. Glaive had to put his hands to his face as he gazed at the treasures before him. Every street seemed to boast intricate statues and grandly sculptured scenes. Not a single space was humble or dull. Trees and vines entwined between noble arches and intricate garden tunnels. Elves in silken tunics with colored robes walked about, smiling at the strangers as they went. Beauty, tranquility, and peace enveloped the city of Hermloate, stirring Qualtan’s heart with melancholic desire.

Escoch stopped at last before a majestic, open portico of brightly painted stone supported by flower-covered pillars, which seemed to extend for some distance towards a blue-green structure. Elvish musicians happily played while other elves painted, sung, or lounged through the width of the gaudy porch.

“Your city is beautiful indeed,” Qualtan said, as a rush of elfin children ran past.

Escoch nodded, appreciating the compliment. “Our city is the city of dreams. Only a handful of outworlders such as yourselves have ever had chance to partake of it. Cherish its memory when you leave.”

The estate of Hermloate’s ruling King and Queen seemed carved from a type of rock or stone found nowhere else. Its walls twinkled with sparkling bits of reflective radiance.

“This is Phlinglassin, seat of the royal house,” Escoch said, as he and his fellow rider disembarked to bow low before its bronze-like doorway. The doors opened seemingly of their own accord, towards a lush garden path filled with golden-leaved trees and a great rectangular basin filled by crossing jets of water.

A host of robed elves appeared from outer doorways, smiling gaily, looking to the riders and then to Qualtan and Glaive.

“Before you meet our rulers, you must be refreshed from your travels,” said Escoch. “Please take care of our guests! Prepare them for our Lord and Lady!”

The elves bowed, giggling amongst themselves as they assisted the two strangers from their horses.

“Your armor shall be shined and your spirits refreshed!” Escoch said.

“I don’t know what to say,” Qualtan said, laughing as the elves placed white, trumpeted flowers over their heads and took them away by hand. “What are the flowers for?” Qualtan asked. The elves continued to laugh.

“That flower is called the Eillingpure. It is a token of welcome used by my people,” Escoch said, laughing as they were pulled by the crowd of over-eager elves. Escoch observed the elves and directed one of them to remain by his side.

“Inform Lord Veltrus and Lady Marena of our guests. Also inform Prince Termenon, especially him.” The elf bowed and quickly ran off.

Escoch’s other rider positioned his griffon next to him, and said, “The Prince will be most eager to see the son of he who won the sword from his grasp.”

“Yes, the sword that should have been his. He will be eager indeed,” Escoch laughed.

Qualtan and Glaive were led into vast pools of steaming water that poured from giant, glass fish. Elves holding ornate jugs poured herbs and oils into the water, creating a soothing aroma of spicy scents. Clothes and armor were taken from Qualtan and Glaive, and they relaxed into the pools. Above them in various alcoves were other elves that played softly on harp and flute.

Other rooms held similar pools, occupied by relaxing elfin occupants. Platters of fruit and wine were brought to their attention. “Ahh. This is the life, indeed!” said Glaive as he indulged himself fully in the pleasures offered to them. “Your uncle’s name carries more power than any chunk of gold could. If this is the kind of treatment I can expect from here on in to Turinthia, I am all for it!” He sighed happily.

Qualtan asked, “Do all large cities have places of recreation like this?”

“Some do, mayhap, but no city I’ve ever seen has an inkling of the beauty and richness here, trust me!” Glaive said, as he flirted openly with a shy female elf servant who brought him additional foods to try. “Beautiful, yes, truly beautiful indeed … and costly.” Glaive eyed the richly jeweled necklace the servant elf wore round her graceful, grey neck. “Tell me, what is your name again?”

“My name is Alyssa, kind visitor,” the elf said, smiling broadly.

“Well then, Alyssa,” he started. “Are all servants adorned with such baubles as that?”

The elf looked down to her sparkling collar.

“This? This is but a decorative trinket. It holds no value here,” she said as, somewhat confused, she rose to leave.

“By the gods, did you hear that, Qual? All these jewels and stones about, and they have no idea of the riches they carry! If servant girls wear bands of such wealth, what will the others hold? Such wealth…” Glaive said, awestruck.

After some time, they were prompted to leave the pool. Long, silken robes were given to them, and they were walked into a lounging room of large, velvety cushions. Here they stayed, waiting for their clothing and armor to be returned to them. When they were, Qualtan had to shove Glaive awake after he had fallen asleep with a riotous snoring.

“Such wealth…” Glaive mumbled as he snorted awake.

Giggling female elves appeared next, laying down clothing for them. All stains and rips had been cleaned and repaired. When Qualtan’s armor was presented it shone like a sun. Any prior mark or indent had disappeared. The elves insisted upon aiding with their dress, and shaving their guests. As they did, they poked fun at Qualtan’s moustache, for elves held no facial hair, and he refused its removal. Qualtan could understand some of what was said, and they giggled all the more when he attempted to speak to them in the elvish tongue.

Two of them reached out to touch the hair above his lips, coyly laughing amongst themselves at its feel.

“I must sound like a fool. The bits I do speak are not the same as those words of the high elves. I must sound like a child to them,” Qualtan said, as the elves continued to laugh merrily at them. “I am trying to say thank you for all of their gifts.”

“Well, I hope they understood you. An orcne could get used to pampering like this!”

“I’m not sure. All they do is laugh in response!” Qualtan said, chuckling to himself as they attempted to refit his boots, nearly toppling him over.

At last, a male elf appeared, bowing before them both. He spoke the common tongue, albeit haltingly.

“I am Auzsure. I bring you now to our great leaders,” he said, with some difficulty.

“This is it,” Glaive said. “Do I look non-orcish enough?”

“Let us hope, before they deduce your true nature,” Qualtan replied.

Following a red-tiled hallway, they were led at last to the hall of the elf King, which sat high, overlooking a series of domed rooftops below. Qualtan felt humbled indeed. Even Glaive had to clear his throat nervously. The ceiling of the room was adorned in artistic murals high overhead. Birds flew about freely in the vast area. Great green columns of unknown stone surged upwards, covered with living vines. Twin rows of elves armored in bright, glowing green stood to either side of the raised dais where two large chairs had been seemingly carved from solid rock. Long rectangular windows of colored glass showed images of elven heroes in battle. Large, trailing banners showing a griffon and cloud, the symbol of the Hermstingle nation, seemed to float over their heads in the air.

The King of the high elves, Lord Veltrus, sat before them. His long hair was of the purest white, and it trailed in long ribbons past his chest over his lap. He was dressed in richly decorated garments of gold-green. A plain circlet of silver was placed on his head. He was not known to Qualtan directly, but Aurelus had spoken of him at times, and with great respect. The King was one of the oldest of the high elves, well over one thousand winters old. He was one of the founding rulers of their Kingdom when there had been three such nations: Hermstingle, Hermsflaavil, and Hermsinlinthel. This had been in the age when Man was still young. The high elves had first come together to carve out their cities to separate themselves from the other races, including the many elf tribes, who they felt were unequal to them. Their original ruler was a great wizard elf named Hermstead the Wise and he distributed his lands among his three sons, for which each nation was named. Hermsinlinthel had fallen centuries past to invading armies of evil. Hermsflaavil was destroyed by the Dark Ones, which forced their dalliance with the Alliance to protect their last standing refuge, Hermstingle. Lord Veltrus was offered membership into the Council of Mages, but he had refused, for he saw no value to it with regards to his own race. The doings of Men and the other Kind of their world were of no concern to him.

His Queen, Lady Marena, was of equal power and authority. Both ruled their land as equals and one could not issue law nor dictate edicts without the consent of the other. Her beauty was dazzling, despite her similar ancient years. Her hair was a mixture of white/blonde and her eyes were dark and deep. She was dressed in garments that seemed of the purest gold, and Glaive had to hide a gasp as he thought of the value of what she wore to the outside world.

Both leaders looked at their visitors with an unflinching stare. Though polite in demeanor, their eyes seemed to bore deep into the visitors’ souls, as if validating their inner character. Glaive could not maintain the stare and nervously looked down. Qualtan endured the wordless appraisal until at last both King and Queen smiled, rising from their thrones. Qualtan immediately took to one knee, and Glaive, seeing the gesture, quickly did the same.

“To the Lord and Lady of Phlinglassin, seat of Hermloate, and the nation of Hermstingle, I give thanks to your courtesy and welcome. I am Qualtan, son of Eucradus, nephew to Aurelus. This is Glaive, my…” Qualtan hesitated briefly before continuing, as he looked to Glaive for approval. “…squire and loyal servant. We travel to Tringolm, ruling seat of the Kingdom of Turinthia, where I will become a knight.”

“Rise, Qualtan, Glaive. I am Lord Veltrus, and this is Lady Marena, my wife. Your lineage, Qualtan, is known to us, as is the credential you carry.” Qualtan felt somewhat uneasy, for the King’s eyes seem to enlarge as he looked to the young warrior’s sheathed sword.

Lady Marena spoke next. “Your lineage is not known to us, Glaive, but the actions you have carried from Cuthbert are. Indeed, we should also mention your knight-to-be’s successful efforts to free the Darklight Forest from the druid called Romulax.” Qualtan started at this, for he did not know the elves had knowledge of the event. How could they, he thought to himself? “We welcome you in truth to our city. Come forward, I pray thee.” Lady Marena extended her arm and Qualtan, as an expected courtesy, approached her to kiss her hand, bowing again. Glaive quickly followed, nearly missing the courtly cue.

“With your permission, may I see the Goldenflame?” Lord Veltrus asked gently.

Qualtan rose, moving before the King’s throne. He removed the sword with slight concern.

“My lord, there are magicks that…”

“I am well aware of them, do not fear.” To Qualtan’s surprise, the elf King removed the blade from his hands, hefting its weight with no damage being done to him.

“Do not be surprised, young knight-to-be. I remember the sword well, and it remembers me, it seems. I helped to create it along with your uncle and his fellow mages. It cannot harm me.” He felt alongside its edges, palming the flat side of its blade. Smiling, he returned it to Qualtan.

“Bear it well, for it is like none other. Your father bore it with honor and nobility. He was a true hero to your people, and to mine as well, during the War,” the King said.

“Aye, he bore it well indeed and no truer Man was there!” said a strong voice from behind them. Another elf had stridden into the chamber. He was young and fit, with flowing grey-blonde hair and a bright gleam to his eyes. He was beautiful as all elves were, with a quality that seemed to come from beyond a hidden veil unreserved for others. His armor was plated with shining stones of green and white. He was tall, lithe, and moved confidently, with a circlet of silver similar to that of his father’s adorning his noble brow.

“I am Prince Termenon, and I remember that sword and your father very well!” he said with a bright smile.

Qualtan turned around to bow at the Prince.

“Yes, you are as noble as your family’s blood. I welcome you both to our fair country! Well met, my friends!” he said, happily extending an arm to both Qualtan and Glaive. “We will have much to talk about! You and I already share a brotherhood of sorts.”

Qualtan was slightly confused at the comment. He turned towards the elf King, who laughed softly.

“Both you and Termenon share the same powers. As Eucradus before you, his strength and abilities had been augmented as have yours. He shared in many a battle with your father.”

“Battles I am eager to share!” Termenon said. “Come! You are guests of Hermstingle and of our house! We will celebrate the return of your family’s blood! Let me lead you to your rooms for comfort, and then the festivities will soon begin!” Termenon took Qualtan by the shoulder and led him away.

Glaive quickly followed, muttering to himself, “I don’t know how much more comfort I can stand.”

After a short respite, both Qualtan and Glaive were summoned for dinner. Female elves danced in elaborate circles as ribbons trailed from their hair and arms. A large contingent of elfin nobles sat along a vast, circular table surrounding the entertainers. To one corner was a large pyramid of chromium plates that were selected by a host of servants based upon the size and type of meal being served. A flurry of cooks and attendants dashed about, as music played from a side panel occupied by brightly dressed musicians.

Qualtan took an instant liking to Termenon. It was hard indeed to accept the fact that this slender elf with piercing grey eyes and youthful appeal was a “mere” two hundred and forty years old. He too spoke of his time spent training as a warrior, and the wanderlust that seized him to escape into the outside world. He told of the quests taken to prove worthy of his title of Prince of the Realm as well as to win membership into the Order of the High Forest, Hermstingle’s royal retinue of knights. Glaive had little interest in the elf’s conversation. His attention was squarely fixated on the multitude of rubies, carbuncles, opals, and diamonds that ornamented every tray, and every fork. His mug was rarely empty as observant servers quickly sped to its attention. His eyes soon began to grow weary, and he mumbled happily to himself. Qualtan, on the other hand, was infatuated with the Prince’s tales, for he felt him a kindred spirit. For long hours they conversed. Qualtan spoke of his recent adventures, while Termenon spoke of the Trial and his sponsorship by the Wizard of Greyfog Gorge, an elvish peer of Aurelus from the School, who had been his father’s mentor and tutor as well as his own for many an age before retiring to the solitude of that mysterious place. For a moment, Termenon grew serious and his true age was apparent.

“We had taken the Evil Ones too lightly, and perhaps ourselves too assuredly, when they dared to attack Hermsflaavil. As we elves are the first Kind, our knowledge is great, but we were blinded by it, and brought ruin upon ourselves when our sister nation was brought down. It was then we realized Aurelus and the others had been right all along, and we were humbled by our own arrogance. The Wizard of Greyfog Gorge had been one of the few high elves to champion the Alliance, and we at last accepted his pleas. We joined with the Alliance, and I was chosen because of my skill and valor to compete for the sword the School’s Council had created with the aid of my father.”

Termenon paused, his eyes looking far away into the past as he spoke. “To have won the sword and led my people in their rightful revenge against Those That Stand in Shadow would have been a true honor for me and my house. Alas…” he sighed, returning to the present. “That honor went to your father who claimed victory instead. Still, I did my part and with his help and that of the Alliance, we kept Hermstingle safe from the Hated Ones. Many a battle I fought side by side with him. I mourned when I heard of his death.”

Termenon stopped to appraise Qualtan. “You are your father’s son. His eyes, his hair, and his nobility I see in you. He would have been proud.”

Qualtan smiled, grateful for the compliment.

“I knew of your mother as well, for I met her once. I feel I have so much to tell you!”

“Tell me more, then! How were they? How did they seem?”

“Her eyes were dark, as was her hair, long and straight! She was strong, a free spirit, wild and uncontested. Your father loved her. At times your father doubted his worthiness to carry the sword, doubted himself as a warrior, but she was there for him. He knew what others had experienced, what we elves had experienced, and felt guilty that he should carry the sword to deal justice for us instead. Towards the end he wished to free himself of the burden he felt it had become, and indeed would have, had he survived that final contest that brought him down by deception and deceit, the only way such a warrior as he could have fallen. He no longer wanted the sword. As life becomes for your short-lived Kind, he had grown weary despite the magicks that placed him above his brothers. He knew there were others that truly deserved to wield it more than he.”

Qualtan frowned, unsure he liked the tone and description Termenon had taken with regards to his father. Uncle Aurelus had described Eucradus as a proud and strong man, not a defeated one, as the elf Prince had just said. He had never felt unworthy of the sword, of that Qualtan was sure.

As if sensing the altered mood, Termenon quickly changed the subject.

“You have come at an opportune time. Every year we hold the Festival of the Knight, where our Order competes with its own for the honor of being Best Knight. As Prince it is my duty to lead the Order of the High Forest, and I have won the honor the most. In fact, I have laid claim to the title the last seven attempts without interruption!” he said, obviously pleased with himself.

“As a knight-to-be of the Order of the Bearded Lion, you will surely enjoy seeing the contest! It heralds a month of celebration and pageantry! Only one outside of our Kind has ever participated, and almost won!”

“Who was that?” Qualtan asked as he left his troubled thoughts.

“Why, your father of course! A privilege given to none save him since our Order’s inception!”

Qualtan was awed by the thought his father had participated in such an event. To contest against knights of the high elves would have been a truly courageous feat, for their speed, agility, and swordsmanship was considered second to none. A mighty warrior he would have been to engage in such a spectacle!

“Termenon, you fill me with more and more that I did not know about my father. Pray tell me this new tale!”

Termenon laughed wildly. “I think we should best reserve this until the morn! The hour has grown late, and there are none but us left, save my royal guards, and your companion squire who has been asleep for some time, judging by his snoring.” He nodded to the heavily breathing half-orc who lay with his head covered by his arms.

“Let us retire for the nonce! Tomorrow, I will guide you through our fabled city, and introduce you to the Order! You may watch us prepare for the event! Truly an omen of good that you should arrive at this time, just as your father had, years before!”

Qualtan rose, bowing to his host. “Yes, you are correct! The time has escaped me, for you have regaled me with your memories of my father, and my mother! I am beholden to you for that.”

“Nonsense!” Termenon said, bowing in return. “As guests, the honor is due you. You will be called for morning feast. Er, does your servant require assistance?” The Prince looked curiously at Glaive.

Qualtan laughed, lifting the still sleeping Glaive onto his shoulder. “I will take him back. Again, Prince, my many thanks for the kindness you have given me this night! I will see you in the morning, then.”

“The morning, then, brother!” Termenon said, waving as Qualtan left the now quiet chamber, a loudly snoring half-orcne carried over his back.

Standing alone, Termenon was soon greeted by Escoch, Lieutenant of the First Squadron, who slid into view from the darkness of a curtained corner. He bowed to his Prince who barely noticed the gesture.

“My liege,” Escoch said, rising. “I have remained as you requested.”

Termenon nodded. “How the fates can play games, eh, Escoch? To have lost the sword to a mere human those few years ago only to be rewarded with its return, heralded by the son of the very man who bested me for it.” Termenon walked about, playfully pulling at the golden tassels of the long, yellow, embroidered cloths that covered the tables of the recently completed feast.

His tone grew angry. “I still bristle at the memory, a human Kind winning a weapon that was forged with the help of my father. An elfin blade that should have been ours … mine! The humiliation of that defeat has never left me. To see it again brings the disgrace back from my memory. And now, the sword is held by a whelp who affords orcs as his companions! And this is to be a knight? It is disgraceful, Escoch, disgraceful!”

Escoch waited patiently for the signs of Termenon’s rage to lessen before daring to speak. “What is to be done?” he asked at last.

Termenon stared back, a stern look upon his handsome features. He shrugged his shoulders, raising his eyebrows high. “I will have my honor returned to me,” he said, matter-of-factly.

The morning brought little relief to Qualtan. In his dreams he recalled his battle with the haegtes. He vividly recreated in his mind the image of his thrust, hurling her onto the sharpened tip of the iron rod that poked out from the wall. He saw her impaled again, and her greasy efforts to pull herself free. The dreaded words of his future doom gurgled from her slavering mouth, and her final cackling laugh at his fate jolted him awake. He scanned the room with a start, realizing at last where he was. He clutched his face in his hands, wishing he could erase the hag’s fearful words. He sat for a time, clearing his thoughts, and then rose to a gentle chiming that emanated from a trio of visitors that appeared to wake both him and his companion from sleep. The elfin maidens giggled shyly as they retreated from the groaning of a half-orcne who rubbed at his throbbing temples miserably.

“Blast the noise!” Glaive said, stirring.

“The chime was barely audible! You exaggerate so!” Qualtan said, dressing from his room, putting away his dark thoughts for the moment.

“Bah, my head was already chiming!” Glaive said. “Agh, I drank far too much!” He rolled over in pain.

“Indeed, you made a spectacle of yourself.” Qualtan entered Glaive’s adjoining chamber.

“Well, it didn’t help being sacked about like a bag of potatoes!” Glaive retorted.

“Hah! It was either that or drag you back to our rooms. Be thankful I didn’t leave you there for further embarrassment!”

Glaive moaned, slowly pulling himself out of his bed. He reached into his weather-beaten satchels and withdrew a ragged brush lined with tightly pressed leaves of the ginjack tree, known for its disinfectant properties. He brushed through his sharp fangs, rinsing in a water-filled bowl brought by the maidens.

“It’s about time you did that,” Qualtan joked.

“I don’t like mornings, nor do I like being abused in them,” Glaive said, as he swished mouthfuls of liquid.

“Fine, fine. I meant no harm.”

“So when do we leave then?” Glaive asked, wiping his face with a towel.

“Soon. Termenon invited me to see their tourney before we leave. Although I wish us to arrive at Tringolm as quickly as possible, it truly appeals to me to see the event that my father had competed in as its sole human entrant!”

Glaive moaned in response. “By Urgsh’s iron fingernail! Why the devil would it?”

“I’m surprised at you,” Qualtan said. “With all these riches around us, I would think you would wish us to stay!”

“I only appreciate being surrounded by riches when they are mine.”

This time it was Qualtan who moaned in defeat.

Outside their rooms, the elves had waited patiently. Still giggling they led the visitors to an open balcony surrounded by vines and flowers. There sat the ruling house of Hermstingle, its King, Queen, and Prince. Other elves mingled about. Members of the court talked, laughed and tossed colored balls at one another in idle sport. Partaking of fruit, rough bread, and flavored jams, the rulers spoke at length about the doings of the outside world. The King asked about the mages of the School, and specifically wanted to know more about Aurelus, for he had not spoken to him for many winters. Their pet, a large, lean canine of pure white leapt about, playfully attempting to steal morsels of food from unguarded plates. It found little luck in sneaking past Qualtan’s guard, but found more success at nipping quick pieces of fruit from Glaive’s overstuffed platter. As Glaive struggled with the beast, Qualtan again thanked his hosts for any help in reaching Turinthia.

“I will lead you myself, after you have been given an opportunity to see our fair city, and to see the Festival of the Knight that your father strove in,” Termenon said.

“Yes, of course, it would be an honor. How did my father perform in the tourney?”

“He lost,” Termenon said, drawing polite laughter from the elves that surrounded them.

Glaive did not take notice of the discussion. Having pulled his platter away from the white dog, he was staring at it now as it quickly sat beside him to beg. Glaive growled, showing his fangs, to which the animal growled back.

Their tour was led by Termenon and Escoch, who took them around the noble elfin city. Its beauty was incomparable, ethereal in its faerie quality. Truly, magic had been used to create the towers that stood so high, as griffons dived and soared overhead. Termenon spoke of its history, its artists, and its scholars.

“A pity your Kind is still as children in their growth. Perhaps one day your people will mature enough to create such beauty as the elves,” Termenon said proudly as they overlooked an immense field of giant, ornate fountains where citizens lolled and studied.

Qualtan began to feel the stings of the verbal darts being thrown his way. Still he said nothing, out of respect to his noble host. They soon reached a large, flat building that glistened golden white. Green parks surrounded open areas where armored elves sparred. Elves on horseback galloped back and forth, straddling barriers that separated them from their opponents who mock jousted with padded lances.

“There are the tiltyards, for the Festival,” Termenon said. “And these are my brothers in the Order of the High Forest.” He pointed to the many elves that prepared for the event. As they grew closer, Termenon explained.

“The Festival is an annual event to glorify our knights. Thirty-two contestants are selected. There are five areas of competition: archery, the rings, the joust, full armor combat, and then the final combat between the last two entrants who have won the prior four. He who wins that battle wins the honor of Best Knight.”

“What are the rings?” Qualtan asked, unfamiliar with the term.

“Ah. Elves on horseback follow a track, striving to impale their lances through golden rings which are placed in various areas of difficulty. The elf who secures the most points wins the event.”

“I see.”

“Come. I want you to meet my brothers. They will be excited to speak with you when they learn you are the son of Eucradus, and the wielder of the sword!” Despite his protests, Termenon called out to his fellow knights and quickly introduced him. As a fellow knight (or soon to be), they welcomed him heartily, plying him with questions. Glaive stood to one side, bored as he could be. Such tournaments held little interest for him. Meaningless battles between troll-headed brutes, he thought, like a beast trying to show its rivals who has the loudest bellow. Arms crossed, he sat on a bench, observing the tableau from afar. Escoch took notice and sat beside him.

“You seem uninterested in this.”

Glaive raised his eyebrows. “No offense to you or your Kind. I am not a warrior, by trade.”

“As I can see, judging by the weapon on your arm,” Escoch replied, looking at Glaive’s wrist gauntlet. “There is no need for such weaponry here. You are safe.” Glaive felt uncomfortable under the elf’s stare, and quickly positioned his arm away from view.

“It’s a trifling, nothing more. You knights carry your swords about, do you not?”

Escoch laughed. “True, except our weapons reflect the honor of their bearer. That is a strange implement for a squire to carry about.”

“What of it, then?” Glaive remarked, becoming annoyed at the insinuation.

“Peace! I meant no offense. I was merely curious. You are outsiders after all, and your ways are different than ours. If I have offended, I apologize,” he said, bowing low.

Glaive cleared his throat, somewhat assuaged by the gesture. Elves!

“It’s all right. Being of half-orcish nature makes me naturally wary of being surrounded by armed elves.”

Escoch laughed deeply. “Ah, friend Glaive, you amuse me greatly! Let me make amends. The others will be entertained by your master for hours to come. They will speak on such things as the varieties of swordplay and other hastiludes until the sun breaks from the sky. As a Rider, I did not wish to participate in the event, and find as little value in this as you. Come, I will show you things of better interest!”

“My thanks, Escoch, but I will have no trouble merely to sit here and…”

“I would show you the great treasury of Hermstingle!”

“Treasury?” Glaive said, his eyes suddenly wide with renewed interest.

“Yes! It is a great plaything to us, a vast storage place of baubles and knick-knacks that bring pleasure to our eyes and adorn our clothes and homes, but little else. Still, we know its value to other Kind, and I’m sure you would like to see it!”

“Well…” Glaive looked over to Qualtan who had disappeared within a circle of warrior elves. “…why not?” he said at last, his avaricious nature suddenly piqued.

The warrior elves that engaged Qualtan were a riotous bunch as all knights seemed to be. They laughed and cajoled and warmly brought the human into their fold. They ushered Qualtan into a large, white hall that would later be filled with Festival celebrations, and there they spoke of past victories and defeats, their own elvish training, and their codes of conduct. They sung and told tales of their elvish ladies, their noble rulers, and the sadness of the fall of Hermsflaavil. Drink was passed freely as Qualtan was pressed for stories of his own, which he shared. Both he and Termenon spoke of the account of their own special training with Aurelus and the Wizard of Greyfog Gorge and the abilities gained therewith.

“A match! A match between our two heroes!” one elf proclaimed. Soon others joined in the chorus. Qualtan initially resisted, but Termenon insisted, and soon both were placed on either side of a flat, wooden table. The knights surrounded them as they clasped hands.

“I will try not to injure you. Let us see whose order is the greater, the knights of the High Forest or the knights of the Bearded Lion!” Termenon teased.

Qualtan smiled back, enjoying the affair. “As I for you.”

“Hah! That’s the spirit! Come, we need an observer to score our mettle!” Termenon said. An elf quickly sat between the two, and at a signal, the contest began. Both pushed their shoulders forward in an attempt to gain leverage. The knights around them pointed and clapped as both contestants sought to twist back the wrist of the other. Their eyes began to glow from the magicks that both had been given.

“I am sorry I will have to shame you thus!” Termenon groaned as the exhibition began to tax its combatants.

“Save your words for yourself! You will need them!” Qualtan responded, gritting his teeth in a wide snarl.

The table began to creak at their exertions. Sweat beaded on their foreheads. The ring of elves began to chant, stomping and clapping in unison as they sensed the matter would soon conclude.

Qualtan began to gain an advantage, slowly pushing back the thinner Termenon. The elf’s eyes began to flash all the more intensely as he struggled to right himself. Suddenly a sharp snap was heard, and then two, and the table, unable to bear the mighty thews being pushed down against it, shattered, spilling both elf and human onto the floor. The other knights hooted and laughed as the contest was left undecided and they lifted both contestants to their feet. Termenon laughed loudly, hugging Qualtan in congratulations.

“The matter is unfinished! What trickery is this?” he joked, refilling a tankard that was passed into Qualtan’s hands. The elves called for a re-match, but both Qualtan and Termenon, massaging their tired forearms, declined.

“We must have a conclusion!” another knight cried out.

Termenon suddenly waved at his followers, a mock look of surprise on his face.

“Brothers! The battle between Turinthia and Hermstingle must have a victor! Our honor demands it!” he said to the laughter and clapping of all.

“Let us win victory when this young knight competes against us in the Festival!” Qualtan became silent, pausing at these words. Some of the elves did as well, but quickly joined in agreement over the idea.

“As his father joined us, let us now extend our hand to the son as well! Let him represent his order and vie against us to prove his worth!” The knights raised their cups, cheering as they did.

Qualtan bowed, embarrassed and confused. “Termenon, I am truly honored by this, but I did not want to intrude upon your rites.”

“You do not! The offer has been given! Will you not accept?”

The other knights pressed him to answer.

“My own travel to Turinthia must be quick. I have already delayed my appointment more than I should.”

“Bah! My father will send word for you. They will not deny him! Your delay here will surely add to your credentials when you stand before your own King! Now come! It is rude to decline a request given by your hosts! Honor demands you accept!”

Qualtan was unsure. The thought of competing in a contest that only his father had been given permission to join inspired him. In addition, to compete against an elite order of knights, as well as Termenon himself, who shared the same powers as he, greatly aroused his own desire to prove himself. As the Prince had said, he was their guest, and it would be highly insulting for him to decline such a generous offer. He had no choice. Although he could imagine Glaive’s immediate anger over yet more delay, he could not, for his honor’s sake, refuse.

“Your offer humbles me, noble Prince. I accept!”

The crowd of knights roared in approval, as Termenon once again enfolded Qualtan with his mighty embrace.