“Do not fear the sword, spear, or axe. Fear the quill, ink, and the cursed hand that writes the order to war.”
King Belod Harmel, Rules of Lordship, Volume 7, Wind-Cycle 3002
THE APPEARANCE OF EVIL
The seven-day sentence in the dungeons seemed like an eternity. Elezir’s trial was swift. Stripped of his position on The Four Towns Council, he watched as years of sacrifice were erased in an instant. His pleas fell on deaf ears. By the end, he had lost not only his title, home, and lands but also the very walls that once sheltered his family.
The outcome was fixed. For years, a faction of the elders had conspired against him, their loathing simmering beneath thin smiles. But their hatred could not stop his rise. He and his family were temporarily thrown out of The Four Towns because of Eloria’s dangerous outbursts of power as a child. His enemies hoped it would be permanent. When he returned, his miraculous healing of a royal child from the House of Kralor shattered their plans, earning him a place of honor and silencing their whispers—at least for a time. Saving lives meant he had value. Yet hatred left unspoken festers. When the Black Fever struck, they pounced, twisting the misstep of housing sick Deralius as proof of Elezir’s guilt.
THE ANCIENT CLUE
Eloria’s heart churns — a storm of grief, anger, and confusion threatening to pull her under. She went from the hope of The Four Towns to its dangerous traitor in just days. The opening of that mysterious portal in the dungeon's cell haunts her. Just before her family is thrown out of The Four Towns, she diligently searches the records for any hint of the white cliffs she saw through the portal. On the day of her father’s final sentence and excommunication, she finds only one clue. It is not in the records of The Four Towns Convention’s Hall of Scrolls.
Amidst the bustle of the nearby marketplace, an old man limps toward her as she leaves the hall. He has a long white beard studded with beads and colorful stones. His eyes are piercing for his age; as if a hint of his youth somehow stubbornly refused to submit to his many years.
"‘Would you spare a coin?’ the old man asks, his outstretched hand trembling.
Eloria notices the white patch over his right eye. ‘Of course, sir,’ she says, pressing two silver coins into his hand.
As he pockets them, his gaze lingers, uncomfortably deep. “What are you searching for?” he asks suddenly.
Startled, she replies, ‘How do you know I’m searching?’
He smiles, his voice like rolling thunder. “Some questions ask themselves. What is it you seek?”
“Were you watching me inside the Hall of Scrolls?” asks Eloria.
The old man laughs, his booming voice thundering off the ground, “I cannot see. I have eyes that others do not use. Your spirit and soul are begging for an answer. Ask your question and perhaps you will find more than just that.”
“I’ve no time for riddles, old man,” answers Eloria. “I saw something I cannot unsee, and I’m looking for an answer.”
The old man smiles, pointing to the skies with his finger as if a wand, “The mind always requires an answer… mere information that does not satisfy… but that is not what the spirit requires. It requires a solution to end the pain. If your legs were crippled, would you try to find out how your legs got crippled or would you seek a healer?”
That one question raises so many other questions. Racing through her frazzled soul, thoughts of her father’s trial, the portal, and the charred sea-elves, Deralius, and even Zulion fight for her attention.
“Well,” asks the old man. “What will it be?”
“Deralius?” asks Eloria. She grabs the old man’s hands and stares deeper, searching for a clue.
“Who is that, lovie?” asks the old man, stepping away from her in confusion.
She squares her shoulders and puts her hand over her mouth, apologizing, “I’m sorry. I must go…” but as she walks away her curiosity forces her to ask him, “What would you pick?”
He smiles, kneels, and touches the grassy ground underneath him. The roots come alive, moving as if fingers, caressing his wrinkled hand. Eloria does not notice as he stands once again, “I would pick the voice within. She never lies. Her call is unmistakable. Follow what she says… always. You will know her voice for it is part of who you truly are.”
“Who are you? And why does your voice sound familiar?” asks Eloria.
“I’m from long ago,” answers the old man, with a serene and knowing smile. “A very ancient friend. I remember what you cannot. You were with me in the past… before the beginning. You are more than you think. Go south. To the land of Thra Athar, where the sea-elves dwell. There you will find who you truly are.”
“Who is Mother-Wind?” asks Eloria in desperation.
The old man turns away, looking back at her one last time, his eyes swelling with pride, “Go south. Listen to her. Become…”
She remembers the soothing sound of the strong female voice that called her from within the portal of fiery wind several days ago. Just as she returns to her senses to ask him another question, she looks up and realizes he has disappeared.
THE SONG OF THE SEA
The iron gates of Wereld slam shut behind them, a sound that echoes louder in their hearts than in their ears. With a rickety wagon full of their few belongings, Elezir, Ashar, and Eloria slog forward, weighed down by more than just the mud and their possessions. They had fought for their place among their people. Now, they were exiles.
Sitting in the wagon's backseat, Eloria glimpses at the towering walls of The Four Towns behind them. At the front, her father and mother whisper to each other, hoping she will not hear their conversation. Thankfully, the creaking of the wheels allows them this moment to themselves.
"‘Where will we go?’ Ashar asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
Elezir glances at the foggy wilderness ahead, scratching his bald head and hoary beard. ‘She told me we must go south.’"
“Elezir, are you sure about this?” asks Ashar. “We could’ve just settled outside the walls of The Four Towns. I know of several families that have been thrown out that are doing rather well for themselves by trading with those on the inside.”
“Of course, my dear. That is what we will do but first, we must settle things in Sunny’s heart,” says Elezir, as he glances back at the end of the wagon, where Eloria sits. “She just lost her first love and the only place she has ever called home. We need a recess. A time away from these woods would do us all well.”
“There are many dangers to the south, Elezir. You know this,” says Ashar with a trace of fear in her voice.
Elezir lets go of the reins, cupping his beautiful wife’s face in his meaty palms, “My dear, we have a very special daughter. I know you have only heard of her power when she was young, but I saw it firsthand in the Red Forest, and I tell you that no force on earth could compare to hers.” He grabs the reins once again, continuing, “We are safe. We need to rest, and now we have a reason to see new things and try new adventures. We are no longer fresh-faced bantlings, my dear.”
Elezir glances back one last time and sees that his daughter has fallen asleep on a mound of feather pillows.
Looking up to the rising morning sun, Elezir waxes philosophical, “I sense that our eviction from The Four Towns has a purpose. Mother-Light always has watched over us. She always will. There is a greater meaning to all of this and I’m excited to see what will happen next. Trust The Flame, my dear. Trust Anutheryloth, the blessed Mother-Star.”
Ashar shakes her head, grinning, “You should have been a Light-Priest, like your father.”
“I’m nothing like him,” fires back Elezir but even he does not believe his lie. His eyes moisten as a memory floods his soul, “He taught me many things. I remember one time when we were fishing on the Kilown River. He said that the sun and the flame were part of the same fire. ‘Listen closely, my boy,’ “he would say to me.” “‘The Flame always symbolizes the divine spark of spirit. The Wind symbolizes the soul.’”
“He would wrestle with me by the fire when I was but a boy and say that the light of The Flame could only be passed on by The Wind. They had a special relationship. He said The Wind always determined if The Flame died or lived. A strong and dry wind would spread the flames forward, creating a wildfire, and illuminating many… but a wet gale could kill it. He prattled on endlessly about inanimate things as though they were beings who were alive. He said The Flame needed to love The Wind so that she would not extinguish him. They were eternal lovers…otherwise, the world would be cold, dark, and full of death, without a spirit and a soul.”
Ashar smirks, sensing the irony, “And here we are, saved by The Flame but expelled from our home because of The Wind.”
“What do you mean?” asks Elezir.
“Eloria. Isn’t she like The Wind?” answers Ashar.
Elezir’s eyes suddenly come alive. Thoughts, far too many, compete for his attention. He remembers the words of Deralius concerning Eloria… how he spoke of gods, goddesses, and portals of great galactic power. Growing up around his religious father, he was accustomed to people using such spiritually charged language, but now the symbols had faces and beating hearts. Truly it could not be. He shrugs his shoulders as if to shake off the lunatic ponderings taking hold of his heart.
Ashar seamlessly continues in their unified thought, “They were waiting for anything to throw us out, my dear. They have hated Eloria and her gift since she was a child. They hate magic and fear power that they can’t control. Perhaps The Wind and The Flame will have to learn to live apart from each other for a time.”
Elezir looks back at the towering mountain at the center of The Four Towns, where The Flame shines brightly in the distance, “Perhaps.”
He snaps the reins. The wagon picks up a little more speed as the walls of The Four Towns become smaller.
Ashar bites her lip, wondering aloud, “We come from a place where magic was once commonplace in the olden days. The Krael were once a great people who were blessed with the power of the ancient gods. Perhaps Eloria is that gift that The Four Towns does not deserve. Maybe the world needs her more than those ungrateful bastards holed up in that great wall?”
Elezir nods, kissing Ashar on the forehead. “They got what they wanted. Now that The Flame protects them from sickness, I’m no longer needed. My work there was done. We will look to the south to see where the need is. The Flame of Mother-Light will guide us in the way we should go.”
“And if things don’t go well, we always have The Wind to protect us,” says Ashar.
Such words cause a pause in Elezir. A memory floats in his mind. His eyes brighten with excitement as he asks, “Do you remember the Song of The Sea?”
“No,” answers Ashar.
Elezir claps his hand excitedly, at first humming it under his breath and then suddenly singing with a broken voice, “There’s a chance that you might see me. Close your eyes and dream afar. Look with spirit-eyes so freely. Don’t look now at where you are. Listen! Oh, listen! The Four Winds of The Land! See it! Oh, feel it! Mother-Wind’s mighty hand! Mother-Wind’s mighty hand!”
As he sings the last notes, his voice falters, and his eyes widen as if struck by lightning.
‘Mother…’ he stammers.
Equally stunned, Ashar whispers, ‘Mother-Wind.’
They exchange a look of newfound understanding, basking in the silence and awestruck wonder of the moment. At the end of the wagon, Eloria stops the pretend sleeping face and opens her eyes. She was listening the entire time.
THE SHADOW OF WAR
The soldiers of Maluthra marched west in shame. Bloodied and battered, they carried with them the bitter taste of their first defeat—the fall of Thra Athar.
Eviction from the caves of my people, the sea-elves, would not sit well with Maluthene and his bloodthirsty sons. Returning to Martauk, the island capital, meant facing Lord Maluthene’s wrath—a fate far worse than any battlefield. His punishments were feared. His justice was swift and merciless.
I fractured the elvish tribes. My defiance—standing against the desecration of our dead—sparked a rebellion, as I have stated in my other book, The Lost Legends. The cost of rebellion was steep, and the consequences had stretched far beyond my control. The Footlands would never be the same again. We knew what was coming next.
The stone-elves would return, not as conquerors offering false promises, but as executioners. Their retribution would be swift. Their goal would be nothing short of our annihilation. As my people prepared for war, the soldiers of Maluthra marched northward, retreating from their disgrace. On the road to the Woodhalm Ranges, they would encounter an ally unlike any other—a force far older than the tribes themselves.
THE BLACK BIND
A raven's feather dances on the wind along the dirt road to the Woodhalm Ranges. The thud of hundreds of boots marching as one fills the muddy ascending path. Masculine grunts blend with the sound of hammering nails and the rustling of wind-whipped tents that rise near trees and grassy knolls.
The stone-elf soldiers whisper among each other about what course of action to take next. In the darkness of midnight, the captains debate, weighing good and bad outcomes together.
One captain, a bald and meaty fellow named Harguth, shouts, “We can retake it at night, when they least expect it. I believe the Shadow Gods are still with us if we hold fast and do not quit. It’s either that or we come crawling back west, begging for reinforcements.”
A younger captain named Malagir, with braided blond hair and gray eyes, answers, “Don’t you know Lord Maluthene? He is not going to reward us with more soldiers. He’s going to kill us and make an example of us. And if we go back south to Thra Athar, they will be waiting for us. They outnumber us and we are on their battlefield of choice. We have the disadvantage. It is better to settle in the north, away from the merchant roads. We must disband or we will die!”
The uproar of shouts fills the forest. The soldiers argue against each other. A deafening squawk halts their infighting. A massive raven darts straight into the central fire of the camp. The raven’s impact sends a shockwave through the camp, forcing the soldiers back. They scatter but Harguth steps forward toward the fire, his eyes wide with wonder.
“Look! A form in the fire!” shouts Harguth.
The fire grows. Dancing tongues of flame flare and twist, rising higher until a shadow takes shape within. The soldiers scurry away but Harguth falls to his knees. The bright flame shifts to an inky black. Soldiers scream but then the silence of fear hits them as the black fire intensifies and darkens all around them.
Harguth steps forward, awe in his voice. 'I have heard of you... and now my eyes are blessed to see you. You are The Dark Brother!”
The flames flare back to its original brightness. A figure cloaked in black steps out of the fire. His face is veiled in shadow.
I am he," the hooded figure intones. "God of Shadows. King of the Ever-Night. Bearer of the Black Chain."
Harguth drops to his knees, trembling. 'My eyes are unworthy! We have shamed you, lord of the Dark-Stone! Forgive us! We lost Thra Athar, and now, your prophet, Lord Maluthene, will pass judgment on us!”
"Take heart Harguth, son of Margal! The day of Maluthra’s salvation has come!” shouts the hooded figure. He turns to the soldiers, raising his thunderous voice, “I revealed myself first to Maluthene and his sons. And now I reveal myself to you.”
He puts his hand on Harguth’s shoulder, saying, “An enemy is coming to establish an unholy flame that will destroy the stone-elves. Retake Thra Athar, and you will become my first general—an Under-Lord, second only to me and Lord Maluthene.”
He strides into the assembly, his long fingers raised like venomous serpents ready to strike, “Stone-elves of Maluthra, hear me! Return south, and you will rise as the vanguard of Maluthene, hailed as the chosen – my Elohiad.”
“We are marching to our doom! Don’t listen to this warlock! All of us will die!" Malagir shouts, his notched gaze intensely defiant.
“No,” answers the hooded figure. “Only you will.”
A thick and thorny black chain whips out of the darkness and binds his entire body. Amidst shouts of agony and terror, the black chain slithers, constricts, and shreds the skin of Malagir. The muddy ground drinks of his black stone-elf blood until the struggling and shouting ends. His spirit is sucked into the glassy onyx chain, leaving the remaining carcass dry.
The beastly breath flowing from that cursed belt of death ends. The Black Chain returns to the waste of its master; a demon-pet of terrible power now satisfied with its fill of torment.
The soldiers fearfully bow in unison, quaking in raw fear at the power just displayed.
Harguth steps forward, his voice turns tremulous, “We shall do what you command, my Lord. What is your name?”
He removes the hood from his shadowy face, revealing the grotesque dark scar on his face. His skin is gray as the stone-elves. He is even pointy-eared, but his hair is still black as night.
The ruse of his deceptive and ever-changing identity is as concealed as his answer, “I am The Lord of The Eternal Scar but you can call me Star-Slayer.”
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