A Chronicle of Crowns, Prelude 1

Prelude:

Howell Pendengalle

Set one hundred years prior to the events in A Chronicle of Crowns

Ragged ravens circled in the sky above, watching for rodents and other scurrying things in the ruins below. Their black wings fought with the white gulls to pluck minnows from the tide pools and crabs scuttling back to the safety of the retreating waters. It was a chaotic scene down at the ocean’s door, where the waters lapped at the toppled spires of the ruins of Astalar. The birds’ white and black feathers writhed like soot blown in the wind, rippling across the sky and beach in an unending orgy. The greedy birds squabbled, snapping at each other with sharp beaks, drawing blood, killing their own for a chance to feed. The shrill squawks of the dying stood out in shrill contrast to the sound of the ocean. Ringing through the ruins, the sounds bounced off the crumbling walls of the ancient palaces, ricocheting up the fjord to be heard throughout the ruined islands.

The birds were so focused on their feast that they didn’t notice that they had guests. Few feet had trod that sacred ground in thousands of years. The ruins were now a sanctuary for the ocean birds, fidgety crabs, and sea-fed lichens. Moss clung to every surface like glue. Gentle ghosts drifted on the ocean mist searching for their former homes long lost amongst the rubble of Astalar.

Out on the ocean, a dwarven barge sat still between the cliffs of the fjord, pumping out massive columns of black smoke, thick enough to block out the sun. Even all the way up the cliff-face, past the ruins, and up the broken winding stairs, the smell of burning wood was distinct and lingered in Howell’s nose. Those damn dwarves and their contraptions, Howell thought to himself as he rubbed his nose clean of the smell. Spewing poison into the air without a care.

“It appears that we’re the last to arrive,” Howell said.

At his side, Helikilé crinkled his nose at the smell and let out a disapproving sigh. “Bo must have lifted the mist from the ruins.” He clicked his tongue and eyed the dwarven barge. “I do not like this Howell, these ruins are sacred. That fool Galos exposed their location to the dwarves. With their greedy hands, they will ransack the place.”

“Surely there is nothing left of value here, Helikilé.”

The elf did not respond, descending down the decaying steps leading towards the ruins below. He was a tall elf, Helikilé, a unique elf, unlike the rest. Over the years his ears had grown long, the delicate tips quivered in the air as he descended the stairs, and from his temples sprang two massive antlers, like those on a stag, felt-covered and imposing. They sprouted from his silver hair like branches and added to his height. His robes where of a similar silver to his hair, and they shimmered in the light as the sun twinkled off intricate beads and stitches that rippled across the soft fabric. It was a flashy dress, the opposite of Howell’s modest garb.

“Remind me why we are here again, Howell,” Helikilé groaned.

“You know why,” Howell replied. “Feoryn requested it.”

“Feoryn,” Helikilé scoffed. “That faun went mad ages ago. All we are doing is appeasing that madness.”

“He said he had something to show the council.”

“There is no more council.”

“Must you be so cynical, Helikilé?”

“What you perceive as cynicism is merely a healthy dose of distrust. Life is defined by our little sufferings, our pains and misjudgments, and the drive to adapt and evolve to those little tremors. You were always the optimist, Howell. Always striving to wring some light out of the darkness. Your optimism is the result of a perception that life is a gentle gift, but it is a foolish belief. Have we not seen enough death and betrayal for your foolish eyes to see life for what it truly is?”

“My optimism does not stem from a gentle worldview, Helikilé. I have seen the same death and experienced the same betrayals as you, enough to make some men go mad with despair. Yes, this world is dark and dangerous, but just as a coin has two sides, so too, does life. What is darkness, but emptiness devoid of light? And what is light, but an illumination that fills the dark? No, I see the darkness around me, but it is not all I see. My optimism stems from a desire to concentrate on the pleasantries of life. It is not the little sufferings that spur my evolution, but rather the little kindnesses.”

“As hard as they are to come by.” Helikilé said. He flitted down the steps, barely disturbing the dust and sand that had collected on the ancient steps, an antlered figure, full of despair, descending on a city full of echoes of death.

Howell had not been to Astalar since the city’s fall thousands of years prior. It had been the greatest of the elven cities, the cultural centre of the Theesians. It stretched across the skerries at the back of the fjord, and had been a beautiful combination of sculptured gardens, impressive towers with gilded spires, decorated palaces and well organized harbours. Astalar’s trade with the other races made it rich and prosperous, the envy of the other elven races. It took centuries to build, centuries of delicate stonework, and careful planning, until it shone with the radiance of countless diamonds. Remnants of the city’s past still glimmered through the decay. The weathered books from an arcane library here, the sparkling glass from an observatory there. Howell could see the carved, wooden posts that had lined the streets that were lit when the sun went down. Intricate designs ran up and down the smooth columns, details that were painstakingly carved into the wood with precision, now left to be battered by the ocean, and stained by sea foam. The cobblestone stairs and roads that once led thousands on their daily lives were now shrouded under a layer of sand and bird shit that stunk like a festering wound. And the old gardens had overgrow; weeds crept into the once carefully pruned plots of flowers and ferns, tangling the gardens of the dead into twisted mounds.

Howell surveyed the ruins. He could remember the city in its prime. He could hear the soft twinkle of lyres and harps, the smell of fresh rosemary bread and honey, the faces of elves and dwarves and men and faun who populated the streets. He wondered if the dwarven district still housed the mighty Anvil of Dehellan where the smiths would forge the strongest dwarven blades south of Dun Darohelm. He wondered if the Harbour House of the Valdorrean Kings still sat by the sea, beside the docks that once housed the mighty ships of the Valdorrean Seafarers. He wondered if the Moonwell of the Oaken-roe still sparkled in the night, feeding the dead roots of the twin trees of Astalar, the Guardians of the City. “Such memories I have of this place,” he muttered to himself.

“Memories I have long tried to forget,” Helikilé grumbled.

It was here that Faye Ravenswood betrayed the Council of the Wise. He remembered the day clearly. She had murdered Elzik Stormcaller, the leader of their Order, before syphoning the lives of the Guardians of Astalar to resurrect that darkness, that ever encompassing terror, the Demon Lord, Kostantyne.

Howell felt a shiver travel up his spine, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Helikilé. The antlered elf turned to face Howell and nodded his head. “You feel it too? The lingering remembrance of that fateful day. The stink of demon’s breath bathes this rotting tomb. We should not be here Howell. There are more dangerous things lurking within these ruins than all of those damned seabirds.” He turned to look out over the city and said, “Much more dangerous.”

The Guardians of Astalar, they were a beauty to behold. The twin trees had intertwined and grown to a towering height, casting shade over the entire Palace of the Wardens. One of the trees bark glinted with shards of gold that its roots had grabbed from the earth. When the sun hung over the fjord, the tree’s golden light touched every corner of the city. The other tree had dark bark, a deep blue, almost black, with red leaves that never changed, despite the season. These two majestic trees were the Guardians of Astalar, the Guardians of the Gold Warden, Amathiseon, and her brother, the Spirit Warden, Lóthuel… both long dead, causalities of Faye Ravenswood’s betrayal.

The final steps brought Howell and Helikilé from the cliff passage down into the ruins below. It was quiet down here. The screams of the seabirds were lost among the crumbled walls and phantom buildings that lined the empty streets. A wetness covered everything, and the ruins smelt stale with blossoming mold. Howell swore as he felt the dampness seep into his boots, wetting his socks. “That damn faun,” he mumbled. “Ruined my boots.”

“Come,” Helikilé said, “they will be at the old palace.”

They traipsed through the damp ruins, feeling the heavy sea air close in around them. Slowly, a growing mist trickled up from their ankles, higher and higher until it was all around them.

“So much for the mist clearing,” Howell grumbled.

“This is not right, Howell. This mist…”

“Let’s make for the palace, and quickly.”

Helikilé agreed.

As the mist thickened, Howell’s mind began to play tricks on him. He thought he could see movement in the mist, just beyond his sight. Figments that darted between the ruins, ghouls that watched them from the cracks and crevasses, ghosts that wailed in the deeper parts of the city. Howell told himself it was the sound of the wind, whipping through the fjord, along the cliff faces and whistling through the ruins. He told himself it was the crashing of waves as they thundered along the shore, pelting the old cobblestone ruins with ocean spray. But he knew these were comforting distractions used to keep his mind from the terrifying truth. There were things in the mist, watching him race to the palace ruins, old things, ancient things that had crawled out of the bowels of their disturbed tombs to greet their visitors with teeth and claws.

But these things, these ancient phantoms, knew better than to engage Howell and Helikilé. They would linger just out of sight, hissing at them as they passed. Howell almost felt sorry for those disgruntled ghosts in the mist, watching them with twisted eyes and seething with malice and hatred, for they were doomed to drift through the ruins, shrieking with the ravens and the gulls, unsettled like the crashing sea. They were doomed things, creeping for an eternity just out of sight.

“Howell! Helikilé! Over here.” They could hear Bo Surin’s voice through the mist and followed it to an old flight of stairs that led up to the palace. Her yellow skin glistened in the dense mist, and her hair, wet and limp, laid against her head and cheeks. She wore a long, light blue robe, the colour of robin eggs swirled with gold stitching and ornate details. At her feet, a wind whipped around her, kicking up the bottom of her gown and twirling away the mist. When they reached the stairs the stagnant smell of mold and decay was replaced with the smell of fresh mountain air. Bo lifted a hand and cupped Howell’s furry cheek. “How long has it been since we have seen each other last, Howell? An age or two?”

Her hands were soft and her yellow skin smelt of honeysuckle and cherry, reminding Howell of ages past. She was still beautiful, still exotic, though the centuries had caught up to her and wrinkled the corners of her eyes. “Too long, my friend. But it seems the years have been kinder to you than they have been to me,” he smiled.

She chuckled. “A rejuvenation spell and a long soak would hide those creases of yours.”

“I’ve grown to like them,” he replied.

“And I bet no one expects the old man to be up to no good.”

“Precisely.”

Up on the stairs Helikilé huffed. “Feoryn stressed the urgency of our meeting, we should not keep the faun waiting.” He turned and disappeared up the stairs.

“Is he still sore from my leaving?” Bo asked.

“I’m afraid he’ll never recover.”

The two climbed the stairs and left the misty bowels of the city behind. Howell felt the watching eyes slip away, and the creeping ghouls turn back to their bleak patrols of the cheerless remains.

Atop the crumbled palace, Galos Starseer greeted them with a bellow. He was a short and stalky dwarf with a gingery beard and weathered, leathery skin. He wore a green robe over a plain tunic, synched together with a metal belt that glowed blue from ancient runes cut into the buckle. Giant muscles blocked his arms and legs, as thick as tree trunks, plump and round.

Beside him stood a tall Jinthan warrior wearing the same blues as Bo Surin. She introduced him as Shojii Ryu, her personal sword, who had traveled with her from Qi-Shan, half the world away. He gave a curt nod when he greeted them, but Helikilé pretended not to notice him. “Where is Feoryn?” Helikilé asked. “Is he late for our little reunion?”

“Feoryn is here, yes, yes.” From inside the rubble, the faun appeared. He was a scraggly thing; his hair had grown long and matted down the side of his heart-shaped head. His horns curled and stretched from the sides of his head in twisted spirals and his old skin had become knotted and woody causing him to creak as he walked. Like giant pearls, his eyes sat illuminated in his skull, milky white and eerie, like he was some blind beggar. And ringing his mouth was a circle of blood – he had recently eaten. “Should Feoryn wait for the others?” he asked, cocking his head and creaking his neck.

Helikilé rolled his eyes. “No one else is coming.”

Feoryn lifted a knotty finger. “Stormcaller? Ravenswood? The Rose? What of them? And Indumatii and Oteshha? Feoryn does not see them. Feoryn will wait until the council is complete.”

“I do not have the patience for this mad thing,” Helikilé grumbled.

Bo approached the faun and touched his arm tenderly. “Feoryn, do you not remember? Elzik, Faye, Dashara, they’re dead.” The faun shook his head and wrinkled his brows.

“They have been dead for over two thousand years,” Helikilé drawled. “No one has heard from Oteshha since the withering of The Eye. And you will not drag Indumatii off her plush throne, not anymore. We are all who will heed your ridiculous call, now get on with it.”

“Must you speak so harshly with him, Helikilé?” Bo asked. “You know how frail his mind is.”

“His frailty is a shroud, a farce he clings to so that he does not have to confront reality,” Helikilé replied with a flip of the hand.

Galos shook his head and snorted. “I see yeh haven’t changed much. Still pious as ever. I oughta knock you off yer perch. Teach yeh the cost of vanity.” The dwarf’s face turned red with pent up rage, and he shook a fist in the elf’s direction.

The group began to bicker like the gulls on the shore, and Howell felt his temples pulse with annoyance. He lifted his old, wooden staff and tapped it on the stone floor three times and said, “Enough of this petty squabbling! We are the Council of the Wise, not the Council of Fools. Please, Feoryn, tell us why you have called us here.”

The faun nodded and clicked his tongue. “Follow Feoryn, yes, yes. Deep into Astalar Feoryn will take you. Into the sanctum, to see the Guardians.”

The rickety faun led them deep into the ruins of the Palace of the Wardens, past still statues and sea-soaked walls, past collapsed pillars and caved-in rooms, relics of the past, left untouched from where they’d fallen all those years ago. Howell felt himself overwhelmed with memories. He could feel the ancient imprints echoing off the walls and the dusty relics. They called out to him. Begged to be touched, begged him to read the memories that coated them. He could spend hours here among the ruins, reliving the past, immersing himself in the memories, but Feoryn’s creaking limbs kept them moving forward, deeper in the palace.

Finally they reached the centre of the sanctum where the twin trees of Astalar had once stretched high above the palace shading it from the harsh noonday sun. The roof had caved in and the rubble was piled in the centre where the trees once stood before they were turned to ash, before their life force was drained from them to resurrect an unspeakable evil. As they fanned out through the room, something caught Howell’s eye. A small, glowing wisp danced up and down on an invisible current, drawn towards the centre of the room. “It cannot be…” he mumbled.

Feoryn was standing over the rubble in the centre, pulling pieces of rock out of the pile and tossing them aside. “Feoryn will show you,” he grunted. “Feoryn will show you what he saw, yes, yes.” The others had gathered around the faun. Bo gasped and it caught Howell’s attention. He hobbled over to them and looked down at the hole in the rubble Feoryn had made. “See? See? It lives, it does. Feoryn found it. Feoryn saw it.”

There, in the rubble, the black, twisted bark of the Guardian of the Spirit Warden had sprouted anew and reached up through the rubble to the sky. Beside it, its gold-glittered sister was still a pile of ash and gems, but the Spirit Tree was alive and thriving. Small, red leaves sprouted from spindling branches and five more wisps danced delicately around its trunk. The wisp that Howell had found fell into place with the rest.

“What does it mean?” Bo asked.

“Does the Spirit Warden live?” Galos questioned.

“Impossible, we felt his death,” Helikilé replied. “We felt his soul shatter at the hands of the Demon Lord. We saw his tree wither and turn to dust.”

“Then how do you explain this?” Bo asked.

“Howell…” Helikilé turned to him, the elf’s expression was pleading, confused. For once his smug smile was replaced with puzzlement.

Howell thought about it for a moment. When the wardens died, their tree’s withered with them. The two were tied to each other, bound to each other. He had seen the trees twisted by Faye Ravenswood; he had felt the Spirit Warden’s soul crushed by the Demon Lord. But there had always been a lingering question… Like all the wardens, Lóthuel was created with special gifts. One such gift was the ability to cheat death. When his body was broken his soul created a new host and retained all that he had been.

“We felt his soul shatter,” Helikilé repeated in the silence. “We all felt it.”

Howell thought of the Guardian of the Vale. The gargantuan tree had once been the centre of Garsaglith, where the Life Warden, Tavinar, had lived in harmony before the men of Aralia swept over the Vale. “Tavinar was killed when the Aralians took the Northern Vale. Yet the Tree of Life still stands,” Howell said.

Again, Feoryn lifted a knotty finger. “Ahh, but the Tree of Life is everlasting, it is. It chooses its warden. It is not tethered to the host. The Spirit Tree is, yes, yes.”

“He is right, Howell,” Bo said. “This tree cannot exist without Lóthuel. The Tree of Life is one of a kind; the other trees depend on their symbiotic relationship with their warden. There is no other explanation, the Spirit Warden lives.”

Howell stroked his beard. It was impossible; he had felt Lóthuel’s death, they all had. Had he escaped the shattering of his soul they all would have felt it.

“Then where be the lad?” Galos asked.

“He could be anywhere,” Bo replied. “Anyone.”

Howell shook his head. “It cannot be,” he mumbled. “The Spirit Warden is dead. We know little about the Guardians, and even less about their relationship to their hosts. Perhaps this is the result of seedling, a pod taken root in the soft soil.”

Bo protested. “Howell–”

“I cannot accept that he’s alive. That he could have survived the atrocities done to him. We all felt his death, Bo. We all felt his soul shatter.” He shook his head again, “No, there is a reasonable explanation to this.”

Helikilé agreed. “I will take samples of the soil and the tree back to Teleth. The Moon Warden will know whether this is the original or a descendant.”

Feoryn watched with sympathetic eyes as Helikilé scraped away at the bark, pinched off leaves, and collected the soil. Bo patted the faun’s shoulder and comforted him, whispering gentle words in his ear to calm him.

Howell stumbled down the rubble and surveyed the broken sanctum. It was silent aside from Bo’s tender whispering and Helikilé’s scratching at the tree. Back at the entrance, Bo’s sword stood silently, watching them all from a distance. Howell wondered what the man thought of them all – a rag-tag team, bickering amongst themselves. He was about to return to the group when he felt something tickle the edge of his senses. There was a presence in the ruins, one other than the phantoms and shadows that drifted through the rubble. He looked back at the group, and they, too, had felt the sensation. They were not alone.

Bo called out to Shojii and spewed out Jinthan too fast for Howell to catch. The man unsheathed a curved blade and slunk into the shadows back the way they’d came.

“What do yeh think it could be?” Galos asked.

“Probably one of your dwarven friends scouring the ruins for treasures to steal,” Helikilé replied.

“No…” Feoryn shuddered in Bo’s arms. “It is they. Feoryn has seen them, he has. Stalking the ancient places. Befouling the sacred ground. They have followed Feoryn here!”

Howell felt the disturbance approach, along with another, and another, until they were surrounded. Through the doorways and the collapsed columns darkness crept along the ground, creeping over the rocks and dust and walls as it stretched towards them. A figure emerged from the shadows, and another, and another, until a choir of shadowy figments encircled them.

A single laugh echoed through the room before a calm and effeminate voice said, “Having a little reunion are we?” One of the figures stepped forward. It was a man, a tall, beautiful man with skin the colour of caramel. He wore all black, a sleeveless tunic and baggy pants that swayed in the lapping shadows around his feet. A simple trident was drawn on his forehead, and both his forearms were marked with the same symbol above a skull, flanked on either side by two tiny stars. It was the symbol of the Children of the Dark, the cult of Faye Ravenswood. It had been many years since Howell had seen the symbol last.

“What business do you have here?” Howell questioned.

The slender man approached, keeping a close eye on Howell. He chanced a glance into the rubble where Helikilé stood next to the sapling and smiled. “As she suspected.” When the man turned around to retreat to the shadows, Howell stopped him. The man laughed. “Let us not be hasty here, Pendengalle, after all, we outnumber you twenty to one.”

“In numbers only,” Galos spat.

“Careful there, Starseer, your dwarven rage could make you sloppy.”

“Sloppy!” the dwarf shouted, “I’ve never been more insulted. Who is this tramp, Howell?”

Howell gave the man a long, hard look. He didn’t recognize the face.

“Oh, you do not know me, Pendengalle, but I know you. I have seen your face from the dark, time and again.” He reached a hand up and stroked Howell’s creased face. His cold skin sent a shiver down Howell’s spine, but he used the moment to his advantage. He connected with the man and entered his memories. Howell raced through his recent memories, the man’s travels to the ruins of Astalar, the simple orders he had given to his adherents, the shadowy voice that gave him instructions in the night, the old ruins of The Eye, far in the north, alive and breathed in fell flame and demon’s breath. The old tomb of Faye Ravenswood rattled and glowed and cracked.

The man retracted his hand, and the memories came to an abrupt halt. “Yes, I know all of you. We have been watching, ever so carefully. Delicate things are at work, my dear council, and I am afraid you are too late to halt the progress. Chaos will sweep away the world, and when the walls have fallen from war and unrest she will have won the day.” He turned his back to them and strutted off back to the shadows.

From Howell’s side, he could hear Galos muttering an incantation, a spell to toss the fancy man’s way, but Howell stopped him. “Now is not the time, my friend.”

“Twenty to one!” Galos spat. “We’ve been up against worst odds than that, Howell. We can’t let him just walk away.”

“These ruins are crawling with phantoms and dark things, Galos, use your head,” Helikilé said. “They have the advantage here.”

The tall man slipped back into the shadows with the others and slowly the creeping darkness retreated back the way it had come. The disturbance lingered in Howell’s senses until it passed from his sight and faded into the ruins.

He felt Bo approach him. She reached out and touched his arm with her hand as smooth as silk. “What did you see?” she asked.

“The Eye,” he replied. “We must make for the ruins of the Demon Lord at once.”

“Yes, yes. Alive it is, Feoryn has seen it!”

“The Eye?” There was shock in Helikilé’s voice, “When did you see it?”

“Those ruins are leagues away!” Galos mumbled.

“Go we must!” Feoryn shouted.

“The Eye has been inactive since the war,” Helikilé said. “We would have known if there was a presence. We have watchers keeping post…”

“It lives once more! It does, yes, yes.”

“We must go,” Bo put in. “Our lack of vigilance led to the Demon Lord’s first resurrection, here in this very room. We must take all precautions to stop that from happening again.”

Howell looked up at the crumbled ceiling, at the dusty walls full of haunting memories. Thousands of years had passed, and he had lived many lives in between. For a moment, the sanctum felt foreign to him, like a place he had never been before. “This had been my home once,” he mumbled almost as a question more than a statement of fact, “when the world was young. Yes... it hardly feels like the home I once knew...” He looked at the others and said, “We will travel to The Eye and see what Feoryn has seen. I have lost too much to the past, we all have. We must do everything we can to see that nothing is lost again.”

***

Galos Starseer departed to the dwarven barge chattering off the coast and returned with Bo Surin’s and her sword’s steeds. The beasts were great black stallions draped in jade armor plating, with manes brushed smooth and glistening. They were gorgeous horses, with rippling muscles and massive muzzles that pranced on furry hooves. They looked majestic next to Galos’s own squat ram. The calico ram was painted with browns and black spots in a haphazard way, and had a messy mane and tail, matted here and there, in need of a good grooming. But its squat body was sturdy and Galos had packed everything they needed for the long journey on its back. It pulled a dwarven carriage behind it, a metal thing with squeaky wheels in need of oiling. More provisions were packed tightly in the carriage, and there was still room for Feoryn’s wide frame to sit comfortably.

When they were ready, they headed back to the stairs that scaled the cliffs of the fjord. The climb was slow with the carriage and the crumbling treads underneath, but as the sun was falling in the west they had nearly made it to the top.

Howell chanced one last glance back to the ruins of Astalar far below. The mist had swallowed it up once more and the phantoms wailed as they stumbled through the remnants of the once great city. Out on the ocean, the dwarven barge had disappeared down the fjord, and out to the open sea. He could just see a billow of dark smoke as it faded into the distance.

Up in the forest, at the top of the stairs, Halflight, Howell’s horse, stood patiently waiting for him. The white mare snorted at their arrival and eagerly accepted a rub on the nose from Howell.

“Are you still dashing around on that mare, Howell?” Bo asked as she greeted the horse. “Poor thing, he won’t let you rest, will he?”

Howell waved his hand and protested. “Never have I met a stronger beast. Halflight was my first, and she will be my last.”

Helikilé whistled into the woods, a pleasant tune that twinkled through the leaves. On delicate hoofs, a stately elk emerged from the thicket with graceful strides and a crown that stretched as long as Howell was tall. It looked down at the others and snorted, almost disdainfully, and stamped its hoofs on the ground impatiently. Helikilé climbed atop the elk and grabbed the beast’s reins. “We will make for Teleth immediately,” he said.

Just as the final rays of light faded beyond the mountains in the west the company headed out, dashing through the darkening woods. The thicket swallowed the sound of hooves and the rickety cart. They found an old, overgrown path heading east, an old elven road that once connected Teleth to Astalar in the high days of the elves. Now, it was nothing more than a dirt trench riddled with weeds, creeping vines, and snaking roots. They rode night and day, past ruined elven temples, overgrown wells, and crumbling inns that had faded to become part of the forest. Behemoths that lurked in the shadows, crumbling away as time forgot them.

After a week of tiresome travel they stopped to give the beasts a rest. They had begun to fatigue, and the wizard’s spells of swiftness were wearing off. They found shelter in a crumbled elven outpost. A small moonwell shrine sat in the centre of the little outpost. The cool waters still reflected the twinkling stars above, and Howell could taste the lingering magic in the water that clung to some forgotten past. Around the well, numerous old buildings had crumbled under the weight of growing mosses and entangling vines. Here once stood a smithy, there an inn, here a watchtower, there a greenhouse. Now all that remained were the skeletal remnants as haunting as the mist-veiled ruins of Astalar.

Feoryn had slunk away to the woods to scrounge up mushrooms and devour his malodorous meat, a faun’s feast. The faint smell of blood followed his trail like a lingering smog. Galos and Shojii snored contently by the well. The dwarf’s snores were so loud that the horses huffed in annoyance at the sound.

Howell wandered the ruined outpost, reliving the memories of the past, remembering. So much ruin. It made him feel old; he became aware of the weight on his shoulders, the strains in his bones, the bags under his eyes. The world turns without pause. Kingdoms rise and fall and are forgotten in the swallowing sands of time. The land is unforgiving, devouring monuments, ever consuming. And yet I linger on. A defiant statue standing against the wind and the rain and the waves and the sand. He looked at his hands; they were wrinkled and dusted with earth. Beneath the surface, he could see his veins snaking up into his arms, pumping away continually, never-ending. How weak my heart feels… Perhaps this statue has stood in solemn defiance for too long. Let the elements take me, let them chip away my body and bones and scatter my ashes among the forgotten ruins of this perpetually shifting world. Let me have peace in death. Death… that final adventure. But can one have death when they have yet to live? I am as I have always been, stagnant, unchanging, a statue. That pillar of defiance against the changing forces. Can I die without having truly lived? If death is such a natural end, then what end can the unnatural hope for? No. I will not let the wind and the sand chip away at me, I will not let the rain and the waves swallow me like they have these ancient ruins. I must carry on and play my part as the pillar of immutability, the past, present, and the future. My longing for the adventures of life and death will have to wait.

In the woods he heard the soft, muffled voices of Helikilé and Bo whispering sweet words to each other. He stole a glance in their direction. They stood under a clearing, drenched in moonlight, speaking passionate pleas in hushed tones. Their lips were soft as they spoke, but their eyes were twisted with sorrow.

Dawn came early and with it, Feoryn. The corners of his mouth were red with shimmering blood, and his eyes were alert and lucid, no longer hazed over with stars and dreams.

Once they had all drank from the well they continued on once more, reinvigorated by the nights rest. Once more they rode day and night. Shojii slept in the cart with Feoryn when his weariness caught up to him, and Howell kept a close eye on the faun who eyed the man with a grin that seemed too thirsty for Howell’s liking.

Another week passed, and a handful of days. The sun rose and fell in the same pattern each time, and the worn, overgrown road grew wearisome. At noon on the sixteenth day they reached an elegant bridge that spanned the length of a rushing river. Just south of the bridge, the water fell from a terrible height and roared louder than thunder. They were close now. Teleth was not far. From the roaring falls it was half a day’s ride down into the swampy Moonlight Glade where the falls plummets into a thousand swampy isles sleeping in a time-lost basin.

By evening they could see Teleth stretched out along the shore and islands on the northern bank of the glade. It was a magical place, a city of slumber, drenched forever in a blue moon-glow that persisted throughout the day and night. The city was built from white stone and crystal pillars that hummed an eternal tune in concert with the bellowing of frogs, the fluttering of wings, and the cacophony of insect sounds. Off the shores of the glade, on an island close to the city, sat the Guardian of Teleth, a massive willow tree whose roots sat in the glade as if it were taking a bath. A flurry of glowing wisps danced around the Guardian in slow rhythmic timing to the chaotic concert of Teleth.

Shojii’s mouth fell as he saw the elven city and Bo smiled at his childlike astonishment. “You are a lucky man, Shojii. Few mortals are welcome in Teleth.” She looked out over the city and Howell heard her sigh. “It is just how I remember it,” she said.

After all these years the city had remained unchanged, much like themselves. Caught in the slumber of the Moonlight Glade, Howell thought. An ancient relic of time lost past. Another pillar of defiance, standing against the ever-changing world. How many days have birthed and died while Teleth has sat oblivious to it all? We are caught in the same cycle, the same recurring dream, inescapable, unchanging, neither living nor dead, stagnant like the waters of the glade.

They didn’t plan to stay there long. A night to give their beasts rest, and to replenish their weary minds. They met with Torial, the Moon Warden, and pleaded their case with her. She gifted them with an elven longboat to sail up the Lanamin River into the north before they settled in for the night.

Howell tossed and turned in his bed. Sleep eluded him. His mind, it seemed, did not want to be calm for the night. Memories kept him awake and in a state of review and reflection. Getting up, he left his room behind and ventured out into the luminescent city. The bluish glow of moonlight drenched the white wood and floating crystals that decorated the unearthly place. He wandered down empty halls and stairwells until he found himself at the glade. Along the water’s edge, large stone steps descended into the water and disappeared into the dark blue depth. The glade’s surface twinkled with starlight and rippled from dragonflies skirting across the surface, and tiny fish trying to make a meal of them.

Howell sat on the steps and smoked his pipe as the gentle hum of the glade mixed with his memories.

“What troubles you, Pendengalle?”

He hadn’t heard her approach – Torial, the Moon Warden, the last of the Aiyar, the First Born. She stood there in a dress made of twinkling lace and diamonds, her skin was smooth and pale and her ears were tipped and draped in moonlight. She looked at him with large, wet eyes that reflected the stars as the glade did and gave her a sympathetic look of eternal youth. He felt the power within her surging through her body. She was exceptional, an angel, the last higher power to linger in this mortal place.

“Memories, my lady. They are what trouble my mind,” he replied. “I’ve found them surfacing of late. Memories of Astalar, of old faces, old friends, of times long forgotten.”

She glided over to him on silent feet and sat beside him, dipping her toes into the glade’s cool water.

“For two millennia I have lived among men. I’ve seen kings and queens, lords and ladies rise, find fault with each other, wage war on each other, fall, find peace, and repeat it all over again. So much has been forgotten. So many years and people have come and gone, kings and small folk alike. Our time has passed, and I fear that I might too, forget the faces and deeds of those who’ve lived and died. That I, too, am fading from the memory of this world in my stagnant existence.”

She lifted a hand and stroked his oily hair. “We have our time, each one of us, and the weight of our deeds do not matter. If we were loved, our memories live on through those that loved us. Our names whispered on lips, our bodies feeding the soil, our deeds changing the world. My dear Pendengalle, nothing is every truly forgotten. In our mortality we are all immortal.” She stood and walked further into the glade, until the water licked her knees. “Your world of men is a changing one where time barrels ahead at an incredible pace. Their memories may be as short as the time given them, but, deep in their hearts, they intend to be good.” The starlight on the glade twinkled around her in the rippling waves. “You are no more stagnant than this glade, Pendengalle. While it remains rooted in the past, it grows and swells with time. A collection of memories, of lives and deeds. You are the lives of men, their memory, their births and deaths, and through them you live and grow and adapt and die. You search endlessly for the experience of man, for life and death, but do you not see Pendengalle? You are life and death. You are their memory when their memory fades. You are their connection to the past, the present, and the future. You have been on this adventure of life and death since your creation, and you will live it each day until your final destruction.”

Howell looked down to the water at his feet. He let out a heavy sigh and a puff of smoke that disappeared into the moonlit night. When he looked back to the Moon Warden, she was gone. The water was still, and the only sound came from the hum of the glade and the buzz of dragonfly wings.

The next day the company climbed out of the glade, up the slopes of another waterfall to a small dock where a delicate elven boat sat waiting for them. The Moon Warden had filled its hull with breads, meat, and provisions for the road ahead. And without a pause, they pushed off and sailed north against the current.

Bo commanded a wind to descend into the river valley and push them north, and they sped along at a decent pace. Time passed slowly. One day, and another, until two weeks had passed on the long river. On the twelfth day they sailed from the Lanamin’s mouth into Eleg Lake, north of Florwood Forest. Their nights on the lake were few, and on the third day they squeezed into the tight Ellemyn River that flowed into Eleg from the mighty lake, Lewessa.

The nights were touched with a chill here. Winter had yet to recede from the river. But they stayed warm under elven furs and by wood-fueled lamps. A week up the river, and they finally reached the massive depths of Lewessa Lake. They were in the north now, far from the protection of Teleth. It wouldn’t be long now before they reached The Eye. A week on the open lake, another handful of days up the Pale River, and then they’d arrive. Howell shuddered at the thought. On the second night on the lake he kept watch while the other’s slept. They were conserving their strength for whatever horrors would meet them at the fortress of the Demon Lord.

Off on the southern shore, he could make out twinkling lights along the horizon. Small flames that illuminated the darkness and gave his weary heart a tiny morsel of joy. They were the lights of Misthaven shining in the dark. The city was the northernmost settlement in the Kingdom of Aralia, a kingdom of men, a kingdom of perpetual change, bright futures and forgotten pasts. By now the city was in deep slumber, completely oblivious to the elven boat gliding silently offshore.

He was deep in thought when Helikilé snuck up on him. The elf crouched and draped a hand in the cool water while he watched the shore glide on by. Behind the reflection of Misthaven’s distant fires, there was deep concern in his eyes.

“The world is changing,” he said. “I can taste it in the water. I can feel it in the earth. I can smell it in the air.” His gaze wandered to the dark sky above them. “Even the stars look different. They have shifted with time. The world has forgotten the terrors of the past, the sun has risen and fallen one too many times, and taken our time with it. I remember when the world was young and full of discovery. When the only things beyond the mountains were foreign fields and fresh springs, unmapped woods brimming with adventure, begging to be explored. There are no more discoveries to be had now. Our age is waning and there are too few who will remember it.” He looked back to the shore. The twinkling lights of Misthaven were shrinking in the distance. “Look at them there. The kingdom of men. They plague this world like a disease, eating away at the woods and the rivers and the mountains. Polluting the air with their fires and coal. The world is theirs now. The age of men is upon us. And they will be the death of the past.”

“Oh, Helikilé, I’m not so sure,” Howell replied, stretching his arms to the sky and stretching his back. He felt a muscle pop and let out a soothing moan. “The world has always been turning. Time is an unhindered thing, it barrels forward without pause and we can either charge forward with it, or push back against it.” He pulled out his pipe and packed the end with dried root leaf before lighting it with a wave of his finger. He sucked in a puff of smoke, and let the flavour swirl through his mouth and down into his lungs before exhaling a plume of smoke. “I will not let them forget their past. I will be their connection to their forgotten memories.” He took in another puff. “Yes, time is constantly ticking away, even if we are not. We mustn’t stand against it. Should we remain firm and unchanging in our ways? No, perhaps in order to truly live, we must let time sweep us up and carry us with it.” He sent a ring of smoke drifting off into the night. “We can learn from this plague that is mankind, Helikilé. We can learn how to adapt. We can learn how to embrace change. We can learn how to live. And we can learn how to die.”

***

When they reached the mouth of the Pale River they found it shrouded in thick fog. As spring chased the winter away, the northern lands were beginning to thaw, and the Pale River was wide and rushing. Large chunks of ice drifted downstream into Lewessa Lake threatening to collide with the company’s elven boat. On either side of the wide river stood two weathered statues, colossal giants that loomed in the mist. They held one hand out, as if urging travelers to turn back to the lake, barring the entrance to the river, a warning of the dangers that lingered upstream. Their faces were shrouded behind hoods and from their backs sprouted massive stone wings. The edges of the colossi were smooth and worn from years of protecting the river mouth and weathering the shifting seasons. Howell felt very small next to their massive bulks as their little boat sailed silently through the fog and ice. There was no turning back now. The Pale River would lead them straight to the ruins of The Eye.

The company was unusually silent as they drifted upstream. There was an air of contemplation and caution as they prepared for whatever awaited them at the ruins of the Demon Lord.

“I remember these cliffs,” Galos Starseer said on the third day. “We’re close now friends. I had hoped to never see these slopes again. So many lives lost in these mountains. I can feel the eyes of the dead on me. Oi, how they chill me bones.”

The fog thickened the closer they got to the ruins. Howell could feel the ghosts in the hills and the twisted creatures that lived around the demonic gates of The Eye. The land was silent. There were no birds chattering overhead, no splashing fish in the water, no wind whistling in the trees. The silence sat heavy over the mountains and the river. But Howell could feel the trembling power of the place. He could feel it in the rocks, in the earth, in the black water, a darkness that seeped from the cracked earth and poisoned the air. It made him shiver.

“Two thousand years have passed since we gathered here last, and yet it feels like it was only yesterday,” Howell said. “I can still see her falling from the tower… the Rose, shining in her descent…” His voice trailed off as his mind remembered the past.

He felt a hand on his back. Bo Surin was there, comforting him. “Dashara’s sacrifice saved us all that day,” she said. “How I miss her warm smile.”

The ruins first poked their head through the mist in the late hours of the day. The sun was falling in the west somewhere, but here, the grey skies and heavy fog hung from the mountains like thick webbing. The ruins of The Eye loomed in the haze, a black outline of a broken fortress that reeked with the stench of death. The little elven boat drifted ashore and Howell was the first to step down onto the unholy ground. The ash beneath his feet rippled like a wave and a great wind whipped about him and the boat, tearing at the fabric of the sails and coating them with black ash. A scream scurried on the wind, a high whistling thing that echoed through the mountains and disturbed the black river. But the scream and the wind quickly faltered and they were left in deafening silence once more.

Galos was the first to speak. “Howell I do not like this. Something stirs here in the fog. We should sail to Dun Darohelm and come back with a dwarfish host at our backs.”

Helikilé followed Howell onto the shore and snorted at the squat dwarf. “So much for the courage of dwarves.”

Galos mumbled under his breath, cursing the elf, and tossed himself from the boat, landing with a thud on the ashy shore. Shojii followed with curious eyes while Bo coaxed Feoryn to follow. The faun trembled and muttered to himself as Bo helped him get his creaking frame from the ship.

“Feoryn should not be here. Not his business,” he mumbled. “Find the chosen, Feoryn must. The one born under the tree.”

“Can you quiet his incessant mumbling?” Helikilé snapped. “The last thing we need is that half-wit announcing our approach.”

“He’s terrified, Helikilé. Have you lost all compassion?” Bo shot back.

The company continued to squabble while Howell stepped ahead. There was a presence here, deep within The Eye, a puzzling presence that exuded power and something sinister. Through the heavy mist he could see a light looming at the base of the fortress. A soft glow, green, and flickering. Fell flame.

“Will you stop your bickering!” Howell commanded. “Something stirs…”

Together, wading through the fog, they approached the ruins, venturing further and further toward the dreadful presence within. These ruins were different from those of Astalar. The darkness and the suffocating stillness made those chaotic seaside ruins seem like an idyllic remembrance. Here, the company wandered through charred trees and sharp rocks, through rusted gates and spiked halls. It was a nightmarish place that echoed with the scurrying of unseen horrors and the shrieks and wails of trapped spirits left to haunt the creaking towers.

The sun had fallen now, and darkness surrounded the company. They moved slowly through the fortress, fighting off the feeling of dread that soaked their minds and filled them with despair. The green flickering fell flame licked its way up to the surface from deep cracks in the dry earth’s crust, casting an emerald sheen on the rusted walls.

“This place is a tomb,” Galos said, his voice echoing through the nightmare, joining the distant wails. “Let us turn back. There is nothing living here, there are only ghouls and memories lurking about.”

“No…” Howell replied. “Can’t you feel it… The darkness…”

Galos huffed. “Of course I can feel it Howell, we’re standing on the gates of hell. There will always be a darkness over The Eye–”

A wind swept through the empty tower then, shaking the ground and rattling the dead trees. It screamed as it whipped around the company. “Hold your ground!” Howell commanded, but the wind was strong. Upon it was a deep and thundering voice. It threatened them in the Dark Tongue, an ancient and demonic speech. Shojii Ryu clasped his ears at the sound and let out a scream. It rattled the man’s brain and confused his mind. Bo crouched beside him and held him close.

“No, no. Must turn back. Feoryn is not welcome here,” the faun said. “Must find the one born under the tree.”

“Together,” Howell commanded, lifting his staff and muttering a spell under his breath. Helikilé, Galos, Bo, and Feoryn all did the same and a globe of white light encircled them before pulsing in every direction, shattering the wind and quieting the voice. Once more, the eerie silence and heavy air settled on the company. Howell let out a sigh and felt his body slouch. “I shall need a smoke when we finish here,” he stated. “Shojii?”

“Better,” Bo replied. Her sword looked up at Howell and nodded.

“Poor man,” Howell said. “Perhaps we should’ve left him with the boat. This is no place for mortals to linger.”

Shojii questioned Bo about the wind in Jinthan as he panted and caught his breath.

“It was a remnant. That is all,” Helikilé replied.

“Remnant or not, I say we leave,” Galos snorted.

“Not quite yet,” Howell said. “We near the tomb.”

They continued on, deeper and deeper into the twisted halls of dust and darkness until they came upon a long room deep within The Eye. It was empty except for cobwebs and the incessant drifting fog and eerie echoes. But there was a presence in the atrium, a dark and foreboding gloom that hung heavy in the air. It seemed to press down on all their shoulders, and chipped away at their courage. They progressed slowly, taking careful steps into the atrium, listening to the sound of their shuffling feet bounce off the walls. At the end of the nave, through the fog and the dark sat a large stone tomb marked with demonic runes and littered with lit candles that struggled faintly against the fog.

“The tomb of the betrayer,” Galos spat. “Faye Ravenswood.”

“These candles are freshly lit,” Bo noted. “Someone was just here.”

Howell nodded. “Members of the Children of the Dark. Hiding in the depths of this crumbled tower, masking themselves behind the presence.”

“It is here, Feoryn can feel it. Feoryn can see it.”

“It is a strong presence, powerful… and old,” Helikilé noted. “I have not felt such power in many years…”

“Do you think… could it be him?” Galos asked.

Bo gasped and Feoryn shuddered.

“No…” Howell surmised. “The Demon Lord is tethered to the dungeons of the under-realm. He cannot return of his own free will. He will rot there for an eternity. This presence is different. It’s weaker. It’s angrier…”

Another wind whipped through the atrium. It dispersed the fog and blew out the candles. Darkness swallowed them up whole. The tomb of Faye Ravenswood pulsed with fell flame, a soft green glow that lit up the demonic runes and filled the darkness. Demon’s breath licked the sides, a thick black smoke that danced skyward and oozed of dark magic. It gathered above the tomb, twirling and growing, twisting into a shape. It formed into a figure, a delicate woman’s body with shadowy features and glowing green eyes. Howell’s mouth gaped as he recognized the conjured familiar. “Faye Ravenswood…”

The familiar lifted its shadowy arms and sent a ripple of darkness through the room. It knocked the company off their feet, sending them spiraling in different directions. Howell felt his head slam against the stone floor and his vision went white and fuzzy. As he stumbled to his feet he heard the faint sounds of Helikilé and Galos muttering incantations and tossing bolts of light towards the dark figure. Bo joined in, and then Feoryn as Howell fought to shake the dizziness.

He leaned on his staff and pulled himself upright before joining the others. He held out his hand and muttered a spell that sent a shockwave of light swelling through the room. It knocked at the familiar and for a moment he felt the shadowy thing’s power diminish.

“It’s weak against the light,” he said, urging the others to use similar spells. It continued to lash out against them with demon’s breath. The dark smoke suffocated the light within them, draining the power of their spells. In the centre of the atrium, Bo tapped into the earth, and they all felt the ground shudder and shake as she called upon the elements. Beneath her, the ground cracked, a sound like thunder burst through the atrium and the crack travelled up the nave to the tomb and shattered the stone grave in two. The familiar let out a blood curdling scream and darkness pulsed from its body knocking them down once more.

Howell felt his body ache as he pushed himself up from the fall. The demon’s breath was all around him, beginning to wrap itself around his arms and legs, chilling his skin and seeping into his bones. The darkness incapacitated him, and his mind slipped from the present into some dark place. The blood in his veins and the pace of his heartbeat slowed. He felt the wrinkles in his skin deepen and stretch across his body. He felt his hair grow wiry and dry, brittle and grey. His breath was stifled as stale air escaped his mouth. Was this it? Was this what it was to die? Had his final adventure begun?

When he had almost lost all hope, in this darkness a gentle moonlight suddenly graced his eyes and warmed his cold skin. The face of Torial, the Moon Warden, materialized before him. She looked on him with those kind eyes that twinkled with the star’s reflection in the Moonlight Glade. Her lips came close to his ear, gently brushing the fine hairs of his beard. “Your adventure will have to wait for another day, Pendengalle,” she whispered.

He felt his heart quicken, the blood pump back through his veins, bringing warmth back to his skin. His chest felt like it was going to explode with the thumping of his heart. He gasped for air, and the cold filled his lungs and sparked his spirit and he felt his body being pulled from the darkness, back into these barren ruins. He rose up then and shone with white light that pierced the black demon’s breath and made the familiar quiver in fright.

Howell’s voice was deep and commanding. The Dark Tongue tasted bitter on his lips, but his command over the speech and the light pouring from his body crumpled the dark familiar. It shrieked and contorted in the light as its power failed. The others joined in with Howell, their own light shining bright until the entire atrium sparkled with a heavenly glow.

The dark thing twisted and crumpled, collapsing on itself, and then disappeared with a shrill squeal. The light faltered and the room grew silent once more. Howell panted as he leaned on his staff, weak from the exertion. He reached out with his senses. The presence was gone. The dark energies still surged through the ruins, but the presence had disappeared. He let out a sigh and shook his head.

“Is the remnant gone?” Galos mumbled from across the room. “Because I don’t think even I have the strength to do that again.”

“It’s gone,” Howell replied. He slumped to the floor and noticed his hands were trembling with weariness. For a time they all sat there, recovering in silence, listening to the scurrying sound of spiders and rats that echoed through the empty hall.

“What does this mean?” Bo finally asked.

“It means the Children of the Dark are growing in strength,” Helikilé replied. “We must be vigilant in our watch. We cannot allow them to make headway again.”

“Without Faye Ravenswood, what power do they have? What end do they seek?”

“Chaos,” Howell replied. “Faye Ravenswood may have died years ago, but there are still dark things at work. I sense it in every inch of this place. The Children seek to upset the balance of the world, they summon demons and dark things from the spirit realm, they chisel away at our years of peace a little at a time, sculpting it into a world of chaos and darkness, a world the Demon Lord strove to create.” He pulled out his pipe and filled it with leaves, packing them in and lighting them. He took a puff of smoke and blew it out into the still air. “It seems the influence of Kostantyne and Ravenswood have extended past the grave once more.”

“What can we do?” Galos asked.

“We can keep watch,” Howell replied.

“We are only five, Howell,” Helikilé said. “And the world is a bigger place than it once was.”

“We are only five, but it is our duty to watch the world. We must stand vigilant against the threatening dark. We must protect the lives of the innocent against the encroaching night. There is evil in this world, and we must stand against it, firm and defiant in our place, lest death sweep away all that we have strove to protect.”

They all stumbled to their feet and wandered back the way they had came, through rusted halls and thick fog until they reached the boat sitting silently on the black shore. They climbed aboard, but Howell looked back at the outline of The Eye, shrouded in fog and lost in the past. A soft wind drifted through the mountains, gentle and calm, and disturbed the heavy air that sat stale about the ruin. It wafted around Howell and was a pleasant change from the stillness. But there was something on that soft wind, a hint of something sinister, a scent of something ominous, a whispered warning of darker things to come.

The story continues in A Chronicle of Crowns.