Part 2: Quests
When I had first heard of this ‘Weapon Quest’ I had no idea it would have been so complicated. Taking for granted that the precise locations would be mentioned in the Great tome, I did not think about the Quest in the years of my ‘orientation’. Till the last.
The only way to advance in Sanctuary is not by a dagger stab to your superior, but by force of deed. Possible Quests are listed in the corridors of the schools, and the students, to advance a level, have to complete them. They either do a series of small quests or a difficult major one.
Most of them choose the smaller quests. Why? Either they can see their own limits, or dare not strive for a harder goal.
The students are often surprised at what they can actually achieve.
Quests test their abilities and determination, they are classrooms outside the school. There, students may learn skills that will serve them well when they graduate from Sanctuary to fulfil their true course in life.
Some of the would be masters spend years working on this first quest alone. It may seem rather useless to search for such weapons, one may say. Why not buy them from some magical shop? That defeats the purpose of having such a quest. Though it seems straightforward at first, all the ‘Master’ quests involve many twists and turns. Just ask any of the Masters, in any School.
We all suspect that the World-Makers themselves set the obstacles, for in each quest they have faced, the Masters would face one of the situations they fear most, that would test their loyalties, their sincerity in the quest, that they would require great help in completing it.
I know of this, and many a time I have idly asked myself what I would face, when Niranyarr sleeps in the bright afternoons of our journey. Looking back now, I still hear his voice when he wakes to see my face: “Dreaming again, elf? Why worry about inevitable?”
Niranyarr Windsoarer padded constantly by Zak’s side now, for the tree boughs interlocked overhead to form a nearly impenetrable blanket. Uncomfortable, his wings flared and flapped powerfully, lifting his bulk from the floor for a short distance, then dropping him back down.
The ensuing gusts of air buffeted Zak’s stark white hair, and the dark elf turned to his companion. “Do tell me before you do that.” He advised the griffin in good humor.
The powerful beast dipped its eagle head gracefully to Zak. “Sorry. One prefers mountains to closed tree.” He explained.
Zaknafein raised his eyes to look at the canopy. “That much is obvious,” he murmured, “Silverymoon is a day’s walk from here.” He reassured the griffin.
“Forever, it seems,” Niranyarr sighed, gazing longingly at the clear blue sky beyond the branches.
“This was your idea.” Zak heartlessly reminded him, then patted his tawny side and continued walking. For Niranyarr’s sake, he was almost always in his material form now.
Niranyarr sighed again, then bounded after the drow. This forest was much safer than his mountain home, and certainly almost as beautiful, but he preferred the Eyries to the dense Moonwood. Certainly the prey were more obvious there, and easier to catch.
The over-alert deer here were too quick for a landbound griffin, and Zaknafein, seeing their dimly glowing forms, had decided that they were probably sacred to the wood, and refused to use his small crossbow.
Niranyarr resigned himself to catching whatever small prey was unlucky enough to get in his way, but griffins could go for days without food, so Zak was not too worried about him
The next day they reached the edges of the forest. Niranyarr bounded out first, leaping upward, great gold-brown wings pumping. Swooping and soaring, he cried out in sheer joy, then remembered what they were here for. He spiraled down, but Zak saw the joy was still evident on Niranyarr’s fierce eyes.
“Your display has probably alerted all the people around to our presence,” he remarked dryly, smiling at the griffin’s delight.
Niranyarr clacked his beak together. “One is not sorry,” he replied, then launched himself back into the crisp morning air. They covered the rest of the miles to the city, unconsciously retracing Drizzt’s route of long ago, when he and his friends had been searching for Mithril Hall. Finally they came over the last climb, to look down at the many-spired, enchanted city down below, with the River Rauvin tracing the city’s edge.
The griffin squawked in surprise, as a horseman seemed to float over the river.
Zak smiled. “That is the Moonbridge, Silverymoon’s invisible path,” he explained. Niranyarr looked down in fascination as the horseman stepped off the bridge, and continued on his way.
They approached the guard post at the foot of the magical bridge. Zak didn’t bother to wear the cowl on his patterned Master robe, but plunged forward instead. “Greetings,” he started, “My friend and I would like to enter your fair city. May we be escorted to the Moonbridge?”
It was hard to say which of the two friends surprised the guards more. To their credit, the guards recovered quickly. “May I ask what is your business in the city?” one of them asked politely.
“The Vault of Sages.” Zak replied succinctly.
The guards could not see any harm in that, and finally moved aside. “Pass, but a word of advice. Do not cause any trouble in Silverymoon, or you’ll find that your blades will not match against Lady Alustriel’s magic.”
“I thank you for the advice.” Zak said, then moved onto the bridge confidently, towards the city gates. Niranyarr put a paw cautiously on the invisible bridge, his wings stretched out for balance. When he did not fall, he continued after the drow, but his eyes continued to dart uneasily down at the river.
Looking up once, he saw the drow’s amused smile, but pretended not to notice.
Lady Alustriel sat in one of her palace’s many graceful towers, looking down with interest at the strange pair that had been admitted into her gates.
Silverymoon had been founded on principles of fairness and individuality, and she found that her guilt at refusing Drizzt passage years ago was lessened by seeing one of his kindred moving in the city. Eyes had been placed on the dark elf visitor, but he had caused no trouble so far, even in Moonwood.
The elf had, on arrival, gone unerringly to the Vault of Sages, with his griffin friend in tow. Perhaps she could take some time off her state matters to seek an audience with the two. Determinedly, the Lady Alustriel smoothed her silver mane and retreated back into the tower.
The Vault of Sages was considerable, but having seen the Library at Sanctuary, Zaknafein was unimpressed, even more so as he knew each of the volumes had an exact copy in Sanctuary. What he needed was to talk to the renowned Sages of Silverymoon, wherever they were.
He wandered around the library, aimlessly touching the spines of the books. Perhaps he had missed a volume in Sanctuary. Angling his head to the side, Zaknafein began the enormous task of sorting out all the titles.
“Zak need help?” Niranyarr offered, also eyeing the thousand volumes that lined the walls.
“Can you read, griffin?” Zak answered, scanning quickly through the first ten books.
“No,” Niranyarr admitted, then made coughing laugh as he realized the uselessness of his offer.
“Precisely.” Zaknafein remarked, then continued his search. “I wish I knew someone in this city to guide me,” he finally burst out in frustration. Unknown to the elf, he had but to ask a citizen of the city for help, but he had grown up in hostile Menzoberranzan, and could be excused from that oversight.
“Do you need help?” offered a musical voice from the doorway.
The pair spun around to see a tall woman, hair of a silver hue, wise eyes shining with eternal youth. She wore a gown of fine silk, and a crown of jewels sat on her head. “Peace, dark elf. I am Alustriel, High Lady of Silverymoon.”
Zak looked at her more closely, but did not doubt her words. He bowed with fluid grace. “It is an honor to meet you, Lady.” Niranyarr glanced at the human, then too dipped in a bow, his great wings curving forwards.
“May I know your names?” Lady Alustriel asked.
Zaknafein saw no harm in the question. “My name is Zaknafein Do’Urden. My friend here,” affectionately patting Niranyarr’s powerful shoulders, “is Niranyarr Windsoarer, a wingleader of the Skysong Eyrie.” Hearing Alustriel’s gasp, he looked at her curiously.
“Zaknafein Do’Urden…of House Daermon N’a’shezbaernon of Menzoberranzan?” Alustriel finally managed to stammer out.
“You know of me?” Zak asked
“Drizzt spoke of you often,” she replied, her sparkling eyes boring into Zak. “Now that I see it, you do resemble him, in features as in manner.”
Of course. Zak had often seen Drizzt journey to Silverymoon to speak to Alustriel in the Plane of Saints, and he had also wondered on the manner of their relationship.
“What… why are you alive?” Alustriel asked bluntly.
“I am technically not alive. I am a soul, which incidentally has the ability to materialize.” Zak answered, mimicking Morikan’s tone and words. Niranyarr, not fully understanding the conversation, stood behind Zak, silent and unmoving.
“May I seek an audience with you?” The lady requested.
Zak shrugged. This could help him greatly. He nodded, and the pair followed the High Lady of Silverymoon out of the strong doors of the Vault of Sages.
“Why are you in the Realms?” Alustriel asked once they had entered the private conference chamber. Niranyarr ducked his head at the low door, then settled on his haunches at Alustriel’s invitation to sit down.
The room was consisted of a few padded chairs in a circle around a squat table. Maps hung on the walls, and a window opened out far above Silverymoon on the right of the entrance, allowing the sun’s light to shine in.
Spheres hung from the high ceiling, that could probably be turned on magically to produce light at the end of the day. The chamber was completely carpeted, the design plain except for the ornate border and the colourful centre, on which the table sat on.
Zaknafein sat on the comfortable chair next to the griffin, then turned to Alustriel. “It is a long story. To summarize it, I am here on a quest, a search for the Twin swords.”
Alustriel nodded solemnly. “I have heard of these swords. Many dwarves have passed the gates of Silverymoon to look at the Vault of Sages, in an attempt to discern the locations of the swords. May I ask what is the reason behind this quest?”
Zak nodded. “It is a long story,” he warned, but Lady Alustriel had already settled down, a look of anticipation on her beautiful face.
For the next few hours Zaknafein recounted his first encounter with Morikan, detailing the true structure of the universe, and also the Plane of Saints. Alustriel smiled when he described the many games he had played in that happy place, and sighed wistfully as he described Sanctuary. Such a place of knowledge would not be open to her, for she knew her purpose had been completed.
Zak also spoke of Winter and her pranks, and then explained his cloak and what he had to do to become a full Master of Morikan’s School.
Niranyarr had listened to this tale before, but still marvelled along with Alustriel at the many wonders that Zak had seen.
Zak then described the early stages of his quest, and the Eyries. At the end of the fantastic tale, Alustriel nodded in approval, then turned her attention to the griffin. “And what is your part in this, noble creature?”
Niranyarr preened himself at her compliment. “One is companion to Zak. Pull him out of trouble, one will.” He said, then ignored Zak’s incredulous look.
Alustriel’s eyes sparkled with laughter, though she replied solemnly, “I am sure you will, Niranyarr.” Her shoulders shook silently when Zak stared at her, openmouthed.
“Well, I fear I cannot aid you much in your quest. However, the palace bard Trinity may be able to offer you something. Her grasp of Lore is unparalled in Silverymoon.” With a smile, the Lady walked over to the door and whispered something to the guard outside.
“She will be here soon.” Alustriel assured Zak.
“My thanks, Lady.” Zak said with gratitude.
“I am glad that I may be of aid in your quest. Now, do you require anything else?”
“Food?” Niranyarr asked hopefully. Alustriel looked at Zak, who shook his head.
“I do not need to eat, or rest,” he explained.
A respectful knock sounded on the heavy oak doors, and they swung open silently to reveal a dimunitive figure. “Lady Trinity.” One of the guards announced, then closed the oak doors behind her.
Lady Trinity sported luxurious auburn hair, and startling green eyes. She wore a short dress and high boots, her clothing oddly mismatched, yet blending together. A flute hung at her belt, made of purest silver, runes carved at the edges.
“Greetings, Lady Alustriel,” she curtsied, then looked at the other two, raising an eyebrow in astonishment.
“Niranyarr Windsoarer,” Alustriel introduced, inclining her head at the griffin, “and Zaknafein Do’Urden.”
Lady Trinity’s eyes widened at the last mention, then curtsied again. “A pleasure it is to meet you both.” She breathed, then looked again to Alustriel for an explanation.
Alustriel waved Trinity to a chair, then nodded at Zak.
“Do you know of the Twin Swords?” Zaknafein asked the strange looking bard.
“Scorcher and Frostbite?” Trinity confirmed easily, then caught the drow’s nod and intense look. “Yes, I suppose I do. What do you wish to know?”
“Their locations,” Zak replied.
Trinity cocked her head to the side. “Well, the last seen of Scorcher was in Rakaroajirac’s claws. Frostbite was taken to someplace of ice, and placed in a shrine. But I see you know that already,” she interupted Zak as he was about to say something, “Very well. The last I heard of the Twin Swords was in a tavern in Waterdeep, but that does not concern the locations.”
Frowning in concentration, she continued, “Now that I think of it, I remember a dwarven sage telling me once that if I wanted to ask him questions, I had to go to the Fire plains to look for the Scorcher sword first. Perhaps that is the location,” she said doubtfully.
“Fire plains, the Everflame Mountains!” Alustrield cried in truimph.
Zak half started from his chair in excitement. “Where are these mountains?” He asked. He had not heard of the mountains before, even when he had spent some time studying the Realms.
“The Everflame is a new name given to a range of mountains far south from this place, after a recent eruption covered much of the place in bubbling lava, burning everything it touched.” Alustriel explained.
“Reasonable it is that a red dragon would live in Fire Plains. However lava might have buried its lair.”Niranyarr offered.
Zak shook his head. If the sword had truly been lost, its name would have magically erased from the large tome that listed the weapons.
“Frostbite?” he asked hopefully.
“That sword, nothing is known. It is most probably either near the Spine of the World or at the other end of the world, the Frozen Mountains, since it was placed in a glacial valley.” Trinity replied.
Zak nodded. Knowing Scorcher’s approximate location was more than he had hoped for already. “How may I get to the Everflame Mountains?”
Alustriel got up and went over to a shelf, that held many maps. Taking one out, she set it in front of Zak. “The best way would be to walk through the forest beside Hellgate Keep, then over the Nomad Plains...” As she spoke, she marked their best route on the map, then handed over the map to Zak. “I have many copies of that one,” she explained with a smile.
“Now, if Niranyarr is hungry, I have made arrangements. Would you join us?” Alustriel asked of Zak. He shook his head. “I have seen Niranyarr eat before. Look for me in the Vault of Sages,” he told the griffin. “We leave tonight.” Zak grinned in anticipation.
They walked out of Silverymoon’s eastern gates, to follow a merchant’s the small line of mountains south of the enchanted city. It was the fastest route available to the Everflame Mountains.
Niranyarr made a contented sound as he flew overhead on silent wings, The dark velvet of night was pierced with bright stars, a cool wind ruffling his feathers. The dark shapes looming around him held no fear for the griffin, had instead reminded him pleasantly of home. The meal had been highly satisfactory, and his hunger sated, his was a significantly more mellow mood as he met up with Zak in the Vault of Sages.
Below him, Zak’s pace had quickened noticeably, now that he knew where he was supposed to go. Tireless, he loped, wolflike, over the dusty road, his eyes glowing a telltale red in infravision. He looked up occasionally at Niranyarr, following the griffin’s sure lead.
They had studiously avoided all the merchant groups that they had seen, concentrating on the path.
On the open road, Zak had the leisure to think over his meeting with the remarkable Lady Alustriel. She seemed rather fond of Drizzt, having spoken fondly about him in the short trip to the city gates in her chariot.
Zak wondered how their relationship would have been like if the burdens of state did not rest so squarely on the woman’s shoulders. Surely Drizzt knew of the lifespan of a human. If he did love her, he would have to reconcile himself to a life of grief. Half-drow did not seem to live as long as normal drow.
“Sleep-walking, Zak?” Niranyarr’s voice sounded close to his ear, and he jerked out of his thoughts. The griffin had landed noiselessly beside him, and was very amused.
“Thinking,” Zak corrected.
Niranyarr cocked his head. “Of the sword-quest or of Alustriel?” he said slyly.
Zak blinked at the griffin’s sharp, though slightly incorrect, insight. “Alustriel,” he admitted, then held up a slender hand as Niranyarr opened its great beak to comment. “You know she likes Drizzt?”
“Your son? Oh yes.” Niranyarr replied. “She asked me, after I ate. Whether Drizzt knew of us or-not.”
“And?” Zak asked.
“Told her, Drizzt did-not. She asked if we would like her to tell Drizzt the next time he passed by city.”
“Your answer?” Zak felt a cold finger run up his spine.
“Told her, we did-not mind.” Niranyarr replied. Seeing the trepidation on Zak’s face, he continued. “But asked her not to find Drizzt to tell. Is that all-right?”
Zak’s shoulders slumped in relief. His son was far away from Silverymoon, too far to find out about the information. Perhaps Drizzt would return here some day after he had seen more of the world, but Zak thought that when that day came, Alustriel, sad to say, would be long gone.
Niranyarr poked Zak with his beak. “Why you worry? Drizzt would be glad to see you. Even if we ever meet him on our trip.”
“I do not wish to interfere with his life. My purpose lies with Sanctuary. Being the stubborn person that he is, Drizzt would not settle for simply visiting, he would insist on following me there, but Morikan would take exception, I’m afraid. That would hurt him. His life is complicated enough already.” Zak replied, then continued on the road.
The griffin shook its head at Zak’s back. “One will never understand elves.” He said aloud, not bothering to whisper.
If Zaknafein had heard, he gave no indication.
A long while passed in silence. Thinking that Zak had been offended by his prodding into his personal life, Niranyarr hurried up to the elf. “If one has said something that offended you, one is sorry.” He told Zak sincerely.
Zak turned his head, a resigned look in his eyes. “I am not. I do not blame you for asking.”
They continued in silence for several minutes, before Niranyarr spoke again. “Lucky you are that Trinity just happened to remember the only useful thing in her talk.” The griffin said with a chuckle, griffin-style.
Zak nodded in agreement, then he felt a bit suspicious. “Am I lucky, or is someone interfering?”
Very good Zaknafein. I had despaired of your intelligence. Morikan’s familiar voice resounded in the halls of his mind. From the startled look on Niranyarr’s features, the griffin had heard him too.
Why are you doing this? Zak demanded.
A technical interpretation of the rules, due to another ‘interference’ from someone else. Morikan replied cryptically. And no, I am not going to tell you who that is. Enjoy the rest of your quest. You are doing well on your own so far, and I will not aid you further. Morikan promised, then his presence disappeared, leaving a mystified griffin and a rather irritated dark elf behind.
Dense forest gave way; almost abruptly it seemed, into a marshy swamp. A log had collapsed on their left, and was covered in sickly green lichens, and dank mushrooms. Dark shapes swam in the murky water; their nature revealed when an unfortunate bug broke the glassy surface.
Silver-sided fish burst out over the stagnant surface, fighting for the prize. Niranyarr looked at them appreciatively. “Eat well today.” He told Zak.
Zak made a face. He had not enjoyed eating the slippery creatures even in the Underdark. The blind fishes there once had gone on a major multiplying spree, and had formed most of the drow diet for a few months.
It had rained recently, and the swamp had swelled its borders. Trees stuck out of the water, and at the banks, grass continued to grow, half submerged, their tips peeking out like so many little darts.
“We cross?” Niranyarr asked Zak, looking at him curiously. Zak could not fly, and the griffin was not strong enough to carry a passenger.
“You fly across. I’ll float.” Zak replied, then smiled at the griffin’s disgusted look. Niranyarr did not like it when Zak became insubstantial, for griffins were superstitious creatures.
“Not natural,” Niranyarr muttered, but he spread his wings and launched into the air, then hovered over Zak. Zak began the curious sensations of turning his material body inside, and then looked at his filmy hands in satisfaction.
Nodding, the griffin flew higher up, leading the way as Zak drifted quickly over the stagnant waters. Dew had gathered on the leaves of the trees that reached out of the waters, and the beads of clear crystal reflected light off the emerald leaves.
Zak marveled at such beauty could be found in so gloomy a place.
Niranyarr glided on the rising currents of air generated due to the hot sun, looking out at the vast expanse. This swamp could easily contain the Eyrie Mountains, and a measure of Silverymoon. A few crude fishermen huts, held up by tall stilts, sat in the distance, their boats even farther away, reaping the swamp’s bounty. The water had generally spread outwards and not upwards, so their huts were still inhabited.
He swooped downwards to Zak, looking for a place to land. A patch of grass, seemingly on solid ground, grew close by, and he headed for it.
“Not there!” Zak shouted suddenly as he noticed something about the clump. Startled, Niranyarr angled upwards sharply, nearly crashing into a tree, then grasping a branch with his talons and scrambled up to a perch of several boughs.
His eagle head turns to Zak for an explanation. The dark elf merely took a floating branch with a materialized hand and poked at the clump. It moved to the side gently.
“Floating grass,” he said in satisfaction.
“Magic?” the griffin asked, watching the ‘solid ground’ in fascination.
“Not magic. Probably some debris from more fallen branches, and the plants simply grew on them.” Zak replied, “I think it will be safer for you to stop on trees.”
“No trees later there.” The griffin pointed with a talon to the distance. “Human houses, four, five, with small boats.”
“Boats? They are probably fishermen then. We will avoid them.” Zak decided.
Niranyarr made his coughing laugh. “Open sky. Griffin easily seen.”
Zak shrugged. “What can they do, or want with an oversized chicken?”
Niranyarr snorted then flew back up into the air, taking another route now. Zak laughed, then followed, going around the tree in front of him.
A gray-brown bird sat on the nest, eyes half closed. She cheeped an alarm as she saw Zak pass, his drifting form close to the nest, and her mate dived down from his perch.
Squawking, he flew around the drow’s head, trying to pull at the white hair, then squeaked in surprise as his tiny claws passed through. Zaknafein chuckled at the bird, and drifted quickly on, so as not to further disturb the nest.
With a final victorious squawk, the attacking bird winged back to the nest.
“Defeated by a little bird?” Niranyarr called from above, where he had watched the scene.
“By its courage.” Zak replied, still smiling, looking back over his shoulder where the bird still glared at him, safe on its perch.
“Even the little ones may love, dark elf.” The griffin replied, eyes still watching the distant boats in front of them.
“They all have souls.” Zak remarked.
Sturdy poles held up the village, and planks that looked rather unsafe linked each hut to another. Flat sheets that gleamed in the sun held fish and other marine creatures out to dry. The huts were dark and small. The women sat on chairs outside, talking to each other or weaving, their tattered clothes giving voice to the hardships.
They gave the floating village a wide berth, but Zak could see children stopping their play on the creaking planks, the run sure-footedly to the end of the platforms, watching and pointing at Niranyarr. Zak had undergone the full transformation to his invisible soul form, to Niranyarr’s discomfort. The griffin thought he went to too much trouble to ensure a silent passage.
One boy took a curious Y-shaped contraption in his hand, with a stretchable band fixed to the ends of the thing. Picking up some object from the platform, he leveled the thing at Niranyarr, placing the object on the middle of the band, stretching and letting go.
The object arched out like a small projectile, to drop into the swamps under the griffin.
Niranyarr gave a derisive snort, but flew on without retaliating.
Some more of the adults came out of the huts to stare at the griffin. Zak, seeing they held crude bows in their hands, called an alarm to the griffin, but Niranyarr had already seen them, and was fast winging out of range.
“Won’t notice, would they?” he called down to Zak when they were safely out of the place.
“So I miscalculated a little,” Zak said, then grinned. “Maybe they wished a new change to their diet.”
Niranyarr blinked. “They find this chicken hard to catch.” He retorted, and laughed.
The pair stopped on a small island of solid ground in the late afternoon, Niranyarr giving his wings a well-deserved rest, then proceeding to the idea of lunch.
Zak watched with amusement as Niranyarr crouched by the water’s edge, intently watching the waters. “Fishing?” he asked of the griffin.
Niranyarr bobbed his eagle head, wings half raised. Zak looked at the spectacle, then continued, “Without a net or a pole?”
“Griffins do not need silly human things,” Niranyarr replied, emphasizing his point by flicking his right claw in, and pulling out a large, silver-sided fish, the murky surface barely disturbed.
Zak had to concede that fact, and watched in silent amazement as the griffin snatched up fish after fish in ease, then downed them quickly.
“Like to try? Test reflexes.” Niranyarr offered when he was sated.
Zaknafein looked at the water, then at the griffin. Shrugging, he materialized and walked over to the edge. Bending down, he studied the shapes below the unbroken surface.
Picking a likely one, he flashed his hand in, impossibly fast, but the fish escaped, swimming away in a panic to settle again out of Zak’s reach. Niranyarr made a laughing sound then crouched next to Zak.
“You aim under them,” he explained.
Zak tried again, this time catching one, its frantic splashing sending ripples out over the surface. Too slippery to hold, it wriggled out of Zak’s hand. Zak promptly caught it by its tail, the fist jerking from side to side in panic, mouth gasping for air.
“You good,” Niranyarr said in a surprised tone, “Took one many, many tries to do that.”
Zak smiled, and flipped the fish back into the murky waters.
Niranyarr flipped his wings backwards, then curled up on the small island, his beak resting near his flank, talons stretched to the side. One wing shaded his head; the other was wrapped tightly to his back. His tail lay on the ground, tip slightly upraised, the only indication that the griffin would leap back into wakefulness in a split second if alerted.
Zak patted its flank, then sat down to watch the looming trees around them, eyes trying to pierce the filmy, obscuring mist that floated above the water in this denser area.
Far from silent, the marsh rang with insect’s calls and birdsong. Now and again, there was the steady drip dripping of water splashing drop by drop into the surface, somewhere to the west.
A blue kingfisher flashed into view, alighting on a bough whose leaves dipped in the water. Its beady eyes looked into Zak’s suddenly, then flickered over the sleeping Niranyarr. Zak kept perfectly still, and the bird apparently thought them no threat, for it settled to watch the waters.
Without any warning, it dived, cleaving the surface neatly, then flapped out of the water, spraying water in every direction. In its beak it held a squirming fish, which it then proceeded to gulp down, while Zak watched in fascination.
Shaking itself dry, its feathers fluffed out into a blue ball, then settled back to their pristine shape. Peering back at Zak one more time, it took flight, winging away as noiselessly as it had arrived.
Zaknafein shook his head at the marsh’s continued surprises. Sharp ears picking up every sound, he went back to watching the boggy surface.
The same kingfisher flew into a window of a cottage, on a gentle rise. Alighting on the back of a chair, it chirped at an old man, who looked up, pleased.
He held out a gnarled hand that shook slightly from age, and the bird flew over obligingly to peck at the tidbits held in it.
“They are here, precious?” He asked of the bird in a soft, melodious voice.
The kingfisher looked up from its treats, and bobbed its head.
“Watch them, precious,” he commanded when the bird had finished, and the kingfisher immediately flew back out of the window.
The old man barked with sudden, insane laughter. How long had it been since worthy prey had arrived? Centuries, perhaps. His skin was wrinkled now; ugly folds that interrupted the outlines of his hands, wisps of white hair on his head all that remained of a mane of black hair that others had admired.
Too long, it seemed.
The old man had come to the marsh a long time ago, when the forests had stretched, unbroken, where Silverymoon stood now.
Without any effort, he had dominated the lesser creatures of the marsh, claiming the place for his own.
Waiting for others to come.
Getting up in sudden effort, he snarled as his legs almost collapsed under him. Grabbing his walking stick, he stumbled across the room, cackling to himself.
There were many preparations he had to make, and too little time.
Niranyarr stretched luxuriously, beak gaping open in a yawn.
“Better now, griffin?”Zaknafein asked of his companion.
Niranyarr nodded, then bounded over the calm surface of the waters, wings flaring outwards, laboriously flapping, lifting up his bulk.
Zak watched until the griffin was at a safe height, then changed to his soul form, floating off the small island. Continuing southwards, they picked up their pace, eager to be out of the marsh. The edges of the Nomad Plains were but a day or so from their place.
The beady eyes of the kingfisher, out of sight in the dense crown of a tree, followed their every move.
It was early next morning when they came into a curious sight. A cottage rose out of the water, sitting in the middle of a serene lawn. Several flowers were scattered around the lawn, and ivy grew on one side of the house, stretching its coils up even over the roof.
The cottage was made of stone, its windows broken at the edges, and moss grew in some of the cracks of the stone blocks. A paved path led up to the wooden door of the cottage, wide open to reveal a cozy interior.
Smoke drifted upwards from the squat chimney, evidence that someone was living inside.
Niranyarr looked down at Zak curiously, but the dark elf shook his head. Nodding, the griffin flew higher up, and Zak became invisible, drifting over the lawn, trying to pass the house.
Just then, an old man tottered out of the house. Hints of white hair grew on his balding head, wrinkled and drooping with age. His yellowish eyes retained a strange glint, and they darted continuously around the area. He wore a simple white robe and slippers, withered, shaking hands firmly clasped on his walking stick.
He peered unerringly at Zak, as if noting his appearance.
Zak was surprised for a moment, then thought the old man had been looking at something behind him. Shrugging, he continued over the lawn.
“Not so fast, spirit,” the old man said, his calm, steady voice not matching his withered exterior. He put one hand out before Zak. “Appear before me. I need to tell you something of importance.”
Zak, curious now, stopped in front of the old man and materialized. Niranyarr high above, circled once, wondering why his friend had done so, then swooped down to stand behind Zak.
The old man looked unsurprised by the sudden appearance of a griffin dropping from the sky, and motioned for them to follow him into his house.
“What is this matter of importance?” Zak asked when they were seated around a table in the house. The old man’s hands curled and uncurled under the table, impatient, but he decided to play out the game a bit longer.
“About your quest,” he replied, pleased to see the surprised look on the dark elf’s face.
Zak was considerably mystified. The old man not only could see him in his spirit form, he was not afraid of his obviously drow features. Now it appeared the old man knew why he was here.
The old man had asked some acquaintances in another plane, and he knew much about Zak. He forced his face to smile, an expression that was foreign to him.
“What do you need to tell me?” Zak continued, his voice cautious now.
“Would you like to know Scorcher’s location?” The old man decided to give Zak the information he desperately wanted, then starting his plans.
“Yes,” Zak breathed, leaning slightly forward. This could take years off his quest.
“Go to Town Rimar on the river, then follow the river downwards. Ignore the shorter left fork, but follow the longer fork until the first divide you see. That fork stops in a pool. The cave there,” the old man paused dramatically, “Is Ralkaroajirac’s cave.”
Zak blinked, excitement rising. Then his eyes narrowed. “How did you know of this?”
The old man gave a toothy grin. “I asked a few friends... from the Nether plane!” the last of the sentence came out as a roar, and the old man leapt forward with surprising speed, hands clawing out to Zak’s throat.
With an outraged shriek, the griffin lunged forwards, talons at the ready, but the old man easily batted the griffin, for him to smash on the other side of the house, stunned.
Zak’s swords leaped into his hands and he too, attacked, side stepping the old man’s lunges.
“Too long... too long,” the old man rasped as he continued, undaunted by the elf’s swordplay.
“What are you?” Zak yelled at him in desperation, sickened as he saw that his swords drew no blood.
The old man replied with a swing of his hand at Zak’s face. Ducking, Zak’s sword flickered out, cutting off the hand. The old man did not look pained, instead stepping back with a vile smile. The stump swelled, then formed back into another hand.
The remaining hand twitched on the floor, palm outstretched to reveal circular mouths, resembling that of a leech. It flipped itself over, then crawled towards Zak, scuttling like some monstrous insect. Sickened, Zak lowered his blades to point their tips at the floor.
“Suck the soul from you, I will. Then your friend.” The old man promised.
Eyes burning, Zak attacked, his swords whirling masterfully, cutting the old man in a dozen places.
The old man laughed again, evilly, and attacked, his leech like hands trying to cup Zak’s throat. Zaknafein twirled his blades, knocking the hands away with the flat of his swords. He found many holes in the old man’s careless swings, and his sword slipped through to emerge from the back of the old man’s chest.
The old man looked down, then burst into a new bout of laughter. Jerking back, he freed himself from the sword. “Do you not understand? I cannot die!” he cried. Horrified, Zak felt something clawing on his boot, and he did not need to look to know that it was the severed hand. Lashing out, he kicked the monstrous thing into the waters outside the house.
Then he shrieked as he burst into flame. Hands upraised as if appealing to some god above, his form blackened, then collapsed into itself with a sigh.
Niranyarr stood across the table, talons firmly holding a vial. “Firebreath potion,” he explained calmly. “Burns once out of vial. Threw one at human. Useful it is, no?”
Zak stared at the griffin, then leant against the wall in sheer relief.
They burnt down the rest of the cottage, so as to ensure that the old man, whatever he was, was truly destroyed.
“You think what he said true?” Niranyarr called down, flying in the lead once again.
“He had no reason to lie to us,” Zak replied, drifting onwards.
Niranyarr considered this then bobbed his head.
“Perhaps,” he replied grudgingly.
“You think he dead?” Niranyarr spoke up again after a few miles of the gloomy landscape.
“I do not know.” Zak admitted. He had been thinking about that same question. “I pity anyone who had come his way before. May they rest now, in peace.”
Whatever the answer to the question, the two friends felt a strong sense of relief as they left the marshy place, to look on the unbroken grasslands of the Nomad Plain.
The Nomad plains were a great expanse of unbroken grasslands, a sea of grass home to the fierce nomads and their herds of cattle. The sun beat down relentlessly, and the nomads jealously defended waterholes in this place.
Niranyarr preferred the cooling wind to the hot ground. Warm currents rose from the heated surface, and he did not need to flap his wings to get along, merely gliding from one current to another.
They had not bothered to avoid the many herds that they passed, for Zaknafein was more interested in picking up their pace, now that they knew where to go. Cutting a straight course over the wide grasslands, Zak merely became invisible when nearing a herd.
“The grass seems forever,” grumbled the griffin one hot day, loping easily at Zak’s side.
“It had better not be,” Zak smiled, “Or I will never complete my quest.”
“Boring.” Niranyarr declared, then loped on to the accompaniment of Zak’s laughter.
They watched warily as a group of horsemen came galloping up to stop at a safe distance from them, bows trained in their direction.
Tall and dark-skinned, the horsemen wore leather jerkins, faces painted, hair shaved away into patterns. Their angular looking faces looked down at Zak and Niranyarr, impassive.
The horses were sturdy and tall, long legs built for speed and distance. Spirited, they shifted impatiently, hooves stamping, heads arching gracefully.
The apparent leader of the band, silver bracers adorning his wrists, moved his horse out to meet them. “Why do you move through the lands belonging to the Clan of the Fox, drow?” he demanded in a harsh voice.
“I am but passing through.” Zak replied calmly.
“None of your tricks, dark elf! You may not pass this place.” The leader snarled.
Lady Alustriel had warned Zak of this, and he knew how to respond. “I will buy passage through the Clan of the Fox,” he said confidently.
Taking one of his swords, he planted it in front of the leader. “The Ritual of Challenge.” He declared, looking the horseman in the eye.
Excited whispers rippled through the small group, and the leader considered this new development. “I accept, but none of your dark magic, drow. A fair fight,” he finally decided, and drew his sabers.
“Dismount, and we begin.” Zak replied, swords leaping into his hands.
Niranyarr, understanding, stepped back and sat on his haunches, keeping an eye on the rest of the horsemen as the leader handed the reins of his horse to a comrade.
The opponents bowed formally to each other, then circled. With a sudden flash, Zak lunged forward, swords moving in their deadly dance as he poked at the leader’s defenses, gauging his skills.
Sabers met swords in a metallic ring, again and again as the horseman desperately tried to parry all the cunning blows and feints, only managing to stay on the defensive as Zak came on in a relentless flurry of strokes, batting away the feeble thrusts of his opponent.
The flat of a blade sent a saber spinning across the field.
Behind him, the horsemen watched, silent, at the breathtaking display.
Not wishing to humiliate his opponent by continuing the one-sided contest, Zak’s swords forced the remaining saber down, then came over his defense. The point of one sword nicked at the leader’s throat.
The leader blinked, and lowered his saber. Likewise, to the obvious surprise of the other horsemen, Zak sheathed his swords.
“You have earned passage into the Clan of the Fox,” the leader began grudgingly, “Follow us to our tents. Our Clan-chief will meet you.”
Zak inwardly sighed at the waste of time, but they followed as the other horsemen moved into a circle around them.
The tents of the nomads, made of animal skins, sat haphazardly in the fenced area. The women tended to the affairs of the encampment, while the men hunted and kept the cattle. The larger, more elaborate tent of the Clan-chief stood out clearly in the tented place, guarded by tall warriors, their weapons always in hand.
Charred circles surrounded by a ring of rock marked the firepits, and the nomad children played with wooden weapons, sparring almost continuously. The two were escorted into a sturdy looking hut of wood, with two guards at the entrance.
“Wait here,” the leader said brusquely, and then stalked out.
The door creaked shut in front of them, and they could hear a bolt being fastened at the other side.
Niranyarr slowly padded around the hut, then snorted.
“We are well caged,” was his impression. “This wise?”
“It would have been the same wherever we went. If we were to gain passage through one Clan, the rest would allow us through without a fuss.” Zak assured the griffin, but his tone was slightly doubtful.
He wondered why they had been led to the encampment. Normally, after the Ritual of Challenge, a winner would be allowed to pass where they pleased.
The bolt on the door unfastened with a scrape of wood against wood, and the same leader walked in, and gestured curtly.
The two walked back out into the light, surrounded by spears, and were marched to the large tent. The guards seemed a little frightened by Zak, and their spears kept prodding them when they slowed their pace.
Pulling back the flap of the large tent, the leader pointed to the interior, and Zak immediately walked in confidently. Niranyarr, with a backward glance at the guards, followed.
A man sat on a carved chair at the end of the tent, flanked by two more guards. He watched their entrance nervously, eyes looking first at the griffin, then focusing on the dark elf.
Silence passed as they studied each other.
Finally the Clan-chief spoke up. “Patrol leader Narar informs me that you won the Ritual well.”
Zak nodded slowly. “Then I am granted passage?”
The Clan-chief cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes. However we have a problem with a sorcerer south of this place, and from what Narar tells me, your skills will be of well use in there.”
Zak looked at the Clan-chief steadily. “The sorcerer is of no concern of mine.”
“His home is in the ruins on the outskirts of the plains. If you agree to help, some of my warriors will escort you there, through the other territories of the Clans.” The Clan-chief offered.
Zak considered the offer. It would definitely save him many more confrontations, and if what the human said was correct, the place was on his route anyway.
“Very well,” he agreed, and the Clan-chief relaxed visibly.
“You will go now. The ruins are many days away from the Clan of the Fox. Be wary of the sorcerer, for his magic has taken many of our people and our cattle.”
Just what he needed, Zak groaned inwardly. He was beginning to regret his decision.
“May the gods be with you,” the Clan-chief continued, then waved them out of the tent.
Zak looked at the paddock of tall, wild looking horses, that watched the newcomers with curiousity, hooves upraised. Some of the horses wore saddles, but no bridles.
The nomads with them, as tall and wild as the horses they bred, opened the rough wood gate, and motioned for Zak to go in.
Niranyarr stood on the outside of the paddock, watching silently.
As one, the nomads whistled shrilly, and a few horses detached themselves from the herd, to come and nuzzle at the nomad’s hands.
A horse and a nomad were matched from youth.
The other horses watched, wild eyed, as the nomads mounted their chosen steeds. Zak watched all this without understanding, wondering what was going on now.
The leader of this group trotted his horse over, bareback. “You are to catch your own. The saddled ones are the unchosen horses, and you may choose from them.” He said in a soft voice, uncharacteristic of the nomads.
Zak looked at him, then at the horses, unbelieving. The horses covered the ground with smooth, easy strides, and he could not hope to touch, let alone catch, one of them.
The horsemen cantered their horses out of the paddock, then closed the gate and waited.
“What are the rules?” Zak asked.
The leader looked at him curiously, his long hair tied behind him in a tail. “Catch one,” he said simply.
Zak looked again at the horses, which stared back, intelligence flickering in their brown eyes. Immediately, he saw a possible way out.
Turning to Niranyarr, he asked the griffin, “Would you help?”
Niranyarr bobbed his head, and flew into the sky, great wings pumping furiously. Heading towards the herd.
Zak climbed up carefully onto the rough fence, sitting on the top rung. Waiting.
The griffin dived down, shrieking, at the herd, which predictably stampeded. A saddled lone stallion, midnight black except for a streak on his forehead that teased at his muzzle, stood his ground, baring his teeth. Incredulously, Niranyarr landed on the ground.
For a moment both stood, staring. Then the griffin advanced, his tail swishing from side to side, claws upraised, and hissed like a twenty-pound python.
The horse grudgingly gave way, to join the herd that milled around in the center of the paddock. Niranyarr bounded at them, scattering them in his wake, pushing them towards the other end of the paddock where Zak sat, poised.
The herd, terrified, flowed past in a staccato of hooves. Zak stayed where he was, choosing his target. The black thundered past, nostrils flared, tail arched magnificently.
Zak sprang, leaping onto the enraged horse’s back. Surprised, the horse reared and bucked, but Zak clung on stubbornly to the saddle, legs clamped around its back.
The horse took off, running close to the fence in an attempt to scrape off its rider. Zaknafein endured the bumps, reaching out slowly to pat the horse’s neck, trying to soothe it, but snatched back his hand when the horse turned around to bite at him viciously.
Zak enjoyed every minute of the run across the field, when the horse stopped trying to get him off through the fence. White hair blown back, he had a wide smile on his face. This was how Niranyarr felt when he was flying, that intense joy of freedom. Thinking it had surrendered, he was surprised when it stopped abruptly and lowered its neck.
Carried by the momentum, Zak went flying, to be caught awkwardly by Niranyarr, who had come up quickly in front, anticipating such a move.
Zak shrugged off the griffin’s questions at his well-being, advancing to the horse, that stood like an ebony statue, looking at the strange creature that had dared to try and ride it.
The fires of challenge were lit in Zak’s eyes. This had become a personal test, and he waved Niranyarr away as the griffin started after the drow.
Zaknafein began speaking to the horse in that rasping but soothing noise that he had observed the nomads make when patting their rides. It was imperfect, though clear enough. The horse’s ears curved backwards as it looked with greater astonishment on the dark elf.
Zak continued with small, unthreatening steps, still speaking that unbroken dialogue. Quivering, the horse allowed him to come.
It was with a feeling of triumph that Zak ran a hand on the horse’s graceful neck. Niranyarr looked on with amazement, while the nomads nodded approvingly from outside the paddock.
Slowly but surely, Zak guided the horse towards the end of the paddock. The excited whispers of the nomads were heard behind their leader, as he gazed down at the dark elf. “Well done,” was all he said, but to Zak, the words were like sweet music.
Niranyarr bounded over the paddock to stand at a respectful distance, not wishing to scare the skittish creatures further.
“The horse is N’ar’vel, or Chaser. No one has successfully tamed him, and it took three nomads to catch him and saddle him,” The leader remarked.
One of the nomads produced a bridle and threw it at Zak. The dark elf caught it easily, then looked at them expectantly.
“Saddle him,” the leader commanded.
It took Zak seconds to figure out the straps, and then he approached the waiting horse, speaking to it soothingly. Then his fingers slipped over the horse’s head and deftly strapped the bridle on. Surprised, the horse shook its head experimentally, chewing at the bit, then stopped and nudged Zak’s neck with its wet muzzle.
“Likes you, it does,” Niranyarr laughed, as the dark elf yelped.
Zak and N’ar’vel cantered beside the leader, at the head of the group, who Zak knew now as Limar. Limar was an unusual nomad. His voice was soft, a contrast to the harsh ones of the others, and he spoke as little as possible. He was also the only nomad that did not make signs to ward off evil when Zak and Niranyarr approached during camp.
Zak found he rather liked Limar. The nomad leader was brave, and spearheaded every attack on the Striders, hairy, large human-bears that roamed the wilder parts of the Nomad Plains.
The ride, however, was perhaps one of the most uncomfortable Zak had experienced. His rump now jarred painfully at every bump, and he found that he could barely walk when they stopped every now and then.
Once, Limar took him aside to show him how to ride in the best comfort, but Zak still preferred walking.
Other than this, actually riding was very enjoyable. That wild sense of freedom came with every stride of the black stallion, with every leap that N’ar’vel made.
They made great progress through the plains with horses under them, and soon reached the lands of the furthermost Clan.
Limar walked his horse forward, a bundle wrapped in fox skin hooked to his saddle. The leader of the other Clan too came forward, his bundle decorated with hawk feathers.
At some unseen signal, their horses went down on one knee, facing each other.
“Greetings from the Clan of the Fox,” Limar intoned.
“Why do riders from the Clan of the Fox pass through the Lands of the Hawk?” the other leader asked formally.
Zak kept his hood down; not wishing to attract unwanted attention. Niranyarr had flown as high as he could go and then flown on ahead of them, and was to meet them later on, one of Limar’s suggestions.
“We go to seek the sorcerer of the ruins, to send him to N’ar’queran for judgement,” Limar replied. N’ar’queran was the Horse god of the nomad people.
The leader from the Clan of the Hawk nodded approvingly. “A noble quest. I wish you good hunting, and bless your passage.”
Saying so, the horses got up, and walked next to each other. The two leaders exchanged bundles, then the patrol group of the Clan of the Hawk stood quietly and watched as the other nomad group cantered past, their horses’ heads held high and proud.
The lives of nomads were governed by customs.
On noon the next day, they looked at the ruins, where the sorcerer stayed. Pillars and stone blocks remained, of a previously impenetrable fortress. Of one section, the roof remained, though only two walls stood, and Zak thought that the sorcerer would be staying there.
Dismounting, the horses were tied to an ancient pole obviously used for the same purpose, and one of the nomads stayed behind to watch over them. Zak got off N’ar’vel with mixed emotions, then handed the reins to the nomad.
Niranyarr came diving out of the sky, but Zak motioned for him to stay up and scout. Bobbing his head, he swooped back.
His claws sweeped out in front of him, one of many signals that he and Zak had agreed on, that said that he saw nothing in the ruins.
Zak nodded, and took the point position, leading the others silently forward.
They passed marvelous statues, now broken and scarred. Ancient writings covered a wall, and Zak could see clearly pictures of horsemen, racing over an open plain. Then they came to the ornate arch of the roofed chamber.
Holding up his hand, Zak ran forward on silent feet, and peeked inside.
A thin man sat on a stone chair, the wall on the left forming its back, intricately carved. His head strained upwards, eyes wide open and staring. His body arched forward, hands clutching the gargoyle arms of his stone seat, feet crossed in front of him. Unmoving, he was absorbed in some unnatural trance.
Zak watched on in absolute amazement for some while, then motioned for Limar to come over to look. Poking his head in, Limar too widened his eyes, then looked at Zak blankly.
The only survivor of the sorcerer had belonged to another Clan, and his horrifying tales of what the sorcerer did was not matching to this scene.
High above, Niranyarr saw some strange structure at the other side of the roofed place. Flying closer, he recoiled in revulsion to see that it was a heap of bodies, still wearing what clothes they had before coming to the accursed place.
The broken bodies of other animals too were mixed inside. Niranyarr gave a low trill of amazement, then slowly spiraled down to perch on another arch.
Zak had specifically told him to wait outside in case the sorcerer tried to escape. Now that he had witnessed what the sorcerer had done, Niranyarr was uncertain of whether to continue to obey the dark elf’s command.
With a resigned look, Limar stepped cautiously into the chamber, followed by Zaknafein and the other nomads, sabers drawn.
The sorcerer gave no indication of hearing their approach, still held in his trance.
Shrugging, Limar walked up to the chair, and swung his saber.
It stopped abruptly in mid air, sticking fast to some unseen barrier. No matter how the nomad heaved, it would not budge.
Then it pulled sharply to the side, to fly at Limar with surprising speed. Startled, Limar parried its blinding moves, but could only take the defensive as the saber continued its relentless attacks. Back pressed to the wall now, Limar knew he was in trouble. Zak ran to the leader, blades upraised, hoping to distract the saber.
It stopped suddenly when Limar’s other saber flew across the room. Poised, it then plunged forward. Acting on instinct, Limar dived into a roll, and the saber only clipped his back as it sank deep into the stone.
Getting up warily and ignoring the pain, Limar watched the saber, but it had become inanimate once again. He retrieved his other saber, and they started back to the group surrounding the sorcerer.
“How are we...” Limar began, then stopped as the sorcerer twitched slightly.
The group watched in surprise as the sorcerer twisted back to a normal sitting position. His eyes held a crazed light that Zak thought he recognized, his thoughts flying back to the old man in the marsh.
“Run!” he yelled, and moved quickly to the side, the nomads automatically obeying. It saved their lives. The sorcerer burst into motion, his eyes blazing in outrage.
“Monstrous!” he screamed. “You dare...!” His hands flamed suddenly, holding balls of fire so bright that Limar, taking cover beside Zak, averted his eyes. The two then could only watch in horror as the balls flew, hurled by the sorcerer, to burst through stone and strike two of the nomads dead. Shrieking in ear-splitting laughter, the sorcerer continued his deadly barrage, and Limar crept forward, not heeding Zak’s voice, lunging suddenly at the sorcerer.
The sorcerer turned his blazing eyes to the attacker. “Join your comrades in death, impudent thing!” he growled, lifting his hand in an arcing movement. Limar was suddenly lifted skywards, to be thrown forcefully into the opposite wall, then slumping down in a broken heap.
The sorcerer laughed again. “You think you can defeat me?” he shrieked, continuing to down nomads with his fiery balls. A sword blade swung forward, cutting deep into his leg. Hopping in pain, the sorcerer turned to look at his attacker.
To see the twin eyes of Zaknafein, a look that spoke eloquently of death. Blades hit the shoulders of the sorcerer in a dozen flickering movements, numbing his arms. The sorcerer shrieked again, this time in fright, and tried to scramble away from the drow, his arms falling uselessly to his side. Zak advanced, relentless, swords darting in.
The sorcerer jumped back and spoke a word. Zak lunged forward again, and was stopped by another barrier. Furiously, he pounded on it, as the sorcerer began another chant.
Behind the dark elf, a portal opened ponderously, swirling colors and light. It bared open into fruition, the light flaring impossibly bright, a chill wind howling through the roofed complex. Zak turned to stare at the portal, and the sorcerer yelled a last word, his voice ringing with triumph. The colors swirled faster and faster, and Zak suddenly felt himself, his soul, being pulled in.
Crying out, he sheathed his sword and caught at a pillar, as the wind tore at his hair, the colors swirling faster and faster. The force became unbearable, and Zak watched in horror as his hands slipped from their grip, and he fell into the gaping hole.
Disappearing into the depths.
The sorcerer laughed again, dancing a frenzied dance. “Come out, and kill my enemies!” He cried. At this summon, the portal flattened, and something could be seen on the other side, a monstrous shape that snarled and spit.
Niranyarr appeared suddenly behind the sorcerer, grabbing the screaming human and smashing him with force into the wall, again and again, his eagle eyes streaming tears.
The portal wavered, then began to diminish. An anguished, unearthly howl was heard, and the monstrous shape pounded on the closed portal. Limar had gotten up, and he and the remaining nomad watched in fascination.
Then a claw broke through, curling, pulling at the edges of the portal. The portal stretched, and the monster yelled triumphantly.
“Help me!” Limar cried of his comrade, and they picked up a large stone block from the floor of rubble. Puffing slightly from the effort, they swung it back, then heaved it at the claw. It recoiled, and the monster cried out in pain, withdrawing the claw.
The portal snapped shut.
He fell downwards, ever downwards, then landed jarringly on a bridge of red stone. The place was dark, filled with jagged rock, and a river of burning lava flowed below the crudely carved bridge. An endless wail of anguish filled his ears, and his soul felt a wrench of wrongfulness at the sight of this place of anguish.
He knew where he was, even before a tanarri charged towards him, snapping maw and evil, hungry red eyes glaring at him in fury. The hands of the monster ended in pincers, and Zak was reminded of his graduation from Melee-Magthere, so long ago. So far away.
Automatically, his swords sprang into his hands. They parried the monster’s thrusts, but he remained on the defensive, trying to think of some way that he could stop for a while so that he could push his mind, and his soul, up and out of this perilous place.
Zak’s swords took on an edge born of desperation, and they hit the glabrezu in a dozen places simultaneously as he weaved them in a single, spiraling move. Bellowing in pain, the monster swiped at Zak with one pincer, cruelly clamping, but the dark elf dived forward in a roll under the pincer, and came, catlike, onto his feet.
The other pincer smashed downwards, and Zak darted forward, under the monster’s legs. And saw, with sickening clarity, the other tanarri, approaching fast on their bat wings.
The glabrezu whirled with great speed, leg kicking at Zak. The dark elf dived away to the side, and was promptly attacked by another, lesser monster.
The glabrezu roared, and swiped at the other tanarri with one pincer, knocking it, screaming, into the river of lava. The puny elf was his, and his only.
Zak scrambled quickly backwards as the glabrezu continued its advance. Bravely, he waded back into the fight, his swords biting into the monster’s leg, hacking through the tough hide. The glabrezu swatted at Zak with his pincer, but Zak, feeling the sudden rush of air, stuck his swords behind him, blocking the blow but knocked to his knees by the force.
Roaring, the pincer angled in to snap at Zak, and the dark elf pushed his swords out instinctively away from him, locking the pincer open. His arms shook with the strain, as the pincer inexorably closed.
Zak knew he could not keep this up and he tucked his feet under him slowly, letting his strength gather into them.
In a swift, fluid motion, the elf snapped his sword hilts together, and somersaulted upwards and over the pincer, to land safely back in front of the glabrezu.
Absently, he dodged another swing of the pincers, noticing a curious thing. While the side that he was on swarmed with tanarri, watching the fight, the other side was clear.
Leaping to the side, he parried another swing, this time allowing the momentum to push him backwards. Then he was running, running onto the bridge, to reach the other side in safety.
Behind him, the glabrezu howled its frustration. Zak grinned, thinking himself rather clever, and his outline blurred as he began to reach outwards.
He realized his mistake when more horrifyingly familiar shapes formed around him.
Niranyarr dropped the now-unconscious sorcerer in an unceremonious heap on the ground, his shoulders still shaking.
Limar limped up to the griffin wearily, followed by his comrade. “We are sorry,” he started to say.
Niranyarr turned to look at them. “Zak fell into portal. Sorcerer can pull him out,” he said hopefully.
The other nomad shook his head. “I recognized the words of the sorcerer. Your friend is in the deepest part of the Abyss now. He may not survive that long.” He explained in his harsh voice.
“Zak will!” the griffin cried, his tone anguished. “Wake sorcerer up. Make him pull Zak out.”
Limar nodded, but his eyes, and that of his comrade, spoke otherwise.
He turned to his comrade and spoke a few words in the tongue of the nomads. Nodding curtly, the nomad started out of the chamber.
“Gone to fetch water and potions.” Limar explained. “Prop him up there?” he pointed at the stone chair.
Niranyarr bobbed his head, easily picking up the limp form, then dumping the sorcerer onto the seat with a loud bump.
Limar winced.
The forms shifted, materializing. They looked like pillars of melted wax, their ugly, drooping mouths open, hands stretched hungrily towards Zak.
Zak tried to head back, preferring to face the tanarri than to remain with the yochlols. Then one of the disgusting creatures stepped behind him, cutting off his escape.
Leering, they advanced, closing the circle.
Zak’s form blurred more as he tried to complete his routine, but was interrupted by a tentacle of one of the yochlols, lashing out at him. His sword blurred out, slicing off the tentacle.
The yochlol screamed in outrage, and opened its mouth.
Suspecting what was going to happen, Zak ran blindly to the side, crashing into another yochlol, his swords whirling in front of him, slicing past the tentacles into the creature.
The other yochlol slapped down at the impudent drow, its stinging tentacles trying to latch on to Zak’s head, but his swords continued to whirl into an impenetrable womb, cutting into the tentacles and the yochlol.
Zaknafein settled into a steady momentum, allowing instinct to take over while he continued to send his mind outwards, slowly so as not to attract the attention of the other yochlols, which were closing in to help their monstrous sister.
Then they stepped back, and Zak stopped, his sword tips pointing to the floor in confusion. A beautiful drow female sauntered over in front of him, a vile smile on her evil, delicate face.
Lloth, the Spider Queen.
Zak backpedaled, but the yochlols formed a wall behind him, their tentacles wriggling out at him. Not knowing what to do, his swords raised up into a defensive position.
“Sheath your swords, you will not need them here,” she purred, and the force of her mind battered Zak. Fighting all the way, his swords went into his sheaths. He glared at her defiantly, hands shaking in rage.
The female drow’s smile only widened. “Come to me,” she breathed in a low, throaty voice, one slender hand gesturing slowly.
Zak found himself compelled to walk to few steps to the evil goddess, and he fought furiously against the impulse. Her mind’s force came as a crushing wave, and he mechanically stepped forward, numbly lifting his feet one after another.
Slowly, he reached further outwards.
Then he stood before her, and looked into her endless pools of malevolent evil, heart shrinking, sinking into their depths... no. He yanked himself out of her sinuous charms, staring at the spider tattoo on the side of her beautiful face, that writhing thing that reminded him of what she truly was.
Lloth smiled again. She would especially enjoy breaking this one, she knew. One of Morikan’s favored ‘adopted’ children, and a Master of his School, at that.
She ran her hands caressingly up his shoulders, feeling him tense, his dark orbs chillingly angry. Her hands cupped his neck, and she pulled him down.
“Join me...” she offered, her face close. Too close.
Zak’s answer came as a snarl as he wrenched control, pushing her backwards.
Lloth glared at him now, her hands clenching into fists at her side. “You’re just making it more difficult for yourself.” She told him in her sultry voice.
Zak smiled suddenly, and Lloth looked at him in surprise. Her eyes narrowing, she searched for an answer, but was blocked by some impenetrable barrier.
Unknown to Zak, his runed, patterned cloak was glowing silver, the form of a dragon coming into view behind the obscuring pictures, twisting and turning.
“Join you? Damn you, Lloth. You and your followers.” Zak said slowly, savoring every word, then suddenly exploded into motion, his mind far away, soul following quickly, pulling him out of Lloth’s reach.
Behind him, Lloth screamed in sheer rage.
Zak flew upwards out of the other planes like a swift arrow, ignoring the sights, wishing to get back to the Material Plane.
He was tiring quickly. Zak knew he could not keep up this momentum for long, and he stopped at a gray, featureless plane to rest.
It seemed rather safe.
Then his surroundings morphed into the Do’Urden training gym, its high ceilings and weapons rack still in place, untouched. Zak wondered what was going on this time.
A familiar form wandered out from the corridor, white mane shifting as it came into view.
Zak’s heart leapt, then plummeted. It was Drizzt, but he did not wear his customary smile.
Instead, a sneer of hatred and contempt twisted his features. His adamantite weapons were at the ready, and he lunged forward, attacking.
Zak’s weapons flashed into his hands, and he parried every move, but his confusion kept him at the defensive.
“What are you doing?” he yelled at his student.
Drizzt smiled, a wicked, evil smile. “Taking my place as the rightful weapon master of House Do’Urden,” he replied, “With Matron Malice’s blessings.”
Zak could not believe this. Drizzt’s scimitars danced their familiar deadly dance, but something seemed missing, somehow.
Zak nearly fainted when the answer hit him. His passion. Drizzt fought now as every other drow warrior did, a cruel, killing machine, without honor.
“No!” he cried, pushing away the horrifying image, crying out with all his heart and soul.
The gym suddenly flickered, then disappeared, Drizzt along with it. The plane returned to its featureless state.
Zak suddenly understood. He was in the Plane of Nightmares. Hurriedly, he reached back outwards, drifting quickly away from the terrifying place.
Water splashed again on the sorcerer’s face, and the man woke up, choking. Immediately Niranyarr grasped his robes, lifting him high into the air, ignoring the man’s ineffective punches and kicks.
“Where is Zak?” he growled.
“The Abyss, where he belongs!” The sorcerer howled, then laughed.
Niranyarr shook the man violently, sharp-gloved claws cutting through his robe to poke painfully into his flesh.
“Stop...!” The human cried out in fright.
The griffin gave him a final shake to remind him of his predicament, then pulled him closer, his cruelly hooked beak in front of the human’s face.
“Get Zak out.” Niranyarr growled simply.
“Never!” the sorcerer yelled, a fanatic light coming into his crazed eyes.
“Boiling oil often works,” Limar, behind the griffin, observed.
“Nails.” His companion said firmly.
“See?” Niranyarr growled again, as the sorcerer took on a frightened expression. “Get Zak out, or friend Limar and...” he paused, looking back at the other nomad.
“Hanrar,” the other nomad supplied.
“Hanrar will make you.” Niranyarr finished his sentence.
“Put me down then, you stupid bird,” the human said.
Niranyarr shook him more violently. “Say that again,” he suggested, his fierce eyes taking on a murderous glint.
“Put me... down... please” the sorcerer finished through his jarring teeth.
“One could get to like griffin,” Niranyarr heard Hanrar’s harsh voice behind him.
“One already does.” Limar smiled.
Niranyarr dropped the sorcerer on his feet, then curled a talon around the hapless man’s neck. “Inspiration,” he growled again, “You send us through portal, I crush your neck.” He promised in a deadly voice.
The sorcerer’s eyes turned to the nomads appealingly.
“You’ll get no help from me. You’ve killed our people, and if it were up to me,”Limar left the threat hanging. “You can try Hanrar,” he added as an afterthought.
“I would have buried the murderer for the Striders.” Hanrar replied.
“Start!” Niranyarr snarled, and his talons tightened slightly.
The sorcerer squeaked, then his fingers began, hesitatingly; to weave a pattern in the air, while he chanted in a faltering voice.
Hanrar’s next words echoed the feelings in the other two’s hearts. “This had better work.”
Zak stopped again, this time in a beautiful Plane. The harmony of the place pulled at his soul, and he sat against a tree to close his eyes in contentment.
This was no evil plane.
The starlit forest glowed, each tree with a visible aura, the many entities living inside moving in perfect tandem to the Plane, playing out their routines again and again, to the harmony of the universe.
Nearby, a panther and an elk moved in an endless routine, their majestic movements and stunning counters making up the beautifully simple hunt.
Guenhwyvar felt something enter the plane, and could see it’s soul’s aura, whatever it was, leaning against a tall ash, resting quietly. The subtle emanations identified it as a good spirit.
Curiosity aroused, the mighty panther broke off from its routine, to pad softly over. The panther was surprised. The good soul was a drow elf; ebon skinned hands resting lightly on his chest, a wide smile on his features. Even more surprising, the drow elf reminded the panther of Drizzt.
Perhaps it was the sheer similarity of his features, or the two swords that hung at his belt. Even more curious now, Guenhwyvar sat down in front of the drow, and simply watched.
Zak felt the emanations of another entity in front of him, and his eyes snapped open. To see an enormous panther, saucer eyes staring at him. His hands moved reflexively to the hilts of his swords, and for a time the two just looked into each other’s eyes.
Zak thought he knew the panther’s name.
“Guenhwyvar,” he spoke softly.
Guenhwyvar recoiled, then settled back onto its haunches, still watching the strange drow.
“Guenhwyvar, loyal friend of Drizzt Do’Urden.” Zak said with greater confidence.
The great cat mewled in surprise, then waited expectantly for an explanation.
“My name is Zaknafein Do’Urden, ex-Weapon master of House Do’Urden,” Zak told it.
Guenhwyvar stared at the drow elf for a long minute, then bumped against his legs with a purr. Zak smiled, kneeling, then slowly stroked the rippling muscles of the panther, Guenhwyvar purred again.
Zak grinned, then somehow decided to tell the unjudging creature about his adventures. It felt good to let out his opinions, the cat’s calm eyes somehow spurring him on, to pour our more of himself. Zak felt better at the end of it, lightly scratching the cat’s great ears.
“Stay always at my son’s side, Guenhwyvar,” he said, getting up at last to leave. Then a mischievous twinkle got into his eyes. “That boy keeps getting into trouble.”
Guenhwyvar got up and yawned, then patted at the drow’s foot and padded back into the forest. Zak’s mind reached outwards again, but was interrupted by a jarring sensation to his consciousness.
“Not again,” he groaned, as another portal opened in front of him. Quickly, he drifted upwards, trying to escape its gaping maw, but was inexorably drawn in.
“At last!” The sorcerer proclaimed in relief, as the portal spit out a familiar slender figure, to close once more.
“Zaknafein!” Niranyarr cried in relief, and the disoriented drow found himself crushed in a human-like hug.
He returned it in force when he realized whom it was, and laughed. “I missed you too, griffin, but do not be so quick to bruise my ribs.”
Niranyarr’s smile stayed in his eyes, and then he turned to the sorcerer, whose attempt at escaping quietly was foiled by Limar’s saber tip.
“All yours,” the griffin told Limar, whose eyes lit up. As did Hanrar’s.
“Have you been playing while I was gone?” Zak asked in amusement.
Niranyarr made his coughing laugh. “Almost.” He replied. “Almost.”
Then the griffin cocked his head as if remembering something. Turning to the sorcerer, who recoiled, he said, “Send us to Mountains of Lava.”
Hurriedly, the human started another chant, and a shimmering distorted the air in front of the chair. It flattened out to show a place with Black Mountains, smoke rising at their peaks.
Bobbing his head, Niranyarr stepped into the Plane, to reappear at the other side. Zak shook the hands of the nomads, then followed.
The gate shuddered, then closed on itself.
Chapter 10: Everflame Mountain
They stepped out into a land that seemed to be predominantly blackened. The destructive mountains that now blew wisps of gray smoke were black, and so was the graveled ground they walked on. Black from the burning of liquid fire.
Niranyarr walked beside Zak, padded lion’s paws making not a sound. “What happened to mountains?” he asked, comparing these mountains to his Eyrie home.
“Volcano erupted. The lava cooled later into this black surface.” Zak replied, then smiled mischievously. “If you dig deep enough, you might find a few diamonds to wear.”
Niranyarr cocked his head at Zak to see if the elf was speaking in jest. Tentatively, he bent and patted the hard surface, then snorted. “Too hard even for talons.”
“Too bad then,” Zak replied unsympathetically, though the smile remained.
Niranyarr snorted again.
“When we go to the dragon’s cave, you’ll find jewels there beyond your imagination,” Zak said light-heartedly.
“Treasure if we kill dragon,” the griffin corrected. “Dragon hard to kill, especially red one,” he added, remembering the remmnants of a large raid on a dragon cave. Few had survived that one, and the dragon was a lowly brown.
“Oh, we will.” Zak said confidently.
“Zak too confident,” Niranyarr replied, unconvinced, “Only two, dark elf. Took fifteen griffin elite to kill one brown, let alone one elf and one griffin for a red.”
“You worry too much,” Zak said gaily, continuing on his way. Niranyarr merely shook his head.
Soon the two reached a ground that was still bubbling, the black surface broken by small veins of bright orange.
“A recent flow,” Zak remarked, then became insubstantial and drifted over, while Niranyarr peered more closely.
“Hot?” he asked curiously, feeling the heat on his feathered face.
“Very hot,” Zak replied, tearing off a bit of cloth from his backpack, then throwing it down. It burst immediately into flame, and was consumed.
Niranyarr shuddered, then flew into the air, over the still bubbling lava, to land quickly on the other, cooler, side.
Zak floated over to join him, then materialized. “You will probably do better in the air, griffin. The fumes from this place will soon become poisonous.” He pointed to the filmy grey mists that loomed ahead, that swirled sometimes, looking like pale ghosts in the dark black around them.
Niranyarr seemed a bit reluctant to leave his friend’s side, but complied. Zak preferred the closer contact too, but knew to do so now would be suicidal for the griffin.
An already ‘dead’ being like Zaknafein did not need to breathe.
They soon came out to look at the large river that was the life force of the farmers here. Fueled by many tributaries upstream in a cooler place, it defied the heat of this place, to provide precious water for crops and livestock. It shimmered a bright sapphire, a long, winding vein of water snaking into forks and dividing along the way.
The other side of the river from Zak too contrasted the blackened mountains. A few mountains stood there, but they were covered in lush colors, the russet gold of vineyards, the rich green of vegetables, and the fresh brown of plowed land.
A small village stood on the edge of the river, with a little jetty in front. “Rimar,” Zak announced.
“Rimar not afraid of fire-mountains?” Niranyarr asked.
“The cooled lava is very fertile for crops, and the mountains do not erupt very often. The farmers reap many profits from their rich harvest,” Zak explained, pointing at a gently sloping mountain behind the many farms.
Niranyarr bobbed his head, looking down at the large squares of crops, as well as the little white dots of sheep and the bigger brown ones of cattle and other livestock.
Then they saw the outermost fields leading to the village. Scarred and blackened in a single, trail, that circled and veered, it led to a few barns on the outskirts of the village, that were also charred but now rebuilt.
“Fire-mountain?” Niranyarr remarked.
“Not volcano. Dragon.” Zaknafein replied solemnly. They would do the village a favor by getting rid of Rakaroajirac.
“So strange old man correct,” the griffin said grimly. “Dragon lives.”
“The trail comes from downstream. His directions appear correct, but we will need to verify them,” Zak said, and started to the village.
“Humans do not like dark elves.” Niranyarr warned Zak unnecessarily.
Zak nodded. “They probably won’t speak to griffins either.” He shrugged; still climbing down the treacherous slope on which they stood.
“Shortsighted, they are,” Niranyarr remarked, then bounded after Zak.
The village of Rimar had been visited by a large red dragon a week or so before. The dragon came periodically; terrorizing the village and taking a few livestock then would sleep back in its lair for many years.
Rakaroajirac was not stupid, and he did not wish to attract even more attention from other, more powerful cities.
Especially the dwarven kind, that would not look kindly still on his treachery of long ago.
Sometimes Rimar sent brave, deluded men to try and kill the dragon, but Rakaroajirac was possibly one of the most powerful of his red kind, and the men just added to his diet.
He did not regret his exile, but only waited in his cave, dreaming pleasant, dragon dreams, to wait for the next adventurer to happen along.
He was never disappointed.
Niranyarr and Zaknafein approached the village after crossing the river. As they had expected, they had been seen, and the village was silent and locked.
They stood on a wide dirt street, in front of the jetty, and looked carefully around the two lines of houses that lined the streets, the puddles of refuse haphazardly dumped on the ground, doors tightly closed.
With a few dozen bows notched and pointed at them secretly, Zak supplied.
Rimar was surprisingly well equipped for a farming village. A tavern sat at the end of the street, the sign of a rooster well painted, hung on the side.
A blacksmith was situated to their right, the smithy abandoned, stairs leading up to the living quarters silent and dark.
A shop selling potions had been built next to the smithy, its sign faded. Next to it was a butchers, and next to that a bakers.
Charming, Zak thought with a slight tone of sarcasm. Considering this place now resembled a ghost town at the sight of a single dark elf.
“Anyone here?” Zak asked of the silence finally.
There was a brief wait, and then a man cautiously poked his head out of the window above them, in a more ornate house to their right that Zak assumed was the village spokesman’s.
“What do you want, dark elf?” He asked in a voice full of suspicion.
“I wish they include me when they ask. Not stupid you know,” Niranyarr whispered, eyes dancing suddenly, impishly.
Zak glared briefly at his companion, then turned back to the speaker, “I wish to know where Rakaroajirac’s lair is.” He said politely.
“The dragon? What does the likes of ye have to do with it? His friends are not welcome here.” The man replied, eyes narrowing in suspicion as he appraised the two.
“We seek to kill the dragon.” Zaknafein replied curtly.
“Ye?” The man asked, with a derisive chuckle.
An arrow sliced through the air, but Zak had his swords out in a flash, batting it aside. The arrow, knocked from its flight, clanked noisily on the hard dirt floor.
The man looked impressed by this, and backed down from his unhelpful stand.
“Oh all right. Follow the river downstream, an’ go down the longer fork to its first divide. The shorter divis’n ends in a clear pool, wit’ a great hole of a cave at the side. The accursed wurm be there. Now be gone from this place.”
“One more question. Do any of you have a pole of lead?” Zak asked. The griffin looked at him curiously at this strange request.
There was a slight movement on the stair of the blacksmith, and the smith himself, a burly man, walked down cautiously, eyes trained on the two.
“I have. T’was actually for a bolt, but take it if you can kill the dragon, with my blessing,” he said, picking up a pole from the side of his shop and throwing it at Zak’s feet.
Zak, with unthreatening movements, picked up the pole slowly, and fixed it to his backpack. Niranyarr looked even more mystified.
“My thanks.” Zak said to the smith’s retreating back, and walked out of the street into the fields, then followed the river, the griffin flying overhead.
“It is true then,” Niranyarr said after a while.
Zak nodded, “Some times I thought this was a false lead,” he remarked.
“What is lead stick for?” The griffin asked.
“A surprise,” Zak grinned impishly.
Niranyarr sighed. “Elves.”
The way he said it, as always, sent Zak into a bout of laughter.
A forest of dead trees stood on the opposite bank. The blackened trunks stuck up like deformed people, their clawed hands reaching imploringly to the sky.
Harsh, unearthly sounds could be heard from the inside, now and again an inhuman scream.
Zaknafein and Niranyarr were relieved that they were on the opposite side of the place, but they occasionally flickered quick glances to try and pierce the forest’s black veil, accosted by the darkness of night that was upon them.
Zak’s swords were held in his hands, his senses on full alert, while Niranyarr flew over the river, keeping an eye on both banks.
The forest retreated slightly behind a small beach of sand and shingle, which seemed to glow an unearthly white in the dim moonlight.
Then a chittering came, that reminded Zak of the ants. He pushed his swords up into the air slightly, a warning to the griffin high above.
Bobbing his head, Niranyarr flew higher up, then caught sight of hairy legs moving towards the beach.
“Large spiders!” he cried, spiraling down over the clearing.
Zak nodded, and became insubstantial, floating faster downstream.
Then the spiders came out, their abdomens a dark blue, front legs tapering down into flat, blade-like legs. They were sword spiders, one of the most uncommon of Lloth’s creatures.
One suddenly reared up, bladed feet clawing the air. Its many-eyed face shifted, to form the features of a beautiful drow, that cursed and snarled, then shifted back.
Zak felt a cold finger go up his spine, then crossed the back to materialize and face the first monster. Niranyarr looked down incredulously then swooped down on an unsuspecting victim to tear at its soft stomach.
The spider writhed in pain, keening, then curled up in death. The griffin’s moment of victory was short lived as it suddenly faced off with many others of the creatures, stepping over their dead comrade in their eagerness to get prey.
Zak parried the spider’s slashes, and then his blade flickered forward to plunge right through its mouth. Shuddering, it collapsed, while Zak’s remaining sword blocked another swing from an attacking spider, while he strained to pull out his sword.
With a shout, he wrenched out the blade, eyes flashing, a whirlwind of strokes leaving his unfortunate victim sliced dead in many places.
“Come then, accursed things,” he cried.
Obligingly, they did.
Niranyarr blocked a few swings with his metal gloves, and his powerful claws swiped out to scratch painfully at the spider’s eyes.
Blinded, it went berserk, smashing into one of its comrades viciously, killing itself and the other spider. “Good, stupid spider,” the griffin growled, and a well-aimed kick sent another spider flying to smash into a dead trunk.
His dancing blades deflected many more blows from two spiders, then he angled them slightly to whirl them down in a double stab movement, that took out one more of the disgusting things. A slashing counter too killed its companion after moments.
Danger was Zak’s greatest inspiration.
Then the two friends were alone, the broken bodies of dead and dying sword spiders littering the beach. “Hate spiders,” Niranyarr declared, and cleaned his claws on one of the things.
Zak found himself heartily agreeing.
“What cursed place is this?” a halfling asked of his companions, rotund belly stretching comfortably in front of hi as he sat down.
The mountains ahead of them were as black as the night they walked in, smoke rising from some of their tips. “Everflame Mountains,” a dwarf supplied, remembering some of the reports he had heard when he had been a king to his clan.
The four of them were a strange lot, a halfling, a dwarf, a human girl, and most of all, a dark skinned elf, his white hair plainly showing, even in the dim moonlight.
“Suren there’ll be adventures to be had in that dark place,” the girl said in a dwarven accent.
The dark elf merely smiled. “Let us enter then,” a strange light coming to his eyes.
“Yer heart’s gonna get ye into trouble soon, elf,” the dwarf predicted in a sour voice, but the others, with the exception of the halfling, were discussing the plans in their camp.
Grumbling slightly, the helmeted dwarf stirred the flames, then settled down to sleep without taking off his armor.
“We’ll go there next day then,” the dark elf said with a smile on his face, finally deciding.
The halfling merely groaned, while a snort could be heard from the dwarf’s direction.
“A strange place,” the dark elf remarked to his friends as they looked down from the last rise to two very different domains.
One was covered in the lush crops and fields of a farming village, the other dark and forbidding, the two realms divided by a single river that sparkled in the early morning sun.
They could only nod in surprise.
The halfling suddenly gasped, pointing at a charred, wide path that burned through some of the fields.
“Dragon,” he said.
A fierce glint came into the dark elf’s face.
“All the more why we go down,” he reasoned.
“Ye be taking on dragons now?” the girl asked.
“We go and split the ugly worm’s head, fer burning them crops,” the dwarf hefted his mithril axe with anticipation.
The halfling sighed. “Is there any way I can talk you out of this?” he pleaded.
The drow shook his head. “Coming?” he invited, then led the others down the rise.
“They’re mad!” the halfling said to himself, then hurriedly followed. “Wait for me!”
Lledrith RavenWolf