Click to read an excerpt from Mage
Click to read an excerpt from Raven of Yorindar
Click to read an excerpt from The Arc of Time
Click to read an excerpt from The Wench of Woe
Click to read an excerpt from The Mountain, The Raven and The Sea
Click to read an excerpt from The Game of the Gods
"...and it came to pass that in the one thousand, six hundred and thirty-fourth year following the end of the Great War of Devastation, or 1634 NCC by the New Common Calendar we use today, the Ancient One did return from the Void. Not in the manner a new birth enters the world, or even in the manner of a sleeper awakening from a long sleep, which is how the Ancient One once described this moment. No, it was more in the manner a maggot hatches in a fresh corpse, life arising from death."
- Lord Caladis, The Eddasine Chronicles, 1817 NCC
One.
The pain woke me eventually. A long, dull, throbbing pain that couldn't be ignored, yet had to be. I slowly became aware that I was nude, prone, face down on a cold, stone floor in the dark. I tried to remember what had happened, who I was, or even what I was, and found I couldn't. The only thing I knew was that I was alive.
I felt a warm wetness on my head. 'A head. I have a head,' I thought giddily. Somehow, that was reassuring. Reaching up to it, I realized I had arms and legs as well. 'I think I'm a human - or something very like one.' Passing my fingers over myself in the darkness, I realized I had breasts. 'I think I am female - or something very odd indeed.' Somehow the idea that I was female didn't seem right. I checked my groin, and found I was, indeed, female. 'This is strange. I don't remember being female before. Somehow, that doesn't seem right,' I thought, puzzled.
I reached up and examined my head again. 'I am wounded,' I realized, my head throbbing as my fingers gingerly felt the large goose-egg on my scalp and a sticky wetness that apparently was blood. No cut was apparent, though the whole of the area was very sore. 'Something happened to me. What was it?'
Wherever I was, it was black as pitch, and I could see nothing. I reached out with my mind, without thinking, feeling the flow of Mana around me until I felt the vibration of a particular frequency of Mana I needed to correct that problem, then paused in realization. 'Ah. I'm a sorcerer. Or sorceress, as the case may be. Somehow, I seem to remember that not everyone can do this. How very interesting.' Opening my mouth, I spoke the words of power that somehow lay within my brain, and a flare of light appeared at the fingertips of my left hand. 'Ah. I'm in a pit of some kind,' I thought, looking around.
There was a low, stone edifice within arm's reach, engraved deeply with scenes of battle and mayhem - it looked very familiar. I realized after a moment it was a sarcophagus. 'No, I'm in a tomb of some kind,' I thought to myself. 'Why is that sarcophagus so familiar, though?' I wondered.
I looked down at myself, and saw I was definitely female, with long red hair that hung down to the middle of my back. I reached up to brush my hair out of my eyes, and realized my ears were pointed. 'Ah. I'm some kind of elf. Judging by the build, more likely a half-elf - elves are more willowy,' I thought, then wondered how I knew that.
I found myself tired. 'This body is not used to sorcery, and tires rapidly.' I looked again to the stone sarcophagus, and rose to my feet. With a gesture and an incantation, I lifted the lid and had it float to the side. This drew a quickening of breath from the body, and a sense of deep exhaustion. I looked inside the sarcophagus, and understood a bit more.
A skeletal form grinned up at me, its remains garbed in fine silken robes that had nearly rotted to dust. 'That is me. I was dead,' I realized. Somehow this female had approached close enough to become entrapped by the Spell of Hidden Life I'd lain upon myself an age ago. I realized that just beneath this stone sarcophagus lay my animuary, a small crystal vial that contained my soul - or did, as it was now in the body of this naked half-elf female. I took a deep breath, savoring it despite the dust of the tomb. "I live again," I said aloud, hearing a soft, feminine voice speak my words. Reaching again to the wound on my head, I had a flickering memory of it being sealed and healed by Mana controlled by the force of my will as I took this body - though my scalp was bloody, there was no cut skin or broken skull-bone beneath my fingers, just a large goose-egg. Yet the process seemed incomplete, somehow, in a manner I couldn't quite put my finger on at the moment.
Raven of Yorindar
"...and then, in the year 1675 NCC, or one thousand, six hundred and seventy-five years after the end of the Great War of Devastation by the New Common Calendar we use today, the Ancient One again entered the realm of man. As one might expect from a creature of darkness and death, the Ancient One chose to make their appearance by striding out of the blasted wastelands of Hyperborea, and standing before the Great Wall. From there, the Ancient One did take the prisoners of the War of the Twins, withered and frail old men who had served decades in prison, and spirited them away to within the blasted desolation of Hyperborea, where the final penalty for their hideous crimes awaited. It is said their deaths were painless... Though, once one realizes just what these men had done, and just who was their executioner... A cold, inhuman creature who has seen endless aeons pass before those night-black eyes... And when one thinks of the accursed, barren, beast-ridden lands those miserable wretches were spirited away into... Well, that their deaths were painless seems somewhat unlikely."
- Lord Caladis, The Eddasine Chronicles, 1817 NCC
One.
The Great Wall loomed before me, a vast expanse of stone ninety cubits high and thirty cubits thick, stretching as far as the eye could see east and west. On the other side of the wall, there was a green scrubland, and the crystal-clear, babbling waters of the Wailing River. On my side of the wall, there was nothing but the bleak, barren, blasted desolation of the Great Southern Dead Zone - league after league of bare earth, blasted rock, and blowing dust.
I knew what the guards at the wall had to be thinking. 'Who or what is that black-robed, hooded woman coming towards us out of the wastelands? Is it a ghost? Is it a witch? What is it?' I know if I was in their shoes, I'd probably be wondering the same things. But I'd be wrong from the start. I, the person approaching them, was neither ghost, nor witch - nor even woman, if the truth were known. I was something these guards probably would never understand, even if I took the time to explain it to them. I was a Hyperborean battle-mage, risen from the Void and inhabiting the body of this half-elf female they saw slowly walking towards them out of the bleakness of the Hyperborean wastes. I was a great man, once. Sixteen centuries ago, I had respect, honor, and wealth. Now, I had nothing - not even my manhood. And here I was, about to perform the duty for King Darian, my friend, that was to a Hyperborean the lowest possible work that could still be called honest, a task that to a Hyperborean was only a small step above shoveling manure. Executioner.
I rolled my shoulders back, shaking off my maudlin thoughts. There was still the chance that this may work out for the best. The deaths of these men would be used for the rebirth of my people, a race and civilization cut short in the full of their bloom, over a millennia and a half before. My culture, my civilization might rise again from the ashes like a phoenix, to face a brave new world. Though my task today might be a low one, it behooved me to put my best face on it. I remembered King Darrak's executioner - I'd seen him perform his duties several times in the public square of Wilanda-city. He always held his head up beneath his hood. He did his duties with professionalism and pride, however low and base they may have been. I would not skulk about and act ashamed before these guards. Despite this body, I was still a Hyperborean male. I had my pride.
I stepped into the shadow of the wall to the gate, the only gate in the entire wall, and rapped loudly with my staff, three times. "Send out the condemned! Justice calls!"
After a few minutes, the gate slowly creaked open. Two guards stood behind it, eyeing me apprehensively. Their chainmail armor gleamed in the shaft of sunlight the gate let through, and their livery was that of the combined battalion of Arcadian and Larinian soldiers assigned to the duty of guarding the Great Wall. Between them they held an old man dressed in a ragged tunic and threadbare breeches, his white beard hanging long and unkempt. His arms were tied to a stick passed behind his back, and he was barefoot. He was the first of the condemned, and the words I was about to say to him had been decided by King Darian over twenty years ago. "Justice for you, Torin Dorgosson. Justice calls this day. It was your lips that gave the order to slay the children of Thilo village. Now, after twenty-five years in prison, justice finally calls. What have you to say for yourself?" I asked, my hood throwing my face in shadows.
"Nothing. I have no excuse," he replied, his voice cracking and thin from disuse. "Twenty-five years has taught me that. Oh, they fed me and kept me healthy with many herbal teas. Even so, I was alone each and every day of that time. My food and drink passed through a hatch beneath the door, I never saw a living soul. My heart aches in loneliness, witch. All I ask is that the end be painless, as surely the fires of hell will pain me enough for all the rest of eternity," he finished, his voice fading to a whisper as he hung his head low.
"So be it. Come willingly, and your suffering shall be ended painlessly," I said, reaching out an ebon-gloved hand to him. Of course, he had to be willing. The Spell of Returning wouldn't work on him otherwise.
He flinched back a step, evading my grasp. "I am afraid," he said, his feeble, aged voice trembling.
"Go on, you mangy cur! Face your death like a man!" one of the guards swore, and pushed the prisoner at me.
Torin staggered, and would have fallen had I not clapped a gloved hand to his withered shoulder to steady him. I gave the guard a cold stare, and he couldn't meet my gaze. I could see he was frightened of me, and was covering his fear with this small act of bravado. "Enough," I said coldly. I needed the prisoner to be willing for my spell to work, and frightening him and shoving him around wasn't helping matters. I realized that Darian's speech, though appropriate, wasn't going to allow me to take this old man with me. I decided to take another tack.
Gently turning Torin around, I drew my knife from my side and parted the ropes that bound him, the enchanted blade slitting the stout cords as though they were mere thread. The stick fell to the bare earth with a dry clatter, and Torin rubbed his thin, bony wrists nervously. I gently turned him around again as I sheathed the blade, and lifted his aged face with an ebon-gloved finger. He looked up into my face for the first time, and his eyes widened. My eyes flashed like twin pieces of jet, and my ebon hair drawn back into a ponytail accentuated my aquiline half-elven features, making me look beautiful and dangerous. I'd estimated the age I'd first taken this body at was twenty-three - and at that age, it had merely been the body of a mundane half-elf rogue of remarkable beauty, but no remarkable physical prowess. Then, it had been beautiful and agile, but soft and weak. Now, at perhaps sixty-four or sixty-five years of age, it was in the prime of its half-elven youth - hard, fast, deadly, and astoundingly beautiful, with an alien cast to the features. And more, after forty-two years of living the ascetic life of a Hyperborean battle-mage, forty-two years of life with nearly every drop of water and nearly every morsel of food being conjured by sorcery, this body had been forged into something far greater than it once was, or ever could have become otherwise.
It was hardly what I'd intended, of course. I'd cared little for the appearance of this body, as for years I'd had none around me to care how I looked, nor did I truly enjoy being a woman in the first place, as my soul was still that of a normal man. My only concern had been to forge the strength of the feeble half-elf woman's body I had found myself trapped in, to build the pathetically weak body of a mundane thief I'd been saddled with into something that was as powerful as my old body had once been, that I might be able to cast my greater spells as I once had - and in that, my success had been satisfactory, as this body was now as strong as it could ever possibly be, and nearly as powerful as my old body had once been. I'd cared so little for the body's appearance, focusing only on building it's power, that I'd even let my robes grow threadbare before Arella finally returned that fateful night, three years ago, and I'd eventually restored my robes with a spell. Yet, beneath those once-threadbare robes, this body had been hardened and forged under the hammer of my will, beaten against the anvil of the ascetic life of a battle-mage - and the result was much like the smith who works on forging the strongest and sharpest blade, and ends up with a creation of surpassing beauty.
"You... You're beautiful," Torin whispered, his face a strange mixture of fear and desire. "I didn't think death would be beautiful."
I suppressed my reaction, and smiled instead. "I am called Raven. Come with me, Torin Dorgosson. I have waited for you for twenty-five years."
"Th-there will be no pain?"
"None," I said, stepping back and extending my hand.
His aged eyes gazed beyond me, to the barren wastes of the Great Southern Dead Zone. "Then lead on, and I shall try to follow - though I don't know how far I can walk," he said, taking my hand in his.
I incanted the Spell of Returning while he was still willing to follow, and the world blurred. In a moment, it was pitch black. Torin gasped. "Am I dead?" he asked fearfully.
"No," I replied, and chanted a brief cantrip, placing a spark of light at the end of my staff so we could see.
"I am in a tomb!" he cried in fear, looking around.
The Arc of Time
Six.
Arella was weeping.
The room itself, once the royal bedchambers at Steelgate, was smashed and burned, the furniture blasted to flinders, and some of it still smoking from the sorcerous battle. The stones of the walls, clearly visible beneath the tattered and burned remains of the tapestries, bore the deep, long scars of tremendous blasts of lightning and fire. The oak support beams here and there still smoldered, and the floor was covered in ashy puddles from where Arella had, apparently, taken a moment after the battle to extinguish the fires with conjured streams of water.
And Arella was weeping.
The corpse over which Arella knelt was hardly recognizable as human. Charred beyond recognition in the fire and blasted by stray bolts of sorcery during the battle, it was little more than a pile of smoking flesh gathered by trembling hand. The stench of burnt flesh was strong in the air, smelling nauseatingly similar to that of roast pork. The corpse was, indeed, totally unrecognizable. It was difficult to believe it had once been the beautiful Queen Lyssa.
And Arella was weeping. As I looked at her, I realized she would, in all likelihood, weep over this moment for the rest of her life.
I brushed past King Noril and Commander Tybalt, who both tried to speak at once. Arella looked up at Swift-wing's gentle landing upon her shoulder, and saw me. "Oh, Raven!" she sobbed, and threw herself into my arms. I held her quietly, and stroked her back with my free hand.
"I tried, I tried so hard!"
"There, there, Arella. Tell me what happened."
"It was... It was him! Cordo! But he was... He was more horrible than I could ever possibly have imagined!"
I nodded - Cordo, once the self-proclaimed high-master of the Dyclonic Circle and my mortal enemy, had also been altered by the same mana-storm that had forged this body - but in his case, his will had been insufficient. His flesh now resembled that of a half-melted wax statue, and he was a true horror to behold. Though, in truth, his outer flesh only reflected the seething, rotting madness in his heart.
"My Lady Raven, we... I am truly glad to see you again," King Noril said, casting aside the royal 'third person' for the moment. "The crown has need of you, the Defender of the Realm, in this, our darkest hour."
"Tell me what happened, the three of you," I said, looking to Noril and Javan as I patted Arella's back.
Javan shook his graying head. "There is little we can tell you - I and the king were the first here, but... By then, the room was aflame, and blasts of sorcery split the air - we could not approach until it was all over. Afterwards, we found this..." he said, waving a hand at the room. "The queen dead, and the heir missing. And though that is the worst of it, it is hardly all."
"I would have helped if you'd let me! You told me to stay away!" Swift-wing squawked at Arella.
I shook my head. "You'd have died, my friend, and your death would have weakened Arella in the midst of a mage's battle - and then she would be dead, as well. Now come - enough of this. Tell me what happened."
Slowly, in bits and pieces, the story came out - or, at least, as much as the living knew. There had been a commotion of some kind. Shrieking, and running feet - the sounds of sharp explosions. Arella had come running, and seen guards slain by sorcery, their bodies blasted asunder by lightning. When she ran inside the royal bedchambers, the light from the fireplace cast eerie, flickering shadows - and into those shadows, Parial seemed to disappear. In the center of the room, laughing at the queen, was Cordo himself. Arella was horrified. Arella had never seen Cordo before his flesh had been melted and fused by the same mana-storm which had altered myself - he once was considered somewhat handsome by the women of my day. Now, however, she looked at him, and saw only the 'Rabid Wolf' of Yorindar's prophecy. She was horrified. She was nauseated. She had been shocked into a moment's hesitation.
And in that moment's hesitation, Cordo, with a ringing laugh, slew Parial's cowering mother with a searing blast of flame.
I had trained Arella well, and she was, in the end, an accomplished battle-mage. She cast her defensive spells, then began casting upon Cordo. Their battle lasted for many minutes, and set the room ablaze - yet, for all Arella's skill, she could do little more than smash Cordo into the walls from time to time. For his part, he wore Arella down, and probably would have slain her eventually - but, he suddenly swayed, as though drunk or exhausted. Before Arella realized what he was doing, he'd cast a spell of returning, and vanished, leaving her in the blazing room. Arella extinguished the fire with an incantation I'd taught her which conjures a blast of water - useful for not only suppressing rioting crowds but also for extinguishing a blaze.
I stroked my chin thoughtfully with an ebon-gloved hand, idly missing my once-flowing beard. "Hmm... He probably left simply because it was growing too hot for him, Arella. I learned the Spell of Adaptation when I was first beginning my quest for a way to bring Dyarzi back to me - and later picked up a ring of adaptation so I might explore the hostile environments of the elemental planes for an answer. I taught you the spell simply because I found it useful, and thought you might need it. The other members of the Dyclonic Circle never really needed such sorcery - a simple coat in winter and a light robe in summer was all they ever needed. Now, with Cordo's flesh melted, much of his skin is gone, fused with the flesh beneath. He probably can't sweat enough to stay cool, and suddenly realized he was swooning from the heat of the room. It was probably like an oven. An interesting weakness... I'll have to keep it in mind." I smiled, then reached out and hugged Arella tightly. "You did well, Arella. Truly."
"But I couldn't stop him! The queen is dead, and Parial is missing!" Arella sobbed.
"True. But any lesser mage would simply be dead, Arella. You are the most powerful mage in the Southlands - and I should know, as I trained you, myself. Simply surviving against Cordo may not seem like much, to you, but it is enough to me to prove that you learned your lessons well." I turned to look to King Noril and Javan Tybalt. "I'll have to ask that the two of you leave, now. I'll call when you may re-enter."
"But-" Noril started, but I silenced him with a glare. The alien cast to this body's features gave it a gaze of steel - and I used that gaze, now.
"Your royal majesty, I am about to do some things that you, as a mundane, would find extremely disturbing, deeply horrifying, and possibly even maddening. There are some aspects of being a mage that it is best a mundane never know."
Noril glowered back - he had his father's backbone, of that, there was no doubt. "I am no peasant to be frightened of sorcery, nor am I totally unfamiliar with the workings of a mage. Arella-tor has been my court wizardess all my life, and I am not in any way afraid of anything you may do."
"This is well beyond anything you may have ever seen or experienced before, your highness. You should take my advice, and leave for the nonce."
"Just tell me what you shall do, Dame Raven," Noril replied, crossing his arms defiantly, much as he might have when I first knew him as a young prince.
"Alright, I will," I replied dryly. "First, your story, while interesting, does not tell me where the prince may be. I need more information - and there's only one place to get it. Thus, I am going to cast a spell of communication with the dead upon that charred husk over there, which once was your beloved wife. It will speak, as though alive - but it will not be. In truth, I won't even be speaking to her spirit, itself. The spell animates the corpse, filling it with UnLife energy, which then reads the patterns impressed upon the flesh by the spirit it once housed, and answers in its stead. As the corpse is so badly damaged, it will probably disintegrate somewhat in the process of the spell - little bits of burned and roasted flesh dropping off here and there while I chat with it. Assuming your sanity can withstand seeing that, which I sincerely doubt because you loved your wife very much, you'll then see me repair the corpse with another spell, so that you'll have something that will at least be presentable for the funeral. I doubt Arella found all the pieces of it amongst the wreckage of this room, so the skittering of charred and burned bits of flesh as they dance across the floor to rejoin the corpse will probably put the finishing touches on what will be a budding madness in your brain." I gestured sweepingly towards the corpse with my staff. "Shall we begin, your highness? I'm quite busy, and if you're dead-set on being horrified to the pit of your soul, we may as well get on with it."
Noril blanched, and Javan looked like he was about to be ill. "You don't... You don't have to be so crude about it, Dame Raven," Noril said once he'd recovered himself.
"Oh, yes I do, your highness. I am a Defender of the Realm, by your father's edict - and more, I am the Raven of Yorindar. I will do whatever is necessary to protect you, Darian's heir, from destroying yourself through madness - and I will do whatever is necessary to recover your heir safely, even if I have to search the far corners of the universe or even batter down the gates of hell to find him! You would expect nothing less of me, and I would demand nothing less of myself."
The Wench of Woe
Prologue.
The old man sat quietly in his rocking chair, gazing out from his porch past the beach, at the eternally restless sea. The Bright Sea, as it was called, was hardly bright today. Ominous clouds loomed on the horizon to the east - it seemed yet another spring squall was headed towards the green, forested lands of Vilandia.
The old man had never been a sailor, though like most Vilandians, he was still familiar with the sea. The sea was, in truth, the life's blood of their nation, and the Vilandian navy was renowned as the most powerful and most advanced navy in all the world. Sleek fishing vessels like swift greyhounds that plied the coastal waters of Vilandia, harvesting the seemingly endless bounty of the sea... Vast warships with hulls of stout oak that prowled enemy waters, war-bred mastiffs that rained a hail of ballista-bolts and catapult-stones upon enemy fortifications... No, he was not unfamiliar with the sea. Indeed, the Vilandians worshipped the sea as a goddess - a strange, mysterious goddess who could be immensely kind one moment, and immensely cruel the next. And now, gazing out over the sea at the dark clouds gathering to the east, the old man knew that the sea might soon once again be immensely cruel to a small town named Woe.
But no, the Old Man had never been a sailor. His life had been spent as the village master, the leader of the village. It was not an elected position, of course. His father had been the village master before him, and his father before that, for eight generations. His son would have been the next village master...
The old man sighed, thinking about his son. The Goddess could be cruel at times, indeed. Cruel enough that ten generations before, on the site of a tragic shipwreck, his little village had been founded, and named Woe. But, perhaps it was as the priests said - all men were mortal, and sinned. All men deserved punishment for their sins, and the Goddess punished sinners in her own time, in her own way... And usually when they least expected it.
The sound of hoof-beats over the surf caught the old man's ear, and he turned his head to look down the beach. There, in the distance, a vision appeared to his age-dimmed eyes which caused his heart to catch in his throat.
A flame-haired woman, her fiery tresses streaming behind her as she galloped along astride a black steed. Yet, as they drew closer, the old man could see the hellish fires of the steed's glowing red eyes, the wisps of black smoke which escaped it's nostrils as it galloped, and the cold fury upon the woman's face.
Yes... The Goddess punished sinners in her own time, and her own way... And today, it seemed his time for punishment was finally due.
The old man hung his head. He did not question the Goddess, sending an angry retort to the heavens asking why. He knew why. He did not ask why the loss of his son had not been enough. He knew that each mortal faced their own destiny. No, he simply hung his head, and silently prayed that if it was not painless, that it would, at least, be swift.
The sound of hoof-beats slowed to a trot, then a walk, then finally stopped, the steed snorting as it stood before the porch. The old man did not look up.
"I have returned, Malik," the woman said, her voice like ice.
The old man simply nodded.
"If you thought to hide from me, you should have moved farther away from Woe. Everyone I met in the Village of Woe still knew who you were, and where you were - some even remembered who I was, as well. No, this little house you've built is only half a league down the beach from the village. You were not that difficult to find."
"I was not hiding," Malik replied quietly, his gaze in his lap.
"You know why I am here."
Malik nodded again. "To avenge the wrong I did you, so long ago."
"So you know it was wrong?"
Malik lifted his head, gazing into the woman's green eyes. For a moment, his words caught in his throat. She was radiantly beautiful. His own people, the Vilandians, were an auburn people, their skins bronzed by the sun for those who worked outdoors most of the year. She, on the other hand, had skin like cream, and hair like fire. The metal-scales of her armor gleamed like fine mithril, a second, metal skin, and she bore a long, spirally fluted lance in her right hand. Six cubits in length, it was not the handiwork of man, but looked more like the long, slim horn of some fantastic beast. Cuffed, calf-high boots of a soft leather graced the feet that clung lightly to the steed, and cuffed, forearm-length gloves of a similar material graced her hands. And yet, as beautiful as she was, the steed was equally as fearsome.
It was a lean beast, and apparently a mare. Yet, there the resemblance between it and ordinary horses ended. The woman rode the mare bareback - but, this did not seem to be a beast who would permit a saddle, anyway. The mare's coat was the color of night, and seemed to almost absorb the sunlight which fell upon it from the cloudy skies. Her eyes flashed with a red, hellish fire, and a trickle of smoke came from her nostrils as she panted from the run. Her hooves gleamed like black steel, and she flicked her tail in agitation as she awaited the outcome of this encounter. And more, the mare gazed at the old man not with the look of a dumb beast, or even the restrained aggression of a war-trained steed - no, she gazed upon the old man with intelligence... And hostility.
Malik ran a trembling hand over his bald pate before replying. "Yes, I did. I know it was wrong, now. I did at the time, as well... But I was angry. Now, I am old, and I have had time to reflect on the deeds of my life... Time enough to regret..." he said, then sighed, and hung his head again. "I am sorry."
"Bah. He is sorry," the mare said, her voice feminine, yet eerily hollow and unearthly. "I suppose that makes it all better, now, and we can be on our way."
"Hardly," the woman replied, and slipped from the mare's back, to stand before Malik. With a precision showing years of skill, she flicked the sharp tip of her lance beneath Malik's chin, tapping it to get him to lift his head.
Malik said nothing, simply gazing at her.
The woman paused, gazing back at him. "You do not beg or weep?"
"I wept all the tears of a lifetime the day my son died... I have no more tears left. And as for begging..." Malik replied, and sighed. "I only ask that you make it swift. I am old, now. Woe has a new master, Absor. I chose him ten years ago. I have nothing left to live for, really. The last ten years of my life, I have spent here, watching the sea, and waiting... I knew not what I was waiting for. My son was gone, and would not return. My wife died decades ago, as well you know. Still, I waited, though I did not know what I was waiting for. Now, I know. I was waiting for you."
The woman raised a flame-haired eyebrow. "Yanar is dead?"
Malik nodded, feeling the needle point of the lance lower from his chin.
"How did he die?"
"A few weeks after you..." Malik said, then sighed. "He disagreed with my decision. He was sixteen, old enough to sign on with any private ship. So he ran away to Soldan city, to the north. He signed on as an apprentice seaman with a trade-ship bound for Palome, hoping perhaps that somehow he might find you, and rescue you."
The woman rolled her eyes. "Impossible. A foolish notion," she replied, her weapon lowering even more.
"He was young."
"Then what happened?"
"A storm, off the Coast of Skulls. They never even left Vilandian waters. The ship went down, and all hands were lost. Only the wreckage that washed ashore told the tale."
"How tragic," the mare quipped, her eerie voice dripping with sarcasm.
"So it was all for nothing," the woman said.
"Yes," Malik replied, and sighed deeply. "I meant to hurt you, to take you out of my son's life forever... And ended up losing my son, instead. The whole village knew... And for years thereafter, few would speak to me, save when it was necessary, as I was still master of the village, by the law. But, now Absor is master, and none speak to me at all. I am shunned, now... And, I suppose, rightly so. I feed myself with a small garden out back... A little fishing on the shore from time to time with my net... But all the while, I am alone," Malik said, and lowered his head. "I... I see you have grown powerful. You must have become a mighty sorceress to be able to summon and ride a creature such as that, and to keep the fire of youth alive on your face. I am sixty, now. You must be what... Nearly forty? Old Ehbrahal was wrong about you."
The mare nickered in obvious amusement, and the woman rolled her eyes. "Hardly, Malik. Ehbrahal was right - I haven't a trace of the Talent, myself. Marilith accompanies me because she chooses to, not because I use sorcery to force her to. As to my appearance... Well, that is a long story."
"Bah. Never talk with your prey, just kill them and eat them and be done with it," Marilith snapped, with an air as though repeating an old cliché.
"If I were one of your people, I believe I would, Marilith," the woman replied, resting her lance upon her silver-mailed shoulder. "But, I am not. I can see Malik has suffered every day since his son died, knowing that he died because of what he did to me. I can see that the whole of the village of Woe turned against him after that day - as they should have - and he has suffered in loneliness since then. I would say, Marilith, that his debt to me was paid long ago, by the Goddess. For ten years, now, he has sat here, waiting for me. Waiting for me to end his life... Or perhaps to forgive him. Well, I shall do neither." The fire-haired woman glared at the old man who cowered before her.
"I just want you to know, Malik... If you had not done what you did twenty years ago... I'd probably have walked to your house today with your grandson in tow, ready to kiss you and greet you as the beloved grandfather of my children. Your son would be at my side, and you would still hold the respect of the entire village. Instead, I rode here on the back of a nightmare, ready to kill you. Your son is dead. You have no grandchildren, and never will. You will die alone, Malik, with not even an enemy at your side to see you off, and none to care that you are gone, or even bury your rotting carcass. That, I think, is the worst I could do to you in payment for what you did to me."
Malik shuddered, and the mare nickered in amusement. "Very sweet. I like it," the mare said, then tossed her ebon mane. "Shall we be off?"
"Yes," the woman replied, hefting her lance in her right hand, and turned to mount again.
The image of dying utterly alone, with not even someone to tend to his bones, horrified Malik. His mind scrambled for something, anything that might avert that fate. "Wait, Sasha!" Malik cried, rising to his feet.
The woman paused, gazing back to the old man in surprise. "You... You remember my name? My real name?"
"Yes, I do," Malik replied, startled by her reaction.
The woman stared at him for a long moment before she spoke again. "All my life, I have been simply 'The Wench of Woe'. At first, it was a taunt, cast in my face by children. Then, a taunt cast by my opponents. But I transformed that taunt into a title to be feared. Now, my enemies tremble when they hear that the Wench of Woe approaches," Sasha said, and glared at Malik. "Only my friends know my true name, and only my friends may use it. With the death of your son, I only have one friend here in the village of Woe, and that is Orissa - I go to visit her, now. What gives you, of all people, the right to call me by my real name?"
"You will not find her, Wench," Malik replied, ignoring her question. His mind had grasped at a thin straw of hope, and he would not let go. "Orissa is gone."
"What? Gone? Where is she?"
Malik smiled. "That is a long story. Perhaps we should sit awhile, and exchange stories with each other?"
Sasha peered at Malik silently. After a long moment, she opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the rumble of the approaching storm.
"A storm is coming, anyway. It might be better to wait it out inside my house. I can warm some tea, if you like. I still have a bit saved up..."
"It's a trick," Marilith snapped. "Don't trust him."
"No trick. Just a simple exchange of stories. If Wench will tell me her tale, I will tell her the story of Orissa. By then, the storm should be past, and you can continue on your journey."
Sasha thought about it for a long moment, then shrugged. "I doubt there's anything a feeble old man can do to hurt me, Marilith, even if he wanted to. Besides, I know you loathe rain as much as I do. His offer seems alright to me."
"Bah. I know more of the hearts of men than you do, sister," Marilith replied, and as Malik watched, her body shifted, becoming humanoid in a matter of a few heartbeats. She still had the head, hooves and hind legs of an ebon horse, smoke drifting from her nostrils, and her body was still covered with the same ebon pelt, but now Marilith had a torso and arms like that of a sensually shaped, nude woman. Malik stared at her nudity in open astonishment, but Marilith seemed not to care - she simply crossed her arms beneath her furry breasts as she continued speaking. "But, I think this is something you will have to deal with yourself. Likely to his regret." Marilith chuckled darkly. "I think I'll go amuse myself for a bit. Call me when you are ready to leave."
"I will, sister," Sasha replied, and without a further word, Marilith puffed into a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, which dissipated in the rising storm-breeze that came off the ocean.
"Shall we go inside?" Sasha offered.
A few minutes later, Sasha was seated at the little table inside Malik's house. Sasha nodded at the teacup Malik placed before her, but did not touch it. "Well? What happened to Orissa?"
The storm rumbled outside, and Malik eased himself down onto his bed, to sit - there were no other chairs in his small, one-room cabin. He had filled a teacup with tea, and drained it all in two long swallows before he spoke. "You first, Wench. It's been a long time - I'm sure you've probably been wanting to tell your story to someone, and never had the chance to in all your days."
"Actually, I have told my story to a friend once before."
"Oh? Who?"
"Well, that in itself is a long story."
"We-" Malik began, only to be interrupted by a loud crack of thunder, and the patter of rain atop his roof. After a moment, he smiled. "We appear to have time."
Sasha nodded, lifting the teacup before her and drinking it down, then setting the empty teacup on the table again. After a moment, she rose and walked over to the window, gazing out at the storm-whipped waves that now crashed into the beach. "Well... As you know, I wasn't born here in the village of Woe. I was washed ashore as a baby, tucked inside a sailor's trunk."
"Yes. A shipwreck at sea - some other flotsam and jetsam washed ashore at that time, as well. We never figured out where the ship was from, though our best guess was Arcadia," Malik replied, and bowed his head. "The Goddess was kind to you, that day."
"Perhaps... Well, the man who found me adopted me as my father, and raised me as his own daughter. His wife had recently died in childbirth, and he had no children of his own... He'd gone to the sea to pray to the Goddess that day, and saw the trunk I was in, washed ashore."
"Yes, Kashuah. He was a fine man. He died of the flux when you were fifteen, I believe."
"Fourteen, actually," Sasha replied dryly, her eyes still on the ocean.
"Well, our ancestors didn't name our town 'Woe' for nothing, you know. Sorrow seems to be a common thread of all the stories of our village."
"Do you want to hear this or not?!" Sasha snapped, glancing over her shoulder at Malik.
"Sorry. Do go on, please," Malik replied, bowing his head.
Sasha returned her gaze to the ocean. "Well... I suppose it all started one day shortly after I turned sixteen..."
The Mountain, The Raven, and The Sea
Prologue One - The Ocean.
Calla swept the floor quietly, the last of the day's work. Her hair, once lustrous and black in her youth and worn down at her shoulders, was now streaked with gray and done up in a bun. Hamat, her husband, had left for the smithy hours ago. The storm outside had come and gone, so she knew there would be little to do outside the house - any dirt there might have been to take care of would have been washed away by the rain. With no children left in the house, there was little to do for several hours, until it was time to begin the work of preparing the evening meal for when Hamat came home.
The rocking chair by the fireplace beckoned her, but she gave it a stern look, and thereafter ignored it's silent call. There was nothing to do? Then she would make something to do. Wash the walls, perhaps. Dust again. Something. She would not sit in that comfortable chair her husband had bought her three years ago, not at least until evening. For when she sat in it during the day, she knew her mind would wander... And she would remember...
Her boys had grown and married, and had children of their own, now. Her oldest grandson, in fact, was a new father, himself. Yes, twenty years had passed since that fateful day, when dear little Sasha...
Calla suppressed that thought with an effort, gripping the broom tightly, and resumed sweeping. She would not think about it. She would not remember that day, nor would she remember the day four years later, when her own daughter, Orissa...
Calla gritted her teeth, flinging open the kitchen door to sweep the last of the dust outside.
'What is that commotion?' Calla wondered, looking up at the sound of voices as she finished. There, down the lane, several people had gathered - a small crowd, really. They were quite excited about something, that much was obvious. That they were excited, however, did not matter to her. Even that they were coming her way down the lane really meant nothing.
"Feh. Probably Matran's got a new batch of chickens, or something," she muttered, and started to close the door...
...when a sudden gleam of fire-red hair caught her eye.
'It can't be...' Calla thought, looking down the lane.
Ahead of the crowd, two women strode side-by-side. One Calla did not recognize - she looked quite ordinary, with black hair and tanned skin, she could have been anyone of Vilandia, really. She wore a plain black dress and her feet were bare upon the cobbled streets, but that was all Calla really noticed about her - the woman at her side caught Calla's full attention.
She was tall - quite tall, in fact, and had fire-red hair. Her skin was the color of cream, and she wore some kind of scale armor over her body which fit skin-tight. Calf-high boots and forearm-high gloves completed her garb, and she carried a snow-white lance casually across her shoulder. A warrior-maid, of some kind... Obviously from the East... Probably Arcadia...
"It can't be..." Calla muttered, staring. "It just can't..."
"Calla!" the woman called, smiling broadly and waving.
"S-Sasha?!" Calla called back, her eyes wide.
"Yes! It's me! I'm back!" Sasha called, grinning.
Calla stared in shock as Sasha walked up and stood before her, the other villagers gathered round and the strange woman in the black dress standing beside her. "And this is Marilith, my sister."
"You... You have a sister?!"
Marilith smiled. "We are not sisters of the blood, but sisters of the soul. It's quite a long story."
Calla simply stared. A few of the villagers, seeing her expression, chuckled.
Sasha reached out with her free hand, taking Calla's hand in hers. "Calla, where's Orissa? I've come here today to find her."
The villagers surrounding them suddenly fell quiet, watching. Calla felt her eyes misting with tears - and a moment later, she had wrapped her arms around Sasha, and was sobbing into her mailed shoulder. "Oh, Sasha! She's gone! I don't know where she is! She disappeared four years after you did!"
There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd as Sasha handed her lance to Marilith, then hugged Calla gently. "Calla, it's alright. I'll find her. Do you know what happened?"
"No," Calla sobbed, hugging Sasha for a long moment. Then, she suddenly paused. After a moment, she leaned back, her eyes blazing. "But I'll bet that old bastard Malik does! He was behind your disappearance, Sasha! The Palomean raiders took you at his bidding! Orissa knew! She learned it from Yanar! And she told everyone!"
"I know he was, Calla," Sasha said, her face grim. "I already had a little chat with him about it."
"Hah! If you did, you're the first in years to talk to that old bastard! He's down the beach to the south, just half a league, but nobody visits him anymore! No one talks to him, no one helps him, and no one's even spoken to him in ten years!"
"And that's as it should be," Sasha replied grimly.
Marilith turned her head, gazing off into the distance, as a well-dressed man in the crowd spoke. "Say... Ummm... Do you remember me at all? I'm Absor," the man said, and smiled.
"I remember you, Absor. I see your lip healed," Sasha said, and smiled as some of the men chuckled. Sasha then looked to Calla, and hugged her again. "Calla, can we come inside? I'd like to tell you my story, and try to find out what you might know about Orissa."
"Did you kill him?" Calla asked flatly, looking into her eyes.
Sasha paused. After a moment, she spoke. "No, I didn't. I decided that for what he'd done, he should die alone, with none to tend for him when he's gone. Why, do you want me to?"
Calla was silent for a long moment, then finally shook her head. "I don't know," Calla replied, her voice quieter, but no less hard. "I only know I want him to pay. For you, for Orissa... For everything."
Sasha nodded. "He is paying, now. He has been paying for ten years... Really, he's been paying since Yanar died trying to find me. And he will pay to the end of his days, with the pain of loneliness. He will pay with the knowledge that when he dies, no one will even care that he is gone, and no one will even spare a moment to bury his bones."
"Quite delicious, in my opinion," Marilith said, and smiled. "May we come inside, please?"
Calla smiled in return, holding the door open. "Please do."
As Sasha and Marilith stepped inside, the men in the crowd took a last appreciative look at Sasha's scale-covered buttocks. The armor she wore, if armor it was at all, concealed nothing of the shape of her body. Absor suddenly grinned, then looked to the other men around him. "She hit me in the mouth, once."
Calla scowled. "Oh, Absor, shut up," she snapped, then stepped into her house and slammed the door behind her.
The Game of the Gods
Prologue II - Hammer and Forge.
"Mungim, I do yet smell flowers again," I said, my hands to the wooden sides of the tiny palanquin. A stout box of wood, borne by four of my nephews, there was a small cloth window to each side to let air flow freely through. I could not see it, of course, and for that I was very glad. The blindfold I wore protected me from the worst of it, but not all.
"Aye," Mungim replied. "We be yet quite near the lands o' Eddas Ayar, and the wind do shift to bring the scent o' his trees to us. It be late spring, most o' the flowers be gone now, but some do yet remain."
"I do feel a shift again... We do yet go down?"
"Aye, we did take the turning some minutes past, we be 'pon the road that do lead to his tower. The road do yet go down into the valley along the hill-slope, then it do make a bend and then it do run past the door o' his tower."
"And there be those sounds again... More birds?"
"Aye. There be many birds 'pon these lands, they do nest and frolic in the trees. Wait, now... There. Did ye yet hear that?"
"Aye," I replied, hearing the call of a bird.
"That be what Eddas do call a jiki. There be no other name for it I do know of, it be not known in the lands o' the elves nor to the humans o' the Southlands, it be yet found only in Hyperborea. Ye do yet hear the male sing. The female be brown and tan, so she may yet hide from hawks and such. The male, howe'er, be a brilliant crimson, his feathers like blood, and his eye be like the black o' pitch. It be a small creature, but two palms high or so. At night, ye can yet hear the hoot o' owls what live in the forest nearby, and near dawn and dusk, ye can yet hear the call o' the mourning dove."
"Husband?" I called.
I heard the sound of a hand passing through the cloth that covered the window, and a hand gripped mine. "I be here, wife," Karadin replied. "Thy brother be on t'other side, an ye do need his hand, as well."
"Be it... Be it as beautiful as me brother did say?"
"Oh, aye, love. Aye. And a thousand times more, besides. The ground be yet dusted with a million million flowers, as small as the nail on thy smallest finger. It do look like snow, in spots. Would ye have some?"
"Ye can fetch them?"
"Aye, a moment," Karadin replied, his hand leaving mine. I heard his footsteps dart away as my nephews continued on. Shortly, he was back, his hand thrusting something feathery and soft into mine. "A handful I did yet take from the top o' a pile near the bole o' one o' the trees."
I lifted the strange, feathery handful to my nose. "They do yet smell wonderful..." Tucking them into a pocket of my dress, I smiled. "I'll yet look later."
"Aye, love. Do yet call if ye do need, we be nearly there," Karadin replied.
"Aye," Mungim agreed. "We do yet round the bend in the road, now."
I waited quietly. It had taken three weeks to get here, all my brothers, my four sons and all my nephews coming along. A single wagon carried food and water for the journey, and what little my husband and I would need thereafter. Save for the dangerous places where I rode upon the wagon, for the most part, I rode in the palanquin carried by my nephews. The palanquin was far better than the wagon. On the wagon, I could feel the emptiness around me, and it chilled me to the pit of my soul, even blindfolded. In the palanquin, I could feel the wooden walls. With the blindfold and the touch of the walls in easy reach, I could push the terrifying thought of the endless, empty sky above out of my mind. Soon, however, the pleasant comfort of the palanquin would come to an end. How I would endure, I did not know. I only knew it was something I had to do. For myself, for my husband, and for my people.
Suddenly, I heard the call of a woman's voice, and my heart skipped a beat.
"Mungim! How are you? How was the trip?"
"I be fine, Eddas Ayar, and the trip were yet easy-like. Ye were yet right, once ye did tell the giants what we were about, they did patrol the lands with a fierce and watchful eye, we did see nary hide nor hair o' aught dangerous. We did meet a good score o' giants coming here, and all did wish us luck on this adventure."
A moment later, the palanquin stopped, and my heart pounded.
"And how is she, in there?"
"I be fine!" I replied, my voice a tiny squeak of fear.
"You don't sound fine, but we'll soon fix that. This way - there we go," Eddas called, and the palanquin began to move again.
"Oh, my," a deeper woman's voice called. "That is a tiny box!"
"It be yet large enough for her to sit, legs tucked in," Mungim replied. "We did yet experiment with a larger box before we did try this, and she did say it were too big. She did need to feel the sides easy-like, ye see."
"The door, Joy?" Eddas called.
"A moment," the other woman's voice replied, and there was a sound of a door closing.
"Thank you. Alright, let's put her down and get her out of there."
I trembled, terrified as I felt the palanquin being lowered to the ground. "Ooooo... Eddas Ayar, I do not think I be yet ready!"
"You'll be fine, Jhumni. You can take your blindfold off, too."
"Aaaah! I do yet not think I could, Eddas Ayar! Were I to see the sky, this far from the caves... I would yet faint!" I replied, hearing the latches being pulled back, and feeling the sides of the box being lifted away.
"Jhumni, trust me. You won't see the sky. You'll see stone and wood. You're inside the base of my tower, the window shutters are closed and latched, and we've hung heavy curtains over the inside of the windows. It's really quite dark in here, I've had to spark a light for Joy. It's a lot larger than the home of a dwarf, yes. The ceiling is perhaps eight cubits above your head, not counting the beams. But, that's no worse than inside a large hall or building of your people. My tower is solid marble and oak, I built it myself with sorcery over a century and a half ago, it will not fall, and you will not see sky."
I felt gloved hands touch the sides of my face, then lift the blindfold from my eyes. I blinked for many moments, trying to clear my vision - weeks of wearing a blindfold left the world blurry. When I could see again, I realized Eddas Ayar knelt beside me, my husband standing beside him, and my brother standing behind. Eddas held his staff in one hand, the butt to the oaken floor and a glow of light at it's tip. I looked into Eddas' face. It was, of course, the face of a dark-elf, our mortal enemy. But, at that moment, it was the most reassuring face I'd ever seen in my life. "Oh, Eddas!" I yelped, and hugged him tight, my eyes squeezed shut.
Eddas hugged me back. "You'll be alright, Jhumni, really."
It was many moments before I could let go, and truly look around. Eddas was right - it was much like being in a large hall of my people. There were several bunk-beds and dressers placed around the room, as well as a few doors here and there. The doors were enormously large, easily twice as tall as doors of my people. Still, I could see stone and oak. Stone walls, oak beams. Flesh and bone, a proper home, as the old dwarven song went. There was no terrifying sky hanging above me. "Well... Aye, this be not too bad..."
"Jhumni, this is Joy, my mate. I believe I told you before she's a little giantess," Eddas said, waving a hand to a tremendously tall woman behind him.
"Aye, Eddas, that ye did, and me brother Mungim has yet spoken o' her many a time," I replied, and curtsied politely. "It be an honor to meet ye, Joy."
"Likewise," she replied, and curtsied in return.
Eddas then pointed to a door behind him. "Over there is a closet I've cleared out and made into a small room for you and your husband. There's a nice bed there, it's the one I had before Joy and I became mates, and I've put one of the children's dressers in there for your clothes and things. That's where you'll sleep, and you can also go there if you get frightened. You won't be alone, here - Sasha and Marilith sleep here, in those bunk-beds over there. They're back home visiting their mer-folk clan, today, but you'll meet them tomorrow when they return," Eddas said, then reached out to take my hands, and squeezed them gently. "We'll work slowly, Jhumni. You can explore the tower and see the other levels as you feel up to it. Each day, we'll be going outside, you wearing your blindfold, and sitting in the sun for awhile. Lunch is a good time for that, you can get used to the idea that nothing bad will happen. In time, we'll have you looking out the windows. And, with luck, we'll have you walking around outside, and maybe even standing on the parapet. That you were able to come this far is a good sign, however. With care and work, we may get you walking in the sun and exploring my lands with your husband."
I smiled. "Aye, Eddas Ayar. I have yet spent many a time at the entrance to Iron City, and did stare at the sky as long as I could, hoping I might one day be able to come to your lands. I do think that did help on the journey, ye see. I can yet look at it for nearly two minutes, now, before I do yet have to flee," I said, and laughed.
Eddas smiled back. "We'll go slowly and carefully, Jhumni. One of the largest questions we need to answer is if latrao is something you can overcome yourself."
I shook my head. "That I do not know, Eddas Ayar. I only know I did yet have to try."
Karadin grinned. "I did tell ye that this plan would yet work, wife."
I blinked, surprised, then rolled my eyes at him. "Ye did not! Ye did fight me plan tooth and nail, ye were so afeared I would yet get eaten by some monster or such-like along the way!"
Karadin bowed his head. "Well..."
"Husband, love ye I do, but thy plan were yet the height o' silliness! Thy plan were to yet have me brother yet tell the king o' what he did learn, mayhap to yet have ten thousand dwarves do dig a tunnel a hundred and fifty leagues from there to here! There be eight folds o' granite and four rivers betwixt here and there! That silly plan would yet have taken a good century to do, e'en with the best o' steam-driven mining machines! I'd have yet fallen out o' me bearin' years, and it would yet have fallen to another to yet go through with it! Nay! Husband, Eddas Ayar did say that if he be right, I may yet bear a girl for ye - and that, husband, I shall yet do! If I be afeared, then that be yet too bad for me!"
I looked to my brothers and sons, who were all bearing blunderbusses - all to defend me along the trip. My nephews who'd carried me bore only short-axes at their belts, as that was all they had needed. But now, none of it was needed any longer. "Enough! Ye be done, I be here, ye've all yet done well. I be right proud o' all o' ye. Now all o' ye, do yet head home! Come the fall, when Mungim do return to do trade with Eddas, I will yet ride back with him then. If I cannot, then he can yet take me home with sorcery, or such-like! I be in the hands o' the most powerful mage in all Hyperborea, mayhap in all the world, and me husband will yet be at me side! I shall yet be safe, and that be fact! I do love ye all, and I do thank ye. Now all o' ye, get home!"
Mungim grinned. "Aye, sister, that we shall," he said, and leaned in to kiss my cheek.
"Thankee, brother," I replied, kissing him back.
Each of my brothers, nephews and sons took a moment to give me a kiss, then stood by the door. When the last was done, Mungim nodded. "Do yet close thy eyes, sister, beyond be the outside."
"I will yet endure it, brother, now do scat!"
Mungim nodded, smiling. "An ye do say, Jhumni," he replied, opening the door.
The blue sky I could see from where I stood was bad, but no worse than standing near the entrance to Iron City. I turned to my husband, trying not to shiver. "Do get our things from the wagon, husband, and ye and I will yet set up house for us for these next few months."
"Aye, wife," Karadin replied, kissing me, then trotted outside.
When he was gone, I shuddered, closing my eyes. I felt a hand rest on my shoulder. "Are you alright, Jhumni?"
"Nay, Eddas Ayar, I be yet petrified. But I will yet not allow them to know. They be men-folk, Eddas Ayar, and it be their way to do care for us with a gentle hand, and do guard us with their very lives. Were they to truly know how afeared I yet was, they would yet take me back double quick," I replied, and forced my eyes open, turning to look at Eddas. "That cannot be yet allowed, Eddas Ayar. This be far too important. If ye be right and ye have learnt a trick to yet make me bear a daughter, then I will yet do it, no matter the cost. That would yet be a boon immeasurable to our people - a gift beyond measure, beyond price, beyond repayment. And as for me, I do yet have four sons and no daughters, Eddas. I will yet bear a daughter for me husband, afeared or no, and that be that!" I said, stamping my foot.
Eddas grinned at me. "I think you will, Jhumni. Yorindar hinted to me that it was a possibility, if you were strong enough to persevere."
I nodded, firming my jaw. "I be a dwarf, Eddas Ayar. I be strong enough to endure aught that do yet fail to break me, and aught which do yet fail to break me will yet only make me stronger. That be Moradim's greatest gift to our people - the soul of iron," I replied, and clapped my hands, hammer to anvil.
Joy smiled down at me. "In his day, Eddas' people had a similar saying. I think now I see why he loves your people so much - you and he have much in common."
I nodded. "Aye, Joy. Eddas Ayar were yet not born o' our people, yet he be one o' us, in spirit - this, we dwarves have yet always known," I said, glancing at Eddas, then smiled at Joy. "Now come - do yet show me this closet, please. Eddas do blush so much, I be yet afraid that an we did continue, his cheeks may yet catch afire."
Joy laughed, taking my hand and leading me to the closet while Eddas chuckled behind us. I did not know if this would succeed. Even Eddas Ayar did not know that. But, I felt in my heart that this just might succeed, and this just might be the beginning of something truly wonderful.
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