Approaching Destiny
John of Pell was not a man who forgot things. Such a trait could be deadly for one who lived, gloriously and unashamedly, within a world of his own – sometimes less than honest - making. Still, much had happened, and it had happened with frightening rapidity. What had it been - one day? Two at the most? Time had a way of losing its meaning when one was burrowed beneath the earth.
And because John did not want to forget, he decided to undertake an activity he considered wholly banal: note-taking. One of his first mentors, the now-dead harpist Rhynfrydios d’Margive, had once said, “Notes are for scholars, not singers; they are the bane of inspiration. He who would record, rather than create, is no better than a beetle.”
Ah, old Rhynfrydios, John remembered, chuckling. You were always such a condescending ass.
John helped himself to a quill and inkbottle from Kellus’ belongings and tore a few blank pages from the back of Amelyssan’s spellbook. The Pellman was not one who generally enjoyed fiddling with wizards and their spellbooks, but…he needed paper. He had committed worse crimes for less compelling reasons.
So it was that John, in spite of Rhynfrydios’ sentiments, began to record what had transpired since the party had first reached the Duskingdell. Now, after all, was the perfect opportunity; John shared the watch with Vath. What the half-troll lacked in the art of conversation he made up for in vigilance. Let him worry if we are to be attacked this night, John mused, I have work to do.
The battle with the wolven had gone well - the party had triumphed relatively unscathed, John’s capable display as a crossbowman seemed to garner even more respect from Bigby, and both Huarto and Mavis would no longer emit plaintive whines to sour his mood.
The battle with the wolven had ended, however, even better – when John had disappeared over the ridge to find Mavis’ mauled body, he had also found a purse nearly as plump as she had been. And since he had been alone during his reconnaissance…well, her coins were now his coins. All of them.
After the combat, the party had made good time along the Duskingway, their journey no longer harried by constant, infernal howling. Bigby, with little fanfare, departed northward after showing the party the barrows but a few miles from the trail itself. “I canna tell if you be a good man, John of Pell,” Bigby had said as part of his farewell, “but ye are a good singer. There be little of the former in this world, and e’en less o’ the latter. When next we meet, you can sing a song about me.”
Tell you what, Bigby – you learn to grow a proper beard, and I’ll give you a proper song.
John tapped the feathered quill against his chin. So, now, how should he describe the barrows? To John they looked much like half-buried eggs; were the land not so featureless and relatively flat around them, doubtless travelers would not have even remarked their existence.
There were six of the overgrown burial mounds. Or was it seven? Does it matter? Each, supposedly, held the interred remains of long-dead Elfkings. John made a mental note to – one day – return to the Duskingdell. The party had located treasure within the one barrow they had explored; doubtless the others held something of value as well.
Bah, I get ahead of myself. John scrawled a few notes, drew a rough approximation of the barrow lay-out, and then once more subsided into reflection.
Vath had nearly died – and that before they had even opened the burial mound. The scrap of paper Poridel had given them – the account of some long-dead gnome’s wayward travails – helped the party locate the particular barrow. It was festooned with thick brambles and an age’s worth of thorns – all of which needed to be cleared. Since none of the party seemed inclined to use their weapons for such a menial task, Vath used his talons. The half-troll threw fistfuls of dirt and loam behind him like any groundhog.
Yet, just as the monk was about to pull open a stone door eerily similar to that which had sealed Borbidan’s tomb, Amelyssan had run forward as if his hair were on fire, screaming for Vath to stop.
John leaned back and smiled at the memory. Rarely had he seen the elf so animated. Amelyssan brandished Poridel’s parchment in his shaking hand. “A false entrance,” the wizard had wheezed. “Boddynock’s journal states the entrance – the real entrance – was uncovered only after hours of clearing the top of the barrow. You now dig upon the side of the edifice, Brother Vath; let us survey its dome.”
John had then scurried into the culvert the troll had cleared and ran his fingers along the exposed stone. The elf had the right of it. John suspected the stone, once removed, would cause the small entry tunnel to collapse – burying any would-be grave robbers.
Baden had not wanted to dig through dirt with Borbidan’s axe, but the dwarf had no such compunctions about slicing through briars. After more hours than John cared to remember, in which Raylin and Baden took turns clearing the thick vegetation, they had located a second entrance - the real entrance - near the mound’s apex. Just as Boddynock the gnome had written.
On his sketch, John indicated only the location of the false door and made no mention of its inherent danger. Should I die, John thought with grim satisfaction, any bastard who might use my map for a bit o’ treasure-hunting will be in for a rough start.
Without further ado, Vath ripped the stone plug out of the earth and the party lowered themselves via rope into a hollow chamber below. A stereotypical burial chamber greeted them; it was filled with skeletons, rusted weapons, even an open stone sarcophagus. Baden indicated some grooves in the stone floor, and Vath and Raylin bent their backs to sliding the sarcophagus forward. A small hole was revealed which led to yet another, lower chamber – this one slightly smaller than the entry room.
John liked riddles – so long as he could solve them. Riddles made for good stories, and were an easy enough literary device to demonstrate one’s own intellectual capabilities. On the whole, the riddle which then confronted them was not that difficult to solve - not when one read Boddynock’s journal carefully. Still, John was confidant he could make himself appear a giant amongst scholars when he later penned the song itself. No one needs to know of poor ol’ Boddynock and his book, or the help it gave us.
The second room had a stone – What should I call it? A dish? A platform? – in the center of its oblong floor. Four sigils had been carved upon its face – a tower, a tree, a mountain, and some collection of dots and curvy lines John had thought resembled…noodles? Strings?
Using Boddynock’s journal as a guide, the party had surmised they needed to touch the signs in a certain order. They proceeded to do so, and the dish slid open – magically? – to reveal yet another drop-hole.
John copied the sigils onto his parchment from memory before resting his head on his elbow. This entire Duskingdell tale was, until now, so incredibly…
***
…boring.
John set down the quill and rubbed his temples.
As much as the bard disliked the notion, he realized he would need to include some of the barrow’s history. That was a whole other song in itself, and – most importantly – it was not his song. If his listeners were concentrating on the damned Sorrow Elves, they may be disinclined to fully remark his own valor.
The Sorrow Elves. John frowned. Now there’s a sad story. If I wanted to deal with tragedy, I’d have been an actor. Still… The bard pursed his lips with sudden inspiration. A touch of solemnity might serve to better highlight the ending, hmm?
John picked up his quill and began to jot down words and names – Belaraphon, Age of Heroes, Sin War, Loroth, Ral, Baphtemet, Elfqueen.
It was a messy history, really. If Kellus and Amelyssan were to be believed – something John had learned could be safely done – the barrow was the resting place of Belaraphon, the Sorrow Elf, last Elfking of his particular, now-extinct strain of pointers.
John was a bard. He knew a little about everything, or at least knew enough to capably portray that he knew more. Hence the Sorrow Elves’ history was not wholly unfamiliar to him.
Belaraphon was a Hero, one of those near-divine immortals who had fought during the aptly-named Age of Heroes when Ostia Prim was little more than the fallen corpse of the Dead Child-God Genn. It seems ol’ Belaraphon had thought himself above the petty wars of Men. When Loroth – that damned name keeps recurring with a bit too much frequency – had raised his standards to lead the Rorn against the then-Empire of Basilica, some Men had appealed to Belaraphon and his Sorrow Elves for assistance.
The Elfking had, by all accounts, ignored their pleas. He was a Hero - one of the last if not the last - and he would not spend his twilight killing bugs. Yet Loroth was more than the Sorrow King had bargained for – more than Ostia Prim had bargained for. The Witchking of the Rorn earned victory after victory upon the mainland, and the land suffered under his brutal yoke.
So then what happened? John squeezed shut his eyes and tried to recall the old yarn. Belaraphon’s daughter – no, his wife – had interceded, finally, on behalf of Basilica’s emissaries. She had pleaded with her husband to send his elves to war. She had begged him to aid Men, ‘lest the entire land be bled under Loroth’s nightmarish rule.
And Belaraphon, the old fool, made the mistake of husbands everywhere – he failed to listen to his wife. The Sorrow Elf had ignored her urgings, had told the emissaries of Men to leave his lands forthwith, had settled once more into divinely-inspired hedonism. The grapes were fat on the vine. The Cormick plains – at that time – were forests filled with game and, most like, willful and willing fey. The Hero Belaraphon had it good, of that there was no doubt.
But you forgot something, didn’t you, ol’ boy? John smiled knowingly. A woman’s will may be denied, but never may it be ignored. So the Elfqueen…What was her name? She’s the true hero of this regrettable story. Erendra? Elendra? Dammit! The Elf Queen Elendra – that name’s more pleasing to the ear – secretly gathered her maidens unto her and journeyed to the mainland to aid the Basilicans in their struggle against the Rorn hordes.
John whistled low in spite of himself. Bravely done, Elendra. Bravely done, indeed.
***
“Why do you whistle?”
John returned Vath’s pointed look. “Why are you not outside? On watch?” John arched a brow. “For all we know, thirty wolven await our ascent.”
The half-troll stood from where he squatted beneath roof’s exit-hole. “You are a poor guard, Pellman. You should stop writing-”
“-and you should stop stinking.” John rolled up the tattered pages and shoved them into his belt pouch. “Ral is dead. As is Baphtemet and Ippizicus before him. We have nothing to fear.”
Vath bristled. “In my monastery, those who neglect their watch are cast from the ramparts onto the stones below.”
“How cheerful.”
The bard stood, stretched, and retrieved his crossbow from atop a pile of his belongings. He looked up to see the half-troll’s angry grimace. Suddenly, John’s confident air evaporated. “Easy, Vath, easy. Let us both climb the rope and survey the plains. I am done writing for the nonce, regardless.”
***
Half-troll and Pellman sat, quietly, near the entry hole atop the barrow. The land was dark and still around them. Theirs was the second watch, and the moon had just begun to rise. It was cold – bitterly so - and John suddenly wished he had not agreed to climb the rope with Vath to watch the plains. He had angered the half-troll and, unlike his other companions, John was not yet certain how far he could push Vath before the humanoid would snap. John glanced at his companion’s talons and swallowed heavily. I’d rather not find out.
“You did well against Ral, Brother Vath.” John flashed his warmest smile. “Were it not for you, one of us might e’en now be laying dead far below.”
Vath was quiet. The half-troll’s shaggy head swiveled from one direction to another, his incessant moaning accentuated by an occasional sniff of the wind.
“Brother Vath, are you familiar with the story of the demon Ral?”
Silence.
“Would you like to hear it?”
Silence.
Good enough for me. Without further ado, John launched into his tale. “Ral was one of Loroth’s demons. Ral the Torturer, he was called, and that was what he did. During the Sin War, as Loroth tore down the cities of Basilica and drove their peoples away in chains, he would send those persons of importance back to his fortress…what was it called?”
“The Dezimond.”
“Aha!” John grinned. “So you do know a bit of history. And here I thought you only knew how to snap necks and stab folks with those claws of yours.”
Vath favored the bard with a dark look before, once more, scanning the horizon.
John sighed and pulled his cloak about him. He felt like a roach on a drumhead here upon the Cormick plains. He felt…vulnerable. Yes, that was it. Talking always seemed to allay his uneasiness, so talking is what he did. “Yes, his fortress in the Rorn - the Dezimond. It is said the Dezimond’s dungeons were a world unto themselves – deeper and larger than all the tunnels beneath the Balantir Cor.
“And in those forgotten hallways there were hundreds – nay, thousands – of cells. Each more miserable and more hidden than the last. Loroth, it was said, enslaved many of those who opposed him. Men, demons, devils – all were captured, and locked away, and forgotten. At least until the Witchking achieved his victory, at which time doubtless he would return to gain his pleasure upon those poor souls within the bowels of his fortress.”
John pulled a stem from the ground and placed it between his teeth, clearly in his element as story-teller. “There were many who fought against the Witchking. Most died for it. But there was one, an Archbishop of Deneir, who caused Loroth no end of headaches. This priest, it is said, banished entire legions of the Witchking’s infernal troops. Had not the Devil Prince Asmodean thrown in his lot with Loroth, the War may have ended then and there. Countless lives would have been spared.”
John glanced askance at Vath. “Are you listening?”
“Aye.”
“Glad to hear it.” John hid a knowing smile as he pulled his hood over his head against the wind. “Alas, the Archbishop was – finally – captured. Loroth sent him, under heavy guard, to the Dezimond. The demon Ral was ordered to torture the Deneirite, to glean information only the Archbishop might know. But our blue-skinned demon erred; he killed the Archbishop, on accident, and that worthy priest refused all attempts at resurrection.”
“Tell me about her.” Vath interruption nearly caused John to faint from astonishment. There was an emotion evident in the half-troll’s voice John had never heard. Sadness? Compassion?
“Um…her?”
“The Elfqueen.”
John frowned. “Belaraphon’s wife?”
At Vath’s nod, John wrinkled his brow with thought. “Elendra and her war maidens fought for many years, on the mainland, and they slew Loroth’s minions by the hundredfold. Always did she send requests for aid to her husband, the Sorrow King, but never did he answer. He felt betrayed at her leaving, it is said. Once – and only once - he sent a missive demanding she return, but…she would not.”
“She could not.” Vath’s voice was almost tender.
John shrugged, a bit confused at his companion’s mood. Certainly there are better stories of the Sin War than this? “Aye, she could not,” John repeated. “Not after she was captured, at any rate.”
The two sat in silence for some time as the moon rose above them. The land turned from black to gray, and the winds lessened – if only slightly. John produced a wineskin, took a pull, and corked it. “She was captured after the last of her maidens had died defending her. She was transported to the Dezimond and delivered unto Ral and his instruments.”
“She died there.” Vath scratched at his eye with a talon.
“She did,” John agreed, still perplexed. “Ral was, ah, overly enthusiastic with his methods. It is said that our old friend Baphtemet huddled over Ral’s shoulder, urging him to deliver ever more pain and agony to the elf maiden. Whenever the blue-skinned demon sought to lessen his administrations, Baphtemet would prod him with insults, forcing him to continue.”
John shrugged. “Eventually, torture became execution. And when the Elfqueen died upon the stone table, Baphtemet wasted no time in speeding to Loroth’s side so that he might inform the Witchking of Ral’s blunder.” John smirked. “Imagine Loroth’s rage – it must have been unspeakable. The Witchking, it is said, left the front at once. He would personally deliver eternal pain unto his demonic captain Ral.”
“He never found him.” Vath looked to John. “The Witchking never located Ral.”
John shook his head slowly. “No. No, he did not. For it was then, and only then, that Belaraphon entered the fray. As we know, the Sorrow King was a Hero, perhaps the last still upon Ostia Prim. Even Loroth must have trembled to hear the Elfking had thrown aside his drinking and his dryads to cross the Conomora.”
John waited for Vath to comment before continuing. “Basilica and her allies rejoiced. ‘Belaraphon comes!’ they cried with singular ardor. ‘Belaraphon comes!’”
The Pellman removed the stem from his teeth and tossed it within the briars at his feet. “The Elfking had learned of his wife’s death the same time he had learned of her capture. From that day forward he was known as the Sorrow King, the Sorrow Elf, and his people faded away under his neglect. His elves, said to be the fairest of that fair folk, are gone from these lands. Never to return.”
John sighed as he gazed upon the Cormick plains. The night, which had felt somewhat pleasant as he spoke his tale, now seemed oppressive.
“Friends!” Raylin’s voice issued from the barrow’s interior, causing the bard to jump. “John? Vath? Come down – your shift is done.”
John stood and brushed thorns from his breeches. He held out a hand to Vath who, surprisingly, accepted the aid. The Pellman’s mood had turned melancholy. “At any rate, we know the rest of the tale. We, ourselves, saw how it ended.”
“Finish it, John.” The half-troll’s eyes were dark with solemnity.
John did not hesitate. “Belaraphon, even then, did not enter the War. Such was ever beneath him. Basilica wept. The Elfking only sought revenge for his wife’s death. He cared not for the struggles of Men or of Loroth’s ambition. Belaraphon sped through the firmament, a veritable comet, and found Ral as the demon fled from Loroth’s rage.”
John glanced through the barrow hole, waved to Raylin, and then looked once more to Vath. “Belaraphon imprisoned Ral within a jeweled box, we now know. The same box Amelyssan now has in his pack.”
Vath nodded slowly. “And the elf freed Ral, each day, for these past one thousand years and more, to wreak his vengeance upon the demon anew.”
“If what the Sorrow Elf told us is to be believed,” John answered, “that is indeed what he did.”
“I believe him.”
“As do I, Vath. As do I.” John bent, grabbed the rope, and gestured toward the hole leading into the barrow. “After you, friend.”
The half-troll gripped John’s shoulder. “Wait. Your story is wrong.”
John sought, and failed, to keep disdain from his tone. “What do you mean?”
“Belaraphon is not known as the Sorrow Elf because his wife was killed.”
“Oh, really?” John smiled with condescension. “Then, pray tell, why is he known by that monicker?”
“Belaraphon wanted to bring her back. From the dead. He offered his Elfqueen her life once again.” Vath released his hold. “And she refused.”
“She refused?” John whispered. Then, still softly, “Yes…she refused.”
The bard shook his head as if waking from a dream. He fixed a gimlet eye upon Vath. “How do you know so much of the Elfking Belaraphon?”
“My god, Ilmater, is one of suffering,” Vath answered quietly. The half-troll lowered himself through the opening, pausing only for a moment. “In all the histories, of all the Ages, none have suffered more than him.”
***
Brother Henratt, favored of Krix and Cyric, sat easily upon his horse and studied the northern horizon as the land turned pink around him.
He was tired, certainly, but he was also filled with exhilaration. The Highskull had given him – him! – the task of dealing with the men of Olgotha. Henratt’s status was solidified within the Order – and such an improved station would mean more money, more power, more slaves - more everything.
The Cyric priest looked behind him and felt his chest expand with pride. Ten crossbowmen, paid well for both their skill and their discretion. Four novice priests. A handful of swordsmen – lay brothers, all. There were a strong force, a capable force. Probably too powerful for the task at hand – but Henratt had not advanced through the ranks by questioning the orders of his superiors.
His face soured as he looked down upon the final member of his entourage. The sage was pathetic; he looked a complete fool, both hands bound to cord that stretched and looped around Henratt’s saddle pommel. The old man’s robes were stained from own excrement, his beard a mass of knots, his skin covered with welts and bruises. Henratt had ordered his priests to stop giving the man healing potions only hours ago and – already! – the fool appeared as if he might expire. How incredibly weak.
Still…the sage need not live any longer. They were close. Very close, if Henratt judged their position correctly. The priest raised a fist and one of his acolytes hurried forward. “We dismount here.” It would be easier to approach the barrows unseen. “Tell Klovan and Emmor to carry the stake between them. Have Junol and Crayn see to the sage.”
“As you will, Brother.”
Henratt allowed himself a moment to smile, to savor the anticipation of his impending victory and all that it would entail. The priest was that rarity within his order – a follower of Cyric who enjoyed reading scripture. Once, long ago, he had managed to read a few passages of a copy of that all-important and all-too-rare tome.
He knew, with certainty, that those who had triumphed at Olgotha would die this very month. It was written. He just hadn’t known that he, Henratt of Harren, would be the one to bring the prophecy to fruition.
The mist would be thick upon the plains this morning – already he could see the milky wraiths forming amongst the weeds. With any luck, his men would be able to close within a hundred paces or less of the barrow – depending on how well the Olgotha fools stood watch.
“Stage something. Something dramatic.” Isn’t that what Highskull Krix had ordered him to do?
Henratt threw one leg over his horse and slid from the mare’s back. The priest drew his knife and cut the cord near his saddle pommel. He wrapped the rope around his hand and, without further delay, set off, pulling Poridel Poriden behind him like a hound on a leash.
His men crowded around him – quiet, deadly, capable – and the group glided northward toward the northern horizon, toward the barrows, toward destiny.
“As you will, Your Grace,” Henratt mouthed into the wind. “As you will.”
