Fireblade

By J. D. Sims

Two hundred years have passed since the great war. Evil magick and violence still ravage the lands of Vercinnor. Human kind wars with elves, the Wyzaerds have all but vanished from Terralea and darkness blackens the horizon. A young elf, Aicanaro, must walk a path between light and darkness where only he can govern his true destiny. As a nomadic assassin, diplomat and General, Aicanaro is tested and tempered in the flames of battle. By blade and fire, Aicanaro mitigates his heart and quiets his rage on the front line against evil. The war selects its champions carefully, reluctant as they may be. Out of the inferno and ash an unlikely legend is born who may be the only hope for all of Terralea.

Fireblade is the first book of the series which chronicles the life of Aicanaro from his humble and tragic beginnings through his struggles with life, death, love and hate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. D. Sims
• Release date: Dec 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9780988458727

J. D. Sims

J. D. Sims is a multimedia artist husband, father of 2, living in Colorado. He has written several pieces from short stories to poetry. In 1993 J. D, began writing the storyline that follows. It was with the support of close friends and family that he pushed himself forward to take the step of bringing Fireblade to the world. J. D. Sims is currently working on Pacts of Ardens, Book 2 of The Fireblade Chronicles.

Book preview

Book I of The Fireblade Chronicles

by

J. D. Sims

Copyright © 2012 J. D. Sims

All rights reserved. Published by 6!t Press LLC on Smashwords.

All persons, locations, and events within these chronicles have been fictionalized, and are the sole property of J.D. Sims.

Any resemblance to people and events, either real or fictional, is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The text type was set in Times New Roman

Edited by Beth Partin

Book designed by J. D. Sims

ISBN-10 0-9884587-2-1

ISBN-13 978-0-9884587-2-7

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Special Thanks

Guardians of the Heart of the Flame

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Pronunciation Guide

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my beloved wife Raquel.

It is no easy thing to love the daughter of a king.

— Aicanaro The Fireblade

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A very extra special thank you to Raquel Sims, Shawn Grothendick, Joanna Grothendick and Tina Nordloh for your feedback and time during the gruelling process of writing and re-writing. Also for your continued support and being able to call me out when required, pick me up from the doldrums when needed, and kick me in the butt when I dragged my feet; all in order to help hone the tale within these pages. Also to Mary Hager, Sachiko Boland, Candaise Sheets, Blake Lehr, Rob Rice, David Seely, Phillip Marquez, Tisha Hudetz, Previn Hudetz and Laura Berman for your feedback and tolerance of being test readers for an adventure such as Fireblade.

A very special thank you to the fans on Facebook.

Thanks to my family and friends that supported me in this endeavor.

Lastly but certainly not least, thank you to you the reader for whom this tale was intended. Enjoy the adventure.

Special Thanks

A special thank you to the following people who contibuted to the Kickstarter which provided funding necessary to launch this fantastic tale into being:

Leroy & Julie Troxel, Aaron Spratte, Rob Rice & BJ Avery, Jeanette Le, Bruce & Beth Telford, Kelsey DeBoer, Christina Colombo, Meghan Dougherty, Jennifer Harris, Jill Davies-Dreith, Andrea Talley, Ashley Nicole Shelton, Kristina Iodice, Mr. & Mrs. Ernie Anderson, Stephanie Fielding, Mel Kubic, Corey Mardix, Daniel McAllister, Daniel & Candice McDowell, Tory Jackson, Deb Shinaut, Derek Lapsley, Zach Meyer, Matthew & Dawn Gomez, Kim Hutchinson Graves, Jen Grossnickel, James R. Vernon, Jessie Dahl, Tabitha Lazarte, David Christopher Evanetich, Alisa Lane, Doug Lunde, Ingrid Stitt Wilson, Sam Stanley, Amber Marshall, Rubiee Tallyn Hayes, Chaz Kemp, Phillip Marquez, Angela Janko, Eric Mitchell, Heather Barlow, Lori Frazier, Michael Shamus Mahon, John Zigler, Candaise Sheets, Katie Huber, Michael J Bruno, Lisa J. Oliver Sandra Wheeler Kyle Cottengim Jenny Bucknam Jason Werelock Duvel Missing Link Howard Lee Smith Shalee Albrecht Kirsten Jorgensen Smith Dale and Rhonda Crews Darry VF The Dickson Family Jessica M. Henke Previn Hudetz Shelley Crews Dave & Joyce Sims Mark Powers Jason LeBouef Braeden Sichterman Eric Apjoke Casey Hines Tina Nordloh Nico Kolstee Amber Feldman David Seeley Anthony & Natalie Russo Walt & Mary Hager Jake van Lierop & Sam Bell Kyle McNeal Sachiko Boland Angel Canann R.K. Bentley Tim Shilling Steven & Ona Lehr D. Brierley Shawn & Joanna Grothendick Kathleen O’MalleyLee R. McElhinny Blake & Sarah Lehr Minx Totty

Guardians of the Heart of the Flame

"Within each flame there is a core, a pure center which builds the rest of the flame and causes it to grow. Without the heart the flame dies out, without the center the flame wanders into oblivion, without the core, the flame cannot be. Guard the heart well and the flame shall burn always."

— Phaethia, The Child Queen

For this volume which you are reading to be brought to life, these people went above and beyond what others could. Believing in this project so much that they backed it with all they had so that you could read these pages and share the adventure.

This page is in honor and thanks to:

Khatovar Chainmail

Allison Hebert

Sachoko Boland

For their contribution which pushed this project into being.

About the Author

J. D. Sims is a multimedia artist husband, father of 2, living in Colorado. He has written several pieces from short stories to poetry. In 1993 J. D, began writing the storyline that follows. It was with the support of close friends and family that he pushed himself forward to take the step of bringing Fireblade to the world.

J. D. Sims is currently working on Pacts of Ardens, Book 2 of The Fireblade Chronicles.

Prologue

"If you are reading this tome in the volumes here writ, you are in for a tale. This tale with words shall be told but with deeds did unfold. A tale that has traversed far and wide, told many times over and writ here by one’s hands so that you too may know the truth of it and in turn share in the journeys of life, love and loss. Let us begin by stating what you may already know and end by allowing you to see what has already come to pass."

— Raconteur, Humble Bard Extraordinaire

In the world of Terralea, peace had reigned for ages. Hyumaen, wyzaerd, duwahrf and eldyri lived in great harmony with all magickal beings. In the lands of Vercinnor, the middle continent of the thirteen within Terralea, all manner of beings flourished: the duwahrves, slight in stature, rugged and inventive; the eldyri, wise, lithe and long-lived; the hyumaen peoples, primitive and mortal; the wyzaerds, or High Ones, mages and peacekeepers. All these lived together in harmony with the lesser races, with beasts of the forest, air and water and with the fantastickal creatures that called the land home. The growth of these three main races drew the attention of many gods, among them a pair of deities known as Phaethia and Praktykus.

Phaethia saw these races as noble creatures, caring and trusting. With love in her heart, she gave a gift to the hyumaen peoples, the gift of belief in something larger than themselves. Phaeth, as it became known, allowed the hyumaen kind to grow, learn and strive to become a noble race. But Praktykus viewed the peoples of Terralea as playthings, puppets to manipulate, change and pervert for his own pleasure and amusement. His effect on hyumaens was especially powerful. He placed doubt and deceit into their hearts, making them a warring, barbaric race who began fighting among themselves and then turned against the other races. And so the balance was maintained, for with light there must also be shadow.

Ages passed, with the two deities subtly guiding the creatures of Terralea, one with love and one with hatred. However, the day came when Praktykus grew tired of manipulation. He came to Terralea, a deity made flesh, and there he began to alter the balance in his favor. Turning hyumaen minds to thoughts of war, Praktykus gathered an army and brought them against the duwahrf kind in an attempt to eradicate them.

Phaethia and the council of eldyri and wyzaerds convened at the request of the High Kings of the hyumaens. Distressed at the behavior of their fellow hyumaens under Praktykus’s influence, the High Kings requested that something be done about Praktykus. The council agreed that Praktykus was beyond reasoning with, that greed, lust for domination over Terralea and darkness had taken control of him. It was decided that Phaethia would help subdue Praktykus, a feat that required the cooperation of all magickal beings. Praktykus was to be stripped of his powers, banished from the ranks of the deities and into an existence below that of the mortals.

Phaethia spoke with a commanding voice to the gathering.

The only way to remove deities from their rank and strip their powers is to kill them with a sword of the deities. It will take an effort on the part of all to bring about the destruction of Praktykus. You must forge a blade in the fires of the Alter Realm, made with my power and inlaid with the essences of the magickal primes, all of the most powerful magickal creatures that roam Terralea: the talon of a phoenix, the tooth of a dragon, the claw of a gryffon, the tip of a unicorn horn, and many more. All must be given willingly to infuse this blade with their powers.

After deliberation, the council was in agreement: Praktykus was threatening the peace of Terralea. Thus the council sent word to all the flocks, packs, herds and pods. Emissaries representing all those gathered were chosen and sent forth to find, request and gather the essences needed to complete the blade. It was three long years before all the emissaries returned to the council and they could call upon Phaethia’s power to forge the weapon and inlay all of the required essences. The blade was forged with the steel of the eldyri, light, hard and sharp enough to cut the breath of heaven. The guard was cast of the gold of the High Kings of the hyumaens, as well as treasures from the dragons’ hoards. The blade, guard and pommel were encrusted with the gems of the duwahrves, and the handle was carved from the staff of a wyzaerd.

In the meantime, Praktykus had taken the form of a hyumaen general, leading armies to drive duwahrf kind from the continent of Vercinnor across the sea of Esteos. When all of the duwahrf people had fled Vercinnor, Praktykus plunged his sword into the land overlooking the sea to the east and shouted across the water: This point shall stand a fortress from your cowardess. No duwahrf will touch this port so long as I rule these people. Vercinnor is mine!

Triumphant, Praktykus turned his army toward the west and Eldyrmar, home of the eldyri, but before he could lead his army there, they were snatched in a brilliant flash of golden light. Phaethia had taken them to the Alter Realm. Praktykus followed, set on confronting his sister. He passed into the Alter Realms and stalked Phaethia to her home on the top of one of the mountains of Parygium. Phaethia bid him enter and told him that his army was safe from his treachery. Praktykus was enraged by the accusation and stormed toward Phaethia, but when his foot crossed the threshold, it was as if he moved against an invisible tide.

What is this?! Praktykus demanded.

At that moment, in flashes of golden light, the council entered her home. Praktykus then realized he was being held by Phaethia and the council of magickal beings, which had united against him. Gathered were the primes of phoenix, dragon, gryffon and unicorn, as well as the full complement of wyzaerds, the eldyri and the High Kings of the hyumaens. The council, led by Phaethia, held a trial for Praktykus; the verdict was that his reign was to end before all creatures became scattered by his terror.

You cannot banish me, Praktykus scoffed at the council. I am a deity and your lamentable young land is no match for my powers.

Phaethia sighed, went to the ambo and lifted a white velvet cover, revealing the blade of Veilyra.

Praktykus looked at the blade and laughed.

A mere blade cannot kill me, dear sister. Tears filled Phaethia’s eyes as she took Veilyra into her hands. The blade glowed with golden light and then caught flame as she held it. Her eyes also gleamed like gold.

You will not kill me. Praktykus began to spit in shock. I will not be thrown off like some petty garment. You who are gathered here will taste my vengeance. I swear it and I curse . . .

Phaethia plunged the fiery blade into Praktykus, cutting his curse short. The ground shook as Veilyra began to sing a note. Praktykus’s head shot backward and his arms went wide as flames burst forth from his eyes and mouth. His skin broke as golden light punched through and his clothing began to burn and flake away. Praktykus fought to lower his head and looked down at Phaethia: as his gaze fell down upon her, she saw that his eyes were gone and in their place sat glowing embers. His mouth was a mangled maw. Dark purple veins snaked up the blade Veilyra, slithering over the hilt as Phaethia released the sword.

You will pay for your betrayal, sister, Praktykus said and lurched toward her.

Two young boys ran forward, one grabbing Phaethia as Praktykus clawed her arm and the second kicking the hilt of Veilyra, sending the blade through Praktykus’s body. The blade shattered, throwing the council to the ground in a brilliant flash of golden light that blinded all as it burned. When the light had disappeared and the eyes of the council members had adjusted, Praktykus was gone. But something was amiss; his curse must have been completed. The magickal primes could no longer communicate with all beings; the wyzaerds’ bodies were turned into the shells of elderly mortals; the eldyri were aware, for the first time, of their limited immortality; and the hyumaens now carried the burden of the doubt and shadow created by Praktykus in their minds. All species now had a splinter of Praktykus’s darkness; evil dwelled within Terralea. Phaethia could never again set foot within the mortal realm. Her domain would always and forever be the Alter Realm; the scar from his claw would be her shackles. As for the two young boys, they would again be called to face down darkness. Their names were Erraumo of the eldyri and Xandur Rosing of the hyumaens.

All seemed at peace, but as the centuries passed, evil began to take hold. Some were more prone to the darkness than others. It was widely whispered that Praktykus was still on Terralea, lurking in the shadows, breeding foul creatures. Uraichs began to come out of the depths of the old duwahrf caves, and harpies and trolls began to appear. Ogres and rageaeons ran rampant through the lands. It seemed as though something was mounting for an attack. A shadow began to loom over the lands as Sha’esyl B’azgyurian revealed itself as darkness ungendered and formless.

B’azgyurian proclaimed that it would reign over Terralea and that none existed who could oppose it. The High Kings of the hyumaens and the eldyri joined together with the wyzaerds to face down the darkness. Great armies of hyumaens, renegade duwahrves, eldyri, wyzaerds and fantastickal creatures banded together to prevent B’azgyurian from corrupting the magick of the lands and turning the world to darkness. B’azgyurian likewise rallied uraichs, trolls, blood wraiths and shaides to come to its defense and usurp the light. So the conflict became known as the Great War. It was fought with might of sword and shield, with magick and beasts. Phoenix and gryffon, troll and uraich—all fantastickal creatures took up alliances for either good or ill. Heavy losses beset both sides and many creatures of the light were converted to darkness, but after much toil B’azgyurian was defeated and the majority of its armies were exiled to the northlands. Victory, but the damage had been done. During its campaign B’azgyurian had infiltrated the ranks of hyumaens and eldyri. Some of the eldyri became sha’edyri, or dark elves, with the promise of power and regained immortality. They were banished to the far southlands of Vercinnor for their crimes and alliances with B’azgyurian. The corrupted hyumaens were to be given treasures and kingdoms to rule over. Many other beings were turned into blood wraiths, with the promise of eternal life and absolute dominion over the lands north of the hyumaens and sha’edyri.

Fantastickal beasts no longer trusted all beings, wyzaerds had gone into seclusion and Phaethia was all but a memory. Meanwhile, Praktykus’s darkness continued to loom within all.

Hyumaens, so easily corrupted by the darkness within, began to hate those who embraced the magick of the world. Fantastickal creatures hid from the malice of the hyumaens, who hunted and exterminated them. Eldyri became reclusive and took to healing the lands from the wounds of the war, dwelling far from the sight and blade of hyumaen hatred. Some few hyumaens tried to maintain peace between themselves and other races. One such was the last of the High Kings, Xandur Rosing, who was notably long-lived for a hyumaen. Having lost his fellow High Kings in the Great War and with no heir to his throne, he willed that his crown be cared for by Erraumo, King of Eldyrmar. Erraumo was called to Xandur’s bedchamber and given the crown of the High Kings. Xandur’s dying words charged Erraumo and his kind to care for the crown until such time as peace would once again reign in the hyumaen lands and magick could return to the world.

Word of his passing spread through the lands, and the hyumaens took great offense at the crown being given to the eldyri. Rumors began to circulate that they wanted to dominate the lands as B’azgyurian had. Because some hyumaens believed that B’azgyurian could return only through magickal means, they tried to ban all magick and and exterminate every magickal being.

Thus, the word elf came to be used as a slanderous and foul term for the species. Wyzaerd or witch became synonymous with foul deeds. Fear of magick became the norm as the evil of B’azgyurian grew in the hearts of hyumaens. The elves, hunted and hated, likewise distrusted hyumaens in return. Little did they know that one day the races of elf and hyumaen would again fight side by side to defend the lands from a foe willing to wipe out the entirety of the lands and reclaim darkness.

This story begins when hyumaens and elves were at odds, at the peak of their distrust. It is the tale of one elf who eventually battled against and then beside hyumaens.

This elf became known as the Fireblade.

Chapter 1

"The sun will rise in its morning hues of blue and gray; likewise will it set in flames of yellows and reds. Hyumaen, elf and wyzaerd kind will come and go; monsters will arise in any species. Foul feelings will brew, for in this way a balance of good and evil will be kept. It is the way of the world, the ever-spinning sphere that contains life and breeds life. So too must it then contain death and breed death."

— Madrathirun of the High Ones

In the small elven community of Indissyr, a young elf maiden named Ceilnysse rushed along with a small basket of food under her arm. A refuge for all who wished to use it, the community was primarily peopled by elves who sought to avoid the conflicts and struggles of Vercinnor. Indissyr nestled in the woods of Phylodru on the southern end of Vercinnor, a day’s travel from Eldyrmar. This suited the inhabitants, as they could call upon the king of Eldyrmar for aid in times of need. Indissyr had no walls or gates to keep out intruders; instead, spells of protection, longevity and a great host of others safeguarded all within the homes and the community itself.

Indissyr was a comforting place. The elves, as is their tradition, had built their homes to blend into the world around them. The sturdy roof supports and walls had been wrought of the trees of Phylodru; the roofs were timber and thatch grown and shaped from the surrounding trees. Using only what was necessary to build left other trees to form ornate elements and designs. Despite the urgings of kin and kith, its inhabitants did not wish to live within the city limits of Eldyrmar or to join the clans of nomads that frequented the area. Many elves of Indissyr had been displaced by the war or banished by their people. Ashamed of their situation, they refused to bring disgrace to the clans. Still others did not wish for ill to fall upon Eldyrmar or the clans because of them. Ceilnysse was part of the group concerned for Eldyrmar.

Her long brown hair blew gently in the evening breeze. She stopped for a moment and looked around as the evening sun crawled toward the horizon. Its golden light streaked through the trees and cast a hue of purple-gray across the sky. Her eyes, pale gray with gold specks, echoed the cloudy sky. The breeze was wonderfully cool but carried with it a feeling of unease.

Ceilnysse’s pale green dress rustled against her legs, bringing her back to her course. Her delicate hands clutched the basket she was carrying, and she resumed walking. Pale silver marks shone on her hands and forearms as if they had seen more than housework and menial chores. Perhaps they were battle scars or the signs of long hours of practice with bow and arrow. Ceilnysse was tall, slender and youthful, yet there was pain in the deep pools of her ageless eyes; a betrayal struck to the core of her being.

Long-lived and wise, elves were often thought to be without knowledge of grief or loss. It was widely thought that the elven way was to not dwell on death but to be above it, to cherish it, though it is commonplace in the world around them. Ceilnysse’s heart told a different story.

As she walked along the pathway, one of the elves inquired about her brood, which shot a pang of sorrowful joy through her. She smiled lightly and nodded.

Very well, she said. They are fine and strong.

The kindly elf nodded as he continued down the line of homes. Ceilnysse walked to the end of the lane. Her family home was similar to all others in the community, but it was set back a bit, away from the road. Her uncle had urged her to do so in order to keep out of direct sight from the road. She could hear her father’s voice chiding her.

"You should not listen to your uncle, he said. He is an old fool. There is no need to worry."

She sighed and then thought of her uncle’s face, his blue eyes glinting as he smiled.

"I will handle your father, he whispered as he embraced the then-pregnant Ceilnysse. His senses are not so keen. You and I both know that it is better to keep you safe."

Her father humphed and stormed away from the newly finished home, built for her and her unborn progeny.

"You can have her go and live with your precious young friend in Eldyrmar, that so called eldyri king, if you are so concerned," her father shouted, causing her to flinch.

"I do not wish to go to Eldyrmar, Ceilnysse said, not after what happened to Maithylwen in the war. Erraumo still cherishes her and I cannot bring him that pain. We fought together and it would be too much of a reminder for him."Her uncle nodded.

"His heart is healing slowly, but he has his children to look after. Her uncle smiled, rubbing her belly. As do you."

"Not long now until you will be able to meet them." She smiled and then sadness crossed her face.

Her uncle grasped her gently and held her close.

"We are not far from here, should you need us, he said. Eldyrmar is only a day from here."

"I tell you she is safer with us," Ceilnysse’s father called from the lane.

"Cease your prattling! her uncle said. We will discuss this later."

The two separated and Ceilnysse watched her uncle and father depart with the nomadic clan.

Ceilnysse snapped back to reality as she caught herself staring down the lane where long ago the scene had taken place. She shook the memory from her mind and turned to hurry through the doorway, responding to the small wailing cries of her children. As she entered, her heart leaped with maternal happiness at the sound but then fell hard as a cold reality threatened to freeze it there. No father would come from the bedroom to aid her; no kind face would sit across from the table and send electric stares of longing and love in her direction. She would care for her children on her own with pride. They would never know the true nature of their conception; it was not their burden to bear. She clenched her teeth as hot anger ignited within her like a fire that had been stoked. A second cry came louder and froze the flames of anger, bringing her back to the matter at hand.

She set down the basket of food and moved through a divider into her small room. There beside her bed, in their cradle, lay two small boys crying uneasily. Closing her eyes, she began to hum softly. Her feet drew her to the bed and caused her to sit upon it as if in a trance. Slowly she lay down beside the cradle and sang to her sons. The sweet melody flowed lightly past her lips and danced through the air to the ears of the restless children. The notes skipped like embers of fire, dancing in the breeze and then glided like gentle snowflakes down to earth, cool and soft. The two hushed; their harsh, tearful wails became cooing lulls of content. Ceilnysse touched their heads gently, stroking their wisps of hair and leaning over to kiss them. Her lips pressed gently against their tender skin and she breathed in the sweet scent of new life that radiated from them. She closed her eyes in painful euphoria and whispered, Sleep, my little ones.

The children drifted into sleep. Ceilnysse rose from her bed and set to her work, still humming. With the song came a peaceful run-of-the-mill clatter of dishes and cutlery and the soft shuffle of feet on the stone floor, but the calm did not last. Ceilnysse’s song halted at cries in the distance, shouts and panic as thunder streaked the sky and the markings on her home began to glow with golden light. The shouts of elves and the gruff sounds of human war cries and laughter cut the calm like a blade on stone. They were being attacked. She dropped her food and ran outside to look down the lane, peering around the corner of her neighbor’s house.

The spells will protect us, she whispered to herself, watching silhouettes of torch-carrying humans attempt to gain entry to the community. Several were incinerated by a golden light as they attempted to cross the barrier, and Ceilnysse sighed. Then an echoing female voice spoke in the dark tongue, muttering a spell thrice. She heard a laugh on the worsening wind, and a chill ran down her spine like a shot, as a wave of purple energy rolled down the lane toward her. The ground shook and the golden emblems of protection began to shatter and burn. The people of Indissyr were now without protection. Hyumaens entered the territory, moving cautiously at first and then more quickly as they realized they were free to do as they would. Ceilnysse ran back into her home. She began packing her things into a satchel for the journey to her family for protection or perhaps to Eldyrmar for safety. As the voices grew nearer and flames belched into the sky beyond, she paused for a moment and listened; her long elegant ears perked a bit as she hummed quietly to her children. She bundled them into a lined leather carrier and looked around for weapons to defend herself. Then her ears caught a familiar tone. One of the voices struck horror and anger deep within her. The harsh, roaring rage came closer. There was no time to escape. Were she to be seen, there would be no end to the hunt; none of them would be safe. She would have to stand her ground and escape afterward. Quickly she hid the children beneath a loose skin in the corner. She grabbed a cutting knife and stood firm as a large, burly man burst through the doorway and stared her down.

Marrocius, she said darkly, as she moved away from the children to draw off his gaze.

Marrocius smelled of alcohol and blood. His breath came out harshly, like that of an enraged beast, and his eyes glowed red with hatred. Black and white ashes striped his skin, giving him the appearance of a tortured ghost. His armor was made of thick, well-worn leather, and a large sword hung at his side. His hands flexed out toward her, the knuckles making a cracking sound as the thick tendons settled into place.

Where are they, you wench beast? Marrocius demanded.

You troll fodder! I should split you open and leave you to rot! Ceilnysse lunged at Marrocius.

Her speed caught him off-guard for only a second and she cut his cheek as he moved to the side. Adrenaline sobered him up enough to catch her on the second swing and spin her into him, his hand trapping her arm. He brought the knife to her neck and leaned in, his breath filling her nostrils as she struggled against his weight.

I have come for the demons you tricked me into creating, Marrocius said, slowly tracing a line down Ceilnysse’s neck.

Flames billowed outside as the neighboring house caught fire. She took a breath and thrust her head back into his nose, breaking it, causing him to release his grasp. As Marrocius stumbled, Ceilnysse lunged forward, plunging the knife into his forearm. He howled and backhanded her into the wall. There was a metallic clink as the knife blade snapped, Ceilnysse still grasping the handle. Blood welled up around the knife blade protruding from Marrocius’s arm. Ceilnysse looked out the window at the destruction and then threw down the handle of the knife. Large balls of flame belched from the windows and doorway of the home next door, casting an orange glow on the two figures in Ceilnysse’s home. Her eyes narrowed and she advanced on Marrocius.

It was you who courted me, she said.

Marrocius covered his ears with his fists, trying to block out her words. He wobbled slightly. Ceilnysse reached over and grasped a heavy cooking skillet and advanced. Marrocius began digging the knife blade from his arm.

You thought me fair when you had uses for me, told me of your love for me, she said. Now all that is gone when you realize that your lies created my sons.

You tricked me into loving you with your elven witch spells, Marrocius retorted, kicking Ceilnysse and sweeping her to the floor.

Marrocius leaped at her, leading with his forearm still bearing the knife blade. Ceilnysse pounded the blade with the pan, shoving it through his forearm as he cried out again. Her keen ears could hear the frightened cries of her children, but Marrocius did not notice.

All of you elves are evil creatures. We are no longer the pets of eldyri, Marrocius said, kicking Ceilnysse in the stomach and sending her against the wall.

This is the first raid. Your kin will fall next and then that wretched Eldyrmar.

Ceilnysse clawed up the wall to get to her feet, took a gasping breath and swung at Marrocius, who caught her arm.

I came for your ogre dung children myself, Marrocius said, as he brought his arm into her elbow and then sharply backhanded her.

The sudden sharp pain in her arm coupled with the vicious bite of Marrocius’s knuckles as they chewed into Ceilnysse’s cheek and sent her into the air. Time seemed to slow, her cheek erupting in fiery pain. She tried to hold back her cry, but it screeched out before she could bring it back. Time resumed its pace as she hit the floor with a hard thud. The screech was followed by an explosion that rocked her home. The children screamed. Marrocius turned toward the cries, pausing only a moment before rushing to the skins. Like a child unwrapping gifts, he ripped back the skins to reveal the small babes and murmured in momentary glee. His victory was at hand.

Ceilnysse writhed on the floor, her head throbbing with every beat of her heart, pain shooting through her broken arm. Marrocius’s face changed from glee to disgust as he gazed down at his sons; their cries rang in his ears, echoing deep into the hatred in his heart. Ceilnysse watched Marrocius kneel.

Flames filled her veins; fiery hatred and rage like she had never known dulled all sense of pain. The world began to glow red around her and she gritted her teeth as she sat up. The world seemed hollow. Marrocius pulled out a piece of parchment and muttered something written upon it. When Marrocius removed his sword from its scabbard, Ceilnysse lunged at him, meaning to tear him apart with her bare hands. Time slowed and she watched him turn and heard the rip of fabric and flesh as his blade pierced her through. She gasped and her eyes widened as her heartbeat continued to thump within her head. Marrocius stood up, smirking; he pulled her to her feet with the sword firmly embedded in her middle. Smoke filled his nose with every breath. Smoke also choked Ceilnysse as she tried to breathe the hot, thick, burning air.

That is one part done, Marrocius said, kissing her heavily on the lips.

Ceilnysse reached up toward his face, formed her right hand into a claw and began to dig her nails into his thick cheek. Marrocius pulled away and spat Ceilnysse’s blood back into her face as he tilted his sword downward.

She began to slide off the sword slowly toward the floor, her fingers curled with the pain, raking his face. Marrocius watched his work with pride mixed with disgust; the blade left her open and bleeding. As she slid to her knees, she left claw marks on his face, which he dabbed lightly with his fingertips. The world receded from Ceilnysse. She could feel her life force leaving her, her heart racing to stop the march of death. Marrocius tasted the crimson on his fingertips and kicked her with all his might. Air and blood spewed out of her mouth as Marrocius looked at the blood from the deep gashes on his face and spat on Ceilnysse.

Once again, Marrocius turned his eyes to the two children. They continued to cry and scream, lying perpendicular to one another from their struggle to get free.

Curse you both from the hot of my blood, Marrocius said, as he made to take the heads of the children. Hell is the place you should rest.

He raised his blade for the killing blow, but just then a pair of elven arrows lodged in his sword arm and shoulder. Marrocius let out a yowl of pain, his strike falling in an arc across the children’s faces instead of on their necks, cutting one boy across his right eye and the second his left. The children shrieked in pain. Marrocius’s sword clattered to the ground, as he rounded and was struck again in the chest with an arrow. His left arm dripped blood onto the children and a female laugh carried on the wind. Marrocius heard a voice within his head.

They will be cursed by your blood, the voice said. Your rage and hatred of them will fuel their inner darkness.

Marrocius, stumbling, broke the shaft of the arrow from his chest and retrieved his sword. Flames began to devour the walls, reaching for Marrocius. He ran full bore to the opposite end of the house as the elven archer recoiled from the burning doorway. Marrocius leaped through the window as the relentless flames pursued him like a demonic claw, attempting to grapple him and force him to share the fate of his prey. Landing hard, he wavered to his feet and ran into the forest, telling himself that his goal had been achieved and the flames would wipe away any record of his misdeeds. The elven archer pursued Marrocius, pausing momentarily to glance at the home engulfed in flame, turned, nocked another arrow and let out a roar as he fired it into the woods. Inside, Ceilnysse crawled over to her children. Deep vengeful red stained the floor and her pale green dress as she moved. Pain and ragged air filled her lungs. Her heart beat hollowly in her ears. She reached the makeshift carrier and weakly began to hum. Tears streaming from her eyes as she sang mingled with the blood on their faces from the cut made by Marrocius, as well as his own blood. Ceilnysse’s delicate hands shakily traced their wounds, her blood surrounding the damaged gentle skin. Her children were marred and broken as her body and heart had been. Marrocius had succeeded in that.

Flames crawled along the ceiling, creating a golden flickering glow. The world was nothing but a dull roar and an echoing song in the bright light of the fire. Ceilnysse sang her lullaby to the wounded infants, her words casting a spell of peace and sanctity within the chaos. Their shrieks of anger stopped and the soft light in her face helped them shake the dread. The ceiling began to falter and collapse behind their mother; the boys watched the golden-red flames dance along the roof. Falling cinders like fireflies floated to the ground around them as Ceilnysse’s eyes glimmered with tears, like candle flames reflected in clouded pools. The children’s faces were black and gray from the ashes that fell and tried to drink the blood and tears from their wounded skin. The walls and supports groaned under stress and heat, adding to the roar that echoed behind the song. Ceilnysse’s ears rang with the slowing sound of her struggling heart, a tolling bell foretelling the end. But her children’s hearts beat strong and sturdy in the raging storm of flame and death around them.

Ceilnysse sang until she had no breath left. Her heart beat once more before her delicate hands went limp, forever held in the position of soothing protection. The charm had worked. The children, though badly wounded, slept soundly as the beams cracked and the roof collapsed. The flames soared to the heavens in rage and anger, belching to smite the stars and tear the veil of night. Indissyr burned, straggling cries silenced as the flames ravaged the homes and scarred the forest. By the time the moon met the horizon, the flames had become embers. The community glowed like a ghostly fire pit, with ash and coals taking the place of woods and homes. Specters of smoke traveled the lanes where elves once walked. The ground was littered with the scorched remains of eldyri and the occasional hyumaen. Peace had come again to Indissyr.

A gray light broke upon the lands. No birds sang; there was only a cold, chilling wind that smelled of rain. It rushed along the ground, blowing ash and dust into the air. The houses and trees looked as black as shadows, the village haunting yet serene in its ruin. It was as though a great pair of black claws had raked the land.

A nomadic clan of elves, dressed in leathers and furs, their skin colored to match the trees and brush, stole into the ruins. They bore their weapons at the ready. Two chieftains silently directed the clan to fan out and search the village. In the near-deafening hush of the surrounding woods came the distant cry of terror from two small voices.

The head chieftain rushed over to the ruins of Ceilnysse’s house and began sifting through the rubble. He turned and desperately signaled to his clans folk to help him as he listened for the source of the sound. As they pulled larger pieces of rubble from the toppled structure, a white cloud of ash enveloped the search party, contrasting with the scorched black stones. The rest of the clan joined the chief as he pulled away more debris. It was there, sheltered from doom by ruined beams, supports and their mother’s body, that they found the small bundle holding the crying children. The elf boys were still bloody and dirty, but alive and very hungry. One of the nomadic chieftains crawled into the rubble and laboriously tried to pull the children from the delicate hands that still grasped their bed. The hands would not relent—as if the spirit of the mother still guarded her baern—until the chieftain gave a cry swearing to protect the children. Then Ceilnysse’s arms relaxed and the chieftain stumbled backward with the boys, landing in a pile of ash that sent a puff of gray into the air. Several of the clan helped the chieftain up as two of the clan’s elfmaids moved toward him. He shied away from them at first, still staring at the body of Ceilnysse beneath the rubble. At last he relented and released the screaming children into the care of the elfmaids.

As the elfmaids took the children away, the chieftain was overcome with sorrow. He fell to his knees as his brother came to his side. The two began to wail, overcome with the destruction and death that surrounded them. At first the clan members wept, but their sorrow hardened into curses. They swore to avenge the slaughter.

The chieftains ordered the burial of all elves with full honors and rights therein to pass into the afterworld. According to nomadic custom, the bodies were interred in mounds marked with symbols to indicate the honored dead. The human bodies, however, were collected for a vicious act. The nomads took angry glee in gleaning flesh, skin and clothing from the bones of the humans and mixing those bits with manure. Their bones were collected; the nomads would spend the next year scattering human bones across the lands as they traveled.

The children had been taken under the nomad’s protection and learned their ways. They were hailed as wondrous survivors, having been born out of the fire, rising from the ashes of tragedy, despair, betrayal and murder. When the brothers were toddlers, they were taken to the chieftains. The two had different ideas on how to raise them. The head chieftain believed that they should be taught all their history, both good and ill; they would come to understand the diplomacy, war strategy and knowledge of the eldyri. His brother, however, believed that diplomacy and peace had failed often in times past, not the least of which was Indissyr. He ordered that the children should learn the darker ways, the ways of the sha’edyri, who gave no quarter to most humans or their foes. The head chieftain sighed heavily and looked at his brother.

The sha’edyri are corrupted by their selfishness, the chief said. "The children must be taught of them, but not to be them."

Sha’edyri are the ideal of what we should become, having reached their potential in power and skills, his brother countered. These children will be unstoppable should they take that path.

They are still half human, the chief said. The darkness would overwhelm and consume them. They would be prisoners in their own bodies.

Then teach them the ways of the eldyri to counter the darkness, if you will. His brother sighed. I will hone their skills and prowess in the ways I see fit.

With his need for peace and justice weighing heavily upon him, the head chieftain issued a proclamation. One boy would be raised in his household, and the other would go to his brother. So it was that the journey of the children began.

Chapter 2

"Nomads are made to wander; they do not make roots in the ground like a tree, nor do they put up walls to keep themselves in. They are like the lands; they are as all beings should be . . . free. The sun will rise at a nomad’s toes and set upon his heels and his direction goes as the wind will blow and take him where he feels."

—Tiohybbet, Chief of Thorynwylde Clan

Tiohybbet was an older elf with silvery white hair. There were ongoing rumors that Tiohybbet and his brother, Nyrabion, were of the council of eldyri and wyzaerds that had met with Phaethia, the Child Queen, ages ago. This rumor gained credence when the two brothers left Eldyrmar before the Sha’esyl B’azgyurian Crusade. They took several people of Eldyrmar who felt that the walls of a city were too confining. They believed that an elf must be free to explore, branch out, learn and grow with the world and that this could not be achieved by remaining within walls. Though the brothers presented a united front in the leadership of the clan, there was much amiss between them. Most disconcerting to Tiohybbet was his brother’s near-obsession with sha’edyri. This was a fact he considered very seriously when it came time to decide what must be done with their newest members of the clan.

Thorynwylde clan has never followed the pathways of B’azgyurian, Tiohybbet said to Nyrabion. We fought against him and his agents, we aided in their downfall, and we will not begin to follow their teachings so long as I am chief. You have been allowed to raise one of the children.

One is my charge, but they should be able to learn as brothers. You still hold to the eldyri way of peace and tranquility, Nyrabion retorted.. Your tomes and volumes should have taught you that the best way to defeat your enemy is to know them fully. That cannot be accomplished when one side is not fighting with the same weapons as the other.

The younger of the two, Nyrabion was always prone to irrationality. His long salt-and-pepper hair and his deep brown eyes gave him a fierce look. His face was a little more rounded than those of most elves, and he chose to grow a thin beard that framed his face and mouth. The open vest he wore showed a bare chest that bore many scars. Leather bracers with fur accents covered his forearms, and his patchwork leather and fur breeches were black and gray. His boots were thick and black, with ornaments upon them from bones to fur.

You may be correct, Tiohybbet said with a sigh. "which is why I will allow you to train the children and the clan in some of the ways of the sha’edyri. You will not, however, give them the twisted dogma that B’azgyurian poisoned so many with. That is a direct command by your chief." Nyrabion turned and moved close to Tiohybbet.

"You dare to order me? Nyrabion asked. I went with you to begin this clan. It was my efforts that allowed us to infiltrate B’azgyurian’s forces and pose as sha’edyri."

Tiohybbet stood nose to nose with Nyrabion. In contrast to his brother, Tiohybbet still wore the traditional eldyri over-robe of browns and reds and beneath it a red leather vest with amber fur accents over a gray shirt. Leather patches accented his loose fabric breeches. His face was thin, and he wore a headband of leather with runes and symbols upon it. As unthreatening as he appeared, he still commanded great respect within the Thorynwylde clan.

All of which were appreciated and awarded in kind, Tiohybbet said. Should you wish to challenge me for chief, then do so. Otherwise, my word stands.

Nyrabion stared into Tiohybbet’s eyes for a moment as Tiohybbet smiled.

Relax, brother, he said. "You will be able to teach