Torches in the Valley

By Steven Gregor

The many kingdoms and peoples of Atyuri have enjoyed centuries of relative peace thanks to the Treaty of Vhelv signed by the surviving rulers in the wake of the Great Orug Invasion. For some, however, the price of peace has been high. The dwarves of Clan Irnug have led simple lives in the foothills of the Black Mountains for generations, always meeting their quotas and giving the humans that resettled their ancestors at spearpoint far from their ancient home little reason to bother them. Together with the Legionnaires sent to drag them to one of the great cities to work as virtual slaves, they will bear witness to a dark secret that will turn them into fugitives. Meanwhile, a Warden, one of the elite elven warriors charged with the silent and efficient removal of threats to the stability of the realms will find that some lies are simply too large to hide.

Torches in the Valley is the first volume in the Saga of the Sundered Halls and is Steven Gregor's debut novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Gregor
• Release date: May 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005931964

Steven Gregor

Steven Gregor is a lifelong fantasy and science fiction fan who began writing books as a way to handle stress while deployed to Afghanistan. If he’s not working, he enjoys woodworking, playing musical instruments, tabletop games, and going on adventures with his family. Originally from the Midwest, he currently lives in the Deep South with his wife, two daughters, and dogs.

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Torches in the Valley

Steven Gregor

Copyright © 2021 Steven Gregor

All rights reserved.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Author’s Note

About the Author

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank my wife for her constant support over the course of the last two years. She was the one who convinced me to write this book after I described the basic outline on a long drive back from visiting family in Illinois. While I did my best to do most of the work early in the morning or late at night, there were times when writing and editing did intrude on what limited time we have to spend with one another, but she was always a good sport and cheered me on regardless. Furthermore, she was a great sounding board for ideas thanks to her deep love of the fantasy genre and her near-superhuman reading speed. I’d also like to thank my grandfather and uncle for decades of advice and inspiration. While they are no longer with us, it was my grandfather, a farmer and high school science teacher, who bought me my first copy of The Hobbit and it was my uncle who would talk aloud about his favorite parts of Tolkien's seminal books while replacing a fan belt on a combine or rebuilding the engine of an old Model T and encouraged me to find something I loved doing and then do it well. I will always wish that I could have written this book earlier and faster so that I could have shared it with them. Lastly, I’d like to thank the brilliant programmers behind the Wonderdraft mapmaking program, and all of the beta readers who helped make this story better.

Chapter 1

Kivni blinked tears from her eyes as she held her daughter at arm’s length, making sure that the intricate braids framed her young face. She looked like a doll, flawless and perfect. In a few short years, all of the young men at the Academy would doubtless find her irresistible. She brought her own work-worn fingers to her face, trying to remember how her skin had felt before nearly two decades of wind, rain, and long days working the fields had carved cracks and lines into her once-smooth features.

Her daughter would never have to know the pangs of hunger that came after a long winter or feel the ache in her back after a day spent threshing wheat under the hot Telnovaran sun. She would not waste her life toiling in obscurity on a farm in the middle of the southern steppes fearing the scattered bands of horsemen that still rode out of the Badlands looking for captives and plunder. Instead, she would learn to read. She would wear the finest clothes and want for nothing as elves and learned mages taught her how to use her powers to help all of Atyuri.

She was crouching in the patch of sun that stabbed like a spear through the high-set windows in their stout wood and brick farmhouse, itself the product of many years of labor. She reached out to retie one of the braids that was slightly askew. Kenna tried to twist away, tired of standing still for so long and slightly put off by the change in the morning’s routine.

Hold still, Kivni said gently as she finished untying the braid.

Kenna looked up at her, her formerly brown eyes glowing faintly with an unnatural green hue, a reminder of her daughter’s latent magical potential. It had only been a few short weeks since her eyes first changed, but word of her daughter’s magical potential had traveled fast. Though they themselves were not gifted, magic ran in both Kivni’s and her husband’s blood, which was the reason that they had been gifted a plot of land in the newly-resettled part of Telnovar on the condition that she and Curnan improved said land and produced children.

The offer had seemed like a good deal at the time, though it was now much harder to say. As a poor woman with no family or prospects in the crowded port city of Anjur, the only thing of worth in her possession had been the small piece of paper verifying that she was the descendant of a mage of considerable power who had lived more than a century ago. While attempts at forgery were common, the monks who issued and collected the papers could always tell if the potential for spellworking lay within the holder. When she had arrived at the temple with nothing more than the clothes on her back and the paper in her hand, the monks had given her a room and three hot meals a day while they conferred with other monasteries in search a match that had the greatest chance of producing offspring possessed of the ability to learn the sacred arts of healing, cloudcrafting, or any one of a dozen other important skills that the rulers of Atyuri used to improve the lives of the common folk.

She took her time as she retied the braid in her daughter’s dark brown hair. Old memories came unbidden to her, much as they had for nearly half a month. She remembered how nervous she had been when the monks first introduced her to Curnan. He was from one of the western coastal cities of Lornaryan with brown hair, round eyes, and a close-cropped beard that made him look very different from the men of Anjur. Though she herself had some Marchlanner blood like most of the residents of the ancient trading city, she still had the jet black hair and oval eyes that set the Einjaskaar apart from the rest of the peoples of Atyuri.

Though they could understand one another when they spoke Trade, she still had to ask him to repeat himself time after time during the first week of their supervised meetings. Despite his strange appearance and customs, Curnan was a good man and it was not long before Kivni consented to a union. The monks had been pleased and assisted them in preparing them for the journey east to Telnovar to build their new lives.

The first years had been difficult. Though Curnan was a skilled carpenter, their first and third crops had failed and only the assistance of more fortunate neighbors had seen them through the leanest times. Children came quickly, with four surviving infancy. Every couple of harvests, monks from the abbey located at the bend of the Vostya River would visit their farm and the children, asking questions and performing tests. They never told Kivni or Curnan whether they found the results of the tests promising.

It had been almost a year since the last visit when Kenna woke one morning with the glowing green eyes. Leaves and vines sprouted through the floorboards beneath her bed. Her brothers and sister had fled at first but soon returned to marvel at the flowers sprouting from the floor of their bedroom. Kenna seemed to have little idea of how she was controlling the very powers of creation, but laughed and clapped her hands with delight as flowers and vines continued to bloom and curl around her.

Kivni stayed with the girl while Curnan went into town to alert the magistrate. Now, less than half a month later, they were coming for her daughter. Her other children still did not seem to fully grasp what all of the activity meant. They were still too young to understand that they might never see their sister again.

Curnan opened the front door of their cottage. They’re coming, he said. While his voice was calm, his eyes told a different story. Kivni looked over his shoulder to the dirt road that ran past their farm and could see the plume of dust that marked the approach of a group of riders. They would be here soon. She fixed one last wayward strand of Kenna’s hair, taking in every detail of her daughter’s face as she did so.

Together, the family walked into the small open patch of dirt between the cottage, barn, and granaries and waited as the wagon and its escorts drew closer, ripening grain swaying around them as the party traveled up the road. Her youngest son, Hewan, shifted from foot to foot, unaccustomed as he was to the freshly shined leather shoes that he wore. Kivni feared that he would take Kenna’s departure the worst; he followed his older sister everywhere. The two older children would be alright after a few months. If anything, they were probably jealous of their younger sister. She would go on the grand adventure that their young hearts yearned for while they lived out their uneventful lives on the farm.

Two armored riders entered the courtyard first, the imposing bulk of their mounts casting long shadows. Another six soon joined them. Even though Kivni knew that the legionnaires and their fearsome mounts were there to help protect farmers from Telnovar raiders, she still felt an involuntary chill run up her spine as they approached. The soldiers of the Atyurian Legion could not hope to catch the small, agile mounts of the Telnovari so they instead relied on strong horses and heavy armor coupled with heavy crossbows and lances to outlast their foes in combat. Of course, Kivni thought, the soldiers couldn’t kill what they couldn’t catch. She knew of half-a-dozen families that had been killed or carried off in the night by the savages that had once ruled these plains. Still, it seemed a little excessive for the coach to have such a large escort to simply ferry a young girl into town, even if she was Gifted.

One of the armored riders dismounted with surprising ease and opened the ornately-carved door of the coach for its occupants, his burnished breastplate and flowing read cape looked resplendent as he stood at attention waiting for the passengers to emerge. The first man to exit was someone she knew well, at least in passing. The plump county magistrate gingerly lowered himself down the steep steps. Like Kivni, most of his ancestors were Einjaskaarvi, though he kept his beard short in the Marchlan style as they were very numerous in the lands under his care. His features were soft and well-rounded; it had been some time since he had worked a field himself, but Magistrate Olo was still well-liked and trusted by the farmers and townspeople he presided over. He gave Kivni and her husband reassuring nods before the coach’s second occupant emerged and Kivni suddenly understood the need for the escort.

The other man, if it was even fair to call him such, wore the robes of a monk of the Faith of the Free and exited the vehicle with much more grace than Olo had, barely even bothering to use the handle to brace himself as he gracefully leapt to the ground. Upon closer inspection, the robes had beautiful, subtle patterns that swirled as he moved and looked almost pristine enough to have been sitting inside a shop, while a large hood obscured his face. Even before the stranger removed the hood, Kivni knew that she was in the presence someone more than human. Maybe it was the deference with which the other men in the procession treated the stranger, or maybe it was simply the grace with which he moved, but Kivni was already dropping to her knees by the time the man removed the hood to reveal the refined features and pointed ears that set him apart as one of the Elves of Eventyll.

Her mind reeled. She had not seen an elf since she had left Anjur. Few in Telnovar had, for elves generally remained in cities, forts, and other centers of power, helping the men who ruled preside over matters of state and other business essential to a unified Atyuri. Never before had she been so close to one of the saintly beings who had helped drive the orugs back into the northern deserts and forged the peace that had lasted for nearly ten generations. She had seen an elf once or twice from a great distance when she still lived in Anjur, but to be so close was something different entirely. He bore passing resemblance to a Marchlan man, though his face was clean-shaven and perfectly proportioned. He had the blue-gray eyes of a dwarf, though she would never be so tactless as to mention the passing similarity the elf shared with those loathsome, squat creatures.

Even beneath the billowing cloak, Kivni could see that the elf possessed a strong, lean body, and he moved toward her with a catlike grace that reminded Kivni the dancers and acrobats that had performed in village square during holidays.

His light eyes bore into her own, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. Even from across the courtyard, the eyes radiated kindness, compassion, and understanding. While she loved Curnan, Kivni could not help but feel drawn to those eyes. She could see why so many of the human women of Anjur had competed to catch the eye of even minor elven functionaries.

Please rise, the elf said in a kind, resonant voice as he approached Kivni and her family.

Reluctantly, she, Curnan, and the children returned to their feet.

My lord, please allow me to welcome you to the MarKlese homestead. Olo said as he motioned to the various outbuildings. As you can see, the family has done quite well out here on the edge of civilization. My people check on the health of the children regularly and I can-

The elf raised a hand in an almost careless manner. Yes, yes magistrate. I can see that they are well provided for. Families with the Gift in their blood deserve the best. The sacrifices they make for the good of Atyuri are great. His eyes paused briefly on each family member until they fell on Kenna. His pupils contracted until they were almost the size of needlepoints as he inhaled sharply. For the briefest of moments, he reminded Kivni of a bird of prey focusing on a distant field mouse. Her unease passed almost as soon as it came and the elf’s expression softened once again.

I sense a great deal of potential within this young one, he said to no one in particular, slowly approaching Kenna. The girl whimpered and ran to Kivni, grabbing her long dress and seeking to interpose her mother between herself and the tall stranger.

Forgive me for frightening your daughter, he said to Kivni. My people are not born with the Gift as many of yours are. Instead, we must learn our magic through decades of careful study. My particular area of expertise is in detecting the presence of magical talent in others, and I can assure you that the scope of her talent is quite expansive. My name is Tronendir, and I was sent by the conclave at Ritva to meet your daughter and I can say with confidence that the accounts of her power were not exaggerated. With proper training, she will improve the lives of many people. May I? he asked, gesturing at the still-hiding Kenna.

It took Kivni a moment to realize that he was asking for her permission to speak with her daughter and another moment before she had recovered her composure enough to meekly nod her consent.

The elf, in all of his finery, knelt in the dusty barnyard so that his eyes were level with Kenna’s. Don’t be afraid, little one, he said, hands spread wide.

Kenna peeked out from behind Kivni and stared at the stranger with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. Why are your ears so long? Did someone mean pull on them? she asked with childlike innocence. Kivni put her hand to her mouth while Curnan began to sputter a hasty apology.

Instead of looking offended, however, the elf let out a melodious chuckle. No, no, girl. Nothing like that. He rummaged briefly within his traveling cloak before pulling out an expensive piece of hard candy. Kivni would sometimes purchase far inferior versions in the market for the children. Kenna’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the sweet and the elf used his free hand to gesture at one of his elongated ears. These ears of mine do come in handy sometimes. I can always hear the little children when they tell each other who makes the best candy in town, which saves me a considerable amount of time. He offered it to Kenna, who snatched it greedily from his long fingers.

You are too kind sir, Curnan said roughly.

The elf made the same dismissive gesture that he had directed at the magistrate. Think nothing of it, Master MarKlese. At the end of the day, we both want your daughter to be happy and live up to her full potential. It would seem that I have accomplished the former, at least temporarily, and the staff at the Arcane Academy will do their utmost to accomplish the latter. He returned to his feet and looked down at Kenna, the skin around his eyes wrinkling with amusement as she continued to slurp enthusiastically on the candy. She does not know it yet, but her powers will touch the lives of thousands once she learns to control them.

His face grew dark for a moment. In the wrong hands, however… he let the rest go unsaid. There were enough stories of entire villages swallowed by the earth and other even more horrible things to make the hazards of untrained or unsupervised spellcrafters obvious to anyone.

He reached out his hand and let it rest gently on Kivni’s shoulder. She felt an involuntary shiver run up her spine as the built-up tension from the last several hours melted away. The coming months will be hard for you and young Kenna. It is not easy to forfeit a child, even if it is for her own safety and the good of the nation. We know that what we ask of you is not an easy thing. The needs of Atyuria may well prevent her from ever returning to Telnovar. He gestured to one of the legionnaires, who disappeared inside the coach for a few brief moments before reemerging with a large chest under one of his arms. While I know that nothing will truly replace your daughter, I would like to personally present you with this token of our appreciation, he said as he undid the latch on the top of the chest.

Kivni heard Curnan gasp beside her. The chest was filled nearly to the brim with gold and silver. It was more than they and all their neighbors could hope to earn from a dozen harvests. Kivni’s mind reeled as she considered what the money meant for her family. Most of your family, a small voice in the back of her head reminded her. The elf glanced briefly at the sun. I am afraid that we cannot linger long, he said, voice heavy with regret. If you have not yet said your goodbyes, I urge you to do so now.

It was all happening so fast. Kivni held Kenna tightly in her arms while the little girl squirmed at the sudden display of affection. Curnan knelt beside them and Kivni reluctantly loosened her grip enough to allow her husband to gently cup Kenna’s face and murmur a few words of encouragement to her. While his face remained calm, Kivni could see that his eyes were moist with tears. The children hugged Kenna one by one. Next time they saw her, she would be a woman grown and changed to the point where blood would no longer be enough to bind them and, one some level, they all knew that to be true. Then, just like that, it was time.

Kenna, Kivni said, trying to keep her voice steady. I want you to go with the nice man and do what he says like we talked about, alright?

Kenna looked at the elf, most if not all of her earlier apprehension gone. Will you come with me, momma?

Kivni couldn’t bring herself to answer. Just promise to do what the he says, she repeated. You are going to go live in a beautiful castle. Like a princess. No more waking up early to gather eggs for little Kenna.

The girl’s face brightened and she wrinkled her button nose. I don’t like the chickens, she said with conviction that would have been humorous in any other circumstance. They’re mean and icky.

Kivni tried to laugh, but it turned into a sob in her throat. Curnan took Kenna by the hand. It’s time to go, he said, trying to keep his voice gruff. Promise daddy you’ll be a good girl.

I’m going to be a princess and live in a castle, Kenna replied. Princesses are always good.

Would you care to join me, your majesty? The Elf lord said with mock seriousness, offering his hand to the young girl. The sight was so incongruous that Kivni had to remind herself that she was not dreaming.

Kenna cocked her head slightly to the side, before giving what she must have thought looked like an imperious nod. Very well, she said in her best princess impersonation. The pair slowly walked away and one of the soldiers lifted her into the coach.

Kivni held onto Curnan and wept as the procession clattered out of the modest barnyard, the chest of gold and silver forgotten at her feet.

Chapter 2

Clofer wrinkled his nose in disgust. He knew from long experience that he would soon grow accustomed to the smell, but that first whiff always hit him hard. Most in the city thought that the dwarves themselves were the cause of the odor, but Clofer suspected the real culprit was the fact that most of Delvin’s sewers emptied into the river nearby.

He hoped that this would be his last visit. He had traveled all the way from the Badlands, leaving the arid plateaus and bright sun of the lands beyond the Black and Red Mountains for the chilly and windswept southwestern shore of Atyuri.

As he approached the Dwarven Quarter’s entrance, the buildings grew steadily more dilapidated. Suspicious-looking men eyed him from alleyways while impoverished shopkeepers eyed those suspicious-looking men despite their shared clan colors. The women either avoided meeting his gaze or gave him lascivious smiles as he passed; there was no middle ground. It wouldn’t do to make a scene here and if he even so much as looked interested, there was a chance that they would pursue him for half a block or more, lewd invitations gradually turning into screeching epithets.

With his drab clan colors and hunched posture, Clofer drew relatively little attention. Like the city dwellers around him, he did not wear the traditional checkered cloak that denoted his cover identity’s clan, but instead wore a red and yellow sash over sturdy, factory-made working clothes. The intermixed red and gold told passersby that he was a member of the Jorba clan, who were very prevalent in this part of Lornaryan, while the crisscrossing pattern was of an obscure sept that few would recognize. Missions to Lornaryan had ended in blood and worse in the past when some yokel or low-ranking guardsman from the highlands turned out to hail from the village whose colors had been appropriated for the mission. The thought kept Clofer up at night even though he knew it was incredibly unlikely.

A child, eyes downcast in an effort to appear non-threatening, approached him from an oblique angle. Clofer almost rolled his eyes in irritation and waited for the grimy hand to surreptitiously reach into his pocket. As soon as it did, he snatched the kid’s wrist and spun him around. The child cried out in surprise and pain; Clofer had grabbed him a bit more roughly than he’d intended. Nerves probably.

Not tonight, boy. He hissed, shoving him roughly away. No one on the street so much as batted an eye. The boy couldn’t have been more than twelve and looked at him from beneath a mop of stringy hair with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Clofer looked up and down the street and dug into an inside pocket, retrieving a small brass coin common in the southern cities of the Lornaryan confederacy. He flicked the coin into a nearby alley with his thumb and made a jerking motion with his head.

The kid stared at him for a few moments before disappearing down the alley. Clofer shook his head and kept walking. He crossed the garbage-strewn area between the last of the human buildings as quickly as he possibly could. Humans occasionally had business in the dwarven quarter, but such business was rarely completely legal. Typically people looking for cheap, competent repairs, strong liquor made from tubers, or a reliable fence for stolen goods could find what they needed in a rough-and-tumble port city like Delvin, and one could generally count on the authorities to spend little time or effort policing minor black market transactions. Of course, given his business, Clofer knew he could expect no such leniency.

If he could succinctly sum up the differences between the city’s Dwarven Quarter and the slums that surrounded it on three sides it would be that the human buildings were old and poorly maintained, but looked to have once been perfectly respectable dwellings