Pilgrimage Of The Faerie

By Lewis G. Gazoul

Seething with vengeance cultivated over two thousand years of captivity, Lord Caelwas breaks from his Faerie-mandated prison and enslaves a sect of humanity and inflames them onto a course of destruction.

So begins Pilgrimage of the Faerie.

Through immense travail, the young but now burdened Baytel, Druid of the Citadel, only gradually becomes aware of this powerful evil now at loose. With word that his love Tira and her friend-in-battle Delphinade are imprisoned in darkness, Druid Baytel is torn between love and loyalty to the Citadel.

As cross-currents of missions verge on failure, suspicion undermines devotion, and conflicting loyalties emerge, Baytel's battle-tested Companions unite in response, realizing they must employ all their intelligence, courage, good humor, and loyalty to face forces they do not yet comprehend.

And as the land itself rumbles ominously.

What happened to the Tree Faeries?

And where is Baytel?

In Pilgrimage of the Faerie, Lewis G. Gazoul, author of Druids of the Faerie, creates a completely engaging world filled with emotions and understandings that ring strikingly true today. His engagingly distinctive characters embody both diverse and universal personalities in this novel of action and purpose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887933351

Book preview

Chapter 1

Cast heaved with all his weight on the winch lever until the grated rampart of the portcullis finally budged from its jammed position and lowered slowly to the stone floor. He sighed, relieved that the seldom-used main portcullis still worked, as the druids and others frequented the more concealed postern gate at the east side of the Citadel. So many things seemed to need repair at the Citadel; it had become a constant irritant to him, for as the Steward of the Citadel, the responsibilities of the repairs rested on Cast’s shoulders.

The Shôrgnome climbed the stairs to his quarters on the top level of the main portcullis tower, the same quarters used by his late uncle, the Shôrgnome Stilar, the previous Steward of the Citadel. Cast had not changed anything in the quarters from his uncle’s time, as the comfort and accouterments of the apartment seemed exactly right. He entered and was met by the illumination of the oil lamp that rested upon his worktable, offering a soft glow upon the papers he had ignored since the arrival of Druid Baytel.

He pulled down the lock lever and immediately the grinding clasps of internal locks of the gate clicked into place, and the fortress was once more secure. Yet with the sounds of the lock mechanism came uneasiness, as though he sensed there was a degree of finality to it.

Cast gazed out the window into the reflection of the afternoon sun upon the snow-covered landscape. There, he followed the lone horse tracks in the snow that meandered down the foothill until they disappeared at the edge of the dense timberline. The inclination to call Druid Baytel back to the fortress remained strong, but he fought the urge with trepidation. Cast believed that whatever drove Druid Baytel from the Citadel was something larger than his magical abilities could manage alone, and the anxiety invading Cast’s thoughts was oppressive.

Druid Baytel should summon his Companions back to the Citadel for help. It was obvious he was traveling toward something more disturbing than just a ruckus of vigilantes and marauders. The land rumbles, and he is gone within moments of the occurrence. Has it only been three days since his arrival from the previous long patrol? Something extraordinary was amiss in the One Land—something most unusual and terrible.

Druid Baytel’s recent arrival from that long patrol of the Southland and Fork Mountain Territory ended what was his first visit to his homeland since the war ended. Druid Baytel submitted his report, stating that no one had moved back into the Southland region. That the castle of Azkar Rol was still deserted, abandoned shortly after the end of the war, and the volcano attached to the castle, Fire Mountain, remained extinguished.

Then the oddity occurred two days after Baytel’s arrival at the Citadel. The sun was bright with a cloudless blue sky and Cast was with the druid in the courtyard, talking of the stores of the Citadel, when a peculiar darkness fell. They both looked toward the sun, and it seemed as if a shroud covered the Citadel, though no cloud was in the sky. The anomaly passed as quickly as it arrived, but an ominous sensation stayed with them both. Druid Baytel’s concern became immediate, and he ordered Cast to summon couriers and send them out to find Calidor and prepare his mount for departure.

Cast asked where he was headed, and Baytel answered, Far to the west, Cast, toward the Tree Faerie forest, for I fear our brethren of the trees may be in grave danger. Find Calidor, Cast. Tell him where I have gone, for I believe he feels the same disturbances, and I sense it denotes severity for all of humanity.

Cast had immediately dispatched a courier before Druid Baytel departed. He could only wonder at what the darkening of the Citadel meant and sensed something peculiar within the fortress since the anomalous veil fell. He could not place what it was but felt as if the shroud invisibly lingered, making the fortress even more shadowed, leaden.

Few visitors came to the Citadel as it was, not that there had been many before, from what he was told. News of the goblin attack during the Southland War, followed by the assault of Southland rebels with their designs of conquering the Citadel, kept many people away. Even after the attempted seizure of the fortress was quashed by Druid Baytel and his companions, people were hesitant to cross the wilds between the towns and the Citadel.

There had been a brisk, active stage near the beginning of his stewardship at the Citadel, and Cast recalled the revelry and camaraderie of Druid Baytel’s friends; the Companions was what they called themselves, and they patrolled and protected the frontier folk and travelers and kept the wilds free from marauders and villains. They held this mission in the highest esteem and were all true to the cause, living in the Citadel throughout their campaigns. Though the Companions had all dispersed two years ago, tiring of placid patrolling as the need for enforcing the peace waned, they went their separate ways. Cast held the hope that the Companions would return some day and make the Citadel their home.

Since the end of the Southland War, the trapvine plants growing around the fortress had matured to their deadly strangling state and had crept up the outer walls. Thus the Citadel was virtually unapproachable and quite uninviting; another reason people gave for not visiting. But Cast rejected this line of thought, for he knew that most avoided the fortress due to the magical presence of Druid Calidor and Druid Baytel. Because of these two remarkable beings, the Citadel had regained its reputation as housing mystical beings.

The astonishing escapades of the druids Calidor and Baytel that had circulated throughout the One Land were brought back to the Citadel and to his ear by his corps of Shôrgnome couriers. The rumors and stories ignited once more the mysteries of the druids’ magic, and such power instilled apprehension among the sects of humanity.

Cast recalled the time not so long ago when he was introduced to Druid Baytel. It was an odd sort of meeting, as the Citadel was being repaired after the war had ended with the death of Druid Baytel’s evil father and brother, King Vokat and Prince Ravek.

Magical things had happened to both Druid Baytel and Druid Calidor during the conflict, and for many months they enclosed themselves in the enchanted library of the ancients in secluded meditation and study. Once he asked Druid Calidor what they did in the library. Calidor’s answer still affected him with its significance.

We were given a gift from the Faerie and the One Land, which is now a part of us as much as your heart is to you. The learning of these incredible powers is essential to the perseverance of humanity. To instill the Faerie way among the sects is paramount. It is our obligation to fulfill this hope.

Druid Baytel was a young man then, private and though not reclusive, quite lonesome in a way. Yet he was friendly and appreciative, and Cast took a liking to him and felt Baytel did in return.

After the two druids had completed their seclusion and studies, both men seemed more at peace. Then they gathered their separate comrades together; Calidor with the Grey Riders and Baytel with his Companions, Adetin Gar, Telek, Kalti, and Dirk Ironwright, and commenced to sweep the land of vigilantes and marauders, vanquishing evil and assisting the needy. They came and went sporadically and always left Cast with assignments and messages to pass to one another.

As the months passed and word of Druid Baytel and Druid Calidor’s deeds were reported to him, he was astounded at the power they were wielding. It frightened him at first, but he squelched his fears with the aid of the study of his uncle’s private journals from his years of stewardship at the Citadel.

In those journals, Cast found wisdom from Stilar’s words. The entries showed Stilar’s respectful fear of the Faerie magic and druid power while he quested with Calidor and the Grey Riders, all of them from the powerful sect of legend, the Kings of the North. Stilar had learned through the passage of time an understanding of their power and its meaning to the One Land and sects of humanity.

Cast had realized the same in time and had recognized the magical powers to be noble and righteous. Henceforth, a bond formed between him and the druids. Consequently, pride in his duty as steward of the mystical castle settled upon his heart and rooted in his soul, just as it had for his uncle. Cast witnessed the truth in the magical beings he stewarded and gave himself to their cause.

Cast read Stilar’s journals many times through the years. The entries told of who visited, for how long, and the activities of the days and nights within the fortress, all in detailed depth. Page after page of his uncle’s written word told of acolytes, scholars, druids, and the Faerie folk, including Yar, the master Tree Faerie himself. The teachings and politics of the land and powers that sprouted, both good and evil, translated a depth of knowledge he could never achieve outside the fortress. Stilar even wrote of specifications in regard to the building diagrams of the construction of the Citadel.

Now his hand unconsciously reached for one of the journals, only realizing when he held it in his hand that it pacified his mind. The journal was the last his uncle Stilar had written before his death at the hands of the goblin horde.

Cast opened the journal to the last page. It was a baffling entry hastily written compared to the other passages, and it bothered him he could not make sense of it. The queer annotation told of numerous meetings with Master Yar and of the importance the master Tree Faerie imposed on his uncle to accurately calculate the measurements of the Citadel’s many towers, turrets, and flagstaffs. Each towering precipice Stilar had measured, from the foundation to the crown of the baton.

The last note from the journal read as if Stilar’s nerves were strung tight: Yar’s dire need for the completion of this assignment was gravely demonstrated at each of our meetings. I’m not quite certain of the significance of these measurements just yet. However, I sense it is a significant key to something of high importance to the Citadel and the Faeries. Yar is consumed with accuracy. We measured the strangely shaped stronghold turret three times today.

Cast perused the measurements written at the bottom of the page. The date of the journal entry confirmed to him again it was the same day the goblin horde attacked the Citadel, killing almost all within, and eventually Yar.

He placed the journal down and picked up the latest message from Calidor brought by his Shôrgnome couriers. Druid Calidor was traveling easterly, having heard rumors of trouble. Calidor was in command of the Citadel and the druids, for Yar had infused his magic into him, as did Yar’s son, Cyr, with Druid Baytel. Both druids now went separate ways, burdened with the duties to the One Land and sects of humanity, and possessed with the magic of the Faerie.

Snow swirls rolled across the foothill had wiped away Baytel’s tracks. Cast jarred himself from his woolgathering to find dusk had arrived. The setting sun descended behind gray clouds, painting them pale red. He walked from the quarters onto the battlement, meeting the cold wind of the late winter on his face. He raised his head and met the wind, and though it chilled him, it was most refreshing.

The uneasy irksome feeling persisted as though some outer influence had infiltrated his psyche. He became conscious of the possibility the dark veil that had descended upon the Citadel might have brought a foreign host that affected the atmosphere all around the fortress. Taking the stairs to the courtyard, Cast called for a second courier and sent another young Shôrgnome after Calidor. With a persisting uneasy feeling, Cast hailed the patrol sentry and barked an order to take a turn outside the castle and report back anything unusual.

Leaving the courtyard behind, he walked through the Pintél gates the Ctiklat Dwarfs had renewed after the invasion. Entering the inner ward, Cast strolled toward his quarters when something caught his eye. The gate seemed less brilliant, though the precious metal Pintél was never known to dull. He inspected the gate again and called out to a guard.

A soldier ran to Cast and stood at attention. Yes sir.

Pointing to a tarnished portion of the dazzling gate, he said, I thought I ordered this Pintél gate to be polished.

Sir, it was polished two days ago. I inspected it myself after its completion. It must have tarnished again, answered the guard nervously.

Cast raised a question to himself: Was the disturbance that Baytel felt causing other things to occur, like the tarnishing of the gate?

Cast touched the flawed metal as if caressing a wound. As he speculated about the shroud that overcame the Citadel and Druid Baytel’s departing statement, a foreboding took the place of the uneasiness he was feeling, and he walked from the Pintél gate more disturbed than before.

Chapter 2

Pippet wrapped the gauze around the deep gash across the arm and chest of his companion, securing it fittingly without cutting off the circulation to other areas of her body. He ignored his own injuries—minor cuts and bruises—as she and his other companion bled far worse. The assault the day before took its toll on their small patriotic company, but the swirling wind and the icy snow it conveyed now hid them from the pursuing Ogres, allowing them, once more, to escape death. Now concealed in a dark copse of pine trees at the base of a ravine, a temporary refuge from the Ogres that had pursued them since winter began, he tended their injuries.

He remained perplexed at why Ogres from the far-off northwest mountains attacked their fair city of Glenilon. The Ogres arrived at night, surrounding Glenilon castle tiers and swiftly cutting off all forms of communication with the outside world. Pressed with no alternative, their sovereign king, on the dark night of the new moon, secretly dispatched ten runners in the hopes that at least one might reach the mighty Ctiklat Dwarfs for rescue. Only three runners remained.

Pippet shook his head violently at his friend’s inference as he tended to a third wound, a deep slash across her thigh. I will not leave you, Reanne, so don’t say another word! Besides, I do not know the way to Ctiklat.

Reanne grabbed his arm, causing him to stop wrapping her leg. She was strong, much stronger than him, and he had followed her orders faithfully since they had departed Glenilon. She replied with all the authority and leadership she had been assigned to. We did not volunteer for this duty to show loyalty and heroics for one another, Pippet. We are here to somehow reach Ctiklat and report Glenilon’s plight. We need the Dwarfs of Ctiklat to come to our aid. It is a desperate situation back home! People will soon begin to starve from being cut off from the traveling caravans that bring food and supplies.

We have the sea to supply us with all we need back home. The Ogres cannot entirely surround us, replied Pippet, attempting to waylay her worries.

But Reanne was not convinced and continued without hesitation. You are the youngest and fastest among us, Pippet. Talen is spilling too much blood, as you well know. He fought gallantly, as did you, but I do not have the medicines or the talent to tend to so serious a wound as he has sustained. He will die, Pippet, and there is nothing we can do for him. As for me, my injuries will surely slow us both if we are to travel together. The Ogres are relentless, and no matter where we go, they find us. We cannot hide here in these trees forever. Glenilon does not have the luxury of time. Nor do we.

Pippet looked into her brown eyes. Their determination could not diminish their beauty. He was frightened about traveling alone; he had volunteered for this quest because his best friend had. Now his friend and six others in their troop were dead, two were badly injured, and he was terrified of being alone. He leaned closer to her. She was only a couple of years older than him but he had been enamored with her from the first moment they met.

I don’t think I can make it without you, Reanne.

She gripped his arm tightly, causing him to wince. Leave us and get to Ctiklat. Find mighty King Will Ironwright and plead for his help. Ctiklat will not turn its back on us.

Pippet dropped his head. I will be caught the moment I leave your company. He felt her hand on his chin, lifting his head for their eyes to meet. He blushed at her touch.

Pippet, we will distract the pursuing Ogres and steer them away from your trail long enough that you can put some distance between you and them. If we can sustain their attention long enough, they will lose your trail entirely.

You mean long enough until you are dead? No! I am staying with you! shouted Pippet, immediately sorry for his outburst.

Stop acting as if you are my protector, Pippet. We all volunteered for this duty, knowing death could occur. One of us must reach Ctiklat. My wound is deeper than you think, Pippet. I will not last long without proper medicines, which we do not have! And Talen will die sooner than me. Nothing can save us, and the only thing that we can gain from this situation is for you to escape capture and reach Ctiklat!

Pippet saw her wince in pain from her heated lecturing. The last thing he wanted to do was make her angry with him, but he was also angry at the prospect of leaving her to die only for his life to be saved.

Your life for mine is not what I volunteered for, Reanne.

Her expression changed in acknowledgment that he finally understood what needed to happen. Reanne replied, We are not clairvoyant to see what will come about. All we can do is accept what providence offers and move on.

Isn’t there another way?

Reanne loosened her grip and stroked his arms softly. It is the only option. Glenilon cannot stop these Ogres alone, and they must be stopped, Pippet. I cannot finish this task. Nor can Talen. You are the last of us. You must see to its completion.

Pippet nodded resignedly. All right, Reanne. Where do I go from here?

She touched his face, and he leaned against her soft hand, taking what small amount of comfort he could.

Reanne said, We were pushed too far south so you will have to travel east, passing by the Lakes of Aquilet until you reach open plains. From there where you will be met by the waters of the Ginhonim River. Travel along its banks until you reach the Awär River. Leave the river and travel north until you reach Ctiklat. Now repeat what I have just said.

Pippet repeated the directions precisely.

Reanne looked into the night sky through the pine trees as flakes settled on her face. It’s beginning to snow heavily. It is time for you to leave. The snowfall will silence the sounds of your movements. Once the snow accumulates over your trail covering all traces of your passage, Talen and I will move in a different direction. Our bloody trail will meander, and hopefully, the slow-witted Ogres will not notice that there are only two they pursue.

Tears clouded Pippet’s eyes, blurring Reanne’s face. I will miss you. I love you, Reanne. I mourn you already.

Do not mourn me, Pippet. Make me proud. Get to Ctiklat. Then live a good life in our vineyards as we have talked of. Live it for both of us. Be brave now, Pippet, and run like the wind.

Reanne grabbed his knap and stuffed it with the remainder of their provisions. She gently took his face into her hands and kissed him deeply. Pippet smiled at her and quickly returned her kiss with another just as deep, and then ran from the copses, through the dark ravine, and the clouds bursting from the night world with a weighty snow.

Chapter 3

Through the soft winter months and into the spring, the bombardment and commotion of the invasion force resounded throughout the woods, yet all throughout the siege the tumult had no effect on the peaceful lives of the Tree Faeries, and the passage of time seemed nonexistent.

Their magic remained strong and impenetrable, holding back the Ogres at the borders of their forest home in the far western region of the One Land. The war cries of the Ogres were of no concern for, at the moment, the Tree Faeries were involved in communal introspection and every thought was centered on what was to be the future of their magical sect.

The three Tree Faerie elders sat in a small ring. Around them, seated row after row in circular formation was the entire Tree Faerie tribe. All their heads were held high with idyllic pride and their faces displayed brightness beyond elation. The months of meditation, discussion, and community had been held. During that time, spring had sprouted and, as was their way, happiness bloomed in their hearts.

In the glade of their forest home, the linden trees had come into bud. Petals unfolded, offering small seedpods, followed by the blossoming yellowy flowers scented like honey that wafted in the air, cleansing the Tree Faeries’ senses, and clarifying their purpose upon the One Land. The breeze fanned through the forest carrying the fallen flower petals upon the light air, scattering them about the sacred ground, transforming the glade to golden vibrancy.

There was mirth, fellowship, and joy among the Tree Faeries at the birth of spring and the serenity of their peaceful lives upon the One Land. Yet sorrow lurked behind their contentment, for they knew this was their last spring, and their time upon the land was soon to end, as they knew must happen.

In silence, the three elder Tree Faeries rose and stood against each other’s backs—the three as one. They looked out over the circles of their community and all in attendance rose in unison, awaiting their pleasure.

As the elders had done every morning since the meditation ritual began on the day of the winter solstice, the three clasped hands with one another and began quietly chanting a mantra in a language never before heard upon the land. The mantra rose louder as the assembly joined in the song with beautiful piping voices, and the joy in their hearts soared even more.

Then the Faerie elders’ bodies magically illuminated with white light as if they had bathed in the brilliance of the stars. As the musical mantra continued, it kindled their power until it built to a level that caused the ground beneath their feet to quiver. That was the moment they had waited for; the verification that the One Land felt them and was pleased with the ritual and union.

The tremble increased to a rumble that extended out of the glade, through the forest, and rolled across the entire land. Slowly, as the elder Tree Faeries’ light diminished and the beautiful mantra quieted, the One Land stilled. All the Tree Faeries were silent again, awaiting the elders’ next wonder.

One of the elders broke away and addressed the assembly. His voice was deeper with age. "Beloved brethren, our duty is nearly complete. The final juncture in the honor of serving the One Land is about to be bestowed upon us. Though troubling times are ahead for the sects of humanity, our need is elsewhere to do the One Land’s bidding.

Peace and harmony are in the hands of the sects of humanity, as they should be. The spirit of our sect and the magical essence of our master Yar and his son Cyr now flow in the Citadel Druids Calidor and Baytel. These men are the conduits of our choosing, and we know they shall prevail. And we, dear brethren, shall become their sanctuary.

The elder looked to the back of the assembly. He raised both his hands to the farthest circle and three young Tree Faeries stood and came to him within the inner ring. The elder returned to his place against the two other elders’ backs.

The youthful Faeries held hands around the three elders. The joy they felt lit their faces with love, and their bodies began to glow with magic; and they began to dance.

Round and round in a small circle around the elders, they danced like the play of children, their passion of the dance matched by the beauty and magic of the moment. All the other Faeries, still seated, resumed the mantra wholly mesmerized in their happiness and glee over what was about to occur.

The three youths’ dance quickened, and as the crest of their joy reached its pinnacle, they stopped and leaned forward. They touched foreheads with each of the elder Faeries.

A magical rush of power emanated from the union and light exploded forth, sending the glade into brilliant illumination. The power of the infusion rolled outward like that of the mantra, except the power was astonishing, pulsating the One Land and touching all who lived upon it.

When all went calm again, in the center of the circle, only the three elders and two youths remained; and they were enlightened. Burned upon the ground where the youths had danced was a roundelay, evidence of the magical phenomenon.

The elder looked up to the last circle and raised his arms again, and another Tree Faerie came and joined their circle. The Faerie clasped hands with the two enlightened ones. And the Dance of the Faerie was set in motion once more.

Chapter 4

The Cathal River flowed from the northeast, parting the dense woodlands in two, only to disappear around the cliffs that towered southeast toward the unexplored eastern region. Calidor had traveled for days along the river, patiently trailing an armed company of Imp warriors. The dwarflike creatures were known to command a swatch of land in the region. He had hopes they would lead him to their lair, where it was rumored one of Baytel’s Companions, Kalti, was imprisoned.

As dawn arrived and the early light filtered through the thinning foliage, a fortress came into view. Peering forward, Calidor saw the gray stone edifice through the morning mist rise from its base along the minor tributary of the Cathal River, rising up a towering sheer of rock.

So dull was the fortress’s color, and with heavy greenery growing from its rock, Calidor was fortunate to have come across it at all. The stones were in ill condition and the ivy had long ago begun to compromise the facade, infusing itself in the mortar and settling cracks all about the sheer. No lanterns were evident and the thick ivy hung from the high walls and battlements, giving the structure the appearance of being abandoned. The structure was unlike anything Calidor had ever seen. The Imps’ lair was a structure from an age long gone yet still standing, though part of it now had been added to and attached to the hewed out of the rock face of the precipitous sheer at the foot of the waterway that also flowed past the fortress buttress.

As was told by the few frontier folk in the region, a giant of sorts was housed in the structure. The Imps looked to the giant as their supreme leader.

Calidor, having never heard of any giant in the One Land, or of Imps aligning with one, was more than usually cautious and remained deeply hidden in the woods scrutinizing the Imp troop. They marched beneath a heavy outgrowth of wild ivy that had attached itself to a portico, and they entered the strange gray structure through a narrow seem entryway that only an Imp could fit through. Looking for another way in and finding none in sight, and after analyzing the facade, it seemed the ivy entry was the fortress’ only means of ingress.

As the last of the Imps disappeared through the hem of the structure, a large stone was rolled across the gap and eliminating the noise of the Imps’ passage. When all was otherwise silent, Calidor noticed an odd droning sound in the vicinity. A deep throng, like the workings of a foundry, seemed to come from beneath the fortress, vibrating enough to send ripples at the water’s edge where the tributary met the rock and what seemed like the base of the structure.

He looked up the bluff. Coming from the top of the fortress was curious dark smoke. The drone changed, and Calidor heard the repeated pounding of a hammer against iron. Listening to the rhythmic strokes, he reasoned that if he heard, he could surely find the source location that would uncover another entrance.

To avoid detection so soon upon arrival, he waited to make sure no Imp patrols emerged or activity resumed along the battlements. Time passed quickly, and as afternoon approached with no evidence of Imp movement and as the noises ceased in the foundry ceased, he waited, watching the smoke over the battlement. Shortly, the smoke diminished to a whiff, and Calidor decided to move.

Crawling forward to the shore of the waterway, Calidor immersed himself in the deep tributary. Swimming toward the bluff in the cold river, he reached the facade at the base of the fortress. Clinging to the rock, he stayed as still as possible to listen to the surroundings and take in the feel of the water current. It was not a swift-flowing tributary, pooling here and there in pockets of calm, and he thought the river would be a prime fishing spot for trout, a particular favorite dish of his.

As he clung to the facade, he felt a curious tugging of his feet and realized that the current, when drawing near the cliff, pulled in two directions: one passing around him and moving southeast, and the other pulling steadily under the sheer. He realized that there must be underwater access to the structure.

Calidor chanced a look at the unseen, and without hesitation he inhaled deeply and submerged under the bluff, still holding in position. Calidor peered through the water but saw only darkness.

Suddenly, he lost his grip and was swept beneath the bluff deeper into the dark waters. Scraping against the ceiling as the current dragged him along, he twisted his body until rolling upside down. Then he extended his feet upward and ponce planted propelled himself down, diving deeper into the water clear of the jagged ceiling.

The maneuver sent him into a steadier undercurrent. Still with plenty of breath in his lungs, Calidor flowed with the water as it rushed him into what seemed like a channel. Swimming with the current and keeping his strokes relaxed and evenly timed, he used the drift with his strength to accelerate through the hidden aqueduct.

The darkness of the channel seemed to lighten and a faint glow of light shone below him. He dived toward the ruddiness, finding a barrier of rock redirecting his way. Grabbing onto the facade of the barrier, he used it to advance head-first deeper into what was now a parallel channel. Following the channel, keeping his eye on the faint light now ahead, he found open way to a wide pool of water. There, the darkness disappeared, and the pool was illuminated with lanterns that flickered light reflecting flames upon the surface of the water still above his head.

He gently broke the surface and breathed deeply. Swimming into the middle of the pool, Calidor found the current slower. He submerged again and remaining as still as possible, so the water did not ripple and distort his view, he peered up through the clear water and saw a stone edge where the pool ended. Farther past the edge, which was the floor of a chamber, on the far wall hung the lit lanterns.

Calidor swam a steady stroke beneath the surface toward the edge of the pool, looking upward. The flames of the wall sconces were not flickering. Nor did he see shadowy movements passing before them. With the utmost care, he surfaced without causing a stir and took in another deep, quiet breath. The taste of the air was of iron and smoke.

Even though the space was poorly illuminated, his eyes were already accustomed to the darkness, and he could see enough to recognize the metal works area of a foundry.

The ceiling in the foundry was low except near the end of the pool, where it gradually rose higher, and he assumed it was designed to accommodate the height of the giant although entry into the foundry itself would be impossible. The walls were not the gray drabness of the exterior but rather a mixture of a lightly shaded beige limestone, probably earthen elsewhere. The large limestone hunks were constructed against the interior rock walls. Some of the limestone pieces were carved with etchings of a sort he could not identify from his position.

The interior wall had three identical sculpted sectionals. Their details were inlaid in the limestone plates that ran from floor to ceiling. The middle of each was etched with rune symbols and each with a different symbolization. He drifted closer to one of the inlays and found that the rune symbols were not common among the living sects. They were of ancient origins. His mind wandered to the library of the Citadel. There were markings in the postscripts in Yar’s journals having to do with the Tree Faerie origins.

Perhaps these rune markings would uncover a cipher to disclose the mysteries.

Movement brought Calidor’s attention away from the fascinating runic carvings, and he dropped deeper into the pool and waited to see who was approaching. There, at the tall entrance door, an Imp had entered the foundry and lazily walked to the fire hearth. He looked as though he had just woken from sleep. He stood beside the hearth and poked aimlessly at the meager embers.

He looked to be an older Imp from the creases on his face. Near four feet in height with straight hair cut just below rather large protruding ears, he was muscular, more so than most Imps, who typically had insubstantial slim bodies. He wore the clothes of a metallurgist: thick leather boots, leather pants, a heavy wool shirt, leather-work tunic, and utility belt with the tools of a metal fashioner attached.

The Imp contemplated the diminished embers in the foundry pit and stirred the gray mass, which immediately emitted a wisp of smoke. The curling smolder reached upward, where it eventually evaporated before finding the exhaust vents that led to the high chimney flue and exited over the battlement.

The Imp shoveled a measure of coal onto the mass and folded it in with the hot embers, scattering a few onto the stone floor. He manipulated the blower, stoking air into the pile. Flames instantly sprang forth. The stronger the Imp employed the blower the more noise reverberated in the foundry, and Calidor took the opportunity to quietly heave himself from the pool, duck behind a work station, and secrete away to a dark corner near the foundry’s fire pit without notice.

The Imp forger went about his business organizing the metals he was about to fashion. The shapes of the metals looked to be that of spearheads. Calidor confirmed his observation, seeing the long wood shafts leaning against the wall beside them. Satisfied with the temperature of the pit, the Imp shoved a number of pieces of metal into the red blaze of coals. Expelled sparks rose up, snapping in the cooler air until they extinguished into smoke to drift toward the ventilation shaft above.

While he observed the Imp, Calidor’s clothes dried quickly from the increased heat in the foundry, and he moved closer and waited, giving himself time to decide how to act next.

The Imp was inspecting the heated metals one by one, judging whether they were in the proper condition to begin fashioning them. Upon the worktable were numerous prefashioned pieces of body armor, swords, and daggers. There were also shackles. Calidor smiled, knowing this Imp was the one who was responsible for fashioning and probably attaching shackles to prisoners. Calidor moved closer.

Qatar worked the blower mechanism furiously, the intake of air in the shaft filled the leather coupling held in place by wooden paddles. He then compressed the paddles, exhaling the mechanism and inflaming the coals to hot red, as well as the metals in the pit. Satisfied that the metals were heated to the proper premolten texture, he drew out a slab of metal with pincer pliers and held it against the anvil.

Gripping pliers in one hand and hammer tightly in the other, Qatar commenced pounding the metal numerous times. Sparks flew all about him as he turned and fashioned the piece with alternating strikes. Inspecting the metal every few strokes, and eventually satisfied, nodded to himself at achieving an acceptable shape, he doused the recognizable spearhead in a vat of cool water. Upon completion of the spearhead, he retrieved another searing hot metal piece and repeated the process, his mind on little else.

Suddenly, he was grabbed from behind and turned away from the pit. Surprised, he defended himself by swinging the hot metal at whoever his assailant was but the intruder’s hand crashed down on his arm, dislodging the pincers from his hand. The hot metal crashed to the floor with a flurry of sparks.

Qatar stepped backward in fear. The pain in his arm was numbing. It took him a moment to focus as the throbbing in his arm, and his surprise at being accosted in his foundry confused him. Finally, he looked up at the invader. He was a tall, big man and looked very strong and intimidating. Panicking, he glanced from side to side, seeking a way out of having to confront the large man, but Qatar found none. He was alone.

Qatar stepped back again as the man did not move except to stand straighter. He looked up, directly into the man’s eyes. Something in them caused Qatar to not turn and run away in fright.

Unsure what stood before him, already knowing he was a man of great prowess to enter the lair of the giant without detection, he decided to brave a query. What do you want here?

The man looked calmly at him as if he had not a care in the world. Then the large man finally spoke. Imp forger, I mean you no harm.

The man’s demeanor calmed Qatar, and though still frightened, he was able to control his hysteria. The serenity on his face and the ease of his body caused Qatar to rethink his immediate evaluation of the stranger. Perhaps he was not so imposing as I thought.

Qatar braved another question. How did you get in here?

The large man’s voice was a deep tremble. "That is not important. But what is important is you being of some assistance to me. A fellow companion of mine may be within the walls of this structure. If he is here, I believe you may know his whereabouts."

Although Qatar was always wary of anyone of new acquaintance, be it in a town or in the wild, the man’s reply and request was in such a nonchalant and quieting way, it caused Qatar’s nervousness to disappear. Something about the stranger was drawing him toward wanting to know more about him.

Qatar charged forward. Why should I tell you anything? For all I know, once you get what you want from me, you surely will kill me and be off.

I will not do that. As I said, I mean you no harm.

Qatar took a moment to think. Helping the man or not would be a difficult prospect for me. Either I could be killed by the mysterious stranger or by the giant who rules over me and the other Imps with an iron fist.

A compromise occurred to him, and his confidence grew. Perhaps we may come to an understanding before I consent to assist you.

A provisional accord perhaps? asked the tall man.

Qatar smiled, pleased, as the prospect of bartering with what seemed like an educated, if not interesting, man. He replied, Let us say I require that before I proceed.

To negotiation and perhaps find common ground for us both to achieve our desires? You know what I want, Imp, what do you offer?

Qatar heard something in the tall man’s voice that warned him not to be too demanding or dire consequences from the repartee would ensue. Let us parley. He pulled a stool from under the worktable and offered it to the tall man. The man seated himself, and Qatar sat across him on a stack of thick metal sheets.

Qatar drew a calming breath and began the protocol. First of all, I am up in years and have seen many things throughout my life. I have traveled throughout this vast land and fought in large wars and small battles on sides of both good and evil. I say this because you seem old in the eyes yet appear younger. I believe I know your kind. You are of the men that ride in the night. Your sect is powerful, but you, sir, have the look of one with much more power. Is that not so?

What is your name, Imp?

Qatar was chagrined. With all the accumulated learning of proper protocols and forms of speech for proper society, here at the beginning of negotiations with someone obviously his superior, knowing the importance introductions had with social order, including the saving of his life, he stood and stated, I am Qatar. I am from no particular region, nor am I descended from a hierarchal line, merely Qatar, Imp Forger and Traveler.

The tall man stood and said, Qatar, Imp Forger and Traveler, I am Calidor, Druid of the Citadel and Grey Rider of the North.

Qatar felt the color drain from his face, and his nervous hysteria reignited. He stood motionless, his speech frozen. Calidor! Here before me! He is as old as the histories. A man of magic! The druid and dark rider!

He was about to kneel before the great man when Calidor stopped him by holding his hand out to him.

Qatar took it. They shook hands. Then he released the large hand and began pacing the floor, unsure what to say next.

Calidor quickly put him at ease, saying, Calm yourself, Qatar.

As the words flowed from Calidor’s mouth, Qatar felt the veil of fright lessen and found he had sat back down on the sheet metal without knowing how he got there. He sat and just stared at the great man awaiting his next words.

Now, Qatar. Let us begin. What are you offering?

Collecting his thoughts, he unsteadily fell back into the parley. To repeat, I am old and have seen much, but I desire to see more. This position of forger for the giant I have been thrust into without my consent is not to my liking. I could quite easily cause my own death by both aiding you and hindering you in your search for this companion of yours. So I ask you, Druid Calidor, how do I keep hold of my life?

To live is to do as I say. To not aid me is to die, he replied flatly.

Qatar nodded nervously. To aid you is not a difficult decision. It is what comes after that I need help with.

What help do you need, forger? Calidor’s voice had an edge of impatience upon it.

As I stated, I am not of this sect of Imp, so I have no loyalties to those who dwell here. And I can assure you they have none for me. I am here to forge weapons, that is all. If they find I have aided a stranger and freed a prisoner, I shall be put to death.

So you need a way of looking innocent while aiding me.

Qatar was about to nod but decided to try for more. What did he have to lose? And to be in the favor of a druid was something that could create opportunities later in life, if he still had one to live. I need more than that. The only way I see my life being spared is if you take me with you when you escape with your companion.

"So there is a prisoner within these walls? the druid smiled. Well, Qatar, before we negotiate further, let us retreat for a moment. The prisoner being held here, tell me about him, for if he is not the one I seek, then all this is for naught."

Qatar exhaled, feeling relieved to be past the threat of death, for he was confident the one in the prison was whom the Druid Calidor sought.

He is very fair, graceful, yet strong and extremely intelligent. As silent as a deer and most difficult to track, the Imps who captured him say. Not as tall as you but tall enough. Light hair, blue eyes, and pointed ears. It has been years since my youth, since I have seen a fair one like him. Many years ago, but they had disappeared altogether. Is he the one you seek?

Where is he?

He rests in a prison cell inside the donjon of the giant.

Has any harm come to him?

"Not much. A bit bruised and scratched, otherwise not anything to hinder our escaping together," he answered, implying his inclusion in the druid’s plans.

Calidor’s frown was menacing as he stared down at him. If I find your statements false, you shall feel pain beyond your imagination.

Knowledge of the druid’s power from reputation gave him trepidation, more so than any other threat from someone stronger than him, for the power that lurked behind Calidor’s threat seemed more than mere brute strength; the threat was certainly backed by druidic magic.

I do not seek to mislead you, Druid Calidor. I last saw the fair one four nights ago to shackle him to another dungeon cell. As for pain, I have felt much in my life, both in body and spirit, and both excruciatingly retching. I seek none of that again. You thrust me into this situation, and now we are joined. I shall not fail you, which will undoubtedly fail me.

Calidor nodded and said, I place my trust in your words, Qatar. Now lead me to my friend, for there are grave events upon the land that need my particular attention.

Chapter 5

It was a stranger structure than Calidor had imagined. Narrow hallways with low ceilings intertwined in a triangular fashion as each hall led to a section midpoint. The design was akin to the hub of a wheel where the hallways were the spokes that entered into a rotunda. The centered spaces were circular, with doors in the round leading through passageways to other sections and hubs.

Fortunately for Calidor, the entire Imp stronghold was asleep. He followed close behind Qatar as they traversed the eastern sections without detection toward the dungeons located within the giant’s wing.

Movement ahead caused Qatar to hesitate as Calidor nearly walked over him. The fortress had begun to awaken. Imps could be seen roaming the hallway in the next vestibule. Qatar skirted into a dim alcove and escorted Calidor into a dark antechamber, closing the door behind them.

Calidor lit the wick of a wall candle and studied the chamber. Against the walls stretching from floor to ceiling were sealed wood crates.

What is this room, Qatar?

It is a storage room. These crates are filled with tools and spare parts for siege towers, catapults, and other weapons of war. Over there are uniforms, armor, and boots. No one will enter here unless the fortress is laid siege to. The giant has no plans for war. He never does. It’s the Imps that are the aggressors. We will be safe for the time being.

Calidor, not wanting to sit idle, asked, What are the routines of this section of the structure?

There will be many patrols because we are close to the giant’s quarters. The giant is intrigued by the fair one and visits him daily. Their conversations are short, but he remains there in silence, watching his caged pet for amusement, said Qatar.

Where is Kalti’s prison cell from here?

Kalti is his name? It is a strange name, different from most I have heard, stated Qatar. Your Kalti is three levels below us and one section into the giant’s lair.

From here, do you know how to get to the passageway that leads into that section?

I believe so, said Qatar.

Calidor considered his uncertainty. He needed to allay any doubts, where they were next headed. Allowing a short moment to pass, he moved to the door and said, Let’s go.

Fear rippled across Qatar’s face. What?

We must find his prison cell before the giant visits him. I am wasting time in this storage room.

This is foolish! We cannot go now, you will be seen, and we shall be imprisoned and killed!

We go now, Qatar, or I shall go alone.

Qatar was in a panic. But you cannot! Not without me! They will know you were in my foundry!

The play of emotion on his face nearly made Calidor laugh aloud. I see no other alternative.

His statement gave Qatar pause. He suddenly began thinking of what alternatives there were. He blurted out more excuses.

But there is not enough time to reach the lair and enter the dungeon before the giant makes his visit. And…and…this section of the giant’s lair is awake. We must wait until tonight. It is too large of a risk to attempt to gain the giant’s lair now! Please? Do not make me go now!

Is there another chamber like this one that is near the dungeon? he asked, attempting to draw Qatar’s panic toward reason. When he heard no reply, he pitched his voice to a commanding tone and asked, Is there?

I…I…I don’t know.

Think, Qatar.

Qatar stiffened and paced the chamber nervously, talking to himself, trying to think. He finally stopped and pointed to the door.

Calidor, walking through that door will be certain death. Why must we go now?

Calidor needed Qatar’s mind to work toward finding a chamber near the prison, but his prattle kept returning to the safety of their storage room.

Qatar, do not think of anything except another chamber, like this one, at the prison. Let your mind go completely blank and concentrate on nothing except that section near the dungeon.

I cannot. Death is behind that door if we exit, spat the Imp.

Qatar!

The Imp snapped, rigid. Calidor rose before him, drawing the Imp’s eyes to his and fixing his stare. His eyes penetrated through Qatar’s and he could see his fear. Slowly, Qatar’s body relaxed as his eyes became vacant,