Deathquest to Parallan: A Trilogy of the Land of Donothor: Part One

By Benjamin Towe

 A young prince struggles with his identity and role when his land and family are attacked by mysterious assailants. He must become a leader and assemble a party of the land of Donothor’s strongest characters. Fighting skills, a magic sword, friends, Magicks, and unexpected allies are needed to accomplish the task before him. The quest leads the Donothorians to a new night-less world of three suns, where new allies and many enemies are found. His party becomes eyewitnesses to and participants in a great conflict. But where does the greatest evil lie? What is their role in the conflict? Is the fate of this world tied to their own? Can they succeed against impossible odds and succeed in the Deathquest to the world of three suns?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 14, 2005
• ISBN: 9781438992396

Benjamin Towe

Benjamin Towe is a dedicated Whovian, crafty old Dungeon Master, and lover of all things magic and make believe. Ben is a graduate of Mt. Airy (NC) High School, Davidson College, and the University of Virginia School of Medicine. Dr Towe served five years in the US Army Medical Corps and has practiced family medicine. Doctor “T” loves reading and writing science fiction and fantasy novels. The novels of the Donothor and Elfdreams series are Doctor T’s Rx for fantasy. Children of Magick joins his literary family of Justful Deception, the Queen’s Secret, Thirttene Friends, Dawn of Magick, Lost Spellweaver, First Wandmaker, Wandmaker’s Burden, Emerald Islands, Mender’s Tomb, Deathquest to Parallan, Orb of Chalar, Chalice of Mystery, Death of Magick, and Unwonted Spellweavers. Escape to an Elfdream! Happy reading!

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2010 Benjamin Towe. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/09/2023

ISBN: 978-1-4208-9012-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4208-9011-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4389-9239-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2005909143

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Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

Night Riders

CHAPTER 2

The Inn of the Wayfarer

CHAPTER 3

The Story of Vannelei

CHAPTER 4

The Dream Chaser

CHAPTER 5

The Spawn Curse

CHAPTER 6

The Misty Forest

CHAPTER 7

Return to Lyndyn

CHAPTER 8

The Dungeons of Castle Lyndyn

CHAPTER 9

Short Journeys

CHAPTER 10

Night of Terror

CHAPTER 11

Aftermath

CHAPTER 12

Bad News on the Road to Lyndyn

CHAPTER 13

Bartering

CHAPTER 14

The Quest Begins

CHAPTER 15

Trails

CHAPTER 16

A Triumphant Return

CHAPTER 17

WHERE?

CHAPTER 18

Captured

CHAPTER 19

Needed Rest

CHAPTER 20

First Blood

CHAPTER 21

A Friend’s Concern

CHAPTER 22

Ooranth

CHAPTER 23

Aftermath

CHAPTER 24

Next?

CHAPTER 25

Nightmarish Steeds

CHAPTER 26

War

CHAPTER 27

Boomer’s Vigil

CHAPTER 28

The Caverns of Darkness

CHAPTER 29

Caves

CHAPTER 30

War Rages

CHAPTER 31

Another Aftermath

CHAPTER 32

War Wages On

CHAPTER 33

Aulgmoor

CHAPTER 34

Aulgmoor: More Trials

CHAPTER 35

Inner Mazes

CHAPTER 36

Fears and Legends

CHAPTER 37

The Deathqueen

CHAPTER 38

The Victory of Calaiz

CHAPTER 39

On to Ooranth

CHAPTER 40

The Battle on the Field of Ooranth

CHAPTER 41

Castle Ooranth

CHAPTER 42

Return to the Portal

Prologue

The two Spellweavers labored over the heat of the forge. Sweat fell profusely from their noble dark brows and the muscles of their forearms tensed with each strike of their hammers. Many beautiful gems were being forced into the shimmering elongated object that was slowly taking definition as a result of their physical and mental labors. The silence of the evening air was repeatedly broken by their voices, but the arcane phrases would have been understood by only a few.

The first muttered between incantations,Why do we concern ourselves with the conflicts between Necromancers and Dwarves? These labors tire my spirit.

The second replied,We have never been so encumbered by their conflict. You know the hold the wizard has over us. Do you want to remain obliged to do his will? Do you want Dwarven hordes traversing and foraging through our world?

Disgruntled, the first continued his verbal protest by adding,Do we want to empower the wizard more? Could he not challenge us more than an army of short-statured and ill-mannered brutes? They certainly lack the skills to reach our borders.

Nothing is certain, my brother. The wizard managed to reach our domain, was the blunt reply.

He is a wizard, the older replied.

They worked on into the amber evening bathed by the ever diminishing light of the three suns.

Incantation followed incantation and strike after strike of the hammers fell. Slowly the vorpal weapon was taking shape.

After a time of great effort, the second finally answered his complaining companion.

I am instilling in the weapon the force of healing for its wielder just as he requested. But I also impart in the blade the inability to harm those of our ilk. It shall not spill the blood of the forest. He will have his power over the dwarves but he will not harm us with the blade. We can protect ourselves from the effect of his unrefined Magick. This Weapon will serve our people long after his time. He won’t possess the blade for many time periods. There is little for us to fear, he finished definitively.

After hours of grimy work, the two stood over a shimmering blade adorned by many jewels. The elder painstakingly etched the runes and symbols into the hilt and the blood groove of the weapon. When the first raised the blade, the runes etched on the sword began to glow intensely, illuminating the area around them. He quickly placed the blade beneath his raimants to avoid exposing their work area to unwanted eyes that might be drawn to the bright light. He noted that several small scratches on his fatigued forearms had fully healed in the brief moment that he fanned the air with the blade.

The two marveled at their creation.

How do you impart these qualities to the blade? the younger added quizzically.

Because I am taught well by the Teacher and I am the son of my mother. Look above you. The Gray Wanderer, the third sun Andreas, fills the sky. The Approximation occurs only once every several lifetimes. Do you not feel the waxing of the energies within you? It is youth that prevents you from feeling this. You will learn in time, his older brother replied. Let us deliver our tithe so that we can be rid of our debt to this wizard and perhaps rid our world of him.

The two left the steamy forging area and entered onto the pathway leading to their prearranged meeting point. The brothers arrived first and waited impatiently. Their friend the forest was remarkably quiet as they continued to await the arrival of the magician. The elder brother thought that he had planned so well. But he could not have fully appreciated the treachery of the wizard. A soft swish filled the air as the younger noted with horror the Arrow of Clysis that tore through his brother’s chest. The elder fell to the floor of his beloved forest without uttering a sound. The younger did not have time to incant or to draw the sword before the second arrow pierced him. The younger brother also dropped to the ground when the magical force of the arrow struck him. He could not find the strength to grasp the blade before the Magick of the unerring arrow ended his existence. The stillness of death matched that of the forest.

After determining that the brothers were alone, Morlecainen triumphantly moved to their bodies and retrieved the blade. The silence and invisibility spells had been negated when the released the first of the finely runed arrows, but the advantage that he had gained was insurmountable.

Is this the best this world has to offer? the wizard mused, managing a smile.And the fools thought that I would actually close the Portal Gate. I would not do that even if I had the knowledge to do so.

There were fine runes etched into the weapon. The blade shimmered in the amber darkness but the wizard was forced to use his Orb of Illumination to read them, as the light in the area was at its minimum as thought the ever approaching moon like object were choking out the rays of the other two suns. But a moon it was not. Moons did not radiate gray light. Thus the area was too dark to allow Morlecainen to study the runes without the aid of his own Magick.

Silence bathed the area as though the denizens of the forest were respecting the fallen. He found that he could interpret many of the elvish runes etched into the blade, but the forgers had included some arcane symbols that were foreign to the wizard.

The wizard incised his palm with the point of the blade. Brief lancinating pain came as he anticipated, but to his delight, the wound quickly healed as he gripped the blade. The evidence of the wound was manifested only by the few drops of his dark blood that had fallen to the ground near the slain elves.

Sheathing the blade within his robes, the wizard began the journey homeward. Even though the light was at its ebb, he could see well enough to traverse the path. He seemed to be getting accustomed to the strangeness of the fauna and flora.

He reached the portal gate. A brief incantation bathed him briefly in a mauve glow. He traversed the portal that had exacted so much of his energies to create; he was comforted somewhat by the return of the true darkness of night. Soon he reached the ridge upon which his modest castle rested; he could see in the distance the multitude of campfires of the dwarven army. At the foot of the ridge were the few fires of his own conscripts, mercenaries, and rogues, a paltry force gathered to defend this last bastion of the wizard’s domain.

Let them come now, he said smugly.

All his remaining personal guard had been dispatched to the force awaiting the dwarves certain attack. It only took a moment to disengage the Fireglyph from the castle doors, and only a second moment to reengage the magical lock. Morlecainen then entered his abode. He passed his lovely mate as she sat silently near the open fireplace where a warming flame flickered but there were no logs. She appeared to be knitting a garment for the girls. He stored the sleek bow and the realm’s only known remaining Arrow of Clysis with his staff and secured the lock on the chest. The treasure had been well worth the cost of the other two arrows. He could only cause one inevitable death with each arrow, but the Magick Sword would empower him greatly in battle.

Another Fireglyph was activated by a single phrase. Morlecainen trusted no one, including his mate.

The wizard walked to the children’s room and peered into it. The twins slept serenely as he watched. Morlecainen marveled at the precociousness and beauty of the girls. Would it be Chalar or Theandra to succeed their father when the time came?

But that is another story.

Many generations passed.

CHAPTER 1

Night Riders

The mission to Tindal had been much more arduous than the rangers had anticipated. More than five weeks had passed since the riders had left the citadel at Lyndyn, the largest city of the land of Donothor and the center of government of the kingdom. For within Lyndyn’s fortified walls lay the palace of the ruling house of Aivendar. Prince Eomore, the eldest son of the beloved and just King Eraitmus and Queen Faerie, had led the party of ten of the elite rangers of Donothor from the walled city to the pastoral southern province of Tindal to investigate a disturbance at its border. The messenger from the farmers had arrived only a few hours before the King sent the party of rangers to answer the plea of his subjects for protection and justice. Such was the way of Eraitmus Aivendar, and this meant many cancelled plans for Eomore and his charges. Nontheless, the prince had always responded whenever duty had called. The messengers had said that a few goblins had been raiding the supply caravans to the outlying posts. Eomore had envisioned a brief foray into the dense forests to fulfill the mission.

In the usual manner the rangers had mustered about two dozen militiamen from the local folk, and with their rank so bolstered, pursued the marauding goblins across the border into the forests of Lachinor. Then the fun had begun - the goblin chieftain Gretch himself had come from the depths of the Black Fen of Boormork and was in command of the goblin forces. He had proven himself a very savage foe and the goblins, usually chaotic in their evil and mischief, had been quite organized in their efforts. However, the militiamen had fought well and eventually even the superior numbers of the goblins were overcome and the survivors fled into the depths of Lachinor licking their wounds. In the final battle Gretch himself had fallen before the blade of Prince Eomore. The victory had not come without loss. Several locals had fallen and the original party of ten now numbered eight.

Now the eight weary warriors began the long journey back to Lyndyn. The noble Loran, a veteran of eleven years on the force and a loyal servant to the King had fallen. He had been a dear friend of Prince Eomore as well. The novice Horrin had also been lost in the fray. Thus, the mood of the party of travelers was sullen, remorseful, and encumbered by grief. The knight riders were shrouded by silence as dark as the death cloaks which wrapped their fallen comrades. None of the riders made an effort to converse. No stories were being told of past exploits. Even the talkative little dwarf Deron had said little.

As they felt their way through the darkness, the shroud of silence enveloping them was broken only by the clanking of the hooves of the steeds striking the rocky road. The night air bit into them and each man must have in his own mind been thinking of home and its comforts. Certainly that’s where Eomore Aivendar’s thoughts were.

A Teleportation Spell would sure be nice, the prince thought, to be out of this miserable night - to be where one wanted to be infallibly in an instant- it would almost be worth putting up with the cantankerous mage Roscoe to have one.

But even if Roscoe were with them, the king deemed it proper and necessary that the royal family interact with and avail themselves to the citizenry of Donothor, particularly those such as the hearty and industrious folk of the southern provinces such as Tindal. Eomore knew that Teleportation Spells only worked on their caster and the prince was certainly no wizard.

Roscoe was the greatest mage in the land of Donothor if not in all the realms. He was as at times as reclusive and mysterious as he was powerful. He would have been a welcomed ally in this presently completed mission, because the goblin force had again been underestimated in its numbers and tenacity. Eraitmus was very tactful in dealing with the more powerful citizenry of Donothor and did not request their aid unless the situation was grave.

Roscoe’s pompousness was balanced by the High Priestess Knarra who was a staunch ally of the king and who also had an intricate relationship with Roscoe. Her origins were also as mysterious as those of Roscoe, but the charismatic healer had given willfully and gratituitously to the populace of Donothor, and had asked little in return.

King Eraitmus had ascended to the throne, succeeding his father Oerl, some thirty years ago, just before the birth of Eomore. He was a fair and proud man who had ruled in the tradition of his forefathers in the house of Aivendar. Eraitmus had served as the Captain of the Donothorian Rangers, the elite guard of the kingdom and the right arm of the king. This role was traditionally held by the eldest son of the reigning monarch, or else the monarch’s younger brother, which is why Eomore now held the position, succeeding his uncle Randyl upon attaining manhood. This was a prominent and a romanticized role, but it certainly held its disadvantages - specifically, extended forays to the fringes of civilization on the borders of Donothor to aid the local militiamen in the preservation of order. Donothor was, in general, a very safe and prosperous land. Monsters were rare in the central area of the kingdom. It had been years since a marauding dragon had invaded from the dismal reaches of Lachinor. However, the adventurous souls who inhabited the outer provinces were still subjected to such insults. The citizenry of the provinces provided many of the products which made life in the cities comfortable. These hearty souls were thought by the king to be the backbone of the kingdom. If they required support from the king, Eraitmus readily gave it to then.

Most of the time the support consisted of a small force of the rangers such as the present party, but occasionally a priest or a mage would represent the king through a quest in lieu of paying a monetary tithe. Once, even the irascible Roscoe had accompanied Eomore on a mission to the Mountains of Iron to give an ultimatum to a rampaging giant clan. Roscoe had gained his doorkeeper Braak in the deal. The giant submitted to the will of the wizard as an alternative to a good singeing. But the giant had over time supposedly become more of a friend to the wizard. Roscoe had been a burden to bear on the quest, but the wizard had certainly carried his own weight during the confrontation with the huge humanoids. Still, Eomore could only hope that adventuring with the old mage would not happen again soon!

But most of the time it was the sweat and sometimes the blood of the rangers who defended the people and the king’s interests. Eomore knew that this was his lot in life. It was his duty, his heritage, his fate, and sometimes his chagrin - there were times that the prince longed for the life of a commoner - a midnight scuffle with a rabid band of goblins was a far cry from a quiet evening with a woman, a joyous feast, or sharing ale with a friend.

Oh, Loran, the times we had! lamented Eomore as he rode along, thinking himself alone with hidden thoughts.

His mind had returned to his fallen friend. Loran had often been the first chosen by Eomore. Early in his career with the rangers, Eomore had often been accompanied by his dwarven friend Brenigen, knicknamed Boomer for his less than subtle volume of speaking. Few of the current rangers even knew Boomer’s given name. Now Boomer was Eomore’s second in command, and it was customary to leave the city under the auspices of either the Captain of the Guard or his second unless there was dire need. Thus, the two friends seldom journeyed together.

Your loss grieves you, my prince?- The words appeared in Eomore’s mind yet the shroud of silence had not been broken by any spoken word! The Prince quickly became alert and was startled. Then he relaxed.

Exeter! he replied without speaking. I have lost a true friend to the goblin’s arrows. This accursed night lingers on forever. My heart aches more than my body.

I’m sorry, my Lord- the words again appeared in Eomore’s mind.

To answer your question, yes, his loss grieves me greatly, and I dread facing Imelda and the children to give them the news of Loran’s bane. It won’t really matter to them that he died valiantly in the service of the king. Eomore replied, again, thinking the words without saying them.

There is no way to replace such a friend and ally - a just man and a loving father, the words of comfort again appeared in Eomore’s mind, attempting to console him.

Eomore pondered: I wonder if a Wish Spell or a resurrection balm exists at this time?

Those Magick are rare indeed, my Prince, and are as hazardous as they are rare. Folklore holds that reanimation is usually the realm of evil necromancers and usually results in simply the creation of automaton like zombies that serve their masters or else the production of ghastly creatures that might share a portion of their creator’s powers. The soulless forces so created may again share an extent of the powers of their creator but their existances are solely for the service of their creator and are linked to that creator; thus the being will serve steadfastedly. Any being so created will share the demise of their creator. Let us concentrate our efforts on regaining the safety of Castle Lyndyn. We are thinking of legend and speculation and our thoughts are prejudiced by grief, responded the silent communicator.

Eomore had possessed the heirloom Exeter since attaining manhood. His Uncle Randyl had wielded the weapon with honor and dignity during his twenty-one year tenure with the Donothorian Rangers.

No one knew the origins of the great longsword, not even Exeter herself, but there were many legends.

The Magick empowering the Great Weapon remained a mystery even to the greatest mages of this and all ages.

The weapon had been in the possession of the Aivendar family for generations and she was borne by the Captain of the Ranger guard, as this was obviously the most important defensive position in the kingdom. Even though he had now carried her for nine years, the prince was still occasionally startled when the soothing female voice appeared in his mind. She possessed the ability to speak telepathically with her wielder. She was sympathetic and empathetic with the wielder as well, thus she seemed to actually feel the physical and mental wounds received by the person grasping her hilt.

No wielder of Exeter had fallen in battle since the artifact had come into the possession of the Aivendar clan those many generations ago. She was able to sense the presence of enemies as near as thirty paces and she had the uncanny sixth sense to realize which foe posed the greatest threat to her master.

Exeter appeared as a well made longsword, with a hilt formed of a reddish black material and a golden blade, which gave off a deep red hue in the tide of battle. There were no runes upon the weapon and there were no gems adorning the hilt. Exeter’s beauty was in her simplicity.

Likewise, the mages and even the greatest of the royal alchemists and the greatest of the dwarven amorers had been unable to determine the nature of the materials of which the weapon was made. No scratch could be made upon the material composing the blade. The special qualities of Exeter had saved Eomore many times, but she was just as valuable as a companion during times such as these - this dark, cold, lonely, and moonforsaken night!

Eomore was seldom without the vorpal weapon and likewise the royal chainmail armor that had been forged also many generations ago by the greatest of the dwarven armorers of Donothor. The armor he always wore under his flame red tunic which bore the royal crest of the Aivendars - the armor offered at least twice the protection of normal chainmail while weighing only half as much. The weapon and the armor were the greatest fighting treasures of his illustrious family, and on occasion Prince Eomore questioned his worthiness to carry them. The tunic bore the image of the Prismatic Dragon, an appropriate symbol for the family who had ruled Donothor with compassion, power, but also adaptability to the needs of their citizenry. The thoughts of doubt and the desires for the more mundane pleasures of life, which he felt often, left Eomore wondering if he could ever be the man and king his father was. Still Eomore had always taken up the crest of the Aivendars and gone off on every quest his father had asked of him. He had sometimes felt great resentment, and this is what troubled the Prince’s mind.

You need a Mind Blank spell tonight, my Lord, Exeter silently uttered. The fatigue of the past five weeks is certainly taking its toll on you.

Oh, probably not even that would help, Eomore answered with his own thoughts, I feel that only the passage of this night and segment of our journey to the Hamlet Kanath and the waiting Inn of the Wayfarer where we can finally have some hot food and rest under blankets in a bed will restore any respectable reasoning to my mind.

Sometimes Eomore yearned for more privacy for his inner thoughts and that the vorpal weapon would not always be so tuned into his feelings, but usually she helped his reasoning. Certainly she would not talk to anyone else as long as he lived or else until he chose to surrender his duties to his own successor. That was a staggering thought, for it carried two connotations; first, that Eomore would marry and have a son to succeed him, and, secondly, that he would either be dead or ascending to the throne. Also, Exeter had never betrayed to him the secrets of earlier wielders even though the Prince had queried about his father and grandfather in efforts to learn of their reactions to sticky situations.

He couldn’t decide which would be worse - his bachelorhood might be more valuable than the sword or the armor - but maybe the sword was the reason that the crown prince of the kingdom of Donothor had never been interested in marriage. Eomore swore that he heard a snicker appearing deep within his consciousness.

Eomore’s wandering thoughts returned to the dismal night as the rain began to fall. It was a cold drizzle which seemed to coat them like acid then burn into their tired aching bodies. The sullen weary party rode onward into the silence of the night. Eight riders and ten steeds prodded on into the darkness. The middle steeds bore the corpses of the fallen Donothorians. Occasionally they began to pass a landmark that looked familiar to them in the dark night. A rare homestead appeared on the roadside. The riders were still on the fringes of civilization, and only the heartiest of the citizenry would inhabit these areas. Since night had fallen, the horsemen passed each dwelling unnoticed by the inhabitants. A quick inspection of the homes revealed that they looked more like small fortresses than homes -the windows were always shuttered and barred and wolvesbane and garlic were placed to fend off roaming creatures of the night, which Eomore himself felt were more fiction than fact. But legends made good fireside conversation and speculation for these strong border-folk who did not afford themselves many luxuries.

Even though these settlements were far from the mainstream of civilization, organized raids and uprisings such as the just squelched goblin troupe were uncommon, and the locals were accustomed to this secluded way of life and they were good, loyal subjects and were entitled to their beliefs, no matter how skewed they were.

But now, with the goblin insurgency crushed, all seemed secure, and the only sign of inhabitation of the dwellings were the wisps of smoke from the chimneys - that brought to mind a nursery song that Eomore had learned as a lad; how did it go? Chim chiminy chim chim cheree, Eomore chuckled. But the only responses were a cough from one of the rear riders which had to be coincidental, the steady pitter patter of the rain, and a rather critical, Oh, Brother! from the sheath at the prince’s side.

The elven cottages were always cheerier, as though they were reflecting their owners. There was always plentiful plant growth and greenery around the cottages even in the depths of the winter season. These elves were such a vibrant people and they seemed to have playful and beautiful Magick about then. Their proud faces and well-defined features made them particularly handsome in the eyes of Eomore. They were exemplary citizens and were welcomed to visit and settle within the borders of Donothor by the Aivendars. However, most of the elves chose to maintain their own civilization and lived in communities with strong family lines loosely allied for their common good. The chaotic nature of the elves made then even more appealing to Eomore, who always walked the straight and narrow and did what was expected of a prince. Donothor was graced by a few of the fair people who chose to work alone or in small groups in these rural areas. They were not of great physical stature or constitutional makeup, but they compensated for these with great speed and their accuracy as bowmen was second to none. On rare occasions an elf had served with the rangers, and they were also expert trackers; however, Eomore had been denied the opportunity to work with them and he had never been able to number an elf among his personal friends. There were legends of great numbers of elves of different creeds living within the depths of the Lachinor. Some lore told of great magical abilities and great skills at creating weaponry. There were stories of questionable character among certain of the elven dwellers deep in the swamplands. These were stories for the campfire largely.

In these thick forests and cleared grain fields there were few of the dwarven people. In the more mountainous central provinces and even in the populated areas the little folk were numerous. They made up probably thirty per cent of the population of Lyndyn itself, and their numbers were well represented on the ranger force. They had been invaluable to the Aivendars in the construction of the royal palace and the battlements surrounding the capital city during the wilder uncivilized days. The dwarven kings and their armies had greatly benefited the land during the ancient wars. The dwarves had suffered great losses in those primordial battles.

In the present time, however, the dwarves were incorporated into the Donothorian society and served Eraitmus and not a separate king. The dwarves were organized and meticulous. The stoutest of the stout of the little people was, in Eomore’s opinion, the second in command of the rangers and his true friend, Boomer the Brave. The little fellow had earned his title over and over again, and modesty was not Boomer’s forte. Deron had accompanied the prince on this adventure, and the dwarf had fought well. His handaxe had cloven many hard goblin heads in the struggle deep within Lachinor.

It will be good to see Boomer again. I hope Father does not have him off on a quest when we return. We could turn up a few tankards of ale. Eomore thought addressing his sharp companion.

But there was no answer. In many ways Exeter was quite like a woman. The rainfall became harder, and this brought Eomore back to his current situation and reality was not particularly nice right now. He bundled up in his tunic.

Sure wish the armor was twice as resistant to rain, he muttered.

Better be careful with those wishes, came her reply, one might come true!

They passed a small settlement - nothing more than a few houses, shops, and sawmill surrounded by a stockade. The riders came visible as they passed the gate and guard tower, for this village was fortunate - some time in the past they had been given an Orb of Light that illuminated the area near their gate and enabled the nightwatch to survey passersby with great scrutiny. The Permanence Spell cast upon the Orb would have required much time from the wizard that created it. Some citizen had paid dearly for this device but the scrutiny it provided was invaluable. Many a denizen of the wilds would be dissuaded from entering the area of light created by the Orb.

The flowing banners of the Aivendars were readily apparent to the night guard.

Hail, Prince, came the greeting from the tower.

Hail, citizen, the prince replied.

Returning the greeting of the woodsmen seemed a true privilege to Eomore, perhaps because the poor soul was forced to share the misery of this night by his own duty.

After another hour of riding and passing several more settlements, the party rounded a curve on a hillock and in the distance they could see a small cluster of lights - at last - the village of Kanath - the first appearance of civilization in nearly five weeks - there lay the promise of a warm meal, a dry bed, and perhaps even the glance and maybe conversation with a woman. Certainly there would be a tankard of ale, for a price of course, a dry mattress, and a loudmouthed innkeeper named Tarrance Frathingham - proprietor of the Inn of the Wayfarer. Frathingham had logged the visitors to his establishment over the years. The Frathingham study gave an estimate of the population of the area. The luscious meals of his kitchens had replenished the strength of many travelers.

There was a sudden feeling of great uneasiness - not really an immediate danger - anxiety. A free floating fear gripped Eomore.

Exeter! the prince queried, actually speaking the words.

No, nothing, my Lord, came the reply.

You don’t feel anything, Eomore continued.

No, repeated the blade, I’m sure it’s the fatigue, sire.

Yes, I suppose, but I just don’t feel…., Eomore began, and then his voice trailed off.

Eomore supposed that he was beginning to think about the reunion with his father. He knew that initially there would be words of welcome and greeting, but the conversation would eventually turn to the subject of marriage and an heir to the throne - it was a curse to be the eldest son of a monarch.

The horsemen entered the outskirts of the village of Kanath. The night watch greeted than with a robust welcome and they proceeded to the inn. Even though the hour was late, the place was buzzing with activity as it always was. Already they could hear the laughter from within.

People.

Mirth.

Laughter.

Insanity to restore sanity.

CHAPTER 2

The Inn of the Wayfarer

Dismounting was not a simple task, as the men felt glued to their saddles and their muscles ached. The inn’s stable boys were already scurrying around preparing to lead the mounts to the cozy stables and a well-earned rub down and feeding. When Eomore reached the heavy oaken door, he reached out to turn the latch, and then reflexively jerked back his hand. Wooden doors might be trapped with poisoned needles in the latches or fireglyphs on the doorknobs. Then the weary prince remembered where he was. The only real danger here was the risk one’s money belt took when he entered an establishment of Tarrance Frathingham. Still, it was hard to turn off the guard that one must exercise when adventuring in the name of the king. Eomore turned from the door and allowed his comrades to precede him into the inn. He watched as two stable boys led the horses bearing the bodies of the slain fighters to the small sanctuary across the square from the inn. One of the boys knocked at the door, and a man dressed in a simple black robe came out. He aided in taking the corpses from the horses to rest in the sanctuary. The curate wore the insignia of the Setting Sun on his robe. Clearly he was an underling of the great priestess Knarra, whose sanctuary was the Fane of the Setting Sun, the temple to Hiram and Lydia, the patron god and goddess to many of the people of Donothor. The cleric removed a vial from his belt and began a sprinkling motion over the bodies. Eomore was too far away to hear his words. If for no other reason, the now opened door allowed enough noise to escape the inn that a caterwaul would have easily been drowned out.

Eomore was suddenly aware of his name being spoken.

Please enter my humble establishment for nutrition and a bit of repose, thundered the voice from within. The prince of Donothor is forever welcome to share whatever we have to offer.

Thank you, citizen Frathingham, answered Eomore as he closed the door. A break from this night will certainly be welcome.

Tarrance Frathingham never gave anything away. But he always kept a clean and well run inn. The rotund cherub owned several inns throughout the land, but he had been born in Kanath, the son of poor timberjacks. Frugality had gotten him to his current position, a wealthy man for a commoner. The portly man was a good taxpayer and well respected by his neighbors. Eomore had seen him many times in Lyndyn seeking audience before the king. Eomore knew that the service would be good, the food would be hot and tasty, the ale would be fresh, and the rooms would be clean. Eomore knew the price would be steep. A Dakin didn’t buy much these days.

The prince walked over and took the last of the eight chairs at the table chosen by his men. He nodded and motioned them to take their seats; as was their custom, even though tired enough to drop, they remained standing until he was seated. Eomore had tried to stop this little ritual, but it seemed important to the men to give him this treatment. They respected him and loved him, but he really could never be one of them. Rare were folk, such as the fallen Loran and the haughty Boomer, with whom Eomore felt like a man instead of a prince.

The room was boisterous. Frathingham had already called to the kitchen for a bottomless tankard of ale for them. The prince’s eyes scanned the room. Obviously they had briefly become the center of attention when they had entered, but now the others were returning to their own conversations.

Most of the tables were occupied by Kanath’s own folk, but there were some other travelers. Eomore’s eyes were quickly captured by four of the fair people seated off in the western corner of the common room as far away from the light of the fire as they could conveniently get. It seemed that elves generally preferred the dark, as it seemed to be part of their reclusive nature. These were not ordinary elves - the cloaks were too fine, the longbows were too finely hewn, the facial features were too noble and pronounced- Eomore knew they were at least royal emissaries. He found his curiosity raging. His gaze then returned to the rest of the room. There were about twenty tables in this largest room of the inn, the drinking and dining area. Most of the tables were occupied even at this late hour. A great fire roared in the massive fireplace in the western end of the room. It kept two boys constantly running to keep it burning at such a roar. The bar was along the northern end of the room, and the proprietor had repositioned himself there and was doing a pretty good number on a large goblet of ale. It would seem that the fat man could drink up a lot of the profits, so to speak. There were several men seated at the bar, and Eomore couldn’t help but notice that most seemed to pull up on their cloaks when the law had entered the room. He wondered how many might have a price on their heads, but his mind wasn’t really on enforcement at this time. His mind briefly turned to his own pursuits of the rogue, Nigel Louffette, and how the rascal had always evaded him. He wondered again if Nigel could follow a trail as well as he could blaze one. If so, they should recruit him to join the rangers!

It seemed like an eternity before the large double door to the kitchen swung open and the servers came forward with the food for the weary travelers. There was a large roasted bird, an ample fruit and vegetable platter, and of course, more ale. The barmaid carrying the ale immediately caught Eomore’s eye. She was elven - and exceptionally pretty. But then again it had been almost five weeks since the prince had really looked upon the fair sex. Still, her deep green eyes sparkled and reflected every candle in the dining hall. Her hair was long and flowing and was the same hue as a ripening field of grain. She exhibited the typical elven physique, and she moved with the gracefulness of the fair people. The simple brown serving dress revealed her alluring femininity.

The older matron referred to her as Cara, a lovely name to go with a lovely face, thought Eomore. This little country barmaid had completely captivated the crown prince of Donothor, yet she in her innocence probably didn’t even know who he was. Maybe that’s why Eomore felt such a stirring deep within him when their gazes met. Unfortunately, the prince knew the affair would end there, because the heir to the throne of Donothor should not be prone to one-night stands, either literally or figuratively.

Cara, bellowed