Twinsoul: Chapter 6

Chapter 6:  Tasks

                       

The hills and valleys between Reylyn’s lair and Cagar-Tugan had a special kind of majesty about them.  The dawning spring gave way to lush grasses that grew from the fecund soil of the northern hills.  Where there was no vegetation, proud stone pushed up from the ground in proclamation of the earth’s strength.  The foothills of the Tharkas Mountains further south were awash in green, a sea of life washing at the base of the eternal monuments of stone.  Such grand sights made the trip worth it in Varcor’s opinion. 

The landscape was indeed beautiful, but to Varcor, much more impressive were the inhabitants.  He saw independent farms and larger farming villages dotting the landscape from the vista atop Reylyn’s mountain, but experiencing them up close gave Varcor a deeper insight to his kin.  Wherever he went, he saw honest, hardworking people doing their best to live a quiet life.  The simple folk, not knowing him or his companion, smiled and nodded in greeting as they passed through, courteous and respectful. 

From what he had read, this was far different from the orcs of the past.  The orcs were once known and hated across Kayledon as a warlike, vicious, cruel existence, a plague upon the good people of the world.  They constantly sought to increase their territories, and when not at war with humans or elves, constantly bickered amongst themselves and murdered each other.  Now, only their superior physical strength and tusked faces made them any different from the other folk of Kayledon. 

In a week’s time, they arrived at the gates of Cagar-Tugan.  This sprawling mountain city was the result of hundreds of years of architectural advancement and decades of building.  Besides its reliable structure, its tactical placement was well thought out and utilized to its fullest.  The city was nestled among the lower, inner mountains of the Tharkas range, guarded on the south and east by its taller outer peaks, and the Shosoran River giving additional support to the south.  The main road that traveled to  Olimport and Martoth and ran through the city was made to follow the natural contours of the range, making the roads more defensible.  There was also a road that led out of the kingdom, passing through Westway, the Valoran outpost that served as trading ground for the two countries, but it could easily be closed off from would be intruders, leaving the west the only viable direction for attack.  Only a fool would try to siege the orcs.  This had indeed been their saving grace during the time of the Horde.

Varcor had mixed feelings as he approached the high stonewalls and forbidding, heavy doors.  He had always thought of the High City as strong and proud, a bastion of orcan accomplishment.  It was his home.  But now that he had returned from the countryside, with the smaller, humbler dwellings, he felt as though the isolation and military preparedness of the city was a throwback to the darker history of his people.

“Uncle,” Varcor said suddenly, “do you spend much time around the people of the city?”

Kronta scratched his bald head.  “Not quite sure what ye mean by that, m’boy.  I get a drink at the Golden Gauntlet on me nights off, if that’s what ye mean.”

“Are the people here anything like the ones from the villages we went through?” the prince asked.  When Kronta gave him a funny look, he elaborated, “What I mean is do they seem as content, as peaceful as the villagers?”

Kronta gave this a moment’s thought, then shrugged.  “City life’s different, you know, with everyone comin’ and goin’.  Never really peaceful, though, always a criminal or gang doin’ what they aught not to do.”

Varcor shook his head.  “That isn’t really what I meant.  I don’t know if you can tell me what I want to know.”

Kronta screwed up his face in concentration, thinking about the prince’s question.  His eyes lit up, and he said, “If yer talkin’ ‘bout the way the people are, ye don’t need to worry on such things.  City or village don’t change the fact that an orc’s an orc, an’ we’ve all come a long way.”  The big orc sighed and shrugged.  “That is, save yer father.”

Varcor’s eyes narrowed inquisitively.  “What do you mean?”

Kronta began to answer, but the gates began to open the moment he opened his mouth.  Beyond the walls was an escort of ten orcs, ready to bring the returned prince to the castle.  Kronta shook his head, and whispered, “I’ll tell ye later, at the castle, without so many ears about.”

Varcor nodded slowly, not understanding the big orc’s need for secrecy, but respecting that he was not as learned in the situation as well as Kronta.  Together they greeted the escort, and were guided to the castle, which served only to give Varcor time to worry.

As they walked through the town, Varcor felt something was out of place.  His father never wasted any opportunity to celebrate, especially on occasions like this one.  He was compelled to ask Kronta about it, but something in the soldier’s pace, the way he looked over his shoulder, made him save the question for later.

Unfortunately, as soon as the escort came to the castle gates, the guards there informed Varcor that he was to go see his father immediately.  Kronta shrugged helplessly, offering no explanation or aid.  Without any logical recourse, Varcor instructed the two guards to have them bring him to the audience hall.

“We would,” one guard hesitated to say, “but our instructions were to bring you to the king’s private quarters, not the audience hall.”

“What?” Kronta sputtered.  “Tha’s not protocol!  His majesty wouldn’t ask for anythin’ so improper!”  The guard only shrugged, and reiterated that the orders came from the king himself.

“It’s all right, Uncle,” Varcor said calmingly to Kronta.  “I’ll do as he wishes.  I wouldn’t want these soldiers to be in trouble on my account.”  The guards seemed relieved to hear Varcor’s words, and that worried him no small amount.

They brought him to the second level of the castle, where the banquet hall and guest rooms were, then to the stairs leading to the third level, where the royal family’s quarters were, and were intercepted there by a single orc. 

“General Ganash,” Varcor said, recognizing him immediately by nothing more than his manner.  He was by far the most disciplined orc Varcor had ever met.  He stood with a wide stance and his arms behind his back, patience evident on his rough features.  “It is good to see you again.”

The general nodded at the soldiers, not even glancing at the prince until the other two had disappeared around the corner of the hallway.  He looked tersely to the prince saying, “Come this way.”  He was climbing the stairs before Varcor could even say a word.  The prince had a bad feeling about this situation, made worse by Kronta’s earlier words.  He tightened the gauntlet on his right hand, and followed the general up to the top floor.

Once there, Ganash led him right, in the direction of the king’s study.  Varcor started to protest, but stopped himself, for most of the soldiers knew that the third floor was for the royalty and their personal guards only, and was by all accounts the king’s “private quarters.”

Upon arriving to the study, Ganash opened the door and gestured that Varcor should enter first.  Apprehensively, the prince did as he was instructed, walking cautiously past the general and into the room.  Varcor peered about the room, seeing it vacant.  He strode over to the desk at the far end, where a pile of books covered the surface.  He recognized some of the titles as copies of ones he read in Reylyn’s company, but there were others he did not recognize.  Those he did were history books about the Horde, a tome on demon physiology, and a primer on the hazards and precautions of summoning.  One book piqued his interest, a red cloth bound book with a silver rune inscribed on the front, which he did not understand.  The book otherwise had no title.

He was about to open it when he heard Ganash enter and lock the door behind him.  The prince once again started to protest, but Ganash cut him off.  “I need to speak with you, my lord.”

“You could have told me that,” Varcor said angrily, “instead of skulking about the castle like some invader.  Where is my father?  Why have you brought me here?”

“I brought you here because it is where your father is not, and no one would dare think of coming here unbidden,” Ganash told him evenly.  Varcor’s surprise was surpassed when Ganash’s face twisted into an expression of a man hounded by fear and doubt.  “Praise Faarthus that you returned when you did!  It might be our last chance.”

Varcor was stunned.  He honestly could not comprehend what could possibly get under the skin of the one person he thought was unshakable.  “What is it?  Does this have to do with what Kronta tried to tell me?”

“He tried?  Faarthus bless him as well!” Ganash said, crossing his right arm to his left shoulder, a sign of praise to Faarthus.  “Yes, my lord.  It is something he and I have been talking of for some time now.”

“What is wrong with my father?” Varcor said, as loudly as he dared.  Up until now, he did not think anything was seriously wrong or that his father was in some sort of danger.  It was clear that if something had upset the stalwart Ganash, then either of those things could be true.

“Outwardly, he is as he always was, but during the past three years he has become increasingly obsessed with his other projects, and has devoted a large portion of his coffers to their progress.”  Ganash looked to the desk, where the stack of books drew Varcor’s attention again.  “He spends long intervals here with his books and with Iksol, studying endlessly.  I do not know what he intends to achieve, but with books like those, it cannot be anything good.”

Varcor shrugged.  “Father has always been interested in other planes, and after the Horde, many rulers have developed an interest in extra planar attacks.  This is not so . . .”

“I fear he means to summon a demon, Varcor,” Ganash interrupted.  “I have seen experimental chambers, prepared with magic circles and other paraphernalia I could not identify.  I think he may already have.”

Varcor still shook his head.  “To learn weakness and susceptibilities of their kind, or for other studies.  I have read about this before.”

“You do not understand!” Ganash pressed on, not dissuaded by Varcor’s arguments.  “I have told him of the evil he works with, as Kronta has.  He admits openly to us that he has spoken with demons, and means to summon more!  He claims that his endeavors will eventually be for the good of all the orcan people.  I have done a fair bit of reading of my own, and this is exactly the course of behavior believed to have brought about the coming of the Demon Horde, the fall of the Lost Land, and the arrival of the Mist.”

Varcor wanted to shout, to scream that what he was saying was just not possible, that his father was a good person and strong ruler.  But he had indeed read the same things that the general was now telling him.  He could not bring himself to discount the evidence, or the shaken tone of the one person he was told had never been frightened of anything.

“Reylyn has her suspicions as well, I have corresponded with her without His majesty’s knowledge during your trip from her lair,” Ganash told him.  “We both believe that you are the one who could ever talk sense into him.”

Varcor nodded, but deep inside he questioned whether or not his father would listen to him.  If he was deep in the thralls of his research, there would be nothing to convince his father of a better path.  In fact, he was still not entirely sure that his father was the one making erroneous judgments.

As soon as Ganash had seen his nod, he moved to the desk and picked up the red book, handing it to Varcor.  Varcor eyed him, then the book, saying, “What is this?”

“I do not know what is in it, but your father recently spent a small fortune for its procurement.  It is not written in any language I can understand, so I need you to take a look at it.  Not here, but when you are away from the prying eyes of our good Iksol.  Judging by the price your father paid for it, I do not doubt that it is of importance to his plans.”

Tentatively, Varcor accepted the book, and placed it in his satchel.  “Shall I go to see my father now?”

Ganash shook his head, chuckling.  “It would be inappropriate to see the king in your traveling garb.  The only reason we are having this talk now is that he thinks you are using this time to prepare for a proper reception.”

Varcor smiled and nodded.  “Always a firm believer in formality.”  Giving Ganash one final nod, he headed out of the study, and went to his room to prepare for the meeting with his father.

******

           

Varcor walked down the steps to the main hall some time later, after having washed and changed out of his apprentice robes into fine clothes that had been brought to his room beforehand.  He felt awkward not wearing his robe, so he had opted to wear a crimson dress cloak that he had stored away in his closet.  He kept his gauntlet on, and had been surprised when he found his father’s ruby-pommeled sword in his room.  It had significance in the eyes of the people of Faarthusia as the sword of a ruler, worn and wielded only by the king or queen.  He had left the sword in his room, and was prepared to ask why it had been left there.

His question was answered the moment he was heralded into the audience hall.  His father, Toras Voldur, sat upon the stately throne atop a dais on the far side of the hall.  Flanking him one step lower were his advisor and his retainer, Iksol on the right and Ganash on the left.  Before Varcor had left, the prestigious right position had been where Ganash sat.  More importantly, he noticed what now replaced his father’s sword. 

The blade appeared to be made of dark iron, a much more durable metal for weapons than normal iron, mined from the Tharkas Mountains.  But it seemed to be alloyed with hardened crystal, making it somewhat translucent and giving it the illusion of a shadow sliding down the edge.  The hilt resembled outward facing ram horns, and the pommel was set with a fire opal.  The sword rested against the arm of the throne, and his father’s hand rested on top of it.

His appraisal turned to the king as he approached.  Ganash had spoken truly when he said that his father had not outwardly changed.  He carried himself in the same dignified manner, moved as deliberately as before, and stood as one might stand on top of the highest mountain, proudly and self-assured.  But Varcor noticed a haze in his eyes, a darkness that might have been from lack of sleep, or perhaps something deeper.  He might not have changed in appearance, but his eyes and new sword reflected the inner darkness growing in the ruler.

“Well met, father,” Varcor said as he approached.  He forced a pleasant look to his face, despite a growing awareness that the near future would indeed be anything but pleasant.

Toras stood up from the throne and walked down the dais to his adopted son, his arms spread wide to embrace the youth.  “Well met indeed, Flamesoul.”

Varcor returned his father’s hug, not missing the reference to his nickname.  He had many, many questions, but they would have to wait.  At this moment, he did not want to believe that his father was capable of consorting with demons or endangering the country and himself.  All he wanted to believe in now was the man who had raised an orphan son who had appeared from nowhere, a man who made every decision with the interests of his people and family in mind.

He needed this, or he would never be able to help his father.

After the hug was released, Toras looked his son over once, and gave him a curious look.  “Why do you not wear the sword I sent to your room?”

Varcor struggled not to scream his reply.  “Father, it is the sword of the ruler of Faarthusia, and it is not my place to wield it.”

Toras waved away those words as if they meant nothing.  “Tradition must change eventually.  It is only a sword after all.  This blade was a gift, and I find I prefer its balance to my old one.”  He smiled.  “After all, I received the old sword from my father, and now I give it to you.  The tradition shall live on, yes?”

“Yes sire,” Varcor answered, but still had a hard time accepting the answer as final.  He decided to let that topic sit for now, and move on to something that had been bothering him since he had arrived in town.  “I must admit, I had expected more.”

“More?” Toras echoed, guiding his son over to a table prepared for tea.  “How do you mean?”

“What I had understood was you would be holding a reception for my return, with guests and a banquet.” His father’s questioning look remained the same, and he continued.  “What I mean to say is you celebrate the return of a successful raid against encroaching ogres and goblins more than you have lauded the return of your own son.  I get the feeling that no one but the soldiers who escorted me had any idea I have returned.”

His father laughed then, and started pouring the tea.  “My dear boy, do you feel neglected?”

“Not at all,” Varcor said with a smirk.  “It’s just that you had less of a reaction to the consummation of my education than you did to the first words I spoke.”

“If I may interject, Majesty,” Ganash said as he came over, “my lord’s observations are not without truth.  Indeed, you threw a grand celebration when my lord took his first steps.”

Toras chuckled, and nodded.  “Yes, I understand you both very well, though I will point out that both of those were more private affairs than you make them out to be.”

“Majesty, you had invited the king of Valora to both occasions,” Ganash said dryly.

“He is a good friend, after all,” Toras pointed out, then he sighed.  “Indeed, I would have liked to have much more to do than this, but I thought it best if our first reunion in three years be a quiet one.”

Varcor looked at his father suspiciously.  Toras Voldur was never one to do anything quietly, especially if it involved his son.

The king’s tone became serious.  “Also, before we can celebrate, there is something I would have you do.”  He motioned for Iksol to come over, and the dark-haired priest made his way to his king’s side.  “There is a matter of national importance that requires your attention, Varcor.”

“National importance?” Varcor asked, now totally baffled. 

“Yes, my son,” Toras said.  “This is not to be spoken of around the public or anyone else uninvolved.  This is why no one must know you are here yet.”

“Despite the secrecy, the task is basically a simple one,” Iksol explained.  “You must go into the eastern kingdom of Shae’Ildarae, to the Cavern of Crystal.  There you will find a group of adventurers, led by a half-elf sorcerer of Solreth.  You must bring them here, dead or alive.”

“What is this rubbish?” Varcor spouted, no longer able to contain his frustration.  “First you tell me you have some secret mission for me, now you ask me to commit murder for the sake of our country?  We are at peace with the elves, but they still do not trust us!  Sending the prince of Faarthusia to attack one of their own – on their own land, no less! – is nothing short of asking them to retaliate!”

He looked to his father.  “Surely, with all the work you have done to win the favor of the fair folk, you cannot concur with this conspiracy?”

The king of the orcs, unaffected by Varcor’s ranting, gave his son a look of unfaltering conviction.  “In truth, the idea was mine.”

If Varcor had a reply to that, it was refusing to budge past his teeth.  He could only stare in horror at the madness that surrounded him.

“You forget, Varcor, that ever since you came to him, your father has been gifted with prescience,” Iksol said sternly, looking ruffled from the prince’s verbal barrage.  “His Majesty has had a vision concerning the future of our race, and you shall play an integral role in what is to come.”

Varcor calmed visibly at those words.  He knew of his father’s prophetic visions, and had actually witnessed most of them play out completely as his father said.  Though this ability had not been revealed to the public, most suspected that the king of Cagar-Tugan was either a genius or a seer.  Of course, those who did know of his gift knew he was both, for future sight (or accurate future sight) was a very rare talent and the ability to interpret the visions so well took incredible cognitive skill and memory.

“The half-elf Iksol mentioned is someone who can help to damn or save our people, by his life or death,” Toras said, picking up where his advisor left off.  “He is more valuable alive, but if he resists, then he must be destroyed.”

“Who is this sorcerer you would have me kill?” Varcor asked, still unsure of how he felt about the situation.

“His name is irrelevant, you may ask it when you meet him,” Toras said.

“What’s so special about him?” Varcor pressed.  “What could the kingdom of orcs possibly want with one half-elf?”

“If his exploits are left unchecked, he could bring us to ruin,” Toras explained.  “If he works with us, however, he could be the first stepping stone of our rise to respect and greatness.”

“What is it he could do for us?” Varcor asked, no longer quite so doubtful, but honestly curious about this person he had to find.

“In truth, it is his potential that interests me, not his current level of skill,” Toras said.  Varcor gave him a doubtful frown, but the king patted the air.  “I understand your reasonable reservation in this matter my son.  So I’ll tell you a little more of why I am interested.  It is my firm belief that this nameless half-elf sorcerer may help us fulfill the Prophecy of Unity.”

Varcor’s eyebrows rose and his pulse tripped and stumbled.  He certainly had not expected his father to say that.

Toras smiled at his son’s reaction, and went on.  “All of my visions since you have come to me are culminating in this one event, this precipice of glory or ruin.  You must bring him to me, or remove him as a threat.  Failure in this matter may result in our damnation.”

No pressure, Varcor thought sarcastically as he struggled to breathe normally.  This information was taxing to him, and the realization of the enormous burden his father had just placed unceremoniously upon his shoulders was stressful to say the least.

As if his father read his mind, he chuckled and shook his head.  “But you hardly need to hear that now, so soon after your journey.  I am sorry, my son, but you realize that I would not have mentioned it if it were not drastically important, don’t you?”

Varcor nodded.  “I understand father.”

Toras beamed.  “Good.  Do not think of this now.  Let us finish our tea, and then you can start getting the rest you need to be on the road again.”

A sudden thought struck the prince.  “When shall I be leaving?” Varcor asked.

Toras thought a moment, and then answered, “You must get proper rest, so no sooner than three or four days.”

Varcor nodded, relieved that he did not have to leave quite so soon.  He would have plenty of time to use the vast library at in the city and his father’s personal collection to try and find the person responsible for the Demon Horde, and their connection to Reylyn.  He would not have enough time for thorough research, but enough to have good leads when he began his proper search after he returned from his father’s task.  Not only that, but perhaps he could interpret or at least identify the tome Ganash had given him, which might give him insight to his father’s recent behavior. 

The future of Flamesoul seemed fraught with tasks.

Twinsoul, Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Promise

Over the next few days, Varcor trained his healing magic with Reylyn, exercising his heart instead of his will. He found that healing did not require the inhibition of emotion he thought it needed, but a very specific one. Since Varcor had a great deal of control over his emotions, he could easily find the same feeling he needed for healing as the one he found in the song. In a short time, the time he needed to cure a wound was halved, and his power reached deeper, enabling to mend bones and purify toxins.

However, he wondered if that was the extent. As he always did when he learned something new, he found as many books as he could on the subject and studied further. He was surprised to find that Reylyn had a great collection of books on healing, even some theories that no one had proved yet. One of them in particular caught his attention.

After his lesson one afternoon, he asked Reylyn, “Is it possible to revive the dead?”

Reylyn looked surprised for a moment, like she had been struck in the face. The look threw Varcor off balance, and he knew immediately that he should not have asked.

“It is not,” she said, her voice soft and cracked. “No, you cannot bring the dead back to life.”

“I have read as much in your books, but there are a number of them that say . . .” He started to argue, but could see the sad look in the dragoness’ eyes, imploring him to stop. He drew his words back and cast his gaze apologetically low.

“No, Varcor,” Reylyn said, her voice still soft. “Only the gods could return the souls of the dead to their bodies, and they rarely choose to do it. Mortal creatures can sustain life, even create it, but cannot return it.” Reylyn closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as though she was trying to steady herself. “Why don’t we stop here for the day? Take a walk down to the village and get yourself something for dinner.”

She turned and walked down the slope that lead back to the cave.  Varcor hated himself for asking such a question, cursed his own curiosity. He realized then why she had those books. He started to wonder if there were any other dragons in Kayledon.

******

           

Reylyn lay on a pile of gold, her favorite place to sleep. Her gaze moved around the room, trying to concentrate on something other than Varcor’s question. She could not recall the last time she was so distraught. She knew the boy meant no harm, but her scars in this matter were deep. It was all she could do to keep herself from lashing out at him, to punish him for reading her private texts. Like any other dragon, she was horrible at organization, so there was no real way to know that those texts were off limits if he found them. She should have burned those books long ago.

But something inside her would not let her give up hope.

Movement from outside the cave brought her to her senses.  Something was outside, something that wasn’t Varcor. It was not that she did not get visitors from the village, just that this was not the aura of a villager. It felt like a demon.

“Who’s there?” She cried out hoarsely. “I am not in a good mood, so you best leave while you have a chance.”

“My, my, aren't you testy today,” a strangely familiar voice said in her mind, flooding her thoughts with memories. “What’s the matter, little one? Your pupil not dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s?”

“Only one immortal is brazen enough to call me little,” She hummed, a smirk growing on her face. “It has been too long, Lyxas.”

The nightmare stepped forward, and bowed before her. “Poerna sends his regards. I have some news, none of it you will like.”

“Then I must ask you to leave,” Reylyn said jokingly. “As I said, you’ve come to me at the end of my temper.”

“A temper too foul to hear news of the Darkplane?” Lyxas offered tantalizingly.

She paused a moment, considering his words. “Has this to do with . . .”

“In short, he is moving, but we know not why,” he said, and added narrowing his eyes, “or who through. You need to be careful.”

“Do you suspect my charges?” Reylyn growled. She began to stand, but Lyxas shook his fiery mane.

“Not yet. But,” he started, eyeing her curiously, “do you really still consider the orcs your responsibility?”

“I do,” she said tersely. “And they shall be, until I have repented.”

Lyxas looked at her sadly, an unexpected action from the demon-horse. “You still will not forgive yourself? By the unnamed shadows, child, it was over a century ago! No one can remember but you and us, and you are the only one out of six still holding out on mercy.”

She lay back down on her treasure pile, and softly scratched a crimson claw over the stone floor. Lyxas shook his head and took his leave, giving her the solitude of her self-confinement.

******

Varcor returned to the cave later that night, but he and Reylyn did not speak a word to each other. He knew his earlier words had disturbed some long past sorrow of hers, and did not wish to pry further. He felt that it was not his place to ask, not yet. He was still her student, and owed her a great deal of respect. Still, he could tell she was aching to say something, to pass this uncomfortable silence.

Varcor decided to end it himself. He had a question for her that she had left him with the day she had woken up. Up until now, he had no other reason to ask her. Breaking the torturous silence seemed reason enough.

He came up close to her, sitting on a large stone that he had designated as his spot in her chamber. She seemed to notice him, but hardly moved her head from the floor. She was looking over with a plaintive expression, as a child might look to a parent for words of advice.

“Before, after you had woken up,” he started, his voice wary and low, “you said something to me about passing one of your tests. What did you mean? In fact, why exactly did you bring me here in the first place?”

She smiled. It was a welcome sight to the half-orc, and he nearly sighed in relief.

“I have been waiting for you to ask that since I spoke of it,” she said warmly, her old friendly tone returning. “But before we talk about that, there is something else you need to know. What do you know about art, Varcor?”

“Art?” He was confused now. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Everything.” The word was final, leaving no room for debate. “What do you know about it?”

“I have read about great artists,” he started, “the first orcan artists, musicians, poets . . .”

“But what do you know of making art?” she asked, her eyes gazing questioningly on him.

“Nothing, really,” Varcor admitted. “I have had other concerns for a long time. I never really thought about it.”

“I see.” The dragoness lifted her large head. “Well, the way most people understand it, art is an expression that mere words cannot define. The creator puts forth an idea that they don’t know how to relate in another way.”

Varcor nodded. He could not possibly see what this had to do with him.

“But I . . .” She paused, thought furrowing her brow. “Dragons see art a little differently. We, above all else, know that nothing lasts forever. If there is one thing that does, it is art. Not just one piece, but all the pieces that come before and after it. It is continuous and endless as the stars in the sky.

“Artists do more than just create something from an idea. When an artist creates, they put a part of themselves into their work; something they hope will tie them to the eternity of art. They all want this, even if they don’t know it.”

“But what does this have to do with me?” Varcor asked, impatience edging his voice. This was all very mysterious to him, and he was not sure he liked where it was going.

She paused here, and looked long and hard at her student. He could tell she was either trying to say something difficult, or was trying to decide what to say. Finally, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I was there when you were found, out in the meteor field,” she said, her voice cracking.

Varcor felt his heart quicken.

“I was the one who lifted you from the ground, and wrapped you in a blanket, handing you to your father. I wanted to help shape your world, but that chance was taken from me. That was the most I saw of you until three years ago.”

Varcor’s heart skipped a beat. “Why?” His voice came in a rasp; it was all he could do to get past the lump in his throat. “Why did my father keep you away?”

“I don’t think Toras had much to do with it,” She said softly. Varcor could tell that she had much respect for his father; just in the way she spoke his name. “He knew that I had much to offer in your upbringing, and had even told me as much. But someone did not want a dragon to interfere with your life, and I was shut off from the kingdom. I don’t think any message I sent to your father ever made it near him.”

Varcor’s heart filled with emotion. He could not believe what he was hearing. He was curious as to who would want to leave Reylyn out of his life, but was infuriated by the injustice of it all. At the same time, he wondered why she did not just take what she wanted. She was a dragon after all. He might have asked then, but she continued before he could.

“When I was finally invited to visit by your father, all I wanted was to see you. When I did, I was horrified at what you were becoming,” she nearly spat the words, and Varcor could feel the temperature in the large chamber rising. “You were a spoiled prince, with a foul temper and a short fuse, and you could not even look out for yourself. But I could still see a glimmer of hope, a spark of strength within you that your poor guardian must have tried to foster.”

Varcor knew immediately what she was talking about. Kronta Baangs had always treated Varcor like a normal being, not a heavenly gift or royal heir. The combat training he got from his unrelated uncle was the most fulfilling thing that had happened to him, before he had met Reylyn. He suddenly wondered about his uncle, and what he might have been doing.

“That’s why I brought you here, Flamesoul. I knew I had to help craft you into someone who can help your people one day, and so did Kronta. He was the one who helped convince that I tutor you. Your father looked as though the thought had never occurred to him, as though he had forgotten about me.” She hesitated, and her breathing sounded very forced. He could see her trying to calm herself.

“I carry with me a darkness that I cannot be free of,” she said evenly, when she at last spoke again. “At least, that was how I felt until I saw you. I knew that if I could teach you, and bring out your potential, I could ease part of this sorrow.”

Her voice was becoming strained again, as though these words and emotions had been shut away for a terribly long time. Varcor could not imagine anyone living with something this harrowing for very long. He felt a new sadness, a sort of pity for his teacher that made him want to share her pains.

“I have put a part of myself, part of my race, into you,” She said, looking at him, tears rimming her orange eyes. “You are a masterpiece, Flamesoul; A powerful, compassionate, intelligent existence. You have a will that would make the Firelord himself bow to you. You are a dragon’s art.”

Varcor sat quietly for a moment, not sure how to process what she was telling him. He had no idea what these three years had meant to her, but could not begin to imagine how she felt about him. What was this sadness that seemed to be there, even when she could hide it so well? If she and her father were so close, how could he not have known this?

“I am sorry,” she whispered, brushing her great red paw under her eyes to wipe away the tears. “I didn’t mean to get so caught up in that. I haven’t answered your first question.”

“It’s all right,” he said softly, feeling almost responsible for her sadness.

“The tests,” she continued, much more calmly, “were objectives I set for myself to teach you. The first you passed long ago, though I did not notice until our conversation that morning. It was to see if you could be made to fend for yourself.” She smiled, in spite of her earlier show of emotion. “I think spending two weeks without my help qualifies you for passing that one.”

Varcor smiled back. “It was not so bad.” He realized that his words were proof of how far he had come. Three years ago he could not have gotten along for two days alone.

“The second test was to see if you could learn compassion for others. Not just orcs, but all other creatures. There is no other force like the one that binds creatures together in emotion. You cannot help anyone if you don’t understand their feelings.” She gave him a gentle, motherly look. “I see the look on your face now, and I think it’s pretty obvious to both of us that you pass this one, too.”

He was happy to hear her say that. At least she knew he cared for her, even if he could not do anything more to help her.

She sighed long and hard. “The third and final test will prove to be difficult, for me and you. I haven’t yet devised a way that you could prove to me you have passed it.”

As if to answer her, a sweet and melodious humming filled the room. Varcor looked around, but could not see where it came from. Suddenly, a tiny, golden form flitted through the air into the chamber, heading for Reylyn. Varcor watched what appeared to by a golden, glowing bird perched atop a stone and bowed before the red dragoness.

“What is that?” Varcor managed to whisper.

She looked at him oddly. “You have never seen a songspirit before?” He shook his head, though he had heard of them, and seen references to them in his readings. “These are the message carriers of Kayledon, derived from the plane of air.”

“As expected of the Red Lady,” the little bird said in a singsong, heavenly voice. “Your knowledge almost surpasses your beauty.”

“Enough flattery, wind child,” Reylyn prompted. “What news do you have for me?”

“I bear tidings from the king,” it said. “He wishes that Varcor Voldur be released to him in one week’s time. Until then, you are to finish any training you may be giving him, and if you have not already done so, instruct him about the Prophecy of Unity. Colonel Kronta Baangs will be here to retrieve the prince at the appointed time. That is all.” With that, the songspirit shimmered and disappeared.

Varcor swallowed hard, unsure of how to take this news. He was excited at the prospect of going home and seeing his father and Kronta again, but on the other hand he was loath to leave Reylyn so soon. He felt there was so much more he could learn from her, and did not want to leave her side yet.

He looked to her for a clue to what she felt about the situation. She gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling, as though trying to remember something. “Colonel?” She half whispered, half thought aloud. “Last time we spoke, he was a private.”

“Reylyn,” Varcor spoke up to get her attention, “what do we do now?”

She turned to him, her eyes still thoughtful. “We have already spoken on the Prophecy, yes?” she said patiently.

“Yes,” Varcor stammered, uncertain of where she was going with this. “You taught me about the Prophecy as one of our first lessons.”

“Then I believe I have something more important that you should learn, Flamesoul,” she said determinedly. “If all goes well, you shall also pass the final test.”

******

Varcor sat at his reading table, drumming his fingers on the solid oak as he thumbed through a large tome, poring over pages of lore on the demon horde. He had long grown tired of his stool, and had dragged an overstuffed chair (Reylyn’s favorite) over to the table. Beside him on the floor were at least a dozen other books that had promising titles that he had pulled from various shelves. Strewn about on the table were several he had already looked through and had either had inconclusive information or did not cover the particular part of the Demon Horde war that he was interested in.

He was not happy when Reylyn had given him the assignment for his final test. When she had told him that he needed to find out who had started the Demon Horde attack, he thought she was out of her mind. It had very little to do with the Prophecy as he knew it, and she could not have picked a more difficult topic to research. Most of the sources he had uncovered held that it was either an unprecedented raid, or that there was no official reason for the attack, just demons being demons.

“Nothing happens without a reason,” Varcor kept telling himself angrily. “No one could be foolish enough to believe demons could be so careless.” He could scarcely believe that this was an accepted theory on demons. They might have been creatures of chaos, but that did not mean they could not plan an attack and have motives for attempting a war.

He leaned forward in his seat as he found a passage that intrigued him greatly. The book was a collection of lore on demons, specifically the demons that had invaded with the horde. He had hoped that he would find out about the leaders of the horde, but apparently the otherworldly forces were being directed from the Darkplane, the demon home plane.

According to the book, demons were not capable of entering the Prime Material plane without being summoned or otherwise given passage. They could, however, influence the actions of mortals through focuses and dreams, convincing them to release the demon into the world. However, there were few demons that could amass such a great amount of followers or influence someone powerful enough to bring them all through that it must have been a demon lord.

Excitedly, Varcor snapped the book shut and tossed it onto the pile on the table. He jumped up from his seat and began scanning the titles in the stack beside him. The book he was looking for was at the bottom of the pile, so he upended his stack to retrieve it. It was a codex, a collection of names of extra planar beings, and it included a list of the demon lords known to the sages of the Prime Material plane. He flipped around to the right page, and paused when he found a name that intrigued him. All the others he found were mentioned as being banished, sealed, forgotten, or otherwise incapable of attempting anything on the scale of the Horde, save one. This one, Varcor had read about.

Sorting through his disheveled pile, the half-orc picked up the one book he had taken from its shelf on a whim. He figured that if he could not find what Reylyn asked of him, he could at least study more on the Prophecy. The book was entirely about Unity, the band of heroes that had once saved the world from utter destruction. It was no more than a legend, but any scholar knew that fiction was at least based on reality. The prophecy itself had stemmed from the actual group known as Unity, foretold by the very sorcerer who had instituted the school of Solreth.

The danger that Unity had been reported to have thwarted was a demon lord. His full name, written in the primer that he matched it with was Jarexellion. Unless there was some unheard of demon lord that had amassed power equal to one of the oldest demon lords in existence without the Material plane noticing, there could be no other candidate.

Varcor pushed away all the discarded books away from the table, unearthing his parchment and quill. He opened his inkbottle, and smiled as he started his report. Reylyn would be pleased with his work this night.

******

“Done?” Reylyn said, surprised. “But you only just started last night!”

Varcor shrugged, his smirk confident. “What can I say? I knew where to look, and your selection had all the right information.”

Reylyn propped her chin in one upturned paw as she lay on her treasure pile. “I don’t know . . . you finished it awfully fast. Are you sure that you want to show this to me now, Flamesoul? You don’t want to look it over again to make certain your assessment?”

Varcor smiled. “I already have. I double checked all my facts and sources, and triple checked all my spelling.”

Reylyn shook her head, grinning broadly. “Are you sure you’re an orc, and not an elf in disguise?” she laughed. “You’d make a better scholar than a prince.”

The half orc laughed along with her. He could not help but feel happy that he was different from his kin. While the orcs were nice enough, most of them still had very little to do with the pursuit of knowledge. He found that while he was studying with Reylyn, he felt more fulfilled than when he was learning swordplay with Kronta or being lectured on Faarthus’s teachings by Iksol.

Reylyn transformed herself to her human state, something Varcor had never quite gotten used to. He much preferred her natural state to the falsity of her human guise, and he was not used to being taller than she was. She took the sheaf of parchments from him, and started reading. It was while she was reading that Varcor realized something that made his heart freeze.  He had gone to great lengths to find out the demon that instigated the whole conflict, but he had neglected to mention his findings about demons accessing the Prime Material plane. In further frigid terror, he realized that the demon might not have been what she was looking for, that she had intended for him to find out who had allowed Jarexellion to send his armies out from the Darkplane in the first place.

Much to his surprise, she nodded. “That is incredible. I didn’t think you would get it right on your first try.”

“What?” Varcor said, confused.

She gave him a perplexed look. “What is it? You seemed so confident about your work a moment ago.”

“I . . .” He started, pausing to think if he should mention his realization. “I was just thinking that it was incomplete.”

“How?” She said, waving the papers in front of him. “You detailed your sources, explained your thoughts clearly, and I could not find a single spelling error.”

“I mean the information. I did not give any thought to the mortal side of the conflict.”

She cocked an eyebrow, still seeming just as much a dragon in her human form. “What are you going on about, dear boy?”

“Demons need mortal aid before they can enter our world. In my fervor to find the demon responsible, I did not even think to find out the mortal responsible for . . .”

She paled as he spoke the words, which startled him. Her expression would have been enough to keep him from saying more, but he had never seen her go pale before, not even in her human form.

“How did you find that out?” She breathed, her voice barely a whisper.

“That was my basis for guessing Jarexellion. He was the only one powerful enough at the time to do it.” He scratched his chin. “To even attempt something like that, the sorcerer responsible would have to have been incredibly talented. Would it be all right if I looked it up now, and added it to my report?”

She was silent for a while, and Varcor at first interpreted it as indecision. “It would not be for my test, just for posterity’s . . .”

He stopped in mid sentence when she fixed him with a look that would have made Faarthus blanch. Her eyes almost glowed with anger, and Varcor could feel his soul shrink under the weight of her ire.

“What does it matter, Varcor?” She said sternly. “It could have been anyone with magical training, even a fledgling student like you. Demons have the ability to play on your worst fears and greatest desires. A demon as powerful as Jarexellion can enslave the minds of any but the most brilliant of creatures. No, Varcor, there was no mortal was at fault in the Coming of the Horde.”

Varcor almost choked on his own emotion, looking away from her. He could not believe that he had been so brazen as to consider that a mortal would have intentionally released hell on the world. He did not know what to say to her, no words seemed to be appropriate for apology. He looked up at her, and saw that the anger had dissolved into a frustrated sadness. He felt sickened for opening up some old wound she suffered ages ago, and so soon after he had upset her with his other questions.

After a long silence, she handed him back his report. He took it carefully, not knowing what to expect from her now. She would not look him in the eyes. He did not know whether that was a good thing.

He wanted to curse at himself. He wanted to take a dagger to the books in the library. He wanted to yell at her for giving him the assignment. But there was no one to blame for his unease, or her sadness.

He did the only thing he felt was left. He put a hand on her shoulder, and said, “I’m sorry.”

She looked up at him again, emotion welling up in her eyes. He realized that this might have been the first time in three years that he actually touched her. By the look she gave him, not many people gave her such affection.

“It isn’t your fault, Flamesoul,” she said, smiling and drawing him into a hug. Varcor sighed in relief as he held her, just happy to see her smile. She pulled back after a moment, still smiling. “You passed, you know.”

“I did?” he said, and she nodded.

“Yes. I know for a fact that no book in my library states that Jarexellion was the cause of the Horde War. You did better than most scholars, orc or otherwise. This assignment was to test if you could find the truth out for yourself, and you have done that spectacularly. Now, on the issue of the sorcerer responsible . . .”

“I don’t want to know anymore,” Varcor said. “You’re right. I should not have made that assumption. No matter what happened, no mortal could be held accountable for that disaster.”

She gave him another soft smile. “I know. But I think it would be important that you know. But I don’t want you to find out here. Take your research to Cagar-Tugan. If you don’t find out by the next time we meet, I may tell you myself.”

Varcor nodded, understanding more than he let on. He had already guessed that she knew. She had probably been attached to that person, by the reactions she had given him. If this had to do with his question about bringing the dead back, he would not be surprised.

“Oh!” She said suddenly, and hurried off toward her treasure pile. Varcor watched as she moved aside a few coins and baubles and came out with a crimson leather gauntlet for the right hand, its fingers missing, with a large, fiery garnet set into the back.

“This is your reward for passing all my tests,” she said, handing it to him reverently.

“It is beautiful,” he said. He pulled it onto his hand, and it seemed to mold itself to the contours of his hand.

“It is more than beautiful,” she said. She returned to her true form, and climbed atop her treasure bed. “It is a fire magic amplifier. It was said to be worn by a great hero in times of trouble. You will find that it makes your powers easier to command and much more effective.”

“I am honored with this gift,” he said, bowing deep. “I shall wear it with pride.”

She laughed then, a deep melodious sound that echoed throughout the cave. “You never change, Flamesoul.”

******

The next five days seemed to pass for Varcor in the space of a breath. Reylyn had him finish his healing magic training, but it seemed little more than a distraction after all he had learned. He and Reylyn conversed openly, they way the did before Varcor had asked about resurrection. When the conversations were over, he could only think of how much he would miss those discussions.

Finally, the day came when Kronta showed up on the cliffs outside Reylyn’s lair. When he arrived, both Varcor and Reylyn were reading near the entrance of the cave.  When he saw Varcor, the big orc beamed. “Why, look at ye!” he said, making his way over to the cave entrance to give Varcor a friendly hug. “Ye’ve grown like a tree, ye have! Almost as tall as meself!”

“It is good to see you, Uncle,” Varcor said, accepting the hug gratefully. “I’ve missed you and father very much.”

“It has been a long time, Kronta,” Reylyn said, closing the dragon-sized tome she was reading. “I trust you had no trouble on the cliffs?”

“Bah!” Kronta said. “No more trouble than a flight o’ stairs! How have ye been, m’lady?”

“I’m very well, Colonel,” she said, with emphasis on his new title.

“Ah, it ain’t much more than a title,” he said gruffly, embarrassed. “In charge o’ me old unit or the bloody Silver Guards, It’s all the same ta me.” He looked to Varcor. “Are ye ready, boy?”

“I . . .” Varcor said, and then hesitated. He looked up to Reylyn, unsure of how to say what he wanted. For all his study and learning, he did not know how to say goodbye.

Reylyn must have seen the unease on his face, and guessed what he was trying to say. She shook her large head when he stammered, and leaned down to whisper, “This isn’t good bye, Flamesoul. You and I will meet again, I promise.”

He nodded, and then hugged her muzzle, unable to contain his emotion. “I will see the one responsible for your sadness punished,” he whispered. “I swear it.”

She looked at him softly. She smiled again, and nudged him away towards Kronta.

“Thank ye, m’lady,” the big orc said.

“You are most welcome, Kronta. Tell the king his son was a joy to teach, more so than he was.”

“Aye, ye’ve got my word,” Kronta said. “Let’s be off, boy.”

“I am a boy no longer, Uncle,” Varcor said, his dark red eyes blazing with an inner fire. “I am now Flamesoul.”

Twinsoul: Prelude

To kick off the new updates, I thought I'd start with posting chapters of my novel, Twinsoul. I'd much rather have people read it for free and contribute to the patreon if they like it. I'll post chapters of this monthly until what I have is out there, and we'll see after that if people want more!
I hope you enjoy!

********

Toras Voldur stood on the balcony of Castle Tugan, looking down at all his people had accomplished.  A great city full of trade, craft, and power sprawled before him.  Even hours after the sun had set; the city was alive with the lights of his people.  Some would stay open all night and rest during the day, simply because many of his people preferred night to day.  Also housed within the city was one of the largest, most well trained, and highly respected armies in all of Kayledon.  This was Cagar-Tugan, the High City of the Orcs.

Long ago, the ancient, evil god of the Orcs had been destroyed. Faarthus, the god of fire, led the abandoned Orcs west, to the Tharkas Mountains.  In a vision, he told the Voldur’s ancestor to begin a more peaceful life among the peaks.  Since then, under the leadership of seven kings and five queens of Voldur lineage, the orcan race became more civilized, enjoying a life beyond war and conquest. 

Up until then, the orcs had received very little recognition from the humans, even less from the dwarves and gnomes, and outright distrust from the elves.  So when the Demon Horde attacked nearly a century ago, Toras’ great grandfather thought it would be best if he gave the lrest of the world a reason to trust the orcs.

Crovas Voldur had sent orc battalions from his own front lines to the other sites of the attack—the Urdor Mountains, the Elderwoods, the Kingdom of Valora, the gnome city Mistwatch, and the two great schools of magic, Solreth and Luereth.  

His move was the greatest leap forward for orc kind since the death of their god.  The honor and bravery of the orcs earned them the trust and respect of the humans of Valora and Eldrina, and were offered an alliance with both kingdoms.  The gnomes of Mistwatch, who were most thankful for the military aid, were now on the best of terms with the orcs, and offered their future services in any endeavors.  The dwarves of Urdor were not quite as enthusiastic, but willingly accepted the orcs as comrades, and offered to help mine the Tharkas Mountains. 

The elves of Shae’Ildarae, however, still had very little to say to the orcs, though they had received just as much aid as any other area.  They had dropped open hostilities and much of their old hatred toward their ancient foe, and no orc living that Toras knew of held any ill will toward the Fey Folk, but there was no openness, no alliance and no trade between them.  The elves were known to be somewhat cold to others, especially to humans, but the relations between orcs and elves were downright chilly, and not on the orcs behalf either.  Toras had observed an orcan caravan guard offer an elven caravan protection between Shae’Ildarae and Eldrina for no cost, only to see the elven caravan politely decline.  When the goblins of Western Urdor swarmed into the Elderwoods, he personally ordered a company of his finest warriors, the Silver Guards, to aid in the fighting.  What he received in return was a share of the spoils and curt thanks.

Toras furrowed his brow and crossed his burly arms over his barrel-like chest.  He knew the elves could hold grudges on the level of the dwarves, but how long could they hate the orcs for no reason?  The orcs had saved their lives and shown them great honor, and still they were spurned. 

The king of the orcs stepped away from the balcony and retreated to his quarters.  He eased back into a tall, cushioned chair next to a towering shelf filled with literature, most of it history.  He gazed around the room, seeking a distraction from troubles he could not face now.

His eyes fell on the ceremonial flame of his private shrine to Faarthus, a gift from the High Priest of Faarthus and his personal advisor.  The flame’s dance brought him comfort; it reassured him that the Firelord was watching over him.  The God of Fire and Courage had never let down him or his ancestors.  He prayed as he stared, asking Faarthus for aid in these matters.  He knew the welfare of his people would someday depend on the grace of the elves.  He prayed that one day he could gain that grace.

A sudden knock on the door brought him out of his reverie.  He grumbled slightly as he stood up from his seat, wondering who would call on him at this late hour.  Upon opening the door, he was surprised to see his general and retainer, Ganash, breathless and wounded.  A circular breach the size of an orc’s fist in his chain mail leaked blood between the general’s fingers.  The wound was large, but he was in no danger of dying.

“My liege, I bring you incredible news!” Ganash said, not waiting for his king’s response.

“It must be, if you cannot be bothered to see a healer before seeing me,” Toras said, indicating the bloody bare patch on his retainer’s chest.  “I should make it standard procedure that messages are brought to me only after we can be certain that the messenger will survive!”

Ganash looked at his wound, and then shook his head.  “I am not hurt so bad.  Many of my men are worse off; it is they who need the attention of the healers.”

Toras was taken aback.  “I thought you were overseeing a standard patrol of the Northern Hills!  What creatures gave you and your company so much trouble?  I’ve seen you lead a unit against a score of trolls with no casualties.”

“T’was no creature that was responsible for this,” Ganash told him.  Toras’ confounded stare bade him to carry on.  “We were patrolling the Northern Hills, as you said, on the plateaus south of Reylyn’s lair.  One of my men cried out suddenly and pointed to the sky, where there were fiery rocks falling from the heavens!  The storm was upon us before we could seek shelter.  Some have been injured grievously.”

“A meteor shower?” Toras wondered, bringing a hand up to scratch his short, ash gray hair.  “Our seers never predicted one.  Could this have been an attack, the work of a sorcerer, perhaps?”

“No, my lord,” the general answered.  “We were too remote, and Reylyn would have informed us if there was a troublemaker on the loose.”

Toras furrowed his brow for the second time that night.  It could not have been Reylyn.  She was a quiet one for a dragon, and seemed to regard the orcs as her children.  It seemed that Faarthus had given him more mysteries instead of answers.

Just then, an orc clad in the red and gold robes of the Faarthus priesthood came down the hall to stand behind Ganash.  He had long, raven black hair and a red tattoo upon his forehead, contrasting the gray-green skin of his orcan heritage.  Toras knew the orc as Iksol, his most trusted advisor and high priest of Faarthus, with as much faith in his god as in his king.

“Sir Ganash!” Iksol scolded sharply, a fiery glare in his dark eyes.  “I warned you before not to disturb the king after sunset!  He specifically requested that he wasn’t bothered tonight, so be gone from his presence at once!”

Ganash bit back a wicked retort.  He loathed the priest, feeling he was nothing more than a sycophant begging for attention.  But he would not disgrace himself in front of his king, so he held his tongue. 

“It is all right, Iksol.  This is urgent business,” Toras said, gesturing for him to calm down.  The priest quieted, but eyed the general with contempt.  The king turned back to his retainer.  “Can you bring me to where this happened?”

“Certainly, milord,” Ganash responded, ignoring Iksol’s glare.

“Take me there now,” Toras demanded, already moving to his armor stand. 

“May I accompany you, my lord?” Iksol asked.

“This is none of your concern, priest.  This is military matter that has no bearing on you.”

“Not my concern?  No bearing on me?” Iksol said, looking appalled.  “Faarthus would be displeased indeed if the high priest of his most prominent temple was unconcerned about fire from the sky!  This may be a sign from the Firelord himself!”

“Iksol, you may join us,” the king said, sheathing his sword.  “Come, my friends, we have a mystery to unravel.”

              

****

Ganash rounded up as many of his orcs that were healed well enough to travel, after his own wound was tended, and ordered a return to the meteor site as part of the king’s escort.  On the way, Toras spoke with some of the soldiers, trying to find out as much as he could about the phenomenon.  The orc that had seen the shower first readily offered his account of the events.

“I was keepin’ me eyes peeled for the Red Lady, just t’see if she be out fer food,” he started.  Reylyn was often called the Red Lady by the common folk, as not many were aware of the ancient red dragon’s true name.  “Then I sees a star, red as blood, flickerin’ like a candle in th’ sky.”

“That’s not all too strange,” Toras answered.  “On some especially clear nights, you can see colored stars.”

“But tha’s just it,” the soldier said, smirking, “it weren’t there when I looked b’fore!  Then, well, I ain’t too sure, but it looked like summat ripped a hole in the sky, filled with liquid flame!  I hardly saw them rocks comin’ before they was on top o’ us.”

“Rubbish,” Iksol mumbled, off to his king’s side.  “You need to lay off the drink a while, soldier.”

Toras turned an ill look toward the priest.  “What makes his word less truthful than my own?  What reason do you have to doubt him?”  The advisor deferred his glance, looking quite abashed at the scolding.  The king turned back to the soldier.  “What is your name?”

“Kronta Baangs, majesty,” the soldier said proudly, bowing his head.

“Kronta, you are a boon to Cagar-Tugan’s forces.  Your warning may have saved the lives of many warriors.  I will see you commended before the month is out.”

“Thank ye, majesty,” Kronta smiled.  Iksol frowned and wondered if his king was truly impressed with such a coarse soldier.

Later, when Kronta was out of earshot, Toras gave his advisor a much angrier look than he had earlier.  “For someone who brought up the possibility of this being the work of the Firelord, you are being rather narrow-minded.”

“My lord,” Iksol began apologetically, “The common mind is quick to fabricate spectacular details when it can get attention.  I will be quite able to discern the nature of these meteorites when I have inspected them.  Until that time, I have only his word.”

Toras eyed his advisor, and then chuckled.  “Again, I see the attitude that earned you the title ‘Scholar of Flame’, the mind that burns away false knowledge until only pure truth remains.”

Iksol smiled humbly and bowed.  “I believe you selected me as your advisor because of that very title?”

“Just don’t burn too quickly, scholar,” Toras warned, “or not even the truth will remain!”

The night waned as the group marched, and dawn was fast approaching as they came upon the plateaus where the meteors had landed.  Toras understood immediately just how lucky Ganash and his soldiers had been.  The once wide, flat plateau was now a scarred and pocked waste.  The enormous, spire-like meteors stood like gravestones over the empty graves of the fortunate soldiers.“How many lie beneath these stones?” Toras wondered in awe, speaking to no one in particular.

“None, milord,” Ganash told him.  Toras stared at his general in disbelief.  “Thanks to the soldier you were speaking with, we escaped without casualties.”

“That soldier is up for a promotion,” Toras said as he surveyed the destruction before him.

“Aye, milord,” Ganash responded, in full agreement with his king.

Iksol, in the meantime, occupied himself with the meteorites.  He put his hand near the surface of one, to test its temperature.  It was warm, but not hot enough to burn.  When he placed his hand to it, he was surprised to feel a smooth, glassy surface, like a crystal.

“Majesty,” one of the soldiers called, “the Red Lady approaches!”  Toras looked up from the crater he was studying with Ganash to see the huge red dragoness descend just outside the boundaries of the meteor site.  Many of the soldiers backed away when she landed, but none of them took flight, for it was well known that Reylyn was an ally to the orcs.  From head to tail, Reylyn was about fifty feet long, and about three orcs tall at her shoulder.  Her brilliant orange eyes always seemed to glow with their own light.  Massive, powerful wings tucked themselves against her back as she surveyed the damage.  The sun continued to rise behind her, and it seemed to onlookers that she was wreathed in a flaming halo.

Toras walked over to her, followed by Ganash and Kronta.  They stopped just beyond the edge of the site, keeping a respectful distance as she looked around.  Toras held back a smile, waiting for what almost always preceded a meeting with the Red Lady.

When she was done, the dragoness turned a sly smile upon the three orcs before her.  “All right,” she boomed.  “What have you boys done to my favorite sunning rock?”

Kronta and Ganash paled at her words.  Ganash had never actually met Reylyn, and this first meeting seemed like it would be his last.  However, Toras, who had known her since he was young, said, “We thought you wouldn’t notice, at least until you lied down.”

Ganash nearly fainted out of disbelief, shocked that his king would be so disrespectful to such a powerful creature.  Kronta seemed to brace himself for whatever fiery end she would put them to. 

But the great dragon just chuckled, a light sound that seemed out of place for a dragon her size.  “Well met, King Voldur, I hardly believed a simple meteor shower could take you from your home.” She noticed the behavior of the orcs flanking the king, and said, “What's wrong, soldiers?  Lost your nerve?”

Toras smiled, and answered, “Nothing, my lady.  They just aren’t used to your disarming sense of humor.”

“Well, a dragon my age should have a good sense of humor,” she responded playfully.  “Otherwise, we’d just eat anyone we had no taste for!”

Kronta and Ganash chuckled nervously, and the king nodded his agreement.  Iksol approached then, cautious as he always was around Reylyn.  It seemed to Toras that Iksol had very little trust in the Red Lady, as she was still much of a mystery to many of the Cagar-Tugan orcs, and was still not sure how to approach that mystery.

“Greetings, Red Lady,” Iksol started.  “For what reason have you come to us?”

“To you?” Reylyn said curiously.  “My dear priest, I came here to sunbathe.  It is merely a coincidence that you are here as well.”

“Indeed?” The king interrupted.  “Then you have no knowledge of why this happened?”

“Not anymore than you or your soldiers.  I did sense something strange, however,” she said, looking away as if recalling a dream.  “I do not think it was connected with this meteor shower, though.”

“You may be wrong, my lady,” Iksol said.  “I have a feeling this was no ordinary meteor shower.  These meteorites are quite peculiar.”

As if to prove his point, sunlight washed over the field as the sun crested the mountains in the east.  The light revealed the meteors as translucent, blood red crystals. At the heart of each, a fiery glow sprang to life when touched by the sun’s light, as if fed by the fires of daylight.  The “hearts” throbbed in sync with each other, as though connected by some magic.

“By the shinin’ flames!” Kronta whispered.  He walked up to the closest spire and laid his hand on it.  A few moments later, he pulled away from it suddenly, as though it burned.  “It moved!”

“What?” Toras and Iksol said in unison.

“It . . . It twitched!  Like some creature’s heartbeat!”  Kronta stammered.

Reylyn approached a larger meteorite, and laid her large ear to it, closing her eyes.  When she opened her eyes and pulled away, she nodded.  “I couldn’t have said it better myself.  In two hundred years, I’ve never seen meteorites like these.”

“Majesty, I am beginning to believe Sir Baang’s story,” Iksol confided to his king.

“All right, men,” Ganash ordered.  “Sweep the area.  If you find anything at all, report to the king or myself.”

The group split up into pairs, save for Iksol, Toras, and Reylyn.  In order to put the soldiers at ease, the dragoness used her aura magic, the innate magic of all beings on Kayledon, and transformed into an auburn-haired, orange-eyed human woman dressed in crimson robes.  Such was her favored form when dealing on the terms of the smaller creatures of her realm. 

After about an hour of scouring the plateau, Ganash returned to Toras, excitement evident in his features.

“Come quickly my lord!  And you, scholar, I wouldn’t want you to miss this,” he said, and then started back the way he came.  Toras followed on his heels, Iksol and Reylyn close behind.  He led them to a ring of meteor spires, where Kronta stood waiting, over a crater in the middle of the ring, his back to them.

“What is it?” Reylyn asked.

Kronta turned to them, a bewildered expression on his face.  “It . . . It be a child, m’lady,” he said.  Sure enough, when he stepped out of the way, they could see a half-orc child, asleep and unbothered by the dawning sun.  Toras and Reylyn’s eyes widened, and Iksol whispered a prayer.  Reylyn said some words of magic, conjuring a wool blanket to her hands.  She moved next to Kronta and gently wrapped the child, not disturbing his sleep.

“What can this mean?” Toras breathed.

“I do not know for certain,” Reylyn said quietly, smiling.  “But it seems that you have been blessed with a half-orc son by Faarthus.”

“Me?” Toras exclaimed, trying to keep his voice low.  “What are you talking about?”        

“Aye, it be true, sire,” Kronta said as he looked upon the child.  “He’s got yer royal crest on ‘is forehead.”

“That’s not all,” Iksol put in.  He gently took the child’s right hand so everyone could see a red symbol the shape of a fiery star, Faarthus’ holy symbol.

“This child has been blessed by the Firelord,” Iksol proclaimed, “A favored soul of fire and courage!”

Toras felt as though he was seeing everything for the first time, and his vision was sharper and clearer than perfect, razor sharp crystal.  The legends he had studied, the deeds of the past, and his own prayers to Faarthus, they all swirled together into a single, unified vision.  A vision, Toras believed would lead his people to immortal glory.

The Orc King took his adopted son from Reylyn’s arms, and turned to his retainer and his spiritual advisor, never once taking his eyes off the child in his arms.

“Gather the men, so we can return,” he said, smiling gently to the sleeping boy in his arms.  “We have much to prepare for.”

****

Deep in a forest far from the Tharkas Mountains, a lone creature watched a star of red light disappear from the western sky.  The same creature had witnessed a similar blue star extinguish right above his favorite spring.  His surprise was great when a bowl shaped formation of blue crystal suddenly rose up from the depths of the pool, bearing a humanoid infant boy. 

Any other creature may have been scared away or could not be bothered by such a trifle, but Poerna was an asperi, a wind horse of startling intelligence and virtuous spirit.  He walked on the air over to the crystal bowl, to find the child alive and asleep.  He nudged the floating crystal to the edge of the pool and gently lifted it on to the lush grass.

It was then he noticed the symbol.  A silvery blue marking of an eye in a crystal seemed to be etched onto the infant’s left hand.  Poerna knew the symbol, for it was the symbol of Taelri, the goddess of water and magic.

“No ordinary child, this one,” Poerna thought, though it was obvious by the spectacle through which the baby had appeared that he was special.  He considered what he must do, then took the edge of the bowl in his teeth.  With the magic of air inherent to his species, Poerna tread on a cushion of air, slowly climbing the air.  Soon, he walked above the trees, the wind tossing his long mane and tail.

At first, he considered taking the infant to the elven city Fisathvanna.  There were plenty of people there, and more opportunities for him to be found.  But Poerna had no love of cities of any kind, and found that a horse walking on nothing but air tended to frighten people, no matter his intentions.

His mind then turned to the elven and human village of Tyhal.  It was much nearer than the city; he could make the village by morning at his current pace.  He knew a family there as well, one that would have no problem finding a home for a mysterious half-elf child.

As dawn drew near, Poerna touched ground on the outskirts of Tyhal, by the edge of the western orchards.  The cold breeze wafted the alluring scent of fresh apples to his nose, and he suddenly remembered why he loved visiting this village.  Poerna was not the type to take without asking first, so he left the fruit for later, making his way to the village. 

True to its reputation as the Treehome Village, Tyhal could easily be passed over by anyone who did not know where to look.  Any human or dwarven visitor would have looked for dwellings around the trees, or even inside the trees themselves, but Tyhal’s architects must never have figured out an efficient way to implement that idea.  Because the trees in this part of the forest grew so close together, the only room for any domicile was up where the trees were not so close.  High above the forest floor, there were bridges, walkways, ladders, and several crude lifts that connected the tree houses of Tyhal.  Only one home, in the hollowed base of an enormous oak tree in the center of the village, was near to the ground here, and that was precisely where Poerna was going.

Not knowing whether the occupants were asleep, Poerna gave himself an inch or so of air to walk silently on, but his efforts were unnecessary.  Before he even got close, he could hear Siali singing, probably while she was working.  Sure enough, when he could see the entrance of the oak tree house, he could also see the young elven woman on her knees, tending to a garden.  Her soft-looking black hair was tied back in a braid, and she wore a course leather apron and thick gloves, holding a small gardening spade.

He approached without a sound, and then pawed the ground when he was close enough.  She looked up quickly, seemingly startled, but her eyes brightened when she saw the wind horse.  She stood as though to welcome him, then noticed his curious burden.  He set the crystal bowl with the child on the ground before her, and she gasped.

“I couldn’t think of anyone better,” Poerna said to her, communicating telepathically.

“Where did you find him?” Siali asked, her tone breathless.  Poerna explained the circumstances under which he found the child, and she almost laughed in disbelief.  “What does this mean?”

“I haven’t a clue,” he replied.  “I might know someone who would know, but this child needs a home first.”

Siali’s eyes grew sad for a moment, and then she said, “My father and I will be happy to look after him.”

Poerna regarded her sternly.  “That was not what I meant.”

“I know,” she answered softly, “but perhaps this is my gift from Taelri.”

Poerna sighed, which sounded like a normal horse’s snuffle.  About a decade ago, Siali had lost her human husband in the Goblin raid.  She believed that one day his loss would make sense, that Taelri would repay her sorrows.  

“He is marked by her,” Poerna said.  “Perhaps what you say is true.  But know this: he may one day have a destiny greater than this place, greater than all of the Elderwoods.  This is a selfish decision on your part, even though it is made with good intentions.  If it comes down to it, you must let him go, for he is blessed by Taelri, and she alone can decide his fate.”

Siali was silent for a moment, and then she nodded her head.

Poerna turned about.  “Take care, Cat Shadow,” he said, calling her by the Common translation of her name.  “I will return in a few days.”

Siali watched the wind horse ascend into the sky, galloping to the clouds.  She picked up the infant and crystal bowl, and turned to see her father, the elder of the village, come out of the oak house.

“What is that?” The old elf said, his eyes wide.

Siali smiled, looking to the face of the boy, his face lit by the dawning sun.  She looked at her father and said, “This is our future."