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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."
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