The heavy merciless winter, bearing down on us, began its tardy retreat while spring was yet to slip in. Icy gales, ignoring the embankments of High-Crag Hold, still tore through, roaring its triumph. The bright rays of the early morning sun lackadaisically soaked the lowlands, futilely dissipating the heavy mist upon land that would soon be splayed with crimson ichor. At this distance, high above and with the dispersal of the mist, the visible part of High-Crag Pass glittered as if the unseen hand of a giant colossus generously sprinkled diamond dust; a view I would have gladly enjoyed with Lyria holding my hand beside was it not for one who stood before me, and, more importantly, the message he brought.

Lyria’s warm hands gently squeezed my own arms, inciting a wave of soothing comfort to roll over. Her scent, a distinct mingling of tempered iron and oil, lingered around before being blown away by another pitiless gale. An act of nature that further consolidated my surging infuriation.

Merowyn, who stood before me with a contingent of Viridian Dawn Rangers, was either oblivious or indifferent to my own darkening mood. His pale amber eyes, deep-sunken in their socket, kept roaming over my shoulders, darting towards High-Crag Hold.

Males, irrespective of race, would willingly ignore lethal danger and jump into the wide-open maw of the abyss, all to impress the opposite gender. I clicked my tongue in dismissal. Holding anger against Merowyn was impossible. He neither played a role nor was involved, even remotely, in the events leading to the fall of Fort Halcyon. Just a sheer unfortunate twist that he choose the forlorn fate of a hapless messenger -- willingly.

“So Fort Halcyon actually fell to infighting between High Elves and Humans?” I raised my voice slightly to be heard over the howling winds.

“Yes, the alliance fell,” replied Merowyn with eyes held fixed upon the figures guarding the rampart of High-Crag Hold.

The rickety alliance that Arch Duke Lothmar and the Grand Paladin Champion forged was fragile at best. Like a colossal statue, bound by twigs and strings, it was doomed to phenomenally fall. Nor was the short-lived duration of the alliance, by any extent, shocking. Any time that the alliance gained, to strive and establish itself was ephemeral at best. Dissolution was the inevitable end. But it was the spark that lit the powder keg of Lothamar-Zelaphiel grand vision that was very discombobulating -- to phrase it mildly.

“Urganza turned her blade on Zelaphiel over the mistreatment of her wife at the hands of the High Elves?” I asked perplexed. The question of why Urganza would take her orc wife to a negotiation with the High elves lodged in my throat. With Merowyn’s attention occupied by thoughts of a certain Half-elf ranger, those finer details could wait over a warm meal.

“Wives,” corrected Merowyn. “and it was not exactly Lord Ellandor’s hands but rather Lord Oroniel Solinaire who, according to report, instigated it. So Urganza ripped his arm.....”

“....Stop.” I cut his words with a sibilant hiss to my words. “Urganza attacked a representative of the Zelaphiel?”

“If reports were accurate, Urganza dealt a mortal wound to Lord Oroniel Solinaire, that is the Paladin Herald of Grand Paladin....”

“I could care less for his title.” My patience wore thin, only to be confounded by Merowyn’s lacklustre response. “For all I care, Oroniel could be another village idiot with an inventive title. Part of me believes that the High Elven culture sustains itself on such decorum. Half their society invents vain pointless titles for the other half.”

My words of rage were acknowledged with bright chuckles from the Viridian Dawn Rangers. Not surprising. The Wood Elves may declare, proudly and filled with undeterred devotion, their all-encompassing communal acceptance and yet, would still indulge in any tiny morsel of mockery at the expense of High Elves, especially, the High Elves.

“It was an impudent decision on part of Lord Oroniel Solinaire for presuming his High Elven paladin laws will bind the wife of an Orc Overlord just because she is a High Elf, but it was the mistreatment of the human Hearth Mistress that incurred the wrath of the Margrave.” As Merowyn explained, even the apathetically howling winds gave away to a blanketing silence

All my senses, every nerve ending, were enthralled by utter disbelief. Shock and surprise raced through my veins like writhing serpents seeking domination over my mortal shell. The uncomfortable sound of the thin layer of hoarfrost cracking under my heels, echoed, shattering the silent unease pervading the grounds.

Like the busting of a pregnant dam, anger and befuddlement spilled forth in equal measure; unrestraint and undeterred. “Urganza married Antilorwe and Cyrene......”

The fissures of High-Crag Pass took my loud scream, and echoed my enraged voice, multiplying the surprised tone by a hundredfold.

Merowyn simply shrugged in an evident attempt to relieve himself from any shred any culpability.

Despite the iciness rattling to my very bones and the tender pacifying presence offered by Lyria, the blood gushing through my veins still boiled. Being a prodigious mage and trained by Vangere, for Cyrene to lack any appreciable measure of situational awareness was expected. Urganza, in her capacity as the Overlord of the orcs, might be steadfast in her devotion to serving her people but that did not absolve her from incongruently reasoning to stubbornly tether herself to a sinking mast. But Antilorwe should have heeded her valuable voice of reasoning.

“Let me understand you correctly, Merowyn.” My voice, crisp and clear like the single note from a plucked lute before an anticipating crowd, made Merowyn perk his ears. His eyes flicked back in intense concentration for the next words to tumble from my lips.

“So Urganza reaches the negotiation on an evening and three days later, she has two wives?”

A wide earsplitting grin, both comical and simultaneously disturbing, framed Merowyn’s features. A twinkle of adoration sparkled in his eyes. “Pretty impressive, isn’t it? I am inclined to ask the Overlord for tutelage.”

After an apprehensively narrow instant, Merowyn corrected himself. “Though, my heart only seeks the attention of a singular maiden.”

Cold mist from his open lips condensed, as his voice fell low -- melancholically. “Lovely Arlene, how I would long to take an arrow to the knee before you.”

“Arlene, would probably put an arrow through his eyeballs.”A thought I reserved for myself.

Lyria and the rest of the Viridian Dawn Rangers rolled their eyes in dismissal.

“Rils, now that Fort Halcyon has fallen, you cannot afford to turn any help.” Lyria’s powerful arms tugged me ever so lightly, luring my attention in a subtle gesture. But even her well-intended efforts failed to liberate me from the dark tendrils of chagrin.

“Some people had to wait centuries before they could reconnect with their one true Love. Even then cosmic fate conspires against them from getting married. Then Urganza goes to negotiation and comes back with two wives.”

Lyria responded to the accusation with a melodious sound, something between a peal of laughter and a giggle.

“Rils,” said Lyria apologetically, “relationship between girls always proceeds fast. Besides, you cannot blame Urganza for grabbing when the chance presented itself -- unlike you.” Even though, the last two words were not uttered verbally, it was undoubtedly made evident in her tone and gait.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

“Unlike Urganza, I sorted my responsibilities before making the announcement, but when I reached Delyn was alone in her crib.” I left the rest hanging. The following silence conveyed what words could not.

A host of emotions converged to soften Lyria’s expression. The brilliance in her bright silver-grey eyes, veiled by a thin layer of pooling waters, rivalled the radiance of the morning sun. “Rils, did I spoil something so wonderful with my clouded decision? Did my hazy departure, inflict all those agonies?”

A heavy and interminably charged silence hung between us until Merowyn cleared his throat demanding our attention back.

“Perhaps, I should seek Arlene and leave the two of you to the comfort of privacy?” Merowyn’s suggestion was sharp as a double-edged weapon. Extracting himself from our presence as well as having my permission to seek Arlene in an official capacity. He might be an Orc by birth but the parenting of the Wood Elves imparted a degree of sophistication and tact to his demeanour.

Despite my own demanding sentiments to spend more tender moments with Lyria to address the unspoken during our emotionally vulnerable moment, the responsibilities of the commander beckoned. Even though the tug of duty paled before the affections I held for Lyria, now that Fort Halcyon had fallen, war efforts necessitated my immediate attention. With the knowledge that there is a potential war brewing between the High Elves and humans on one side of the pass and with the horde marching from the other side, every precious moment spent in planning would shift the untouchable line distinguishing life from death.

“Let us get the Viridian Dawn Rangers settled first.”

My suggestion received a small acknowledging pat from Lyria before she withdrew herself to reach High-Crag Hold ahead of us.

Watching Lyria leave, Merowyn purposefully moved with a sluggish speed, bidding time. Once he was assured that she was out of earshot, his voice took a brisk tone. He slowly started his confession. “I wanted to be honest with you.”

“I am aware of your feelings for Arlene, though I wonder why you decided not to accompany Merrick?”

“Truth be told, the whole conflict between the two races...”Merowyn balled his fist and with the back of his hands, wiped the stress from his eyes. “I guess, I know what it feels to be caught between two races. So I sent a missive to High Marshall and procured a ranger company to assist.”

“Will Raelion aid us with a fighting force?” The slight ember of hope, now rekindled, filled my question with wistful anticipation.

“Hard to say.” Merowyn shrugged. “If it were up to the High Marshall, he would have marched immediately but Elphene holds the final word. She would not trust his licentious reputation, not even with you as the commander.“

“But isn’t Arlene...”I let my voice trail.

“...no. Arlene is not of Elphene’s line. When Arlene and her sister were orphaned, she took them in, partly because of the goodness in her heart and partly because she felt responsible for the High Marshall Raelion’s failures.”

“Then why is she holding him back?” I asked perplexed, wrestling internally with the contradicting information.

“Because of Karlienne, that is, Arlene’s twin sister, whose acquaintance you already made, I presume.” His voice suddenly lowered to conspiratorial depths. “She is in trouble this time. Messed with some powerful figures in the High Elven political echelons and is now being hunted by both, Lawvogts and bounty hunters.”

I simply nodded in acknowledgement. The revelation of my own involvement in Karlienne’s heist will have to wait for another time.

Clearing a few more steps in silence, Merowyn added. “Elphene has been pouring every resource to know the whereabouts of Karlienne.” Stifling a wry laugh, he continued. “Karlienne was the more sensible among the twins. Usually, it is Arlene, with her feisty temperament and abrasive attitude, who attracts trouble.”

“So Elphene believes Karlienne is in dire trouble?”

Merowyn gave a small nod and continued. “For Elphene, at least Arlene is safe in High-Crag Hold.”

Safe. The irony bit me. High-Crag Hold might be many things but safe is not one of them. In fact, the only thing that could add “safe” to High-Crag Pass is a wide distance from it.

As Merowyn stepped inside High-Crag Hold, Arlene, who was in her usual banter in the company of Cosette and Inga, twisted her face in an uncomfortable snarl. Gone was the melodious laughter that she shared with her shieldmaiden best friends. The corner of her lips formed a malicious hook, while her nose crinkled up in disgust. Yanking Inga’s braid, she drew the dwarven shieldmaiden’s attention.

Two pairs of dwarven eyes flicked towards Merowyn and glared with undistilled venom.

Arlene could do nothing to stop the knots clenching inside her. She tightened her hold on her trusty longbow before marching defiantly, accompanied by the two dwarven shieldmaidens on either side, to confront.

“Merowyn, why are you here?” she asked in an accusing tone.

“Given the situation, we felt you would benefit from some extra archers.” Seeing Arlene unwilling to relent to the hard squint of cynicism, Merowyn forced himself to give up with a deep sigh. “Fine. I was worried about you.”

Anger painted the Half-elven ranger’s face crimson. With the hiss of a blood starved-viper, she retorted. “If I deemed the assistance of the Viridian Dawn Ranger worthy, I would have approached them. I am not in dire need of anyone to play the kindly grandfather.”

“Actually, I recruited them or rather most of them willingly joined the cause, though I have sent missives to High Marshall Raelion.”

“Merowyn, in case, you have missed, the commander and I have been through worse.” Anger, like a festering wound burst to spill the rotten ugliness within, poured from Arlene. “We routed an army of three thousand, all heavily armoured, just by ourselves.”

The irritated ranger flicked her wrist in dismissal to whatever excuse that Merowyn conjured to placate her. Turning towards me, her stone-melting scowl still plastered on her face, she said, “I am leaving on a scouting mission. My bones will croak if I stay cooped up any longer.”

“No, you will not.” I blocked her path with arms crossed across in a stern demeanour. “The Hold is under my command and you are my officer. You do not get to run on a whim.”

“Then I resign. I will not shackle myself to the authority of others.”

“Fine and perhaps, when you meet Provost Vitalia, let her know that you fleed the war, not daunted by the enemies but from the fear of being courted by the opposite sex.”

“You can’t let him win,” Cosette noted in a muted breath.

“You run and he will pursue. You need to stand your ground,” added Inga in a slightly audible whisper.

Begrudgingly, Arlene gave in to their persuasive arguments. Yet, she glared daggers at Merowyn. Her thigh-high boots kicked imaginary dirt in his direction. Any attempt made by Merowyn to engage was met with an irritated click of her tongue. Inga and Cosette's own scowls only consolidated the Ranger’s derision.

With his path blocked by a stubborn ranger and her equally rumbunctious friends, Merowyn kneaded imaginary dough with his ungloved fingers, pressing his thumbs deeply into his palms. His eyes slid towards me in a silent plea for rescue.

In Vitalia’s absence, deterring a determined Arlene is impossible.

Salvation appeared in the blessed form of Lyria accompanied by a tall Knight, fully armoured and formidable. Vague murmurs and awed whispers bristled in his uncanny presence. The exotic alloy of his armour, as strange as the Knight himself, glistened pristinely. Standing a head and a half taller than Lyria herself, the armoured knight dwarfed everyone by his sheer appearance. Despite his hulking form, the surprising agility of a mountain lion with which he moved, and the raw power exuded with every step, his demeanour carried no threat. It was impossible, even with careful appraisal under a scrutinizing eye, to get a read on his expressions based on his gait. Precise, methodical and carefully controlled emotions under a veneer of opacity made the impenetrable presence even more enigmatic.

With his advancing steps, every head turned, mystically attuned to his movements. Even Zaehran, the ascetic devoid of any attachments, from his vantage position in one of the towers, watched him with unblinking eyes sparkling with unconcealed curiosity.

With a celerity of a pursued stag, Rodo darted closer to my side. The powerful werewolf leader bared his jaws slightly, revealing sharp canines in a barely perceptible snarl of confounded aggression. His steely muscles twitched tersely with every approaching step of the Knight.

“Commander, something about him,” he spoke between struggling breath, “he smells all wrong.”

“Like a rotten carcass?” I asked in an almost audible whisper.

“No.” Rodo sniffed deeply, one more time as if to confirm his assertion. “He does not smell at all.”

Donning a veil of indifference to ignore Rodo’s perplexing comments, my faith in Lyria shattered any tendril of distrust that sought to wriggle its way inside.

Apathetic to the effect that their combined presence incited, Lyria held an impish smirk. Beaming a teasingly coquettish smile in my direction, she finally said, “Since you need all the help you could get, I wanted to give you my own reinforcements. So I brought him.”

Turning to the knight, Lyria introduced with proud radiance glowing, “This is my son Talus.”