Fourth of Nirakos

Year 1182 of Emancipation

The sun was beginning to show its first rays over the distant mountains as Shontelle stumbled across the hilly grassland. Though there was nothing in sight, she could swear she felt a hundred eyes on her, a hundred hungry mouths longing to feed on her. Tears blurred her vision as her mind constantly replayed her father’s death. She could see his skin going pale as every drop of blood was taken from him, the shocking moment when she realised he was gone even as his eyes kept looking at her without changing. Had Kiran suffered the same fate?

“No!”

She fell to her knees as she screamed. She felt her heart pounding as the panic rose within her. She shook uncontrollably as her tears soaked the grass beneath her face. Yulen is dead, fruit seller. The woman’s words echoed through her mind. I put a blade through her face myself. It was impossible. No human could do such a thing; the Arcane were too exalted, too powerful for a mere mortal to kill.

But that wasn’t strictly true, was it? Shontelle lived close enough to Narandir to have heard the rumours that were slowly spreading across the south of Svaleta. She had seen the star rip through the heavens and crash into the Forest. She had heard the tales of Narandir’s march through Svaleta – and its return. Someone whispered that the falling star was Arcane intervention, that Ashelath himself had stepped into this world – and had paid the price. A woman now reigned in Narandir, a young lady from an unknown nation. Whoever she was, she had earned the Arcane’s wrath. Shontelle had no other explanation for why her town had been so cursed.

She forced her breathing to slow, and her heart began to steady. She couldn’t be more than a day from the Forest. This new lord would be able to give her the answers that she craved.

“Get up,” she whispered to herself as she forced her weak, sore body to rise. “Just a little longer.”

She knew that it was a lie, but it was all that she had.

***

When a ruling empire falls, the new boundaries that are drawn for nations are always somewhat unclear. When centuries of war and rivalries break out, matters are further complicated. The Kingdom of Svaleta existed in a pocket of sorts between nations. In the north, the Aliri Empire and Lustria connected and formed the northernmost point of Svaleta. To the east, half of the border was alongside Lustria, while the lower end bordered the Tios Principality. Narandir essentially served as the southern border. Beyond that border, however, things became somewhat murky. Officially, most of the southern regions were under the control of the human kingdom of Wexburg, from the Aliri Empire and Svaleta down to the beginnings of the deserts. Directly below Svaleta and Narandir, however, was the mountain range known as Nimura.

Although placed under Wexburg’s control during the Palian Age, Nimura had always been dominated by the Five Mountains colonised by the Seventh Dynasty of the dwarves. On the surface, the citizens of Wexburg had built towns around the mountains, most particularly the north-eastern Mirask, while the dwarves built underground cities that were rumoured to be made entirely out of gold. While the eastern mountains were frequented by traders and diplomats, few had been permitted access to the highest peak of Mirzali to the south, in which lay both the most extensive forges as well as the king’s halls. These mountains both dominated Nimura and ensured that the region was, for all intents and purposes, a dwarven kingdom. Narandir was separated from Nimura by the ‘Forsaken Lands’, a day’s travel of abandoned prairie that had been left to the creatures that roamed the long-feared Forest.

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Three days after meeting with Belkai in Narandir, Greywall rode his horse up the steep slopes of Mirzali to see his father, the King of the Seventh Dynasty. He had no need for a guide, and the sentries hidden amongst the rocks and bushes knew him by sight. It was a two-hour ride to the hidden cave entrance, and he left the horse behind as he shuffled inside. Two minutes of walking through darkness brought him to a sealed door glowing with violet light. It was only a simple enchantment, but that tended to be enough to make the citizens of Mirzali content.

“Ninluncima,” he said, and there was a scraping as a section of wall beside the door slid backwards to reveal a passageway. There was no end to the tricks that dwarves would employ. Gods help any army that tried to break through.

He was met by an older dwarf wearing a crimson cloak. His smile revealed a mouth missing half its teeth, but it was genuine nonetheless.

“Nizali, it is good to see you back here,” he said, and Greywall gave a bow.

“Desuri. The king is well?”

“He is waiting eagerly, at least,” Desuri replied, and waved for Greywall to follow him. The rocky passageway soon gave way to a central hall that would have defied any human poet’s attempts at description. Stretching as far as the eye could see were pillars made of Narandir lumber infused with gold and gemstones, and the stone that they walked on was paved as smooth as slate. Brilliant orbs of light floated near the ceiling painted with murals depicting Dwarven history, giving off enough light to make one think that is midday on the surface. Around them milled dozens of dwarves dressed in regal robes going about their business, pausing only to briefly bow to Greywall and the king’s steward.

“So tell me, what was Narandir like?” Desuri asked as they made their way through the hall.

“It was breathtaking,” Greywall told him. It was high praise indeed from the second-born son of the king. “Far beyond what the stories told.”

“Most places are,” Desuri acknowledged. Like many of their kind, he put little confidence in literary skills, preferring what he could personally touch and shape.

After about fifteen minutes of walking, they came to a tall golden door. The guards stood with pikes crossed barring access until they recognised the prince and steward. They stood back and raised their pikes before placing their fists on their chests. Greywall nodded to them as they pushed the doors open. It never hurt to be polite to the ones with the weapons. The throne room that they entered was awash with gold. The floor was the only exception, made of obsidian as black as night. The pillars, walls, and statues of ancient creatures were all gold inlaid with emeralds, rubies, and beautiful diamonds. A crimson carpet covered the raised platform at the rear, upon which was a throne. There sat the king, a diamond-tipped sceptre in hand, his rust-coloured beard reaching nearly to the floor. Greywall and Desuri bowed low when they came before him, and he motioned with the sceptre for them both to rise.

“What tidings do you bring, Nizali?”

Greywall cleared his throat before speaking. “Lord Zimari, the initial meeting went well. Narandir has chosen to reopen the old trade routes, if we are willing to provide our smithing skills as in the past.”

Zimari grunted. “As we already predicted that they would. Tell me about this Belkai.”

Greywall smiled as he replied. “She is weak. She does not yet know what it means to rule. We have an opportunity now that we lacked in years past.”

“She may appear weak, but Ashelath met his end at her hands,” Zimari pointed out. “As did the Aliri at Larton.”

“Ashelath faced her alone. And the elves are what they are,” Greywall responded.

“The star that fell...” Desuri began.

“Was Ashelath, as we suspected,” Greywall interrupted. “She knows the Prophecy but does not believe that Narandir is involved.”

Zimari nodded. “So it should remain. Narandir is the key. But for now, we will build this new alliance. You have done well, Nizali. The Lord of Shadows is pleased.”

Greywall bowed low. “I live to serve.”