Third of Nirakos
Year 1182 of Emancipation
Even in times of war – perhaps especially so – diplomatic customs had to be maintained. As dictated by Svaletan tradition, Farhad Orinor had attended his first royal gala at the age of six. Raised within the avaricious comfort of the palace, he had imagined that nothing could surprise him. He was accustomed to honour guards, regal dress, and the etiquette of feasting at the king’s table. It had only taken ten seconds at the gala to realise the majesty of such an event and how far it surpassed the everyday glamour of the royal court. He’d fallen in love with the occasion and each year longed for the next event. It was at one of these at the age of twelve that he had met his future wife Ismelda, the oldest daughter of a rich merchant family of great influence in the court. Their marriage had been arranged without his knowledge, but when he was informed of it two years later he had heartily approved. He had been instantly smitten with her, and they were married when he was seventeen, her sixteen. She was a beautiful woman and soon gave him twins, bright and outgoing boys who would one day grow up to take the throne. Despite the fruit of their love, Farhad was always living with a wandering eye. He was oblivious to his wife’s secret shame, and the truth was that he had never known different. His father had never been faithful, and most royalty felt themselves above the normal standards of the matrimonial relationship.
They had been married almost a decade ago. Upon his ascent to the throne, Farhad had taken pains to make the annual galas far greater than Svaleta had seen in the past. Their glory rivalled those of the Tios Principality in all its pleasure-seeking excess. Even now, in the face of Aliri invasion, the party went ahead. Farhad had made that decision clear to his royal guard. It was important for the morale of the Svaletan aristocracy, and it secured the loyalty of the surrounding nations. Farhad would need both if he were to win this war and remain king at the end. It was his failures of policy that had opened the door for the elves’ aggression, a fact that was made clearer with every report of another lost battle, another town captured by the Aliri. The key to his survival was to distract from that fact.
Farhad entered the hall with Ismelda’s arm hooked in his own, announced by the bass voice of his steward. They made quite the pairing. Despite his martial failures, Farhad was a powerfully built man, a fact that was not hidden by the crimson and gold robes that he wore. He wore no crown to bother his dark hair, and hazel eyes studied the room with an intensity that caused most to look away. Beside him, Ismelda stood proud in a light blue dress that hugged tight to her frame. Her smile was enough to melt the hearts of the veteran diplomats, but it was no secret that it no longer captured the king’s own. Their children were nowhere to be seen, still a year away from their introduction to the festivities. The royal couple made their way through the honour guard, soon greeted by General Alihad and Marshal Berias, the two most powerful men in the government. Neither wished to be present, but custom had its demands and even they could not refuse the king’s invitation.
“Welcome, my lord,” Alihad said, bowing low with an arm across his chest to contain the brown robes given to the chief of the army. Farhad nodded a greeting, ignoring Ismelda as she held out her hand to be kissed. He listened to Berias’ whispered report on the key people to speak to, his eyes already drifting away to settle on the delegation from Wexburg. At the centre was the youngest of four princesses, only twenty-three even as she made her third official visit to the palace. Raven-black hair flowed down her back, and a laugh lit up eyes blue as the sky. A green dress left little to the imagination even as it covered her from chest to ankle, and for a moment Farhad caught her eye. She gave the barest of nods before continuing her conversation with a Svaletan banker. Ismelda watched the entire exchange and turned away in disgust, a move noticed by none but Alihad.
“Milady, if I may, Rali Tan would like a word,” the general said softly, and Ismelda gave him a smile as she bade farewell to Alihad.
“Princess Alanna would welcome an audience,” Berias told Farhad, nodding towards the Wexton delegation. “My sources indicate they may provide three regiments. Perhaps more would be negotiable.”
Alihad stayed silent for a moment only to give the impression of careful consideration before he said, “I will give her a private audience later tonight.”
“I will make the arrangements,” Berias assured him. He held no illusions of what that audience would involve. Nor did he have any illusions of where Ismelda would seek comfort as he watched her move through the crowd with Alihad. Well, royalty always had its corruptions.
***
In all her hundred years of life, Syndra had never been in this part of the Forest. There were parts of Narandir that even the elves feared to tread, where trolls roamed freely, and brave souls disappeared. Lithmae knew this and had chosen wisely when he sought out the right elves to investigate the old Dwarven ruin. Syndra was young, but she had the heart of a lion. She had already killed four trolls in her lifetime, an impressive accomplishment among the elves, who preferred to avoid the vicious beasts. She’d also led various scouting parties into Nimura and Svaleta, always showing her craftiness in avoiding detection. Lithmae didn’t know what they would encounter at the ruin, but he was confident that Syndra could handle any situation that arose. The other nine elves who followed her were similarly experienced, all good fighters and willing to brave the relatively unknown.
Syndra didn’t expect trouble, but she had a hand on the short sword strapped to her hip as she pushed aside thick vines and stepped carefully through the tall grass. She listened carefully to the sounds of the Forest, ready to seek cover at the first sign of any trolls or other aggressors. She could hear the chittering of Blackwings in the branches overhead and tried to take comfort in their presence. Belkai had promised that they would be nearby to provide support, but Syndra had never trusted any creature that wasn’t sentient. Pets were only reliable until they made their first betrayal, after all.
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Syndra stopped as she saw the first sign of civilisation. Through the trees she could see a crumbling watchtower made of solid stone and overgrown by thick green vines that were just starting to sprout bright red flowers.
“There’s nothing moving,” one of the elves whispered, and Syndra nodded even as she continued to scan the area.
“Let’s have a look,” she said finally, and led the group forward. It took another twenty minutes to break through the undergrowth and finally stand among the ruins. It must have been a military outpost in another age. The watchtower would have dominated the landscape, though now it was half its original size, Syndra guessed by the amount of fallen stone that littered the earth. There were a couple small buildings scattered around, and one larger structure at the centre of the outpost. Where they slept, Syndra thought.
“What exactly are we looking for?” one of the elves asked.
“Anything unusual. Tell me as soon as you see anything,” Syndra replied.
“It’s Dwarven,” the elf murmured. “It’s all unusual.”
Syndra ignored him as she made her way towards the watchtower. If she were to hide something, that’s where it would be; the most defended, hardened building. She climbed through an arch doorway half-filled with broken rock to find herself standing on wet grass. She glanced up, surprised to find that she could see the sky through the missing ceiling. Even now the trees didn’t obscure the watchtower’s view of the sky, the dwarves’ main means of telling the time. An enchantment, Syndra wondered. She pushed the thought from her mind. She didn’t know anything about Dwarven magic, and she had no time to stand around staring at a broken roof. They were alone for now. There was no telling how long that would last.
Nonetheless, there was nothing in the watchtower to indicate a secret passage or anything beyond what would be needed to protect the outpost. Syndra climbed back out and followed another elf, an older soldier named Rihorn, into a long building whose walls were covered by flowering vines. Inside, both walls were lined by trenches that had long since collapsed, though the original use was clear. Rihorn laughed.
“I guess dwarves don’t like to go in the woods,” he remarked, and despite her caution Syndra couldn’t help but laugh with him. She stopped when something caught her eye behind what might have once been a water pump. She stepped forward cautiously, feeling Rihorn’s eyes on the back of her head. Using her foot, she pushed some rubble away to reveal a bronze plate set into the floor. A small lever sat in the middle, and Syndra pulled on it. The plate swung downwards and the hinges snapped. She took a step back as the plate clattered against metal and then went silent. She glanced back at Rihorn.
“Get the others,” she ordered. “This is it.”
As she waited, Syndra retrieved a torch from her pack and used a firestarter to light it. She laid down on the stone floor and lowered her torso through the hole, the flames lighting what was below. The trapdoor had smacked against a bronze ladder on the way down before landing on the rocky ground. The tunnel stretched further than Syndra could see in the torchlight, its rocky walls and ceiling looking as smooth as silk. She couldn’t see any supports and wondered if it was Dwarven magic again that was holding it in place. She was too young to have met the dwarves, though like many others she had watched in fascination as the Nimuran delegation had visited Belkai. She had no idea what lay in that tunnel, but she knew to be on their guard.
Hearing the others enter the building, Syndra pulled herself back out of the hole and turned to face them. She opened her pack and took a handful of hooks, which she slipped into a pocket in her robes.
“There’s a rock tunnel underneath us,” she announced. “Where it leads is anybody’s guess. Drop your packs, it’ll get narrow in there. Bring weapons, torches, and firestarters only. Let’s see what all of the secrecy is about.”
“I’ll lead out,” Rihorn said as he stepped forward. He was one of the shortest there, but also one of the strongest. That would be a useful combination in the tunnel, Syndra knew, and she waved for him to go ahead. She followed him down the bronze steps, pausing to jam a hook into the wall and mounting her torch on it. That done, she fell in behind Rihorn as he moved cautiously into the darkness, his torch casting eerie shadows on the walls. Syndra could imagine a thousand threats waiting in the darkness, but the light revealed nothing but rock and dirt.
There was no warning when it happened. Syndra heard a wet squelch and a grunt from behind her. She spun to see the rearmost elf standing rigid, a single metal spike running through him from his skull into the ground.
“Nobody move!” Syndra hissed. The spike had come from the roof of the tunnel. She didn’t know anything about Dwarven technology, but she knew what a trap was. As she carefully made her way back to the body, she shuddered with the thought that they had all followed the same path. So why was only one of them dead?
She studied their footprints as she moved, sparing the body on a quick glance before checking beneath his feet. The ground had been softer there, she realised, a layer of clay that had broken when his weight had been placed upon it. She knelt and pushed aside the broken earth to reveal a snapped wire. A glance at his footprints confirmed it; he had been the only one to stand on that clay. Syndra whispered a curse. How were they meant to avoid a trap such as this? She shook her head and made her way back to Rihorn.
“He broke through clay that hid the trap,” she told him, knowing that the others would hear as well. Rihorn nodded and slipped the sheath off his back before retrieving his longsword. He pressed the blade into the dirt and pushed it side to side as he walked, the other elves careful to follow his exact footsteps. How much further is this? Syndra wondered, feeling her heart race as her anxiety grew.
Rihorn froze as his blade cracked something. He glanced back at Syndra, then shoved the sword down. Syndra gasped as two spears erupted from the wall, slicing through the air before embedding into the far wall. Rihorn grunted, ducked under the shafts, and kept walking. Syndra followed, glancing at the vicious-looking tips embedded in the rock. What is this place?
Her head jerked around as she heard another crack. Rihorn was frozen, his foot at the bottom of a new hole. Syndra took a step back without thinking, a moment of fear that saved her life. A clear liquid fell from the ceiling, coating Rihorn and the rock around him.
His screams echoed through the tunnel as the acid ate its way through everything that it touched.