Chapter Nine – The Prophecy
“Is there any way to make these ridiculous portents stop?” asked Horon impatiently. “Announcing that we’re going to Wanderer’s Bane isn’t going to help us. In fact, it could deadly.”
“He’s right,” added Elita. “You say that you’ve been here before, Tara. I don’t know how that is possible, but I’ve stopped looking for clear reason in your existence. You must be aware that this harbor is crawling with desperate men who would kill us all if they had half the opportunity. Wanderer’s Bane is in a lonely place. The last thing we want is to be followed.”
The little gnome looked as grim as the Fenman, her glance uneasy behind the goggles that were meant to help her kind’s sensitive eyes. Gnomes were used to the darkness of deep caves. To see one in a tavern like this, with rough companions like hers, was indeed a curious sight.
In contrast, Wenrik finished his breakfast as if nothing had happened. “I don’t see what you two are so jumpy about,” the Borzerk warrior said. “Does anyone here look like they’re even thinking of hunting us to you?”
He was right. Tara risked a quick glance around the tavern and was impressed by how the rest of the patrons had suddenly become hushed and nervous after the questline announcement. A few were whispering each other, and if they met Tara’s eyes they looked quickly aside. Tara wasn’t the best at reading people, but she didn’t doubt they were frightened.
“Do they think I’m a witch?” asked Tara uneasily. Witches and warlocks were feared in Allerion—powerful wielders of dark magic who were known to cast blood spells and torment enemies.
“No,” said Wenrik, his mouth quirking. “They think you’re another portent, probably. We’ve been seeing them for a while. Every night there are signs in the sky that make people wonder. At first, that wonder was fascination. It becomes more fearful everyday. The elves say doom is coming to our world.”
Tara blinked in surprise. “Doom? You mean the Fell King of the Northlands?”
“The Fell King is nothing compared to this,” grunted Wenrik. The warrior paused, his tankard in his fist. “You mean to tell me you don’t already know this? Is there something that finally surprises Tara MacQueen?”
Tara didn’t appreciate his dark humor. “There’s a lot that surprises me,” she said. “Tell me about the portents.”
She needed to know what was going on. The last thing she wanted was for everyone in Allerion to be afraid of her, but it seemed unavoidable. Somehow, the weird existence she had here was interfering with the way the game was supposed to proceed.
There were hundreds of quests in Swords of Allerion. Years of content made for an experience that even the most intense gamers would be hard-pressed to exhaust. There was so much to do, so many locations to visit.
Over everything, the existence of the dreadful Fell King was supposed to be the main source of conflict. The Fell King was a human necromancer possessed of unusual skill, whose love for the power corrupted an unusual magical ability. In Allerion, all creatures had at least a low level of magic. The Borzerk had only 30 points as their base default, the lowest of all classes. But the gift was still there if any one of them wished to hone and develop it.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
But this talk of “portents” was not at all in keeping with the game Tara had played. She remembered again the way Wenrik had called her the “Hero of Allerion.”
“You really don’t know?” said Wenrik, looking at her directly. The Borzerk warrior’s straightforward manner wasn’t mocking but genuinely interested. “You don’t know the legend of the Last Hero of Allerion?”
Tara shook her head.
Wenrik cleared his throat. He cocked an eye towards Horon and Elita, but his companions were both silent.
“It began at harvest’s end,” he said. “We began to see what our elders call ‘portents.’ It could be streaks of gold light across a cloudless sky, not unlike the light that forms around you, Tara MacQueen. At night the portents are most vivid, flares of color and sound louder than a dragon’s roar. But when the twin moons rose and a third moon, a moon a ghost moon, rose with them, the elves said that the prophecy was coming to fulfillment.”
“Prophecy,” murmured Tara. “What prophecy?”
“The prophecy of the ‘Last Hero of Allerion,’” growled Horon suddenly. The Fenman leaned across the table, lowering his voice. “It was given to us by one of the ancient Lightkin, a Dark Elf, named Shandalar, who besides his gift of enchantment was also cursed with foresight. His own people feared as much as they revered him. He was a mighty yet wise king in his time.”
“Was?” said Tara. “Aren’t elves immortal?”
Horon shook his head. “That is another story for another time,” he said. “All that concerns you is the prophecy. It had nearly been forgotten until the portents began, and the elves started whispering it to each other, and their whispers reached the ears of dragons who told it to the Skor, who passed it to the Fenmen, until the gnomes heard it themselves. Gnomes are generally sensible and not frightened by groundless talk. But they heard this, and even they could offer no reassurance to the peoples aboveground.”
Horon began to recite in a deep voice that was not meant to carry far:
The Prophecy of the Last Hero of Allerion
Who will break the mountains’ teeth
And climb the dark hall to the stars?
Who bends the spear of ancient foes
And laughs at threat and sound of war?
Who comes? The one who has not been—
No mortal eye has ever seen—
The one who living, was not born
The one who, made, was never formed—
The Hero of Allerion!
When three eyes haunt the starlit sky
Then comes the one who cannot die
Who walks in two worlds, yet in one
Whose life is old, yet just begun.
The Hero of Allerion!
Last Hero of Allerion!
To save us from oblivion.
The Fenman fixed his eye on Tara. “The three moons seemed as near to three eyes as anyone has seen. I have to admit, they fit the prophecy. And you yourself—the more I know you, the more you seem to fit as well. Where were you born, Tara MacQueen? Where do you come from?”
Tara’s heart pounded. Her mouth was suddenly dry.
“You won’t deny,” pursued Horon, “that you could very well be a person ‘whose life is old, yet just begun’—for you seem to know this land and its people well, even though you act like a cub venturing outside her mother’s den for the first time. This business of walking in two worlds—you can’t deny that the portents we have seen are now appearing around you, and they are not of this world.”
Tara raised her tankard and drank. She was searching for words, wondering how to explain. “If I told you where I’m from,” she said at last, “you’d think I was mad.”
“You’re from another world,” said Horon. “Aren’t you?”