Elyn's Tear

A murmur shook the ground throughout all of Esyrene. The hum of a collective whisper hadn’t stirred the world with such grief and disquiet in centuries. For the humans of Nelthemar, were a bell to ever toll more solemnly than it did that night across every castle in the province, it might herald the end of days.

As for the dwarves of Myskordan, a very different ritual took hold of the capital city of Arz-Devar. At the castle’s pinnacle, a soft flame flickered into being. A torch rose as high as its holder’s arm could reach, the light revealing swaths of other dwarves surrounding him, still and silent, their own torches yet unlit.

The first torch holder began to sing. His throat-chant became a wave that washed over the others, spreading from the heart of the castle along the battlements, to the entire stretch of the city’s rugged walls.

So, too, did the flickering torchlight spread, blooming along every inch of the perimeter until the city was enveloped in light. Voices deep and robust produced a reverberation that demanded the senses of all within its embrace, overpowering the murmurs of impending chaos from deep within the earth.

All who inhabited the city awoke to the vibrations. Dwarves of all ages, children, adults, elders, stood in thresholds or opened windows to the cold night. Hundreds, then thousands of voices joined in. The song trickled further into the streets until it enveloped the entire city. Over and over, in their ancient tongue, they chanted,

“The king who would rule for two hundred years.”

A young boy reluctantly bleated his contribution at his mother’s behest. His hazel eyes traced the path of a lithe, shadowy male figure weaving between houses and buildings. No one else seemed to notice. A pair of penetrating scarlet eyes glanced back and met the boy’s gaze. A dark elf, half man by his beige-tinged complexion.

“Mumma,” the boy said, tugging at the loose skirt of his mother’s dress. She paid him no mind but for an irritated nudge to continue singing. He kept his gaze fixed on the dark elf. Short waves of raven hair whipped about, poking out from beneath his hood as he turned away and broke his gaze.

He vanished into the shadows of an alleyway, and the boy lost sight of him. Where the light still faintly touched, another figure, a slender woman, emerged with catlike movements from behind a stack of crates and followed him.

“What should we do?” the woman asked in short bursts of breath as she hurried to catch up. What was visible of her tanned face, covered by a mask which sat along her cheekbones, was flushed with worry.

“We need to get back to Ransvale,” the half-elf said without slowing his pace. “And we need to be quick.”

“Vethirn, we’re a world away. How are we going to get back before the bridge floods?”

“We’ll find a wizard.” Vethirn lowered his voice as they reached the end of the alleyway, where a strip of light flooded the gap between it and the next. Both sides were clear at ground level, but open windows rang with chants from above. The half-elf slunk across to the safety of the shadows, where he awaited his partner.

“A wizard? In Myskordan?” the woman asked as she crossed over the strip of light. Once she caught up with him, she continued, “While they’re mourning their king, moreover?”

“The reach of the Apo’s power here is severely understated, Avara. Besides, not all in Myskordan are dwarves, and not all dwarves are utility purists who blindly worship the first king to treat them like sentient beings. Even in this mountain’s breadth there are people who think freely.” A silent pause passed between the two.

“Do you really think they did it?” Grave uncertainty weighed on the pitch of the woman’s voice.

“Who else would?”

“But we had a deal.” Her words froze Vethirn in his tracks.

“Avara. Surely you’re not that naive.”

After a few steps further, they came to the end of another stretch. Vethirn craned his neck to peek around the corner and spotted a number of guards, some posted, others patrolling. All were singing – an unusual display, one that struck him as somewhat unsettling. He looked to Avara, cocking his head to the left.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“How many are there?”

“At least seven. Not counting any that might be hiding behind the parapet.”

“Do they have bows?”

He nodded.

“You’re mad.”

“We’ll be fine,” said Vethirn, extending a hand. “Just don’t let go.” She did not accept his invitation.

“Isn’t there another way?” Avara did not often worry. Usually sharp and confident, her eyes drooped and widened with uncertainty. Even in the shadows, they gleamed like polished amber. Vethirn grabbed her by the wrist and turned her to face him.

“Just don’t let go,” he repeated, channeling invisibility from his hands in splotches as he laced their fingers together.

“How—” A sudden jerk interrupted Avara’s question as Vethirn whisked her away, running. Both were now cloaked entirely with invisibility, leaving only a slight distortion in their shape as they rushed through the streets. Keeping a firm grip on her hand, Vethirn led her with a sense of certainty he could only muster for her sake.

Breaths shortening and sweat forming on his brow, he swiveled his head in search of shelter or escape. He’d only guessed they might find a breach in the city’s wall to squeeze through, or at least a sewer entrance somewhere along the road parallel.

He had lied, too, about the reach and accessibility of magic; in truth, Vethirn wasn’t sure how long he could keep his energy flowing to shroud them, or if they’d happen upon a pair of eyes keen enough to spot them. Adrenaline gushed through his veins and twisted his stomach. He was sure of nothing.

Avara tripped and skidded, gasping as something grazed her calf and landed with a thud behind her left heel. Feeling the pull of her weight as she faltered, Vethirn stopped and steadied his arm to help her right herself. He looked down at the object now planted in the ground behind them.

An arrow.

How—

Above them, in his periphery, new movements drew his attention. He glanced up at the top of the wall where the guards, still chanting, were now readying their bows. Others, armed with swords and axes, burst from a nearby tower and set after them. Patches of clothing and skin left the shroud of invisibility as Vethirn’s energy reserves began to wane. They could waste no more precious time standing still.

With one last tug on Avara’s hand, he took momentum and sped onward.

Dwarves were not known for their prowess in archery – even less under the distraction of chants for their fallen king – but their aim was sure enough. Arrows flew, piercing crates and barrels of fruit and booze, toppling stacks of empty buckets, and marring vacant market stalls as the two weaved between them for cover. Splinters cracked beneath their feet. The tang of wine permeated the air as they splashed through pulp-ridden puddles.

Their concealment faded more by the second. Trying in vain to focus his energy on restoring it, Vethirn struggled to keep his pace. His body grew weak, heart pounding out of his chest as his reserves drained to no avail. The two were left vulnerable in plain sight. Another wave of uncertainty flooded his thoughts as the clangor of their pursuers’ plate armor drew nearer and nearer. A maddening swell of chants surrounded them. He was not sure how much longer he could run.

“They’re gaining on us,” said Avara. Neither panicked nor frenzied, her voice resonated with a tinge of defeat. The lump in her throat made itself known.

Vethirn’s own weight became a wall in front of him, pushing back with greater force the further they ran. Regret pulsed through him – had he conserved his magic, they’d have already made it to safety. The only choice he had left was to surrender his focus. In doing so, he released Avara’s hand as well, but felt no relief from the fatigue he’d already imposed upon himself.

Vision blurring, he squinted at a dark, narrow alleyway between the city wall and the courier’s office. A figure stood there, clad in the same heavy armor as the guards – too broad a fit for his shoulders and looking overall cumbersome against his frame, which was quite narrow for a dwarf. His unkempt blond beard, riddled with mats and tangles, revealed his identity among the faceless – but only to the two fugitives who recognized him.

Beldroth?

“Beldroth!” Avara said, keeping her voice hushed. Having found a burst of energy amidst renewed hope, the two made a dash toward their friend.

Beldroth stifled a smile as they approached. He made a show of apprehending them, chanting with more fervor than the other guards who stopped in their tracks when they noticed the spectacle. The archers, too, ceased their fire.

As the dwarf dragged them away, Vethirn and Avara withheld their myriad questions and joined the pantomime with kicking and flailing. It was not long, however, before Vethirn was overcome with fatigue. His vision faded, descending into complete blackness but for the twinkling wisps of torchlight, and the chants all around him subsided to a muffled lullaby.