The Flame and Steel

In the fading light, the pitch-black eyes, perfectly developed to see in the growing dark, observed the rime slowly forming on the drenched, withering leaves. Fascinated, yet concerned, he knew to expect this. All the warm clothes he had received from the Mountain Dwarves of Othrond in exchange for valuables the land-under-sky rarely saw did not prepare him for the change. He was not ready for the cold that now gnawed at his bones as the winter came howling like the wolves at night. Like thousand icy needles, the sleet lashed against his pale face, turning his breath misty, painfully burning his skin wherever it remained exposed. This was the season he was warned of, the freezing behemoth of the north he had no means to fight.

The great gates of Othrond still loomed in the distance, standing high on the mountain side, forever closed from his kind. The only way was down, away from the wrath of nature that meant a more certain demise than all the lurking beasts combined.

Pick yourself up, Aniceth Anathar, and walk, he grunted to himself. You got yourself this far. Now is not the time to cower and die a meaningless death.

When the last of the blinding, torturing daylight was gone, a comfortable veil of darkness descended. It was his hour, the moment that ignited a distant memory of his homeland. As easily as in a fully lit banquet hall, he began the journey through boulders and trees, smoothly becoming one with the shadows.

The wailing wind carried sounds of the deepening woods. The boughs creaked under the raging rain, and while it was certainly concerning, it was not the reason for him to pick up the pace. Through the whirling noise came a piercing growl he had learned to avoid, but in his rush that was quickly growing in priority, he might not have that option anymore. In many ways, despite the glaring differences, the land-under-sky shared features with the land-under-mountain. Both worlds hosted a plethora of dangers waiting to creep up on a reckless wanderer, but this particular beast had been more tenacious than most.

Squinting, Aniceth leered ahead, looking for a flat clearing.

”Come on then, cat of the mountain. I’m growing tired of feeling your breath on my back," he muttered with an eerie grin.

A second growl sounded in the air, much closer than before. Drawing his sword of red metal, forged in the dark heart of his homeland, Aniceth prepared to face the creature that had been competing for the same quarry ever since he left the underground behind. Rigorously scanning the woods, even his incredibly sensitive eyes failed to find a trace of it, but he felt a presence nearby. It was hunting, and he was the prey— a role Aniceth had grown a little too familiar with during the last few days.

The small, shrubby opening was far from ideal. The ground was slanted and the breeze had blown dead branches around the jagged rocks, making movement difficult and demanding. Aniceth wanted to pass, hoping to find a place that would offer a little more room to move, but the predator was not going to wait any longer.

It was more of a feeling than an actual sound when the large cat leaped toward Aniceth’s back from the high rock it had used as a vantage point. A slight whiff of air, a barely audible rustle as the flexing muscles pushed the creature through the flurry of sleet were the only warning signs, easily ignored by an untrained ear.

While he became aware as soon as the large cat sprang, Aniceth could not dodge quite fast enough. Hugging the freezing ground, he felt sharp claws digging deep into his back, then saw the cat landing a couple of yards in front of him, blood spreading on the snow from its paws. Instead of stopping to assess, the beast turned and leaped instantly, attempting to reach Aniceth’s face with a powerful swipe. Furiously rolling away to buy a tiny extension to his life, holding the sword firmly with whitened knuckles, for it was the thin thread his hope was hanging from.

“Felrath,” he hissed, triggering the enchantment engraved on the dimly shining blade.

An aura of fear surrounded him, which, despite the beast’s frenzy, brought it to a momentary halt. It was enough for Aniceth to get back on his feet, and without wasting a single precious moment he had bought with pain and blood, he charged. The enormous cat gave a frantic hiss, trying to shake off the pressing terror that had sparked without no apparent reason. The element of surprise was gone, and it would have to face its foe with an unexplainable fear pounding in its chest. At this point, the beast of prey wanted to retreat. But just like when it had become clear to Aniceth that avoiding the fight was no longer an option, the predator now found itself in the same bind. It hesitated, which was a critical mistake. Aniceth, ignoring the burning pain on his back, strode forward with determined fury and sunk the gleaming blade into the cat’s neck before it could recover from the momentary confusion. The crunch caused by the crushing spine was loud enough to rise above the howling wind, reducing the last growl into gurgling pant that died within seconds.

“May your soul find peace on the other side,” he muttered, pulling the sword free from the now motionless carcass.

Gazing around, Aniceth looked for shelter, but saw none. Sheathing his sword while allowing the spell to dissolve, he began to walk further down the mountain, hoping to find a suitable location to rest and heal. He felt a warm stream running down on his back and the gradual depleting of strength, telling him all he needed to know about the severity of his wound. Without the chance to have it taken care of, he would die.

In a small, natural nook that had formed by the stone slowly eroding over millenniums, sheltered by withering spruces still clinging to life, Aniceth finally had to give up and lie on the watery tressle of dead needles and leaves. It was the best he could find before his strength would be all but spent. The place resembled an icy death bed for the hopeless to die on, but finding himself without more suitable options, he was forced to accept it.

Calmly he lied down, carefully forming a circle with his hands and knees, quietly enduring the freezing water while whispering a single word with quivering lips.

“Halathiel.”

Feeling the spell working as the glyphs of magic drawn on his skin, well hidden underneath the layers of clothing, responded to the whispered trigger and began to accelerate the healing process. Then, closing his eyes, he reached for the dark ally he knew to be lurking beneath his aware consciousness. It was something he had done only a few times during his lifetime, usually by accident, and never to fulfill a purpose like this, he was not quite sure how well it would work. However, willing to take the chance, possibly the only chance he had, Aniceth reached deeper.

Just as on the previous occasions, the mysterious voice that seemed both kind and malevolent at once did not deny his request, igniting a roaring flame within that delivered much-needed heat all over his his chilled body.

Falling into a state of dormancy, Aniceth basked in the comfort of his inner fire, hoping to recover before more beasts were drawn close. He knew they were out there, for he had sensed movement in his wake.

#

"Chieftain Hagzil, mist rises from the side of Mount Skyhorn!” the Myrdin scout announced excitedly as he approached the large, disfigured warrior hunching by the fire.

The force of her fist knocked the scout back with a muffled grunt, causing the rest of the camp to raise their heads in sudden alert. Picking up the war axe, decorated with the teeth and bones of her fallen enemies, Hagzil stepped toward the loudmouth, her yellow eyes gleaming brighter than the fire.

“Yell one more time, Riktir, and I’ll debone your wretched body with my bare hands,” she growled.

The camp snapped silent like a decapitated swine, all eyes sternly on the chieftain and the bungled scout.

The scout’s nose, dislocated from the devastating force of her blow, squirted blood all over his armor, but not a single yelp escaped his wildly twitching lips. The sheer fear of what Hagzil could do to him kept his mouth firmly sealed regardless of how much he suffered.

After a moment, brief as a light breeze, yet feeling like an entire age, Hagzil turned her flaming gaze away. ”Krax," she said to a slithery figure nearby. "Gather the men, we go take a look."

First a dead saberfang, and now this. There’s something crawling around my mountain. I have to drive it out before it makes a problem, she thought to herself, thinking it could be Humans, Dwarves, or even a Myrdin scout from a rivaling tribe. No matter which— they would be dead all the same. The mountain was Hagzil’s land. No trespassers allowed.

Krax, the wily-looking Myrdin warrior with probably more scars decorating his gray skin than there were rivers in northern Belmora, nodded and slipped away to fulfill her wish.

In less than an hour, a group of ten Myrdins, armed and ready, rushed forward through the dripping trees. Hagzil herself led the party, using all four limbs to gain speed that was nearly too much for the men trying to keep up. She had turned her abnormality into an advantage that had served her well throughout the years, helping her to rise from a hated runt that was nearly put down by her mother to a feared leader of her own band.

“What could it be, Krax?” one of the burly, monstrous warriors wondered. “A campfire?”

The sly Myrdin spat while running. ”You’re as dumb as you look, Lugzar,” he grunted. “That pillar is steam, not smoke.”

“Silence,” Hagzil snarled impatiently, squinting her eyes to see better in the thickening rain. “It comes from behind those boulders— keep your weapons at hand.”

They reached the nook from which the mist was rising and were met with a large, melted circle on the ground, steaming from an unseen source of heat. Anticipating an ambush, Hagzil hunched, and with that, the entire party drew their weapons.

“That’s not necessary,” a calm voice said, causing a bundle of startled whimpers and growls as the Myrdins sought the enemy. Then they saw him, leaning against the boulders nearby, his hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his sword— a gesture that was easily spotted by the Myrdin chieftain.

“You’re no Human,” she hissed, more to herself than anyone else, trying to recognize Aniceth’s rather distinctive features, which differed from those of more regular northern inheritance. Taller and leaner than most, resembling an elf, but the truth was probably something else. She would learn the truth— eventually.

Are you alone, man of the mountain? she wondered. A question that seemed more important at the moment than his breed.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Aniceth answered truthfully, “but I’m not an enemy,” he assured, glad for the fact that these warriors failed to identify him. Regardless, he could not prevent himself from feeling increasing tension in the presence of these warriors, almost as if some primal instinct was ringing alarm bells deep within. He could not understand the reason, so he ignored it for the time being.

“Where you’re coming from?” Hagzil asked, speaking louder. She was becoming very curious, for he showed no signs of aggression toward the Myrdins. Perfectly at ease in front of the fiercest warriors of the land, Aniceth’s demeanor fed ambivalence among them. But Hagzil found his appearance pleasant to the eye, and she saw or smelled no one in close proximity, which quickly dispelled her earlier concerns.

“From under the mountain,” Aniceth replied, unaware of the mistake he had just made, pointing toward the general direction of Othrond.

Krax began to cackle. “You’re too tall—” a fist twisted his face before he could finish the sentence, sending him groaning to the mud.

“I didn’t tell you to speak,” Hagzil said, licking the fresh blood that now covered her knuckles while keeping an eye on the stranger. Finally, she spoke, demonstrating disturbingly accurate knowledge, “You′re one of them elves— a pale one— an enemy to the dwarves.”

Aniceth recoiled, realizing the error of his earlier response. How could these primitive forest dwellers know about Everdeep?

“An Arathan,” he verified, nodding, thinking it was useless to deny it at this point. They would either accept him as he was or there was going to be a fight— a fight with odds stacked terribly against him.

“Are you alone, child of darkness?” she asked, visibly relaxing, for she was now smelling potential rather than blood.

Aniceth nodded again. “Yes, I walk alone,” he answered plainly. The chieftain’s reactions spoke much louder than any words. Her body language had changed almost entirely during their brief communication, and that offered a faint flicker of hope.

Hagzil revealed her blackened teeth for something that resembled a smile. “Come with me. Follow me to the camp, so we can talk more by the fire,” she huffed, sounding about as friendly as a fussing dog, but the message was clear. Her band would be the first and only one to have a true Ashen Elf among them. The status of having such a warrior in her ranks would make rivaling throngs weep in fear.

Considering her words, the decision was really an easy one. He was offered shelter and protection on the verge of winter. Only a fool in his position would reject such a proposal regardless of his conflicting inner tremblings, so he nodded for a third time and followed the Myrdins down the mountain.

#

“Aniceth,” Hagzil called, chewing the barely roasted rabbit with blood gushing from the corner of her mouth. “I want you to go with Krax tomorrow.”

The warmth of the blazing fire felt as soothing as the safety of numbers around him. Tearing off a large chunk of his own share, he muttered, “Where are we going?”

A couple of days had passed since his arrival, and now he was ready to help in order to pay back the kindness they had shown. It was the least he could do. These Myrdins seemed crude and cruel, constantly fighting and testing their limits among themselves, but the strong pack mentality amazed the lone Arathan. When feeling threatened, the entire band suddenly came together and stood as one.

The chieftain grinned viciously. “I want you to prove yourself. I’ve heard stories of your kind, but never have I witnessed one in battle. There’s a village down in the vale; Harthel they call it. I want you to go and kill for me.”

The fire reflected from his pitch-black eyes, hurting him, but not nearly as much as the daylight. He seemed buried in his thoughts for a moment before responding with a question. “These people in the vale, are they bad?”

Krax snickered, but Hagzil’s freezing glare kept his mouth firmly shut. “What does it matter?” she hissed silently. “They have food, weapons, and my men take a liking to the milky flesh of their women. It’s a necessity, my friend. It’s who we are. Nothing in this world is free, and this is your chance to earn your keep.”

The environment was new, but the concept was familiar. Feeling the fine hair on his neck perking up, Aniceth kept his eyes on the fire. Wanting to decline, but reluctant to possibly insult the ones that had saved him from the grip of winter, so once again he nodded. “I will follow,” he said briefly, earning a wide, terrifying smile from Hagzil.

“Rest then, Ashen Elf, for dawn arrives with haste,” she urged, stood up and left him to finish the food. She headed out to check the lookouts. Krax followed her nearby, casting worshipping glances at his leader while measuring the distance to the campfire they had left behind.

“Is he really worth all this?” he dared to ask once they were far enough.

“I’m certain he killed the saberfang all on his own. We can’t have him running freely around the mountain. He has to either join us or die. There are no other options.” Her tone left little room for arguments, but Krax felt he was in a good enough position to achieve clarity for both of them.

“He could be just lying about everything,” he suggested, but Hagzil shook her head.

“He’s too clueless about this world to lie. How he slipped through the Dwarves of Othrond is unknown to me, but his mere presence will be helpful against the pigs of the vale, as well as Gretzag’s band.”

The slithery Myrdin spat into the fire as he heard the name of their rival leader, then he shrugged as they headed for the second watch. A gesture that did not go unnoticed.

“Krax,” Hagzil called.

“Yes, chieftain?” the skinny Myrdin wheezed back.

“I kind of like you, so make sure your axe won’t find its way into his back tomorrow. There’s not much in you to eat, so roasting you alive would be a wasted effort. I might just have to split your skull and leave your stinking bones to the grimlas.”

Krax’s eyes widened as he crawled by the chieftain, thus emphasizing his absolute submission and loyalty toward her. “I’d never disobey your order,” he assured with a squeaky tone.

Hagzil smiled with a sneer. “That’s unheralded wisdom from your part, Krax. Be sure to remember that.”

#

Smoke was rising from the chimneys of Harthel. A thin blanket of snow covered the roofs and porches, declaring the arrival of winter. A short way up the hill, a young woman was gathering firewood while the men of the village had gone hunting, supplementing their diminished produce with wild quarry. Everybody had to do their share to survive the cold months, young and old, strong and weak.

There had always been Myrdins in the area, even before the sun was veiled by the perpetual clouds, but now the times were harder than ever, and risks were a part of daily existence. Nature was dying— losing its prolonged battle against the sustained darkness. With her jaw shivering in the cold, she picked a twig, a branch, anything that could feed a fire, unaware of being watched.

“She will fall first,” Krax cackled excitedly, fondling the notched blade of his sword.

“A lonely woman?” Aniceth wondered. “Is she a wizard or something of the sort?”

“Why would you care?” Riktir laughed quietly. “They’re all going to die, my friend. Don’t fall behind. You don’t want to miss the sweetness of their panicked wails.”

By the time she saw the first Myrdins appearing from the woods, it was far too late to run, for she was surrounded. Her scream rose with the force of utter fear as she tried to retreat toward the village, but she could not resist the warrior’s arms that pushed her back so hard that she fell.

“Don’t kill her yet!” Riktir whined, but his plea drowned under the frenetic cries and howls.

Krax, as the first one to reach her, pulled the helpless girl back to her feet and shoved his sword through her with such force that the dripping tip of the blade peeked through her chest. Her scream drowned under a gurgle as she crouched forward and fell to the snow. Grinning terribly, Krax pulled the sword free and laughed.

“I wanted to have fun with her,” Riktir complained. “She was pretty...”

The others joined Krax’s laughter as he brought the bloodied blade to his black tongue, savoring the taste that would drive him further into frenzy. “Don’t worry, Riktir. There’s plenty of flesh to satisfy you down there,” he growled, breathing deeply. The first scent of blood had riled him so high that he had difficulties containing himself.

And indeed, down in the village, doors opened, and people poured out, startled by the haunting scream. Most of them were too young or too old to join the rest of the men on their hunt, armed with nothing more than pitchforks and felling axes.

Aniceth was flustered.

Initially glad to have run into a group that accepted him so readily, he now found himself reconsidering. Krax had killed an innocent woman without a reason other than sheer bloodlust. What difference did it make that she was a Human? She had been absolutely helpless and unable to defend herself.

Aniceth was ashamed.

The realignment occurred without a conscious struggle, even if it meant his returning to the state of an outcast. He had made it down from the mountain, and despite likely facing the harsh test of the season on his own, he would do that rather than slaughter the helpless who had no part to play in his misery. That was the worst kind of cowardice.

Krax was running ahead, leading the charge. After him came six fully armed Myrdin warriors with Riktir securing the rear. Taking leaps forward, Aniceth ran, catching up to Riktir as they entered the field that opened before the shaky wooden fence surrounding the village itself.

He saw the way out of this uncomfortable situation, and possibly out of this life, but it did not bother him. He would give the village a chance. Not a fair chance, but a chance nonetheless.

“Felrath!” he growled to invoke the spell of his blade and, with one suave move, separated Riktir’s head from his shoulders. It fell to the ground like a ripe apple while the body went on to take a few more steps before collapsing. Through the sprinkling blood, Aniceth saw a familiar sight down in the village as a shorter, yet muscular warrior exited one of the buildings with a sound mace in his hand— the only true weapon he saw in the entire settlement.

“Mountain folk— in here,” he hissed to himself, having an instant flashback of his time underground, traveling through the vast tunnels of Everdeep with his good friend, Angwar Frostfire. A Dwarven man he had saved from slavery and helped to escape, but who eventually succumbed to the withdrawals of bluedust, a drug the Ashen Elves used to domesticate prisoners. The memory filled his eyes with tears, and from that point forward, he knew what to do. A strange, new kind of hope kindled in his chest as he charged forward.

The excitement was intoxicating, and it only heightened as the Myrdins became aware of his treachery. Some of them turned around to face him while the rest continued toward the village. Seeing that the people were not completely undefended since the Dwarven warrior was clearly one of them, Aniceth welcomed the thrill of battle.

The aura of fear struck against the charging Myrdins, but they were not animals. Resisting the creeping horror, they attempted to overcome Aniceth with sheer numbers. A gawky tactic, but it slowed him down. He fended off one attack and dodged the other, leaping behind the Myrdins and spinning around. Before neither of them could respond, the gleaming sword of dread pierced through the spine of the other, dropping him like a fly.

Krax saw Aniceth and yelled out his rage with a voice that resembled a beastly growl. “Hagzil will come for you, traitor! She will cut you open like the rat that you are!”

Aniceth grabbed the filthy, tangled hair of the remaining Myrdin and slit his throat while giving Krax a cold stare.

“I’ll be waiting,” he shouted back and charged toward the others.

Krax wanted to fight him, but just like the rest of the remaining invaders, he could not disengage from the wildly fighting Dwarf and the villagers that had found their courage once the scale tilted in their favor.

Eventually, it was the Dwarf who deployed Krax’s soul to be judged by the Immortals, smashing his skull with the heavy mace. As their leader fell, the rest of the Myrdins were quickly defeated as the remnants of their spirit died with him.

Now the Dwarf and Aniceth faced each other, weapons out and ready. Time itself seemed to stand still for the moment.

“I don’t know how an Ashen Elf has entered these lands, but you better talk fast before I scatter your brains on the grass,” he muttered.

“Wait a little, Theldraz,” an older fellow said amicably. “He did kill two of them Myrdins.”

“Be quiet, Huneric. His most unexpected help is the only reason I’m talking instead of fighting right now,” the Dwarf grunted. “We don’t have much time, though, for I heard their leader’s words, and if Hagzil Wolfback is heading this way, we’ll have much bigger problems soon than a lost Arathan.”

Allowing the spell of his sword to dissolve, Aniceth pointed the blade down to the ground and said, “I’m Aniceth Anathar of Gelendrad from land-under-mountain, here by the grace of Andwar King Barin Ironbeard and Lady Daarli Skyforge, and I’m willing to help this village against the Myrdins— if you let me. I’m an Arathan, or an Ashen Elf, as I’ve heard you calling my kind, but I’m not here to become a burden for your village. I’m simply running away from the winter that has made my life up in the summit impossible.”

His words were met with deep silence, Theldraz’s face red from a stun of his lifetime. Both names Aniceth had mentioned were familiar to him, and the ancient term for his kind certainly warmed his heart, but it did not wipe away his reservations. There should not have been any way possible for an Arathan to walk through the halls of Othrond and live to cite the grace of the Dwarves that ruled the city.

“I’d gladly throw you in the cellar of my inn and lock you up until this was all over, but I’m afraid such blessing averts me, for I need your weapon and the hand that wields it,” he then said, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “The hunters won’t return before dusk, and I know Hagzil Wolfback. She will not wait that long. You helped with the first wave for whatever reason, but don’t you dare to think that you can just walk in here in the wake of a Myrdin warband and be welcomed with open arms. Stay where I can see you, prove yourself, and maybe we will talk tonight.”

Aniceth gave him a deep nod, accepting the terms. This dwarf shared so many traits with his late friend that his emotions made speaking difficult.

#

They did not have to wait too many hours before Aniceth saw Hagzil herself and approximately twenty more Myrdins marching out of the woods— determined and enraged. The villagers stood in line, waiting, sternly bracing for the enemy on their doorstep.

Giving the dead a glance, Hagzil pointed at Aniceth and grinned with a gleam of madness in her eyes. “A traitor will see a traitor’s end,” she croaked. “I will pull your lungs out and squeeze the last breath out of you. Lugzar, take your men and destroy the village. Leave the Ashen to me.”

“Here they come,” Aniceth announced. “Stay together, fight together,” he instructed the villagers trembling in their shoes. “Let me and the Andwar work as spearheads. Flank them in groups.”

“I wish the hunters hear the battle, or they may not have a home to return to,” Theldraz muttered, swinging his terrifying mace as he prepared to engage the enemy. “Good luck, Arathan,” he added unexpectedly before charging forward.

Deciding it was better to leave the secret power of his weapon unused, for such enchantments did not select their targets, Aniceth followed Theldraz’s example. The field turned crimson as the two bands crashed together, becoming entangled in a deadly row that would decide the fate of the village. Their odds were terrible against such force, but in the dimming daylight, Aniceth’s ever-alert eyes caught movement at the edge of the forest. A group of men was approaching. Awfully far still, but they were coming.

“The hunters are returning,” Theldraz cried to infuse courage and faith into the terrified villagers. “Hold your ground! Help is coming!”

Hagzil heard the words, but ignored them in her rage. The men were too far away. They would only see their homes burned and loved ones slain. Striking a few of her own men to the ground in order to reach Aniceth, she released a shredding growl that drove the nearby Myrdin warriors into deeper frenzy. The villagers had no means to fight such madness. Theldraz crushed a skull of his enemy, dodged a spear that was coming for his heart, then smashed a kneecap, leaving the Myrdin to howl helplessly in pain. Covered in blood, his own and his enemies’, he finished the wailing wounded by ruthlessly pounding him into the frost, shattering his ribs and spine. Then he pressed on, relentlessly pushing for the lives of his good neighbors.

Fighting next to the stout Dwarf, Aniceth was deeply impressed. Theldraz lacked some of Angwar’s skill, but he more than made up for it in pure fire that drove him forward. Keeping an eye on Hagzil, who was now almost to him, Aniceth sank his sword into the chest of another Myrdin while feeling steel scraping his own skin. Another wound to slow him down, to make him weaker.

An elderly man fell down, crying, a gaping wound on his head flooding like a river. A Myrdin got surrounded and battered to the ground until his growls and grunts ceased. Yells and screams mingled in the air as the musk of death grew thicker with the fading daylight. The people of Harthel fought bravely, but Hagzil’s estimation was correct; their strength would run out before the help could reach them. If Aniceth or Theldraz were to fall, it would bring demise for the entire village.

Amid the whirling chaos, Hagzil finally reached Aniceth. Her mouth foaming and eyes flaring, she looked for signs of fear, but Aniceth’s demeanor held silent and calm.

“The only way for you to walk out of here alive is to strike me down,” she growled, squeezing the shaft of her decorated, bloody axe with both quivering hands.

“Then so be it,” Aniceth responded briefly, not particularly inclined to waste his words.

With a focused mind and a steady hand, he began by performing a series of graceful maneuvers toward Hagzil, displaying such finesse that even Theldraz found himself bewildered. While it was nothing new from an Arathan warrior, it was a deadly, acrobatic flurry, rarely witnessed by anyone outside of their Dark Kingdom.

While the Myrdin chieftain suffered minor injuries, she barely noticed the bleeding as her fury boiled over and she stomped forward with a bloodcurdling scream. Aniceth retreated in an orderly fashion, but he barely kept enough distance from the swinging battle-axe that would easily end him with one hit. The toes of the axe’s blade tickled his stomach as he rushed backward, knowing that before long he would stumble. The Arathan desperately sought ways to turn the tide, before it was too late.

In the middle of his momentary desperation, Aniceth did a reversed somersault to draw just enough distance to get back on his feet and raised his sword just in time to parry Hagzil’s vicious strike. Having their weapons locked in, Aniceth kicked the Myrdin in the chest to shake her balance, then it was his turn to attack.

The heat of the battle cooled down considerably as the two warriors began their duel. It was going to come down to the result of their brawl to declare victory and defeat— that much was clear by now.

Aniceth’s offensive was lethally beautiful, but by using her exceptional mobility combined with superior strength, Hagzil dodged and leaped away from the immediate range, seeking ways to regain her ground. The dance of death continued; the mixture of blood and sweat created the most gruesome yet appropriate warpaint, but so far neither had suffered conclusive injuries.

“I’ll show you what happens to those who claim false loyalty to me,” Hagzil promised, panting, wiping bloody foam from her grinning lips. “I should’ve known to sever your cowardly head the moment I saw you in the woods.”

“You hide behind the lines as your men kill defenseless women, children, and elders, and you speak to me of cowardice,” Aniceth laughed at her face, trying to conceal the fact that his strength was waning. Such weakness would be like fresh blood for her. It would grant her a whole new level of fervor, which might be enough to give her the edge she required to win.

Steel continued to sing its wicked song. Both Aniceth and Hagzil showed signs of serious fatigue, which opened up their defenses and increased the chance for error. Aniceth attempted to deliver a strong blow from high up, but Hagzil spun out of the way, gaining a strong foothold, leaving Aniceth dangerously out of balance. The counterblow came hard, hitting the sword out of his numb fingers.

“I said I’d kill you,” she sneered wickedly. “Nobody crosses Hagzil Wolfback and lives to tell their story. I’ll be laughing as I break your body into pieces and decorate the burning ruins of this village with splinters of your shattered skull.”

Hagzil took her time to enjoy the moment. The battle had all but died around them, with everybody quietly cheering for their champion. In the meantime, the group of hunters was finally moving faster, urged by the distress of their loved ones.

Swinging his axe in a wide angle, Hagzil prepared to claim her victory. The reinforcements would become meaningless once she had the pleasure of smearing the Arathan’s innards across the frozen grass, killing whatever hope still flickered among the villagers.

Aniceth gazed into her gleaming eyes and whispered, “Felrath,” then he leaped forward like the saberfang he had fought in the mountain, crashing against the chieftain’s chest, hammering her face with bare fists. The stained sword, resting seemingly useless on the ground, responded to the word.

While the sudden aura of fear struck Hagzil’s heart with choking terror, she did not yield in front of the pummeling force. Her nose cracked, teeth tingled, blood oozed from new wounds, but she grinned like a laughing wolf. Dropping her axe to the ground as there was not enough room to use it anymore, she wrapped her massive hands around Aniceth’s head and began to squeeze. At this point, the Arathan knew he only had a few seconds before his head would cave in under the pressure.

But a few seconds were all he needed.

Closing his eyes and reaching deep beneath the surface of his consciousness, he invoked the darkness. Instead of gently summoning, he drove it out with rage and desperation. Like a waking wyrm, the darkness answered with the demanded urgency, bursting out from his chest like an unleashed fiend from the depths of the Fireland.

Simultaneously opening his eyes and mouth, revealing the fire burning in his eyes as the glowing embers lit his throat, Hagzil had one brief moment to understand that her end was at hand. A deep, otherworldly growl rose from Aniceth’s chest as he screamed flaming death. Melting away Hagzil’s face with one scorching blow, she was left with an exposed, blackened skull, staring aimlessly into nothingness with empty eye sockets. Pieces of charred flesh fell off lightly as snowflakes from her head while she was still holding Aniceth in place, but the strength of her grip was gone. She did not hear or see the rising murmur of the crowd, for she was dead long before her body touched the ground.

Some of the remaining Myrdins fled as soon as their leader fell. Some were killed by the hunters who were finally within a longbow’s range. Theldraz glanced at Hagzil’s fallen body, then he turned to Aniceth and grunted, “You’ve certainly raised a few questions here today, and I’m eager to hear the answers, so like I said earlier— we’ll talk.”

Aniceth nodded, breathing heavily. The battle was claiming its toll as his aching body demanded rest, but it would have to wait a little while longer.

#

“Who— what are you?” Theldraz asked when they were sitting inside the inn.

Almost the entire population of Harthel had gathered around the table where Aniceth and Theldraz were talking. The villagers grieved for their losses, but the problem at hand demanded a decision.

Staring into the dancing flames, Aniceth answered truthfully. “I’m not sure. The man who did this— who made me— is long gone.”

“You’re not a pure Ashen Elf,” Theldraz then said. It was not a question, but a simple observation. “From afar, you look like one of them pale folk, but upon closer glance, you’re nothing alike.”

There was no arguing.

“You’re right,” Aniceth quietly verified. “I was born as a result of unnatural breeding, assisted by a spell, but that’s all I know, for Garaz the Blind never spoke of it and my mother did not survive the birthing.”

The stalwart dwarf sighed, fully aware of the quiet head shakes around him. The villagers were not willing to welcome a man so unchecked, fearing for more trouble following in his footsteps.

“Listen, Aniceth, you saved this village today,” Theldraz said, sadness creeping into his voice. “Whatever that power within you might be, it was used to save lives today, and for that everyone here is grateful.”

Raising both hands to interrupt, Aniceth shook his head, smiling faintly. “I know what you’re going to say, Theldraz, and I understand. None of you should worry, for I will continue my journey tomorrow. I will find another place to spend the winter.”

An older man, the same one who had initially defended Aniceth, coughed lightly to gain attention. “The winter is upon us right now. Harthel is the only hamlet within too many miles to count. We cannot send this man out there, knowing that he will be trapped in the wilderness once the storms come, and they will come soon.”

Smacking his lips, Theldraz agreed. “Huneric is right. You could stay for the winter months,” he said, seeking support for his suggestion by leering around. “I have a spare room by the kitchen. If you help us hunt, we will share our food with you. You can spend this time preparing, so you’ll be ready when the milder winds return.” His words caused a low mutter with a strikingly accepting tone among the villagers.

A deep gratitude filled his heart as Aniceth turned his gaze from the fireplace to the people around him. “Thank you,” he said plainly.

Later at night, when Aniceth was lying in his comfortable, warm bed, he wondered what had brought Theldraz to this place. He had not shared anything about himself yet, and unlike many others, Dwarves did not possess particularly strong wanderlust.

With a long, tired sigh, he pulled the blanket over his head. Feeling safe in his temporary home, he completed the circle of healing and whispered the triggering word, “Halathiel.” Questions could wait for a better time.

#

The storms came, isolating Harthel from the rest of the world as the only trail passing through was efficiently blocked at both ends of the vale. Proving himself to be a valuable asset with his immaculate night vision and hunting skills, Aniceth helped the villagers to bring back quarry, keeping them well stocked with precious meat.

Amusing himself during the boring winter evenings, Aniceth often attempted to probe the Dwarf with his questions about the past, but Theldraz dodged them all with the persistence of a plowing bull. Of course, the more he avoided the questions, the more fuel he poured into the fire that was Aniceth’s curiosity. So far, however, the subject remained untouched.

In time, the storms ended, and the sun, nothing more than a distant myth, remained behind the clouds. As the melting snow joined the rushing streams across the foggy land, Aniceth knew the time of departure was drawing closer.

“Listen, Aniceth,” Theldraz said one evening while they were having a pint in the flickering glow of the fire. “I’ve been thinking, and I might know a place where you could find a place to stay. It’s a long shot, but it’s the best I can think of.”

His face lit up, for Aniceth had struggled with the very same question lately, and he did not know this world beyond the mountains of Othrond— or Whispering Mountains, as they were known in the land-under-sky. “I’m listening,” he said, hiding his excitement— poorly.

Theldraz spread a large parchment on the table, which turned out to be a rather detailed map of the entire continent of Belmora. Aniceth had seen the map before, stored in one of the chests in his room, but as it was lacking any actual names, it had been more of a beautifully drawn piece to look at than an actual tool.

“We’re here,” Theldraz began, pointing to a spot far north, then he moved his thick finger over toward southwest, stopping above a large peninsula sticking out from the main continent. “This here is Nolgor,” he said, tapping the land twice with his nail.

“I know of Nolgor,” Aniceth said, his eagerness quickly dying. “The land of Elvars— the Elves of the Forest. I’m afraid you’re suggesting that I walk straight into the maw of death. No other elven branch tolerates Arathans, and Elvars are worse than most. It’s not quite the same as if a Dwarf of Othrond would knock on the gates of another Dwarven stronghold. You’d be still welcome, I’m fairly sure.”

“Maybe,” Theldraz uttered, sounding unconvinced. “I don’t know what they teach in the Dark Kingdom, but to my knowledge, Nolgor is the most tolerant realm of all the elven kind. It should be your first and foremost goal. The history between you is old and faded, but you do share the same blood.”

Aniceth seemed thoughtful, carefully considering Theldraz’s words. What was taught in Arakhnest, the capital of the Dark Kingdom, was mostly based on lies written by Raivos himself, the leader who took his followers underground at the dawn of time. It was the only source of knowledge Aniceth had grown up with. He was terrified to leave, unsure of what was true and false. While life in Harthel, surrounded by the impervious dunes of snow, was slow and boring, it had introduced the kind of communal camaraderie that Aniceth had never experienced before. It had been inspiring.

Shaking his head, Aniceth kept looking at the map. “Hundreds of miles through unknown lands,” he said, voice slightly shivering. “How good chance do you honestly think I have?” he then asked, sighing deeply.

“Well, I was thinking,” Theldraz started, stroking his thick beard, “together our odds might be fair.”

“Together?” Aniceth blurted, thinking surely his ears had betrayed him.

“You’ve been asking why I live here in this tiny village instead of the shining halls of Othrond, and while I’m not ready or willing to talk about all that just yet, it’s safe to say that I will never see them again in my lifetime.”

Aniceth raised an eyebrow as if he was going to throw out a hundred more questions like so many times before, but Theldraz’s placid, serious expression stopped him before he could say a word.

“Come on, Aniceth,” Theldraz grunted loudly. “It’s dull as deer’s droppings in here! I’m just a simple Andwar of these mountains, good at making beer and sharpening axes, but I could use a change of scenery before I die. So what do you think?”

Aniceth laughed, real and true joy in his chest. “I wouldn’t like anything more than having you to accompany me, Theldraz. I’m used to having a grumpy Dwarf traveling with me,” he said wryly.

Theldraz broke into a hearty chuckle. “Sounds like we both have tales of secrecy waiting to get out. Perhaps one day we’ll share.”

“I’ll be ready,” Aniceth promised, raising his mug for a solemn toast.

Theldraz’s chuckle deepened into laughter. “Consider it a done deal then, my pale friend,” he declared, bumping his mug against Aniceth’s to seal the toast.

The front door parted, and a wrinkly face peeked inside. “Are you open yet, Theldraz?” he inquired.

The dwarf glanced at the elder and smiled. “Surely we are. Come on in, Huneric, rest your bones by the fire, and I’ll get us ale. I think the spring in the air calls for a small celebration!” He left out the true reason for their elevated moods, for it was not quite the time yet to announce such things. They ate, and they drank, and the songs of bravery and sorrow blared long into the night.

The End