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Chapter 1: Beneath the Peace

Part 1: The Brave Shepherd

Relentless courage burned in like a fire in the heart of Canis, a heart full of devotion to things entrusted to his care. A heart such as this came from a noble spirit and a childhood of loving and caring for a flock of meek and gentle sheep. Canis has been tending his flocks for several years, defending them against predators of every sort. Often he would venture from the small town of Belom in a sheltered valley to the rich meadows just beyond White Fang Pass. The meadows were particularly precious to shepherds of Canis’ family for generations. It was a family kept secret that only they knew along with one other conclave of cloak makers who lived nearby. A certain flower blossomed at the end of autumn that enchanted the wool of the sheep, making any cloth extremely valuable. However, the meadows were also well guarded at this time, for as the snowline descended with the coming winter, so did the wolves that followed the elk which fled the encroaching snow for lands and meadows that were still green. Thus, White Fang Pass was so named on behalf of the infamous wolves that prowled those treacherous slopes.

At age sixteen, Canis had successfully survived the passage several times, often planning his travels to avoid the common patrols of the wolves. However, the winter began to come early this particular year and the last feed was critical and forced Canis to take his flock into the meadows in spite of the perilous threat of the carnivorous beasts.

Canis set out on the crisp day of the second month of Autumn, called Kawtser. For three days he travelled through the mountains to White Fang Pass. Despite the protests of his concerned mother, he knew that his whole family would suffer greatly if this thing was not done. He had no concern for his own well being, but the welfare of those who he loved.

The journey seemed peaceful and still for the first couple of days, as Canis guided the sheep along the winding road along ravines and up switchbacks. After three days, he came to the mystic meadows. The scene was that of farce tranquility. The autumn sun barely lit the meadows over the tall mountain peaks, shining down as visible pillars of golden light. The flowers were in full blossom, with colors of deep blues and reds. The area was just large enough to fit the flock of a couple hundred animals. The meadows were lined with pine trees and ferns. The far end on the west side laid a thick alpine wood that extended back into the next small valley.

Canis perched himself on the elevated rock formation at the middle of the meadow and watched over the sheep with his crook in hand. Due to its small size, one young lamb was beyond Canis’s vision as it ventured farther and farther away from the center and westward toward the thick foliage. It was seeking fresh flowers which hadn’t been trampled down by the crowds. As the young lamb bent his little head down to take a bite out of a small ruby flower, a hungry wolf lunged out of the thicket and bit down on the young lamb’s neck. It was not long before the jaws were loosened as a speeding marble pierced the skull of the wolf. The lamb, though injured badly, escaped the maw of death and ran back to the safety of the flock as it sought refuge behind the brave young shepherd.

Canis stood vigilant with a freshly swung sling in hand and a shepherd’s crook in the other. The wolf lay dead as his pack crept closer to the meadow. The scent of his blood angered the wolves into a vengeful frenzy as they charged out of the forest to attack the boy. Canis could hear the various howling from the trees soon after his execution of the poor wolf. He quickly loaded his sling with another marble, swinging it above his head, prompt for battle. Soon out came six more wolves all hungry, and angry at him. He let off another stone killing off one more wolf. The attacker gave off a high-pitched yelp as it crashed into the earth in its mad sprint. The remaining five continued to rapidly close the gap between them and the shepherd boy.

Canis managed to launch one more sling bullet before the surviving four were in lunging distance of Canis. The bullet was let out in such haste that it failed to harm the rabid beasts that were now in range of their enemy. He dropped the sling and held up his shepherd’s crook to block the dominant wolf’s murderous leap at his throat. The wolf, on accident, bit into the crook, gagging him as Canis tossed the overeager pelt over his head and into mossy rocks behind him. The stone slope along the side of the meadow punctured the belly of the thrown beast, causing an agonizing death as the wolf whimpered and lay upon the meadow.

While Canis swung the wolf back toward the stonewall, one of the remaining three also leapt and managed to bite into Canis’s coat and tore it off. The thick leather distracted the canine as Canis managed to turn back around to face the other two now paused in their tracks growling at Canis. Canis held his crook in both hands ready to defend against another leap of fury. But the wolves began to wise up a bit and as one stared into Canis’s steady gaze, the other began to pan to the left in attempts to outflank him. The one staring at Canis barked and growled violently, trying to terrify him with all of its might. The left wolf went for Canis’s leg as the other jumped up towards Canis’s throat. Canis swung the crook upward hooking onto the throat of the wolf heading for his leg and continuing through swinging one hooked wolf into the other that came dangerously close to Canis’s neck.

Both wolves were violently swung into each other. The disorientation and heightened intensity caused the two wolves to bark and bite at one another with a lethal bickering. While they fought and snarled among themselves, the canine that had now torn Canis’s coat to shreds had returned with a vendetta for the sentinel of sheep. Its violent charge was no surprise to Canis. The crook was held back behind Canis’s head prepared for a full hard swing just as the wolf reached his position. The crook cracked into the wolf’s ribs and ruptured its vitals. The trauma knocked the wolf unconscious and left it dying.

Canis now had time to pick up and reload his sling and fire it at one of the bickering wolves. The bullet pierced the back thigh and the yelp of the injured wolf was followed by a startling retreat of the now terrified survivors. With their leader gone, along with several of their kin, the two remaining wolves would no longer fight a battle that could not be won. They gave up and left. Canis spared them, now that they were no longer a threat. He gathered the sheep that were excited and frightened from the conflict. He simply called out to them, and as they heard his firm yet loving voice, they suddenly became calm and quietly came back to him. Not one was left behind. Canis made sure that no lamb would ever become lost again from view.

Standing over the corpse of a slain foe of ragged fur, Canis felt the chilling air bite at his shivering body. The energy and excitement of the battle wore off and led to a horrible chill that reminded him that his coat was torn asunder. He glanced back down at the dead wolf and envied the warm pelt. Since it was the one that was bludgeoned and knocked unconscious, there were no flaws in the furry hide. After building a fire upon the victorious battlefield of a meadow, he proceeded in skinning the animal and cleaning the hide, preparing a furry cape to throw over his back as a crude but effective self-shelter against the cold.

            The night fell and his sheep rested well upon the now meadow was reclaimed. Canis warmed himself before the fire and feasted upon peppered lamb jerky previously prepared before the journey. The jerky along with a loaf of rye bread satisfied his hunger before a quick rest. After only an hour of sleep, Canis awoke his sheep and began to return to his village of Belom.

            He finally came around the bend and saw several burning fires of various towns glowing in the early dim of dawn. The sun had not quite peeked over the jagged mountains shadowing the valley below, but the hazy sky began to brighten upon the approach of it. Very few clouds drifted along, some even below Canis due to his altitude overlooking the populated valley below. His town of Loom rested just before him at the bottom of the sloped road down from the mountain pass entrance. His heart filled with warming joy as he caught glimpse of his older brother, Ursus, in the distance just leaving the family cottage.

            It was now Khashed, the first day of the week. This meant that it was a day of rest and reverence. There would be no laboring with the sheep that day. It also meant that the meals were particularly special and breakfast would be much more enjoyable, since no labors took precedence. Promptly leaving the sheep in the protection of the fold, Canis eagerly returned to the cottage for breakfast. Ursus was sitting down over a steamy bowl of potage noticing Canis hanging up his wolven cloak in the spot where there used to be a fine wool coat. Canis’s mother, serving the other three younger children at the table and the father who faced the fire and had his back toward Canis, did not notice the cloak. Ursus caught everyone’s attention with the inevitable inquiry, “What happened to your coat?

The question caught Canis off guard. He was not a custom to lie but at the same time he had previously plead of his mother leave to take the early trip. She had been against it fearing for his son’s life. Canis was fearful of his mother’s rebuke if he mentioned that he was attacked. He chose to remain in silence rather than saying anything at all. The mother widened her eyes as she more attentively peered at the cloak. She ran over to it and held it up for Canis to confirm her worry. “Is this… wolf fur, Canis?”

            The cornered boy could not hold to his game of silence for much longer, and would soon be forced to either lie or not. Not being able to come up with any good bluff and seeing as how the cloak was undeniable indication of some kind of incident, he spoke up and told the truth.

            “A lamb ventured too far from the flock and was attacked by a wolf. I killed it with my sling.” After Canis had explained this, he hoped that it would resolve the tension. His partial truth soon led to another question, this time by his suspecting father, “So why did you trade in your warm wool coat for a crude wolf pelt? And do not wolves travel in packs, my good son?”

            “No, father, they normally do not, but…” Canis began as he tried thinking of a way to explain how there was only one.

            “How many were there Canis?” the caring mother asked.

            Knowing that any act of dishonesty would not succeed, he answered with the whole truth, “Seven.”

Canis prepared for a sudden burst of rebuke from his mother but she remained patient, but could not hold back the sight of her child being attacked by seven violent wolves. Her throat swelled up and her eyes grew red as she gasped to continue on, “Were you hurt at all?”

            Thankfully, Canis was not hurt at all and was happy to report it. Feeling that the tension had left the situation, he answered, “No, mother, not a single wolf scratched me.” He then looked to his father with a smirk, “But my coat wasn’t so lucky; hence my wolf pelt.”

            The father felt a flood of relief over his son’s account. “Well son, I have never been more proud of you…”

            “And relieved,” added his mother. “But be sure to not travel alone next time you brave the pass. Ursus would have been glad to go with you if you had asked him.”

            Ursus took his queue to stand up and give Canis a reassuring pat on the back, “Mother is right, Canis. I’ll always be there to lift you up when you are in over your head.”

            After that, Canis’s mother placed a warm bowl of roasted oats with wild honey and black berries on top. Such sweets were common in the mountain regions, but rarely gathered. Canis looked down at the lovely array of delicious décor on top of the roasted oats and asked, “Who gathered these things?”

            The mother signaled over two Canis’s younger sister and brother, both at the age of seven, being twins. They both smiled in being proud that their older brother was grateful of their efforts. The younger brother, Kerith, just smiled, “I picked the berries myself, only…”

            “Only he ate most of them before they got into the bucket,” Lily giggled. “I got the honey from the bees, terrible little things. One stung me.” She held out her finger for Canis to see. It was swollen from the bee sting.

            Humored by his young siblings, he played along, “Oh, how terrible those bees! Did you bring justice to their hive?”

            “Of course we did, silly! How else would we have honey?” commented the sister Lily. They began to laugh at her wit as they continued to eat. The new sun glared through the window on them all, almost blinding poor Kerith and Ursus that were facing east. The warmth, however, was welcomed. The rest of the day passed with songs of joy, reading the holy words of Adel, and a short visit to town for blessings by the priests. One young man was chosen to speak to everyone about the elven wars and the courage of the Valors.

            “A thousand years ago,” he began, “the elves ruled the whole world of Chedel. They abandoned the god, Adel, and worshipped the dragons. They were blinded by greed for power and enslaved the rest of mankind, treating the orcs as beasts, taking goblins from their homes, extorting the wealth of the gnomes, and driving the trolls from their cities and forcing them into the wilderness. The vile acts worsened until a valor was commanded to free the world from elven oppression. Upon the first day of the new era, Kaseph, a humble man and a valor, was commanded to lead his people to liberate Chedel from the tyranny of the dragon lords. After ten years of war, the elves repented of their evil ways and gave up the throne of honor to Kaseph. All the peoples of Chedel grew into a peace. The noble valors dined with the wise elves; the stout dwarves walked with the strong orcs; the friendly gnomes traded to the tall and resourceful trolls; humorous goblins made merry with the clever giants; intelligent scions studied with the selfless avatars, and the whole world knew not war nor hate. In this peace we live now. I am thankful for such peace and pray that we all might never forget Adel, that the peace may last. Amen.”

            The people of the town agreed in unison with an “amen,” as the boy stepped down. Canis, as he listened, could not imagine what war must be like. Perhaps it is like the encounter with the wolves, desperate and lethal. He remembered the sad feeling as he looked over the slain beasts. They were only hungry. He had no desire to kill them, but it was either the wolves or his family that would perish. Canis could not reason with the wolves. They spoke not tongues of men. Even if they did, how could he ask them to starve for his sake? Perhaps war was no different, he thought. Every conflict leads to tragedy. He was glad he never knew war. He could not imagine that in place of a dumb beast, there was a man, a father and husband, lying dead by his hand. By Adel, how could such a thing happen?

            As he thought this, he had a terrible feeling that somehow, war would no longer be a stranger to him. He feared his premonition, and brushed it aside as a mere fancy, a fleeting thought. “It could never happen again,” he thought, “as long as the valors rule the land in humility and compassion.” This thought gave him some peace, but an inner since of doom still lingered in the deepest chambers of his heart.

Chapter 1: Beneath the Peace

Part 3: Fang

Talis made his way down the road. The sun had already disappeared behind the mountains, leaving the world in a dark blue shroud. Up ahead he saw lanterns burning bright in the tavern. The building looked dingy and vile, which only reflected the steady patrons. Talis stepped through the door and felt the warmth of the roaring fire hit his face. He kept the hood of his cloak up to hide his face. As he entered, men of all kinds looked over at him, gave him a quick glance and returned to their drinks and chatter, He seemed to fit it among them. Most of the men wore dark clothing, dirty and damp from recent “jobs.” Over in the corner he saw an orc that he recognized, an old friend of his that fell away some years before. He went over and took a seat opposite from him.

            The orc looked somewhat tired and downtrodden, as if wishing death to come to him in that very tavern. The orc had the traditional two tusks jutting out from his fat lips, with long coarse hair, and thick skin. His hair was that of fire, his skin black as coal, and eyes bright orange like embers. The ragged beard grew down but stopped just before meeting at the chin. Small hairs sprouted unevenly beneath his nose as a sad excuse for a mustache. His build was large and muscular, scars on every part that was exposed. He stunk of stale beer and blood sauce. One could not find a better example of an orc mercenary.

            The orc looked up to see a black-cloaked figure with ebony skin, deep dark blue eyes, fresh skin, and large, pointed ears. He didn’t really recognize the face at first, since he had drunken quite a bit that day. In fact, if he didn’t know any better, he’d say that there were two dark elves sitting across from him. Before he could say anything in his drunken daze, the dark elf spoke, “Greetings, Preguisos. What brings you to Pardec?”

            The intoxicated orc adjusted his eyes several times to see if his vision could focus any better. “What? Pardec? You elf?” he mumbled, blowing his foul breath into Talis’ nose. Talis shuddered at first. The smell could cause a gnome to faint. “What you… hic… want with me, little elfling?”

            “I am an old friend, your old tutor,” said the elf.Preguisos suddenly recognized his old friend Talis, “Tal-.” But before he could shout out the name in his wretched state, the elf prince reached over the table and hushed him up and whispered in Preguisos’ ear, “No one must know who I am. Call me Fang for now.”

            “Okay Tal-, I mean Fang. It has been a while,” he said in a lazy belt. “What brings you to a stinky old tavern?”

            Talis leaned over to whisper, “I am in deep trouble. I was framed for murder. Now I am looking for the ones that did this to me. Have you heard of any jobs or assassins hired to kill a high elf named Dawthir?”

            The orc leaned back now, slowly returning to his senses, “Hmm. No, no Dawthirs. But there was a peculiar job about the Fire Isles, Iynuur. Yes, a good bit of gold was offered, but it wasn’t enough.”

            “What was the job, Preguisos?” asked Fang. He had no idea whether there was any connection, but he had no knowledge of anything and needed something to start with.

            “Ah,” said the orc as he remembered from the foggy mind of ale and beer, “I remember. It was some kind of mercenary job, with my old kin. Someone came in saying that he was going to bale my rebel orc friends from exile in the sand country of Chorbah. He offered one million pieces of gold to any man who would help attack Iynuur.”

            Fang was shocked. “Who would want to wage war against the valors, whether here on the mainland or in the isles to the west? What quarrel would one have with the Archking?” Valors were a righteous people, perhaps greater than the elves, although too humble to admit it. They were considered normal in appearance, the look of a traditional human. Fang always admired other races and particularly had a reverence for the benevolence of valor rulers. Elves lived longer than others and Fang was young for an elf, one hundred and ten years. Yet empires have known to rise and fall in that amount of time, but the dominion of the valors had not an incident for a millennia. The only conflict he could remember was small bandit skirmishes and the uprising of jackal orcs in Chorbah. Even that was due to a misunderstanding and ended without a single loss of life. However, a good portion of the jackal orcs were put into exile at a quiet and beautiful oasis. This was rather generous of the valors and was seen as almost an unnecessary mercy. If someone led the jackal orcs out of exile, why would they and how would they incite the orcs against the people of Iynuur thousands of miles away?

            Preguisos wondered as well about Fang’s question. After thinking so hard, a headache began to build from the amount of alcohol running through him. It hurt to think and he just shrugged, “Well, I don’t know. The mercenaries just laughed at the stranger and threw him out for being crazy.”

            “What did this man look like, friend?” Fang was curious, hoping for one more clue that may give him a hint to his own quest. He felt that this well of information was already running dry and he didn’t want to leave empty handed.

            “Well, most mercenaries didn’t care to see who or what he was. I did notice that he was an elf when we threw him out. His cloak came back just enough to expose those pointy ears,” Preguisos informed. Fang sat back and began to wonder if the stranger was Dawthir himself or his killer. Dawthir was no crazy man and a rather humble elf. No one loved the valors than he. Perhaps that is why this person, wanting harm against them, would have the poor Dawthir killed. Fang figured that his best chance to find the killer was to head toward Iynuur himself. Just as he was done planning his next step, he leaned to thank Preguisos, but before he could get out one word, a arrow darted into the table between them.

            “Give up, Talis! I must avenge my brother!” cried out Lastilla. Fang spun his head around and dived under the table to avoid the next arrow. “I can find who really did it, Lastilla, trust me!” he cried out, frustrated with her not believing him. Then again, he didn’t blame her. Whoever framed him was done to a inhuman perfection. It was his word against the hard evidence against him, only his word.

            “I won’t believe your lies anymore!” she fired one more arrow that stuck to Fang’s boot. Fang got up and drew his scimitar. “Step away from the door, Lastilla, I don’t wish to fight you,” begged Fang, but Lastilla shut her ears to him and fired again. Fang swung his blade just in time to turn the arrow into splinters. As Lastilla drew another arrow out of her quiver, Fang slipped by her and out the door. He jumped onto the nearest horse and road off into the darkness. Lastilla turned to Preguisos and asked, with an arrow pointed at him, “Where is he heading off to?”

            The poor orc just stuttered in panic, “I think… Iynuur. Yeah, west to Iynuur.” Lastilla lowered her bow and jumped on a horse to ride after Fang. After they both left, Preguisos just muttered to himself, “Why do people keep on stealing my horses? Those were my last two.”

Sorry, im packing for a trip, I began reading it but ran out of time.  Very nice from what I have read so far.

U guys can go to my site and print out the pdfs if you'd like. I find it easier to read something that's on a page rather than on a screen.

I am still working on Chapter 2. I've been getting distracted a bit lately <slaps himself to wake up>. Got to get back to work!

COMING SOON:

Chapter 2: Ripples of Wrath

Quite good from what I've read so far. But for the fleeting errors here and there pretty much excellent.

Chapter 2: Servants of Shadow

Part 1: Shadow of Blood Lust

A cold night was almost welcoming after so hot a day in the oasis. Matar was drinking water all day under the shade of the trees. He faced out into the endless desert leaning up against a coconut tree. He felt lonely. Although his men were with him at the oasis, he could not take his family with him into exile. He missed his children’s faces. Though orcs like him, he had to admit, grew quite rough and ugly, his children were as adorable as any child is, learning to walk, to lash their sandels, to track beasts. Now it was all gone. He didn’t blame the valor king that put him in exile, in fact, if it wasn’t for him, the wretched elf would have had them all executed as traitors against the crown. It was a good thing that the Archknight, who was the military leader of the valor empire of Solazul, the Archking was the supreme ruler. He was thankful for that.

            As he sat there in the shade, with his bare black feet feeling the cool breeze blow the sand off of the soles, he saw a spec upon the sand growing larger to his view rapidly. He squinted to see what it was. He then noticed it was a man of some kind on the back of a horse. He called out to his men to come near. They were forbidden to have weapons, not even a bow to hunt, since only fruit and fish could be found in the oasis. They picked up coconuts and rocks in case the visitor was unkind. As the figure approached, however, they felt terrified of it. Some of the men began to whisper to each other that it was a ghost of the dunes, others said it was just a mirage. Whatever it was, it was now in plain sight just a mile or less from them.

            The orcs were so frozen in fear and curiosity that not one item was thrown. The rider left his horse and seemed to glide over to Matar. In a horrible voice, as if from afar, the figure called out to him. Matar knew not why, but he began to walk over to the stranger. What could survive the desert, he wondered, and why did it seek him and his men? As he came closer, he say a man of some kind, a face pale as death with nothing but black orbs as eyes. The face made him shiver from head to toe. The ghostly figure raised his hand as if commanding Matar to halt. The dark being opened his mouth, “Matar, lord of the jackal orcs, what a pleasure this is?” The tone was surprisingly friendly, almost too friendly and perhaps a farce. But the words seemed to enchant Matar as the dark eyed man continued, “I am Shelthaq. I hope my appearance does not… disturb you. I am a shadow scion of Iynuur and I have a proposition for you. How would you like to be free and ruler of your own country?”

            Matar was a hardened warrior that fought desert bandits since he was a child. He was naturally suspicious of this Shelthaq that stood before him. “And how, Sir Shelthaq, would I manage to achieve such things? How could you free us from this exile? The desert is endless and we have not the supplies to travel for very long. And what country exists that I may rule that is not already under the Azulites’ thumb?”

            Shelthaq just laughed, not mockingly, but simply humored, “I would suspect you to be doubtful of my offer. I wish no particular harm against the Azulite king, nor his sovereignty, but I must do what I must to survive. My country in Iynuur, the region of Moranar, seems to shrink with every census of Solazul. I would prefer to dwell upon the fire isles alone without the politics of the high council. You may be king of a new kingdom there, and I shall be your subject, as long as you let my people roam free. All you have to do is accept to be let free of this place and wage war against the Archking.”

            “Ha,” was the only way Matar could respond. “How foolish do you think I am? The Azulites would crush us within a day! With Adel’s prophet and…”

            “I know a power greater than He,” Shelthaq quickly interrupted, in a prideful hiss. “We scions have fused our blood with the essence of shadow. We know a power greater than that God whom the Azulites worship.”

            Matar was no clever man of magic or faith. He was curious of what Shelthaq spoke. The valors’ God seemed supreme. “Show me this power!” he demanded in his impatience.

            Shelthaq gave a strange grin as the orcs all gathered around with anticipation. “You believe that this oasis was an act of mercy, but would not complete freedom to roam and rule the land as you choose be a greater mercy?” As he spoke, the night grew even darker around them. The stars and the moon faded away, as did the very trees around them began to disappear. “Fight for freedom! Fight for independence! Fight for a world free of Adel’s tyranny, a world free of oppressive ‘virtues and laws!’ Fight for a world with no rule but your own!” As the dark magician finished his words, the dark became so thick, Matar could not even see his own had in front of him. The blackness disappeared, revealing that he was now standing upon a mountain overlooking a valley full of villages. He felt powerful now, a dark strength flowed through him. He looked down at the oblivious villages and grinned. “This will be easy!” he cried as he ordered his men to charge the nearest cottage just before them. They cheered, “For the Master of Shadow, and for freedom!”

            The peace of Chedel was no more.

Chapter 2: Servants of Shadow

Part 3: The High Council

King Cyrus was an elderly man of sixty years old, yet aged well with little wrinkles and no hindrance to his movement or abilities. If he was fully donned in armor with a closed visor, you would think him a young knight fresh out of squirehood. He sat there on his throne and began reading his entry in the holy records. To his right sat the Archmage Obadiah, prophet of Adel and head of the Church of Adel. To his left sat the Archknight Aventil, Commander of the Solar Sentinels. Before him were the Twelve High Paladins of Solazul. This made up the High Council of the Crown. This moment, as Archking Cyrus read his summary of his reign, some of the high paladins fought their greatest enemy, boredom.

            “I, King Cyrus, do make a report of my reign as Archking in my sixtieth first year.” As he began, the dwarven paladin Drovgon was already yawning. “Nine hundred and ninety years after the elven wars, the Kingdom of Solazul still enjoys peace. In memory of Khaphar and his Twelve, we organized the Kingdom of Solazul after His church, with the division of twelve for every council of every realm. I bear the crown of Archking and supreme ruler of the whole known world, the continent of Solis and the Isles of Iynuur to the west. Currently, the prophet Obidiah, serves as Archmage and rules all things economical and civil. Also, we have Aventil, the High Elf King of Pardec, serving as the first elven Archknight and thus is commanding beneath me all the Solar Sentinels, the troops of Solazul.”

            By the end of just the first part of his entry in the Book of Kings, Drovgon was sound asleep and Bildi, the gnome paladin, was soon about to follow him. The others just looked on up at Cyrus with detached eyes, admiring his crown or the tapestry on the wall behind him. He had no notice of this as he read from the page, almost as a routine or chore. It was written in the law that this must be done. He would much rather work on his crops or tour the cities assisting areas suffering from droughts or famines. He, like the others there, disliked the court meetings and felt that it was unjust for one man to sit while the rest worked. But he went on nonetheless. “The kingdom of Solazul is divided into twelve nations, each with its patron race ruling them, with the exception of Iynuur and Zeheb…”

            “Here, here!” cried out Thati of Zeheb. Aventil just held his head in shame at the sight of the grey elf. The shout almost awoke Drovgon but he just groaned a bit and bent back over his chair and returned to his nap, “Why do we not hold councils at night?” he thought.

            The king turned to the council and asked, “Would you all please stand as your name is called?” Dathom, the avatar, knocked Drovgon alongside the head. “Wake up, gold-mind!” Drovgon sat up straight and true. He felt the throbbing on his head. Avatars were larger dwarves with metallic like skin. The punch felt like a cast iron pan hitting his skull. It was just a light tap for Dathom. “Jeshua of Kesaph, the sword valor paladin of Solazul,” thus stood a rather quiet man and just nodded and sat back down. “Farhun of Corbah, the fire scion of Narha,” King Cyrus said as he looked around and noticed that Farhun was absent and added, “who is not here at this time.” Gobeer the goblin leaned over to the troll Thall and snickered, “Lucky for him.” They both just laughed quietly. “Where was he, though?” thought Gobeer.

“Volradas of Pardec, the high elf of Megilthas and son of Aventil,” thus stood the quite tall and noble elf, that appeared as young as his father.

“Feliscar of Iynuur, sword valor of Templarim,” everyone cheered as Feliscar stood to his feet. He looked reluctant to stand at first. He was a tall and strong man, quiet as well. He never wished to be anything more than a knight, but he could not refuse a calling given to him from the Archking himself. He always did his duty and everyone seemed to admire his courage. Many wondered why he was not Archknight, but realized that the relations with the elves seemed to be wavering recently and calling Aventil seemed to be political to appease the uneasiness growing in the elven region of Pardec.

            After the cheering ended, Feliscar was happy to sit back down. Cyrus then continued to call for Rasbon, the giant, Drovgon, Dathom, Gobeer, Bildi, and Thall. He then called the charismatic Thati, and finally he called the orc paladin, “Rasgar the Second of Chazir, puma orc of Felisidade.” Now Drovgon began to cheer, not because of Rasgar in particular, but because the list was over, but soon fell asleep again. King Cyrus continued with brief accounts of religious and civil matters until he closed.

“What a fine speech, a fine speech!” cried out Drovgon. All just looked over at him and knew well that he slept the whole time.

Cyrus just smiled and said, “How would you know, Drovgon? Perhaps I should add, ‘And Drovgon slumbered happily ever after, till the end of his days?’”

“Or perhaps ‘until the end of the meeting?’” someone added. They all just had a good laugh and agreed with a “Here, here,” and a “Yes, sire! That be a good, fit ending, indeed!” As the roaring of laughter settled, Drovgon just added, “But I believe that ending has already been used… for my book.”

The merry times within the council came to an abrupt end as the doors swung hard and slammed into the walls. There stood a man of ruby red skin, blond thin moustache and beard, orange-retina eyes, and a shaved bald head, dressed in desert-like attire. It was the absent Farhun. “They’re gone! The jackal orcs are gone!” he shouted just before another gasp of air.

The whole council just stared at Farhun, still trying to process his words. “Calm down,” said Cyrus as he could see that Farhun was both exhausted and horrified. He appeared as though he was going to faint upon the stone floor of the castle. “Tell me plainly, my friend. What happened?” Farhun went on to recount how he had received a note from one of the generals in Chorbah saying that the orcs could not be found in the oasis. Farhun travelled as quickly as he could to the oasis to investigate the situation. All the best desert trackers were hired out to see which way the orcs were headed. But there  were no signs that they had travelled into the desert. Farhun concluded that there must have been some dark magic that took them away in an instance. As soon as he gave his report, all the other paladins began chattering about possibilities of what had happened.

Aventil sat there and puzzled for a few minutes, just observing the conversations. He then rose to his feet from the throne of the Archknight, normally called the Throne of War, and spoke. “Good Paladins of Solazul, my sovereign King Cyrus, and good prophet of Adel, may I put forth a question, perhaps the most important?” King Cyrus just glanced back and nodded at Aventil with humble respect and realized that the conversations had grown disorderly. “Perhaps the question is not how it happened, but the question is what has become of the jackal orc rebels? Where have they gone and what do they now intend to do? Did they merely seek freedom, or do they seek vengeance? These are the questions we ought to ask and to which we need an answer!”

Dathom, the golem, stood up in agreement, “Here, here! What do the jackals do now as we speak?” Dathom then turned his almost featureless head to face the Archmage, Obadiah. With great reverence, he bowed and asked, “What enlightenment will Adel give us, good prophet? To where have the orcs fled?”

The old man Obadiah stood up from the Throne of Peace and met his eyes with each man in it before answering. He closed his eyes in solemnity for a few moments. As they began to reopen, he said in a clear voice, “Our enemy is that of shadow, of sand, of anger, of fire, of humor, and of chivalry. The enemy of sand has travelled through darkness into the isles of fire in the west, where the wool of Cherubim doth grow.”

Feliscar quickly realized the meaning of at least the second part of Obadiah’s foresight.”Rass Rutha! The jackal orcs are in Iynuur near Belom!” Feliscar remembered the wool that was used to make the Cloak of Cherubim which the Archknight had worn for centuries. The wool is of the sheep of Belom, in the country of Rass Rutha, Canis’ sheep, though no one knew yet who Canis was.

“Are you sure?” asked Aventil. He looked rather puzzled at Feliscar’s quick remark. ‘How could he have seen through the archaic riddle of the prophet?’ he thought. Feliscar just nodded at Aventil. “Very well, Sir Feliscar, we shall send troops to Iynuur immediately to supplement your forces there. I will personally travel to Iynuur with you.” Aventil turned to Archking Cyrus without hesitation and requested, “Sire, we may need more men in Iynuur. Will it be possible for thee to assemble more men here to send?”

Archking Cyrus admired the steady mind that Aventil shown in such a troubled moment. He stood up a little more straighter and his eyes began to glow with conviction as he responded, “I will begin a campaign to recruit more into the Sentinels’ ranks. Indeed we must prepare for the worst, for Iynuur is full of people whose relations with us are waning. I feel that we will be facing much more than orcs.”

Indeed, Iynuur was isolated. It was one of the few realms in the kingdom that was unreachable by land. Iynuur was the home of the dragons before the Elven Wars. After the formation of Solazul, Iynuur became a new world for people to settle. This was why Iynuur had no patron race, for all ten were represented respectfully in the region under Feliscar’s domain. Some of these races grew uneasy with distant rulers in Solazul, and Cyrus knew this.

Cyrus turned to the whole High Council of the Crown and said, “Iynuur is facing grave danger, my brothers. I fear a plot to take you own homelands as well. The forces of Feliscar and Aventil may be enough for now. I will also request Farhun to send some assistance as well to be his penance for the failure to keep the jackal orcs in exile. You may all send volunteers as you see fit, but do not neglect your stewardships.” The king then turned respectively to Obadiah and asked for him to leave them all with a blessing to close the meeting.

Obadiah stood before the council. All bowed their heads in reverence as the prayer began. Obadiah began to speak softly yet firmly to Adel, “Oh Father Almighty, hear us now as we pray. We thank thee for sending Farhun here in safety and we are grateful for the willingness of the High Council to assist thy people in Iynuur with protection. We request for thy good will and benevolence to watch over the men as they set out on this task to defend the innocent from the enemy that grows in the west. We know that by Thy will all those that commit evil against Thy children shall meet justice. We ask thee to reveal the plots of the dark one to us and let thy light shine upon those that work in shadow. This we pray, Amen.”

The rest then responded with an “Amen,” all except one…

I am currently writing the next chapter. I have a third of it done. Sometime this week for sure it will be up.

Chapter 3: Shattered Peace
Part 2: The Hunted Hero

Obadiah grew weak as his fast began to drag on. He paced on top one of the spires of Cherubim Citadel thinking of what he had foreseen of the kingdom. He had fasted for two whole days and could barely stand as he watched the night sky begin to clear from the rain. The stars seemed dark and the moons gave no light in the still cloudy sky. He heard a shuffling from behind and below. As he came to the edge and looked down the dizzying heights, he saw a well talented figure climb the rock wall with very little equipment. The dark elf reached the top and panted heavily from the climb and bent over. He looked up at Obadiah, revealing his rather distraught face, full of agony and fatigue. In his shortness of breath, the elf greeted the prophet, “Forgive me, Prophet, but I am in dire need of your wisdom.”

Obadiah bent down and lifted the poor prince to his shoulders. “My brave Talis,” this seemed to catch the elf off guard. He knows my name? Obadiah went on, “Fear not the judgments of men, for Adel knows thy heart. He is just and will assist thee in thy quest.”

The young elf was touched by it a little. But he shook his head a bit and went on, “But Prophet, how can I feel such guilt within me. I know that I am innocent, but my elf brethren will never forgive me.”

“Do not distance thyself from thy brethren, the elves, too much, or thou shalt be their bane,” Obadiah continued. His words felt right, and his warning seemed powerful as the elf stood and listened. “Thou dost seek guidance, Talis, but thou knowest what thou shouldest do. The murderer of Dawthir lies within the mountains of Ras Rutha upon the mountains of Iynuur. Slay him not at first sight, for thy first task is to save the life of a young man. Close thy eyes, and the Spirit of Adel shall take thee to this place of which I speak. Close thy eyes.”

Talis closed his eyes as instructed. He heard a voice in his head, whether it was Obadiah’s voice, or the voice of someone else, he knew not. The voice said, “Open thy eyes and save this people.” As Talis opened, he found himself in a small cave somewhere. In the distance he heard several orcs chattering. He made his way down a rocky hallway and came up near the orcs. He drew his blade, a curved dagger lined with poison, and cut into the orc’s arm. The orc fell in a brief pain but soon grew silent as he fell unconscious from the numbing poison. The other orc soon joined him before he could call for aid. The two orcs slumbered upon the cool ground as Talis continued through the cave.

In a cave chamber just a ways off from Fang there sat a tired young man that was beaten and freezing as his captors mocked him. “Little valor thinks that he’s tough kicking me in the chin. Does he think that he is a warrior?” The jackal orc bent down. “You are lucky the King of Darkness wants you to remain alive.” With this, the jackal orc backhanded the boy’s face and spat on him. “You are nothing, valor scum.” The young man just took the beating without a word. Another orc, tough and dark, with withered skin, burn scars all over, and a bright red cloak came up to him.

He spoke to the young man in a chilling voice of malevolent calmness, “Young man, you cannot deny the will of the shadow dragon. He wishes to know if you are the brother of a certain Canis. Are you?” The young man said nothing. “Answer me, young hunter, or I will be forced to harm you.” The silence went on. Quemar, the jackal orc, grew angry as he raised his hand up before the lad’s face. He twisted his fingers and bent them in odd ways. As he did, a small spark began to swirl around them and the palm until it grew into a flaming orb.

The young man just looked up at Quemar and spoke, “You’re magic does not frighten me, orc.”

Quemar’s eyes began to glow like molten iron, “It is easy to be brave before you have felt the fire.” The young man began to sweat as the fireball began to approach his face. It was so hot, he felt like fainting, yet he said nothing of his brother Canis. Ursus was not about to give into the orc acolyte’s demands. The skin upon his cheeks began to steam then sizzle. He began to cry out in pain, but he would not give in. “Burn me,” he thought. “Go ahead and burn me, then what would you do?” Quemar began to laugh diabolically as Ursus gained blisters on the left side of his face. Ursus shut his eyes to the world and saw nothing but a red glare through his eyelids. His left brow caught fire and began to bleed. “I don’t care if you burn me!” he cried in his heart, “You will not defeat me!”

Suddenly Ursus felt the cold chill of winter again. He opened up his right eye, for his left was burnt. As he opened, he saw the orc lying upon the ground dead, and the fireball was gone from his clutches. Above the body stood a cloaked figure with a shroud over his face, a hood up, and two daggers in his hands. The rescuer bent down and undid Ursus’ lashings, reached into a pocket and pulled out some kind of ointment vial. The figure applied the medicine to the burn, causing it to sink into the skin and burnt flesh. Before the ointment could heal the burn, Ursus fainted from pain.

Talis looked down at the young man and checked for breath. Thank Adel that the boy was still alive. The ointment’s effect began to take affect and the burn healed completely, with the skin, brow, and eye all returning to their former state. He sighed in relief, but it was short lived. He heard calls echo through the caves. He picked up Ursus and ran out as quickly as he could, carrying the boy up the slope to an out cove on the mountain buff, overlooking a wide crevice.

The rock wall curved over the small-leveled space, giving them some decent shelter from the snowfall. He cared well for the young lad, despite the nagging urge to press on to vindicate himself. There was a war going on and he had to find Dawthir’s murderer. Talis rested his cloak onto the lad to give him some extra warmth as he sat staring at the fire. Watching the warming light of the fire seemed to soothe his anxious being. The worries of the world seemed to fade away as the flames danced across the small logs of cedar.

            The world was black for a moment, as Ursus began to awake. Soon black became a blinding blur of white and orange. His eyes slit open and his vision could see some burning logs. He opened wider to see a dark figure holding his jet-black hands up to the flames, rubbing them together subconsciously. The dark blue hair was even stranger. But as soon as Ursus saw the long, pointed ears, he knew that it was a dark elf. He sat up a bit to see what or who it was. He looked around at his surroundings to perhaps get some clue as to what had happened. Where was he?

            “You were out for a while now,” said the elf in his peculiar accent. “I almost thought that you would never wake.” Then the elf looked up at him. The scarlet iris in his eyes caught Ursus off guard. Everything of this man seemed to be in a shocking contrast to what was normal. “I gave you some ointment. It has healed your burn well. You will find that elven medicine are quite miraculous. You must have put up a tough fight against that mage.”

 To the dark elf’s remarks, Ursus could only respond, “Yes, I did.” He could not bear to share any more of his sad tale, doing so would arouse grief over the loss of his whole family. The only one that got away was his brother, and he wasn’t even sure if Canis was caught and killed soon after they were separated. He had left Canis to his death, he thought. He did not want to weep in the presence of a rugged old elf. This elf didn’t appear old but they live much longer than any valor has and often never bear the lines of wisdom and the wrinkles of age outwardly. The age carried through in the voice and speech instead.

Talis noticed the sadness in the lad’s eyes and sought to comfort his new friend somehow. Being in such a sorrow as well, sympathy was the obvious choice. “I know, good valor, I know far too well the sorrow for which you hang your head so low. But at least you have survived to tell the tale of those you lost, and no one is hunting you for it. I have no one left in this world.”

            Ursus looked up at the dark elf and wondered now of his sad tale. What events led to their meeting? Ursus sought more information, “What has happened to you, and who are you?”

            “Oh, pardon me. We have not introduced ourselves very well. I am a dark elf, as you have no doubt already have noticed. You may call me Fang. I was once a prince of Mori Orod, in the far west elven nation of Pardec. But I stumbled upon the murder scene of a good friend of mine. The guilt of his murderer fell upon me. His sister now seeks my life in vengeance. I have managed to escape her pursuit this far, but I can venture no further, it seems.”

            Talis was indeed nearing the edge of the map, from the far east of Pardec to the fiery islands of Iynuwr, there was nowhere left to run. But Talis wasn’t running away from his fate, but rather to complete his task to unravel the conspiracy for which his friend had died for. This young man had no need to be stressed upon a matter that was not his to bear. “And you, young man, who have I saved from the frost and snow?”

            “Ursus, kind prince, I am a son of a shepherd. I, myself, am a skilled hunter and trapper. My family was lost in an orc attack. That is how I have received these wounds.”

Fang was puzzled by the jackal orcs even being here. Who was helping them? Could this be the same as the murderer that framed him? He looked over at Ursus planning his next move. He would have to investigate thoroughly the situation. He could track the orcs back to their main camp and perhaps find some plans to their chaotic and unusual war against the people of Iynuur. Who had rescued them from their exile?

The day was growing dark, being too dark for Ursus. After warming and feeding the fire until the veil of night was completely still upon the white blankets of snow, Talis finally rose to his feet and prepared to track the orcs. Ursus looked at his diverse friend getting up and felt the urge to get up as well, but the pain in his side caused him to quickly sit back down. “Where are you going?”

            “I am going to track the orcs and find out where their main camp is. I will return here as soon as I find out what I need to know. Stay here and you should be safe. It appears that these orcs were in too big of a hurry to backtrack, so they won’t be coming after you.”

            “What about you, prince? They may spot you and follow your tracks in the snow.” The boy was concerned for a couple reasons. Although claiming that everyone wanted him dead, Talis appeared to have no guile about him and seemed to be a very noble being. Also, if Talis should fail, Ursus saw no possible way of finding his brother again, for surely he was lost in the vast wilderness of the dangerous isles.

            Talis just smirked at the notion that the orcs would spot him, “You forget, young valor: I am an elf.” With this he walked off into the night. Ursus looked down and realized that Talis did not leave a single footprint in the snow, but was strolling on top of the snow’s surface, so light was his step. Indeed Ursus had never met such an unusual being before.

Wow! Thanks man. If I get to the point of putting it through a publisher, I'll make sure you get a copy. I need at least half of the book done for a publisher I found. It has always been my dream to publish a few books, and I am determined.

No problem. We're waiting for more.

Chapter 3: Shattered Peace
Part 4: Reason to Fight

Aves had never been so infuriated in his life. How could they have turned him away? He was the greatest gryphon rider in all of Chedel. The army could most easily have used him in the war to save Iynuwr. His pride was utterly injured. He could not endure his emotions. He had to prove that he could do it. He had to prove that he was somebody. He hated the idea of being small and unimportant, an insignificant gnome in a large and terrible world. He was going to shine brighter than the blue sun that shone above him. He would soar higher than the stars upon the wings of victory. When people shouted out his name in praise and thanks, then they would know that he was no boy, no mere gnome, but the greatest warrior that ever lived. They would see.

            He wore a hardened scowl all the way back home. He was in no mood for a wedding. He had forgotten all about it. It seemed like such a mundane thing, and he hated the mundane. Getting off the wagon, he gave so greeting kiss to his mother, nor his fiancé, but went straight to the stables to fetch his things and Fangbeak. The mother and the fiancé rushed out to greet the man ready to be married, but he had already stormed off. The mother gave a puzzled and concerned look to Fowlos, “What happened, Fowlos?”

            Fowlos couldn’t say a word. He hadn’t the whole trip. He dared not to ignite his son, unsure of how his wrath would erupt again. He had never seen his son angry before and was already shocked by the assault on the lad that insulted him. It was understandable to him, but completely uncharacteristic of his boy. What would become of poor old Aves? Down what foolish path would his thoughts lead him? But from what were the circumstances, Fowlos knew what was running through his son’s mind, what he was planning on doing in rashness. He went to the stables to catch him, to try and stop his hasty decision.

            Aves frankly scurried about the place trying to get the stable on Fangbeak. But the poor creature was frightened and uncertain of his disturbed master. It squawked and leapt around in protest. “Hold still! Hold still, you dumb beast!” Aves had never yelled at his gryphon before. The young man was torn apart inside and it seemed that the whole around him was crumbling. Not even his bird recognized him for who he was. He struggled with the gryphon for only a little bit until his father grabbed him by the shoulders. The arms of his son flung about in an uncontrolled fury, the likes of which he had never before seen. He almost wept at the overwhelming frustration that had tormented him. He tried desperately to calm his son down.

            “Calm down, son! Calm down,” said Fowlos as Aves flung his arms around in turmoil.

Aves stood still and began to weep in frustration. He collapsed onto the ground in sorrow. What could he do now? He couldn’t fly away; he couldn’t join the army, and he couldn’t possibly go through with the wedding being so distraught. What was left for him in this world? He wanted to be erased from the sight of everyone. Who was he? He didn’t even know.

The kind old father knelt down and sat beside his son. “It’ll be alright, my son. It’ll be alright.”

“No!” Aves, in his frustration, shouted. “Just go away. I do not want you to see me weeping. Boys weep, not men. Apparently, that’s all I’ll ever be, a tiny little boy who can’t do anything, nothing at all. What value do I have to anyone? I’ve ashamed my fiancé by trying to stand up for her. I’ve disgraced my family. My good friend and mount doesn’t even trust me anymore.”

Fowlos had not a clue on how to comfort his son. What could he say? He just looked at the weeping Aves with hopeless pity. Sometimes fathers feel so powerless. He tried the best he could, “Aves, you are a man. You are getting married soon, to the most beautiful and talented huntress in all of Chedel. That is no exaggeration of the truth. Any other man would love to be you. They go off fighting wars because they have nothing to lose, no one to take care of. You do not need to go off on some vendetta to prove that you have worth. Elsa already sees it in you, and so do I.”

Aves heard, but could only hear the laughter of the young men from town and the guard turning him away. He still felt the pain in his nose from hitting the cold cobblestone street. He couldn’t just let it go by. There was a wrong to right here, and he intended to bring justification, vindication, for himself. He just looked back at his father and said, “You don’t know what it’s like, to be tossed and humiliated like that. You’ve never been turned away from an earnest desire to sacrifice everything for your country. What do you know about it?” With that, Aves got up and stomped over to the window looking out onto the fields and the mountains beyond.

Fowlos felt like he should say something else, But he just couldn’t face it anymore. He was powerless. Only Aves could choose his own feelings and desires. No one could force him to forget and be happy. Fowlos decided to leave his troubled son alone. As he walked off, he just said, “I trust you son. I know that you will choose to do what you know is right in your heart, but do it for the right reasons.” With that, the father left, unknowingly triumphant. His last words sank deep into Aves’s soul. What was right, Aves thought. Where did he need to be at this moment? He sat there as the night came, staring deep into the horizon. For what reason did he feel that he needed to be involved in this war?

Good good...  you are writing it very well... your story is actually one of the few I actually read.  Keep it up, and as Himanil said, you'll be in the same league as me, Septim, and Charley (I'm only in the league for moral support).

You, Septim, Charely and Demosnul I belive though I must confess I don't have much of an experience about Demonsul's writing skills, only his RP'ing.

Here is a link to some trivia for the story, where I got names for characters and other things. I am constantly uploading small trivia here. World of Chedel

asty!

i never see you in chat anymore...makes me sad :(

...Blasphemy!

dang... saw new posts and hope it to be more writing...:(

^You have been around...you just have not bloomed as a writer yet :p  Your mind is not focused enough.  You start, but never finish...kind of like me these days :|

True I might have gotten carried away Charlie so I should say that-

Excellent. It be no exaggeration whatsoever when I say that you are 'WELL ON YOUR WAY TO BE' in the league of Septim and Charley, then again that might have been STRONGLY prompted by the poor quality of stories that many others have posted.

Thank you all for reading so far. I will be on vacation for a couple weeks. I won't have internet access unless hotel room has it. But I will still have my laptop and plenty of time to write. I will hopefully have one more chapter before thursday. I will post more when I get back.

And thank you all again. It has been good encouragement so far.

yay!

good!

i hate to be the barer of bad news but your pic didnt show

picture...at the end of you last couple posts..a few posts ago

Dunno 'bout any pics but keep the story coming.