The Blackfire Annals: Chasing Ghosts
Chapter Eighteen: Knight of Fire

Haven

Deyann’s home

Carsten stood in the square of the town long after the dark elf Airknight had left, simply staring into the distance. Deyann remained with him, hoping that, perhaps, the dwarf might confide what was troubling him. As usual, he was not disappointed.

“I can’t believe it,” he murmured at last, his voice husky. “It seems like everything is falling apart. First Edessa, then Arcaena, and now…”

“Now Vadhyl,” Deyann finished. “You are concerned with your family.”

Carsten nodded. “I wonder…” He looked at Deyan.

“You said that you could make me strong. That you could make a better fighter out of me. Did you mean that?”

“Every word.” The dwarf nodded.

“Then teach me. Show me what it really means to be a warrior.”

“You already are,” Deyann pointed out.

“No,” Carsten replied. “I’m a soldier. There’s a difference. I can fight, but I need to learn strategy. Engagements, weapons, tactics. And I am not half the swordsman I know you can make me if you won as many times as you say.”

The other nodded. “I can help you, but you need a night’s rest.” The red-haired dwarf shook his head.

“No,” he countered. “Not tonight. Do you have a few maps of the land you could lend me?”

“Yes,” Deyann said, following Carsten’s line of thinking. “I do. I also have one marked with all the places we know these raiders have attacked,” he added significantly. “I assume that is what you want? To replace out why they have chosen their target areas?”

“Yes.” Carsten put his hand to his chin pensively. “Well, shall we?”

They spent the night at the table in Deyann’s home with Thomas, poring over the maps. Rolf was gone again, this time to the Wolf Clan’s miniature compound within the village. Inside, they had several longhouses, divided by family or, failing that, gender. Mycal herself had left Haven for a time, although she had not said where she was going or how long she intended to be gone.

“This makes no sense,” Thomas murmured, his eyes scanning the course that Carsten had marked on the map. “There seems to be no correlation between the cities. Not all of them even intersect with the Great North Road. Why take them?”

“Perhaps not for the cities themselves,” Deyann mused, holding the lamp above the dwarf’s head. “Maybe for their productivity?”

“What?” Thomas asked. “Are they…” his voice trailed off as he realized what he was saying. “They would not dare, whoever they may be.”

“Dare what?” Carsten growled. “Risk war? Thomas, look at the devastation they’ve wreaked on our people, the lives they’ve destroyed. You saw those prisoners. Many of them suffered for nigh on a decade without anyone even knowing that they were still alive. What is it you don’t think they’d dare?” The other dwarf shifted uncomfortably.

“I merely thought that such disruption of peace was a depraved thing to seek,” he replied. “I understand that they are not moral. But I am used to…”

“…combat according to rules,” Deyann replied. “As was I, my young friend. But be warned: in helping us, you have accepted a world and a way of war without rules. And it is such a world that breeds heroes and monsters.”

“And which are you?” Thomas asked.

“I know not,” Deyann told him. “Perhaps not knowing is best.”

“But why war?” the dwarf persisted. “What do they gain by it?”

“Perhaps what they gain is the wrong question to ask,” Carsten murmured. “Maybe they play at a deeper game…” He shook his head. “But you’re right when you say these cities have no relation to one another directly. But indirectly, they did, or do. While the villages were destroyed, intelligence from the Airknight suggests that they weren’t completely annihilated.”

“Meaning they needed them intact,” Deyann murmured. He looked down at the map, his eyes suddenly lighting up. “Resources, of course! That is what they sought, and that is what they found. First, food!” He exclaimed, jabbing one village with his finger. “Then, water!” Here a city further to the south with springs that remained thawed all year round. “Then, at your cousin’s village, metal for weapons! They were dwarves, or mostly so. They had mines, and their machinery, as I understand it, is easy to operate.”

“Then what would they need next?” Thomas murmured. “They have everything.”

“Maybe not,” Carsten said. “Men are lacking. They would need to bring a greater force down from the north than simply a cabal of raiders. Making war requires an army.”

“And you think they lack one?” Thomas challenged. “They destroyed at least a dozen villages already!”

“No,” Carsten replied. “I don’t think they have an organized one. They have these groups of marauders, but an organized force requires training and a clear command structure, which they may not yet have.”

“Which means we may have time to counter them, if we act quickly,” Thomas said, taking Carsten’s idea up. “Is it possible that your cousin may have survived?” The red-haired dwarf shook his head.

“I can’t say certainly. I would like to hope so, but it isn’t in my hands.”

“No,” Deyann said. “But I know where he would be if he has. There is a fortress far from his home. I knew his father had tunnels dug to it, that his people might escape there should they ever feel the need. Perhaps he managed to flee.”

“Wait,” Carsten said, holding up a hand. “Surely we would know of such a fortress, if it existed.”

“No,” Deyann replied. “That was Thorvald’s genius. He found a fortress underground, in a cavern so dark it would never come to light. No one knew that such a stronghold existed, or how it was made. The stonework is good, but not dwarven by any measure. It may predate all contemporary styles of architecture.”

“You know this?” Thomas asked. “How?”

“I have lived many lifetimes,” Deyann replied. “More than half a century. And I have seen much work and sorrow over it. I knew many who now claim the title of noble or royal, and that when they were mere children. There is much I know that I can teach you both, if you would learn.”

Thomas seemed satisfied with that answer. “Can you lead us there? If, perhaps, there are survivors, they may be of help to us.”

“That would do us no good,” the dark elf answered. “Oriem Blackfire himself knows of our plight, and not even he is able to help. For all our power, the army that would be required to force them from our lands for good is far too large to escape the notice of the Free. Amassing that force…”

“…brings treaty obligations into question. While the wording might be ambiguous in some places, the Treaty of Reconciliation is clear on the point of arms and troop numbers,” Carsten finished. “Besides, gathering and training a force would take too long. By then, they would be ready and we wouldn’t.”

“So if there is to be a war,” Thomas began, thinking more than half to himself, “why can we not give them battle as they would give it to us?”

“A secret war?” Deyann asked. “Is that not dishonorable by the standards of the Free?”

“No,” Thomas replied. As he spoke, his voice grew in intensity and pitch, until it reverberated with intense passion. “It is not. But defeat is more so, and cowardice above that. The greatest sin a warrior can commit is not give battle in defense of the helpless when it is within his power to do so! And I cannot allow this to go on. Whatever grievances my people have with you are past, and now you and yours are in dire, even fatal, need. And I would help you if I can.”

“A secret army…” Carsten said, smiling at the thought. “I agree. It is a sound plan, if nothing else.”

“Agreed,” Deyann said, looking down at the map. “The force would have to be small, but well-trained. The element of surprise and superior knowledge of the foe would have to compensate for our inferiority in numbers.”

“It is possible, then?” Thomas asked.

“It is possible. Not easy, but possible,” the dark elf answered. “I can help you both, if that is what you want.”

“We do,” Carsten said. “When do we start?”

“Tomorrow, first thing,” the dark elf replied. “But for now, you need sleep. Both of you.” They concurred and shortly found themselves in their bedrolls. As he was drifting off to sleep, Carsten put his hand on the necklace. I miss you, he thought, wondering if Arcaena could hear him. He almost felt his heart stop when she answered.

I miss you, too, she thought back. And yes, I can hear you quite well.

Are you all right? He asked.

Currently, I am struggling to not lose my mind at a state dinner, she answered. Some second-rate elf diplomat showed up and it is my father’s duty, for whatever inexplicable reason, to entertain him. And his son refuses to stop looking at me. I think he may be infatuated.

Sorry, Carsten said. You’re all right otherwise?

Better than all right, she said, a small laugh escaping her mind. Your cousin is alive. I thought you might want to know.

Carsten was instantly completely awake. Alive? How do you know?

He sent a messenger falcon to my father three days ago requesting food and men. Apparently, at least three hundred of the villagers survived, but he is worried that they cannot sustain themselves without fields or other means of gathering food.

Did your father send any?

He could not, she replied. The journey is long and treacherous, and we are unsure of exactly where he is in relation to Vadhyl. The raiders have set up a large camp around the settlement, and our supply shipment would be intercepted. The falcon he sent for the message would not return, either, so we had no sure point of reference.

Do you think…do you think you could send a message back? He asked.

Again, I do not. She remained silent for several seconds, and then she answered. I will petition my father to convene a meeting of all the major leaders in the Outlands with the intent of stopping the raiders. You may attend, if you wish.

Carsten disagreed. I can’t, he answered. Tell me how it goes.

Very well, she replied. You should sleep. Good night, my love.

Sleep well, starlight, he answered. And within minutes, he dropped off to sleep.

Keeper’s Fortress

Northern Outlands

Olaf had his hands full ordering the refugees from his village, as he had never had a keen organizational sense. They were in the massive, cavernous fortress his father had unearthed, set up with the camp in the main hall. The carven pillars in the main hall would probably have attracted Olaf’s attention for hours any other day, but he was merely content to know that the fort was warded against any magical intrusions. Tents and food and blankets and fires and divisions between people were hard to manage to say the least, and made even harder by the fact that there was very little at his disposal to meet his people’s needs. Currently, Olaf was handing out pieces of cured meat to a long line of people, while his sister Neena handled bread and Qural dealt out water. Halfway through the line, Neena leaned over to him and whispered, “Will we have enough?” Olaf closed his eyes and ran a few numbers. If there were about a thousand survivors here, and they had as much food as his father had stored…there would be very little to go around if they were lucky.

“No,” he answered. “We won’t.” Olaf reached behind himself and took a plate of meat he had set aside for himself, which he handed to the next person coming. “But we might be able to soften the blow.”

Neena watched him move, but said nothing. How could she? Her brother would not have listened, even if she had something useful to say. His defiance had gotten him far in life, but she was deathly afraid that same rigid adherence to what he thought to be the right thing to do could easily be his death. For her part, she agreed that there existed a moral law that ought to be followed, but that following could easily endanger one’s life. At that point, the decision had to be made: life or loyalty? While she knew it was a dwarven thing to choose an honorable death in defense of one’s convictions, she found herself wondering what it was all worth. What could those morals do for a dead man? Was it not better to live than die? She shook the thoughts from her head and kept filling bowls. However, she was careful to ration it as best she could. Conservation of the food would be the only way they could survive.

The food line ended about four hours after it had formed, but the noise continued. As Olaf roamed the camp, he saw families searching frantically for loved ones, either celebrating in joy when they were found or breaking into cries of despair when they were not. His heart went out to them, but he knew nothing could be done. All the wishing in the world could not change the past, and wishing alone never changed the present. Qural joined him, watching one family weeping as they realized one of their sons was missing.

“Look at them,” he murmured. “Only two weeks ago, they celebrated his coming of age. Now he is lost.” Olaf nodded.

“A reminder of life’s many cruelties,” he remarked. “It’s one of the reasons I don’t seem happy often. If you’re already in a bad way, you don’t have as far to fall.”

“A good philosophy if all you feel is heartbreak,” Qural told him. “But what about happiness?” Olaf shrugged.

“Is one or two days of your entire life spent happy worth the rest of them spent grieving?” He snapped. “Honestly, emotion is just another one of life’s many bitter jokes.”

Qural shook his head. “Have you ever imagined a life without emotion? Without feeling? What kind of existence would that be?” Olaf was silent for a moment, watching the family break into fresh cries of anguish.

“I don’t know,” he finally answered. “But I highly doubt that it could be worse than the one I’m living now.” He pointed to one side of the camp. “They need blankets over there. Call such men as can stand to come and help. We’ll distribute them to the families that need them.” Qural looked at him.

“You know,” he said, “your father would be proud of what you’ve done here. As am I. Our people needed a leader, and you answered the call.” Olaf lowered his eyes.

“That’s not true,” he whispered. “Father wouldn’t have taken so long to get everyone in place. He would have known what to do. He always did…”

The minotaur turned away. “I’ll see who I can replace, Olaf. Should I meet you here?” The dwarf shook his head.

“North end of the camp,” he replied. “Bring the rolls. They also need more kindling, and I’ll fetch the cart I loaded for them.” Qural nodded.

“Meet you there,” he said. Olaf watched his friend walk away and shook his head. This will be a long night, he thought.

Haven

Next Morning

Carsten’s eyes snapped open at sunrise. Someone was shaking him, and not too gently, either. It was Deyann, dressed in leather and chainmail armor, two swords strapped to his right side.

“The time has come,” he told the dwarf. “And early, too, from the look of things.”

Carsten rolled over and sat up. “Ugh. Early really is wretched.”

“I know,” Thomas said, from beside him. “But we agreed to this. There is no backing out now.”

The red-haired dwarf stood and reached for the sword beside his cot. “I know,” he replied, strapping it to his waist. “So, where exactly do we plan on training anyway?”

“I was planning on doing it at the Wolves’ Enclave,” the dark elf explained. “I visit there every so often, and Mycal is probably gifted enough you would not need me for more than the first week or so. I do, after all, still have duties as an elder to attend to.”

Carsten raised an eyebrow. “The wolves have their own separate village?” He asked.

“Not a village proper,” Deyann replied. “There is a sanctuary in the mountains where they raise the young and induct new members. Weddings are performed there as well. That was where she took Rolf.”

“That makes sense,” Carsten said. “Will the village be all right in the meantime?”

“I have made sure of that,” Deyann said. “There are horses waiting outside. We should go.” Thomas’ eyes widened.

“Oh no,” he muttered.

“What’s the problem?” Carsten asked. “We’ve been on journeys before.”

“The journey is not my problem,” Thomas moaned. “I hate horses.”

Karkopolis

Hall of Ancestors

Arcaena Blackfire was standing in her mother’s room, holding her staff in hand. The aged blackwood staff showed few signs of wear. This made sense to her; after all, the weapon had been the sole conduit for her mother’s spells for centuries, and thus held great power itself. After she had returned from the Outlands, her father had gifted her the rod. In truth, though, she had done little more than enter the sanctuary and hold the weapon for long periods of time. An odd practice, in anyone’s estimation, made more so by the fact that the staff was kept atop her mother’s empty tomb. For her, this was no artifact of power. It was her mother’s walking stick, the one she carried when she had taken Arcaena and her sisters to the highest point of the mountain above their capitol for the first time, the staff she had borne when she took Arcaena to see her cousins in the south, and the staff she had left behind when she went off to die. She lifted the rod back up and put it in the gilded case it rested in, which she shut and padlocked. Lifting the case to its resting place onto her mother’s unfilled crypt, she lowered her head and exited the room. Outside, her younger sister Miera was sharpening an arrowhead on the steel she so frequently carried, waiting for Arcaena. Per an agreement she had made earlier, she was going to take her sister out for an archery contest in the Suthner Field, where the dark elven army frequently drilled.

“You did not take the staff,” Miera surmised. “Why?” Her older sister shrugged.

“Because I cannot bring myself to take it,” Arcaena told her. “Father offered it to me because it was at this age that Mother carved that staff for herself. He told me that I look so much like her, and that I can tolerate. To take the staff, though…” Her voice trailed off, and she said no more. In truth, she was unsure quite how to voice exactly what was on her mind, because she knew, in her heat of hearts, that there was no end to the pain it could cause.

“To take the staff is to declare that you want to follow in Mother’s footsteps,” Miera finished. “And you would rather not, for whatever reason.” Arcaena sighed, falling into step beside her sister.

“I would rather not because…” Tears sprang to her eyes, and the words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Miera, did you ever feel that Mother left us?”

Her sister stopped and stared. “What? What do you mean?”

“Think about it,” Arcaena said, her mind moving in juncture with her words. “Mother was a powerful enchantress, specifically trained to combat fire. Even a dragon could not have killed her without great difficulty. And even if her defenses were broken, she still had enchantments in place if her life should be threatened. Is it not plausible that she might have survived? And even if she did not, would Mother not have understood her own limits well enough to know that she would be facing odds she could not overcome?”

“So you think that even if she died, she knew that she would before she went on that journey,” Miera summed up, her voice faint and her head spinning. She had never heard her sister talk like this before, and she liked it not at all. “You would really believe that of our own mother?” Her older sister pushed open the door at the end of the hallway and shook her head.

“I would like to think not,” she replied. “But being gone changed me. I see darkness everywhere, and it horrifies me that I might see darkness where none exists. But is it not a question we should ask ourselves? If Mother could have survived, which I believe, why did she not? Or, more sinister, if she survived, why stay hidden?”

Miera shook her head. “You know something, sister? You ask far too many questions. And yes, these are valid points to consider. But let me ask you this: do you really want to know the answers to them? Are these not questions better left unanswered?” Arcaena sighed again.

“You speak the truth, sister,” she answered. “Even so, is there not a part of you that wants them answered, regardless of the consequences?”

“Sometimes the worst thing you can get is the very thing you want,” Miera replied. “Have you ever considered that?”

“I know, and that is what troubles me,” her sister replied, stepping out into the paved stone streets of Karkopolis. Miera’s eyes scanned the city, pondering what her sister had said.

“Mother would not have left us,” she informed Arcaena. “I think you are right, though, that she knew she was fighting a battle she could not win. Sometimes you have to leave without giving a reason, because the sacrifice has to be made. Mother had a reason for it; she and Father have a reason for everything, whether or not they are misguided.”

Arcaena nodded. “I suppose you are right. It was foolish of me to think these things. I am sorry.”

Miera shrugged. “They were valid points. But there is no answer to the question we can replace, sister. Mother is gone, and gone because she chose to be so. Why, I cannot say, but it is so.” Arcaena looked southwards toward the field. “Come on,” she said. “We have an appointment to keep.”

The archery contest was fairly straightforward: randomly arranged targets for each archer, with spacing of arrows determining points and therefore victory. As they began shooting, Miera asked her sister, “What were you not telling Father?”

“I beg your pardon?” Arcaena asked, lining up and landing two bullseyes in the same shot.

“When you told Father your story, I noticed you were leaving something out. I simply wondered if you would share,” her sister elaborated, striking three targets in the space of two seconds.

“If I was unwilling to tell Father, what makes you think I would confide in you”? Arcaena queried. Her next shot was a little off; if her sister had picked up on the fact that she had left Carsten out of the majority of her tale, she might well have guessed the details she had omitted.

“Maybe because I have no power to affect you in light of whatever you are hiding,” Miera told her. The net shot was a perfect bullseye, and the next, and the one after at that. Miera was doing well, probably better than her sister.

Arcaena sighed. “You would not tell Father?” She asked.

“Of course not,” the younger one said. “Why tell him if you thought it unwise?”

Her sister’s eyes narrowed as she nailed four more bullseyes. “Fine, have it your way. The dwarf I mentioned, Carsten…”

“Yes?”

“He was…more prominently involved in the story than I told you. I did not explain this to Father, but I nearly died from a poisoned arrow. He kept me from dying, and, more than that…” Miera’s bow dropped, and her eyes widened as she realized what her sister was saying.

“Sister...are you saying…you are in love with a dwarf?” The idea suddenly seemed quite reasonable to Miera, if a little bit shocking. In her father’s eyes, Arcaena had always been the perfect daughter, someone who never violated the conventions of court life if she could help it. To hear this changed everything.

“More than that,” Arcaena answered, striking four more bullseyes. “I have seriously considered pledging myself to him.” Miera closed her eyes, processing what she was hearing.

“That would explain not talking to Father about him,” she murmured, striking another target. “But you would have to tell him eventually, would you not?” Another bullseye. Good.

“I would rather not do so, if I can avoid it,” Arcaena explained. “See, Father would only see what he is not, not what he is. Carsten is far from anything high or noble by blood, but he is so in spirit. He made sacrifices for others without knowing he could survive them. But Father would not see past the blood. He never has. And to ask that of him, and to ask Carsten to go through that…” Miera’s older sister landed two more bullseyes. “I just think such a thing would be a long shot, in any case.”

Miera grinned, landing one final bullseye. “Of course it is, sister. Those are our family’s specialty, I think. So fret not, but consider carefully the choices you make. Telling Father may be a mistake, but withholding from him is equally so.” Her sister’s eyes went to the ground, more upset at her sister’s valid point than the fact that she had obviously lost again.

“I know,” she murmured. “But that makes this decision no easier.”

“Perhaps, but the right thing to do is never easy.” Miera slung her bow onto her back. “So think about it. It will come to you, sister. It always does.”

Outlands

Wolf Clan Sanctuary

One week later

Carsten looked up at the broken-down and moss-covered walls of the sanctuary. “This is a fortress,” He asked. “It doesn’t look like much.”

“That was the idea,” Deyann explained. “No one looks for a fortress in ruins, my child.”

Thomas put his hand on the stonework, tracing the runed stonework. “There are symbols here I cannot translate. What is this language?”

“No one knows,” Deyann answered. “The language predates anything we know, even Therian runic script. We think it might be a very, very old dialect of Hevriac.”

“Hevriac?” Carsten asked. “As in the magic language?” Thomas looked at him in surprise. “What? Arcaena and I didn’t spend all our time holding hands.”

“Yes. I wondered if they might be sigils, but they look nothing like any I have ever seen. We theorize they might mask the presence of the Therians from others.”

“I see,” Thomas muttered. “But where are the…” Carsten had turned around, and he was stepping forward to embrace Mycal. “How did she do that?”

“Stealth techniques aren’t mystical powers,” she said, returning the hug and then giving one to Deyann and Thomas. “Good to see you too.” She gestured to Thomas. “Come on, I’ll show you the gates.” And, with that, she began walking through the fortress. “It’s through here,” she explained.

The gate was hidden quite well, under a massive hill at the rear of the ruined fortress. Mycal gestured to a stone post near the entrance and whispered a few words. A symbol on the pillar began to glow, and there was the sound of grinding stone. A piece of the hill fell away, revealing a cavernous mouth into the earth. Deyann raised an eyebrow.

“You moved it again?” He asked. “Why?”

“We felt it wise, given recent developments,” she told him. “In addition, there have been four births in the past month alone. The children have been making an unbelievable amount of noise, and plus, the induction rite can’t be performed in the open anymore. It’s far too dangerous.”

The dark elf nodded. “And the arena?”

“Still intact,” she answered. “After all, we needed a place to train our children.” Understanding dawned on her. “You want to train them. Why?”

“Vadhyl is gone,” Deyann informed her. “The raiders are now freely besieging settlements, as though they are an army. We have little choice but to raise one of our own, such as it is.”

She shook her head. “That would be a risky proposition. Have you sought Oriem’s help?”

“He has called a conference, but it remains to be seen who will answer and what their replies will be.” He shook his head. “This is a dark time, my child. I cannot see any perceptible hope in this situation.”

“It is indeed a dark time,” she agreed. “But it’s in darkness that lights have to shine the brighter.” She stepped through the opening. “Come on, now. They’re expecting us.”

The Wolves’ Den was a series of carved tunnels, propped up by wooden and stone supports. The nursery was obviously off on the eastern side of the wide main chamber, as a good deal of noise could be heard from there. There was a large fire burning in a wide, pipe-like circular hearth on the north side, around which several large, fur clad figures were sitting around it. Mycal pointed to them.

“Those are the male elders,” she said. “My father is the one of the far left. Don’t cross any of them if you can help it.” She pointed down the northwestern corridor. “The training area’s down there, and no one’s using it. Have fun.” Deyann bowed.

“Thank you,” he told her.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she replied. “Not until you have that army.”

The training area was spacious, with rack upon rack of weapons, an archery range, and even targets for throwing axes. Deyann gestured to the wall.

“Take what you need,” he told them. Carsten and Thomas both looked down at their current arsenals.

“I think I have all I need,” Carsten replied. “Thanks, though.”

“Not quite,” Deyann said. “The problem with this situation is that you need the ability to attack targets at range. You have knives, Carsten, but half of them are not even weighted for throwing. You could take down fewer than six individuals.”

Carsten nodded. “All right then, what do you suggest?”

“A ranged weapon,” the dark elf replied. “I do not mean a throwing axe or more knives. I mean something like a bow.”

“But bows take years of training,” the dwarf protested. “I couldn’t master that in time.”

“Then take something else,” the dark elf told him. “A crossbow, perhaps?”

Carsten nodded. “That sounds good,” he said. Going to the rack, he took an oblong, red-painted crossbow with bronze plating on it. From the look of the base of the weapon, it was a repeating crossbow. Beside it lay several quivers of bolts, one of which he took and slung on his right hip. “And for Thomas?”

“Thomas’ role will not be ranged,” the dark elf answered. “And ranged combat is not where we begin our training.” He reached to his hip and drew both his swords. “All right. Who would like to begin?”