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Trinity






Prologue


As she paused outside the glum-looking tavern, she contemplated how Liriel Aredhol had always been a mistake to her.

It’s a name for a beautiful Elven princess and soon-to-be queen. A name for an Argent elf in all her splendour and beauty.

Not a name for a misfit and a runaway.

Yes, if I had stayed in Tannia, I would have been made queen, but events…and Zana…made for a change of plans. Now I’m simply known as Liriel, a half-Elven bard on my father's side. What a disgrace to my family name, she couldn’t help but think. She had invented many an intricate tale explaining her appearance and lineage, but the one about her father being a self-exiled court-bard who charmed her mother and left seemed to stick best with the audience and thus, no further questions were asked.

And so I have travelled the continent's highways and rivers, the mountains, the forests and the plains. I’ve visited tavern upon inn upon tavern upon inn and played and sung for a living. I want nought to do with friends, and lovers even less, as I find myself quickly leaving them all behind. Elves, although we have lost our immortality, still live practically forever by human standards, and stay young most of that time; therefore spending a century or two as a bard ought not bore me for a second.

So why does my life feel so empty? She thought as she entered the tavern.

Deron Camlost sat alone at a small oak table, sipping crude human mead, longing for some good Elven honeywine. He barely lifted his head from the heavy, leather-bound book beside him at the sound of the rusty-hinged door squeaking open. But from that point on, his eyes did not return to his reading.

A girl had come into the tavern. Astonishing, given the fact that she looked about twenty and that she was alone. A very brave, or very stupid girl she was. The golden elf sensed something unusual about the visitor and looked more closely.

She had extremely pale skin, a scant shade darker than snow white, she was clothed in odd garments: tan doeskin breeches, a leather vest dyed midnight blue and a bouffant white silk shirt far too large for her. She wore over the outfit a dark green cloak of finely knit wool. It looked to be of Elven make, but Deron couldn't be certain. A multi-coloured scarf was tied around her waist, covering her brown leather sword belt. Another covered her head and her hair. Starting, he realised what was so strange about the newcomer. From beneath the bright scarf poked several unruly strands of hair. They were silver. Not silver-blonde, not even grey, but bright, gleaming silver. Her eyes drifted to his and widened slightly at the sight of him. They were the colour of the night sky. Deron would have wagered his spellbook that her headgear hid not only silver hair, but long, pointed ears as well. The new girl in the Silver Stag was an elf, as was he.

How positively fascinating.


Liriel slowly ambled across the tavern floor, taking in the sights and the denizens of the place. There were the surly dark-bearded travelers, a blind drunk oldster and in the far corner, sitting alone and staring at her with curiosity, an elf.

A golden elf.

How worrisome.


From the other side of the tavern he could smell them. Elves. How they stunk! So sickly sweet it made him gag… his master would not be pleased at all. Imagine elves outside of their forests! That was indeed something unusual. His master would not be pleased at all.

Deron knew that something else was wrong, his could feel it in the pulse of his heart; in the marrow of his bones… there was something phenomenally not right about the whole place. It was a tweak in reality, in the shifting of the energies. That was what he and others of his kind called it. Not "magic" but "the energies". It was a measure taken to lessen the fear. Both the fear of the others and that of his kind. Magic was not a word to be said of late. Too few understood and too many, far too many, feared.

Sighing for all his dark thoughts, the young mage left his mead practically untouched on his table, and, brushing past the elf-girl, slowly went up the stairs to his room.

Where had the good days gone? In his childhood, that is to say until he was about sixty; Deron had practically lived in the great library of Lorien. He had read more than all the elders combined. He knew names that had been erased form the consciousness of the world, and places that had not existed for millennia. He sometimes wondered why people had forgotten the Trinity and the chosen of the rings.

So many wonderful things had been given to them because of the gods and "the energies". But now, magic was lost by most, if not all. He was one of only five who knew magic. Five souls in the whole continent who had the gift. He had travelled for almost a century and had only found those five. The world was so…grey without the colours of magic that it discouraged him. Deron shucked out of his dark green cloak and flopped down on the bed, not even bothering to completely unlace his linen shirt.


Softly singing of lost lovers and woe, Liriel climbed the creaky steps up to her room. Tonight, the three moons were to eclipse. The Trinity's Eclipse, it had once been called. So many thought that the god, the goddess and their child had simply disappeared. That brought forth a raw chuckle from the bard's throat.

If only it were that simple. If only they were really gone.

But they were not.

The Trinity had only ever been menaced once in the records of all Elven history, in a time long, long past, and had fought off the attackers admirably. All had thought they had been destroyed when their sacred world had been rent asunder… She vaguely remembered her mother explaining the concept of death to her… she had been so young… she had still believed that elves were the noble, eternal creations she had read about as a child. Now they aged, they died. Slowly, but their lives were growing ever shorter since magic had disappeared… Magic, magic, magic!

It all seemed so simple without it. No Trinity, no chosen ones, no wars that changed the world and rendered mortal what was not… Again Liriel sighed. And especially no chosen ones. If it weren't for magic, she would not always have to keep the storms around her in check. She would not have to make sure the very air was not following her unconscious whims. She would never drift into the nightmares of those around her… The elf sighed once more and promptly pulled the eiderdown covers over her head and fell into what she hoped would be a dreamless sleep.


She awoke to find moonlight streaming in through her window. Odd, she heard herself think. I hadn't noticed that window when I first came in…

She walked over to the flood of light, basking in the moon's radiance. She looked up. The three deities in the sky were almost in perfect alignment. Silver met gold met blue in the heavens, in the beautiful symmetry of the Triple Deities. The forms were wonderful…breathtaking…so alive that it seemed that she could reach out and touch them… She heard a rustle behind her back. Her cheeks grew red at the thought of someone in her room with her.

Glancing down at where she expected to find a silk nightshirt, her eyes greeted instead a gown of fine velvet, not unlike those she left behind in her forest. This caused her to redden even more. She was in yet another dream!

Behind her, the rustle of sheets grew louder. The figure that had been sleeping (as Liriel realised that she was, in fact in his room and in his dream) rose behind her and took a step into the circular pool of light, as if trying to discern whether the apparition before him was part of his dream or not. With a gasp, she came face to face with the golden elf from the tavern. He looked slightly disarrayed, although he was fully dressed. He smiled a quirky, half-smile as he re-laced the cuffs of his shirt. She was surprised he could be so calm with an intruder in his dream. He looked up, past her, out the window.

"Lovely evening is it not?" he murmured to her, gazing at the moons.

"Indeed, good sir, indeed."

There was a moment of silence before they both spoke up.

"The Trinity's Eclipse."

The two voices echoed strangely in the room. Deron and Liriel glanced at each other and chuckled.

"You know what it means? The moons?" she asked.

"I haven't the slightest idea."

"Nor I," she laughed.

"They are so ancient… The symbols' meanings have long been lost to us."

"I know. Magic has gone from the world. It has been too long… what? What is it? What is wrong?"

The man standing beside her was looking at her as if a third eye had just grown out of her forehead.

"You…you said… magic…"

"Oh," she muttered. "I suppose I did…"

"Well at least now I know I am dreaming," the elf laughed.

Liriel grinned.

"What if I told you that you were not?"

"Then I would respectfully ask you what you were doing in my room in the mid of night." He smiled a roguish smile.

"I am perfectly serious. You may be dreaming, but I am real." Liriel had no idea why she was giving her secret away to the stranger in front of her. She had always kept the fact that she was Chosen so tightly under wraps that telling it all to a man in a dream seemed ridiculously illogical. But then again, as she gazed upon the three moons' union, logic felt rather unimportant.

The elf was now staring at her again, apparently still trying to figure out whether or not she had told him the truth. Puzzlement could be clearly read in his eyes, an astonishing deep green. She held up a hand.

"In a dream, there is no physical sensation. You can touch, but you feel nothing. However, I am not of this dream, so you will be able to feel me. Just try."

This was one thing Liriel had learned when she had first found herself in another person's dream. Who and what she touched really felt it. If she were to slap him now, the next morning he would wake to a handprint on his cheek. She didn't stop to wonder why on earth she thought of slapping him.

Deron stared at the girl in front of him, uncertain. It was the elf from the tavern, but she looked so different. In the stead of travel-worn men's clothes, she wore a lavish velvet dress of a blue the same shade as her eyes, shot through with thin silver rope, embroidered in patterns of tree-braches intertwining, and cut rather low.

Jewels, the likes of which a simple bard of her breed had most likely never even dreamed of, adorned her spidery fingers, her ears and wrists, and the hollow of her throat. Her hair, instead of the short, lopsided cut that she had sported in the tavern, almost reached her knees and was well brushed and wrapped in a ribbon. And here this silver creature stood before him, holding out her hand and telling him she was real. He was almost inclined to believe her, as it was not very much like him to dream of strange girls he met in taverns. With the moons so perfect above them, everything seemed so unreal.

He took a deep breath and held up his hand. Slowly and half-reluctantly, he approached it to hers, narrowing the distance between them until their palms touched.

But they never did.

Liriel gasped as she felt the chill. The eerie light of the gods seemed to grow brighter for a second, and then she was looking at his fingers… through her own hand! It was as if the very fabric of their physical selves had dissolved. The elf looked at her, astonished.

"This… this is…"

"Not supposed to happen…" she finished, almost panicking. This had never happened. It was not supposed to be able to happen. She was real! Real people could not go through other people, even in dreams!

They both looked at their intertwined hands for a few moments more. Liriel's eyes drifted out the window and to the shining orbs in the night sky.

"Maybe it's the moons," they intoned, once again in unison.

Liriel watched the elf-lad's face for a time, the curiosity in his smooth, sharp (but altogether quite handsome) features, before drawing her hand away from (and out of) his.

Deron and Liriel felt a tremendous shock the instant their fingers no longer touched, like being struck by lightening, or the hand of the gods. It was so great that they were both flung backwards. Rapidly losing consciousness, the last thing that young Deron saw was the strange girl, lying on the floor right beside the window.

Well, that was quite some dream…he thought groggily.


Upon waking, Liriel could still feel the burn of the lightening. She had such a stiff back… and her feet were freezing… She looked down. Her feet were bare upon the floor… the floor?! She jumped up. She was in her nightshirt. Her calves and feet were naked in the cold spring air. Moonlight spilled through the round window. It was the eclipse. A figure sat up with a start amidst the down bedcovers on the bed beside her. She knew who it was.

Deron stared at the girl, waif-thin, moonlight bright behind her head, legs bare in the drafty room. He started to speak, but no sound came out of his mouth. He felt the burn on his suddenly goose-bumped skin. Her words resurfaced in his memory.

I am not of this dream, so you will be able to feel me.

It was real, he said, or thought he said, for the elf standing before him swallowed a strangled cry and ran.

As fast as her thin little elf's feet could carry her, Liriel Aredhol, ex-princess and chosen one of the Trinity, sprinted out of Deron Camlost's room. The mage simply sat in his bed, frightened and wondering, watching the Trinity's Eclipse, an occurrence called long ago the Moon of Union…

Chapter One

Deron Camlost was more than a little lost, as he came down to the tavern’s meal hall. He still wasn’t quite sure of what was happening to him. Part of him was desperately hoping that he had only dreamed last night under the eclipse. While the other part hoped the contrary. He was extremely confused. If his dream had not been only that, it would mean that magic was still strong in the world; that he had found another of his kind… on the other hand, it would mean that he had touched a power greater than his comprehension. And after just over a century of existence, comprehension was not one of the things he lacked. He rubbed his stomach absently.

For some reason he felt slightly queasy, on top of anxious. He clumped down the stairs and came into the tavern hall. It was fairly bustling, considering the early hour. He asked for the morning meal and received a bowl of grey and lumpy porridge, which did nothing for his rather churning innards. He mechanically made his way to a table and sat down, realising at that instant that it was occupied. A pair of piercing eyes stared blankly at him, two bright sapphires. Or at least, almost blankly…

“Well, this is an interesting development,” he said in a forced cheerful voice. “I didn’t know there was another in this world who knew about the energies.”

She said nothing.

“Well,” he continued in a lower tone. “After your little jaunt in my dreamscape, might I know your name?”
“I really do not know what on earth you are talking about kind sir, I think you have the wrong person. I know nothing of ‘energies’” she said, just a little too stiffly. “Or… your dreams…”

She rose from the table with her bowl of porridge and made to leave. Deron had to hand it to her; the girl was an impeccable actress. If it weren’t for the panicky feeling fluttering in her-- his! -- stomach, he would have believed her. The young magician sprung up quicker than the girl and grabbed her forearm as she swept past him.

“If you wish to play this game, lady-mage, then by all means, do. You will not convince me that it was a dream this time,” he hissed. “I know the power of the Trinity, and I know all about the energies.”

She took a resigned and patient breath, looked him square with utterly expressionless eyes, and said, “Truly, sir, I do not know what you speak of, I am sorry.”

He released his grip on her arm and she scurried away. Deron sighed and fidgeted with his gruel.


After the unpleasant episode in the dreamscape and the one that morning, Liriel felt it rather important that she get going as fast as she possibly could. Foregoing the possibility of a presentation, and therefore more coin, she quickly packed her things up and bolted out of the tavern as fast as she could, trying not be seen again by the golden elf. She did not need another man, much less a magician, in her life. On top of the fluttery confusion that lurked unwarranted in the back of her mind, she had a strange feeling of wrongness about the whole place… it seemed further away, but it was still there… on top of something else…

Liriel brought her hand down, as if to wipe the slate of her thoughts clean. Atop everything else that had transpired here, she did not need to jump at shadows in her mind. Once she had finished packing, the girl flapped her Elven travelling cloak over her linen shirt and riding skirt and strode out of her room and down the stairs, taking care not to go even remotely near the golden elf. Fairly running through the dining hall, she hurried out of the tavern without looking up, hoping to leave this place and its events behind for quite a long time. If not forever…

But as she would soon find out, that was not to be the case.

She trotted out of the dark, musty stable, past the gap-toothed ostler and back out of the front of the barn accompanied by her horse. The handsome white mare was named Alagos, “Storm of High Winds” in her native tongue, and she was the finest Elven Grey that she had ever come across. The Elven horses were splendid animals, with magical blood running through their noble hearts. They were intelligent and loyal; and had not so long ago been eternal as the elves. And Alagos is the best of them all, thought Liriel fondly. The mare whickered a greeting when she saw her companion in the dim light. She had known this spirited elf since she had been but a filly with a coat of spotted grey. The girl clucked her tongue at her mount before leading her out.

Liriel was just about to hop up onto Alagos’ un-saddled back when she heard a shrill, mad scream and had the wind knocked out of her as something slammed into her from the side.

She grunted and rolled from the blow as best she could, gasping for breath. Alagos whinnied and shrieked to see the sight, but could not kick the assailant for fear of hurting her mater as well. Liriel heard a whoosh! in the air as a knife sliced past her throat. Spinning away from the blade’s arc, she gracefully unsheathed both short sword and dagger in the same motion.

She had enough experience in tavern brawling to know when to fight dirty and when to fight clean. This man appeared to be a horse thief. He slashed madly at the air between them and Liriel wondered whether or not her judgment had been accurate. He seemed to be totally insane. There was froth at the corners of his mouth and his unblinking eyes shone with nothing but hatred. Liriel’s sense of self-preservation told her that she was best off fighting dirty. The elf stepped back again and lunged, rolling beside her attacker and delivering a swift kick to his side as she rose to her feet. As he whirled around to face her again, her foot connected this time with his knee, and as he stumbled back, she leapt forwards once again, knocking the knife from his hand with a stroke of her dagger and running him through with her sword.

The man fell with his mouth working silently, to his last resting place; the straw on the ground. Grimly, Liriel stepped back once again, wiping the blood off her blade. No sooner had she done so, then she backed into what seemed to be a wall. Whirling around, she found herself face to face with another man. His dark eyes smouldered with the same madness as had shown her first attacker, but this time it was worse… much, much worse.

Froth spilled over his chin and onto his scruffy beard. His long, lank hair fell over his eyes in a mess of knots and tangles. In his massive hand he held a wickedly curved sword made of bone, much like those the orcs used when hunting. He handled it quite well for a human, but that considerably less enchanted Liriel, seeing as he was about to use it on her. She hopped sideways to avoid the sharpened bone, but a second too late. She felt a searing pain in her forearm arm and frantically spun out of he way, only to catch the huge man’s fist across her ribcage. The air sped out of her lungs as she heard her bones creak under the impact.

This man is far stronger than he ought to be, she thought dimly as she sailed through the air. She hit the side of the barn with a sickening thud and from that point on, all she could feel was the pounding in her head and the warm blood oozing down her arm. All she could hear was Alagos screaming and whinnying. And all she could see was the hairy man lurching towards her, bloodied orc-sword in hand. Her body vaguely registered more ribs creak and crack, and then she was flying again, this time she didn't feel herself land, but the smell of the straw under her nose made her feel sick and then the world spun into blackness. The last thing that she saw, even after her eyes slipped shut, was the face of the golden elf, frightened and worried…

It also happened to be the first thing she saw upon her awakening. She felt him tug her back to the world, calling her unconscious mind back across the midnight waters. Her eyes opened a slit, just enough to let the morning light in. The man was standing in front of her horse, calming her down. Alagos stamped the ground impatiently, but tolerated him more than she did most others. Blood stained the sleeve of his shirt and there was another smear of it on the front. There were two bodies piled on the straw beside her. A short, thin man and one far taller than her and shaped like an anvil. Both had met their end by the sword. She moved her head sideways to look at her arm, but pain blossomed behind her eyes and forced an inelegant grunt past her lips. The golden elf’s head snapped sideways to look at her and in an instant, he was kneeling beside her, holding her face in his hands and staring into her eyes with a mixture of worry and relief.

“Well, Liriel,” he said. “You certainly scared he nine hells out of me. And Alagos too.”

How did he know my name? She thought, and then promptly fainted again.


He had felt her surprise at first. That would have been when she saw the first man. The pang of disgust and disdain was for the loss of life and then fear upon finding the second one. Then came the pain. It had almost been as bad as having been cut himself.

Then next thing Deron knew, his feet had taken him across the floor of the inn and had propelled him out the door. The pain in his ribs and head had spurred him on to find her and the wave of nausea had told him he had to move fast. Instinct had led him to the stable where the girl’s horse had already done a fair job on the assailant.

Half blind with anger and whatever the other feeling had been, the mage had charged the man with his curved sword drawn, and had made short work of him. The mare was surprised by his aid at first, but had grown calm with the help of his soothing words. Then they had had a short conversation, wherein Deron had learned several interesting tidbits of information. Then the girl --Liriel, the horse had said-- had stirred and woken.

Deron had sprung to her side, gently cradling her head and checking to see if she was all right. She had looked at him with a puzzled cobalt gaze… and then she slipped away again.

The mage sat in the hay by her side and cradled her in his arms. A Healing spell needed contact. He softly spoke the words and felt the warmth of magic fill him and flow into her. The second he linked with her to perform the spell, he was hit with a wall of magic energy so strong it almost knocked him over.

This simple troubadour held within her the most magic he had ever been exposed to. He looked at her with a new vision: she seemed to glow, brighter than the silver moon, brighter than a million stars put together. He was seeing the magic. He appeared to glow as well, but faced with the radiance of the elf-girl limp in his arms, his aura was but a pale flicker of candlelight. What he then saw simply took his breath away. If the sheer force of magic in the woman had been a small surprise, then what he saw next would have knocked him off his feet.

What Deron saw was a rope.

A rope of light.

Silver at Liriel’s end, gold at his. It stretched between them, from head to head and heart to heart. That was the reason he had felt her pain; that was why he had known she was in trouble. An idea then struck him. Using only a minute bit of his magical strength, he cast only the beginning, the idea of the Healing spell across the string and into the girl’s mind and magic. He felt the Healing spread through both of them, more powerful than he could have managed without killing himself ten times over. He felt strengthened and new, as if the power of the spell had healed wounds yet to be given and taken a half-century off his shoulders. He felt her ribs reform, the bruises disappearing, the cut on her arm healing and scabbing.

So it is as I thought. We have somehow been merged…it must have been the dream…

“The dream?” a faltering voice asked from his lap.

The mage looked down. Liriel’s unearthly stare once again met his. He knew that she too was seeing with eyes sensitive to the “energies”.

“What --what is going on? What is this light, this line?” her fingers were poised in midair, right where he could see the string that tied them together. Her groggy stare drifted back to his face.

“What is going on? Why…why are you in my head?” Her voice was a thin plea.

Deron’s voice suddenly cracked as well. He tried to smile, but couldn’t.

“I don’t know, Liriel… I don’t…”

“What are we going to do?” she whispered.

Once again, Deron had no answer to give. Liriel lifted her hand and placed it palm-to-palm with his, although this time around they didn’t go through one another.

“So tired… That blasted dream…” she muttered between two yawns. “What have I done?”

“I don’t think you had anything to do with it, this time,” Deron answered truthfully.

“It was the eclipse, wasn’t it?” she said, her gaze drifting from their intertwined fingers to his eyes. She didn’t need an answer. Nonetheless, the elf-mage nodded his assent. They were silent for a moment, before Liriel spoke again in a groggy, sleepy voice.

“How did you know…” she yawned loudly. “My… name…?”

“Alagos told me.”

“Oh,” she yawned once again. Healings were the most difficult magic to perform and needed a large portion of the caster’s strength. It was well-document that in the past, most magicians spent themselves utterly when performing healings. What Liriel had unconsciously done would have killed Deron more than once. It was natural that she be tired.

She looked up at him once again before falling sound asleep on his knees.

“Sleep well,” Deron muttered, picking her up and carrying her up to her room.


Chapter Two


The waking up was the worst.

Aside from the slight headache and the fresh scar that adorned her arm, Liriel still loathed having to come back to reality. Especially since reality was more like a dream than anything else.

She felt Deron’s presence in the corner of her mind, as she had ever since the eclipse; he was asleep in the room opposite hers, having a slightly unpleasant dream. No small wonder why. In a world dead of its old magic, a world slowly dying unbeknownst to all save few, this elf-mage, barely a man, had just met the most magical being alive. She had been a common bard, and he had met her in a roadside tavern.

How could the sap have known that she was the chosen one of the rings, she with the lock of pure silver hair? Poor idiot, he was now bound her, in more ways than just magic.
Even now, if she let her vision shift ever so slightly, she could feel the rope, the hair-thin spider-string that tied them together more effectively than iron manacles. It was rarely visible, even to a magic-tuned eye, she only ever saw it when they both used “the energies” at the same time, and in close proximity. But invisible or not, it was still there; and Liriel cursed just about every circumstance that had led her to the tavern on that night.

But she couldn’t stay angry with the gods for very long, as the words of her grandfather rang in her ears.

And then she was a small child again, reeling along with the rest of Tannia’s elves, at their sudden loos of immortality.

“Now Liriel,” he had said in his warm, comforting voice. “You must understand…”

She had been frightened and upset, she had just learned that she was fated to die, as were all that she loved. Even as she spoke to him, Celeb seemed older, more tired than the minutes before.

“Do not worry for me, Quicksilver,” he began again, using this time her old nickname. “What happens happens. The fate of our lives, that of our nation, that of our ancestors and that of our descendants is all written in the skies. Like the cycle of the moons that light our nights, our history repeats itself in the Trinity’s rings. Therein is inscribed our past, present and future. All in this world was written by the same hand, and all that occurs does so for a reason. Remember that, Liriel, remember always…”

With those words, Celeb Aredhol, the first mortal king of Tannia, fell silent. Through eyes sensitive to magic, the child saw the bright glow around him grow slightly dimmer. The handsome, wise elf took a deep breath. The glow dimmed still. Liriel’s grandfather looked her square in the eyes, with his midnight stare. He had lived a long, prosperous life and he had no fear of what was to come. The frightened child the troubadour had once been looked on, and saw that the flame of magic in Celeb’s breast had been extinguished. Her grandfather looked at her again and smiled.

“Fear not, dear Quicksilver, you will never need to fear…”

He closed his eyes.

The first elf had died that night.

“Quicksilver?” A voice inquired from behind her.

Blinking back a crystalline tear, Liriel Aredhol, princess of Tannia and all the argent elves, shook herself out of her dream.

Turning her back to Deron, she scrubbed her cheek, angry with herself for having revealed so much.

“Yes,” she grated in an aggressive tone; she cursed her thick, broken voice. “Quicksilver. A nickname used by my grandfather. One of the first elves to die. Any more questions, or have you gotten enough information from my mind already?”

She felt a shock of emotion from the young mage; it made her spin around to face him, new tears blurring her vision. He had been taken aback with the acidity of her words, a storm of emotions played across his face.

“I’m sorry, Liriel… I meant no harm… I heard the word in my mind, that’s all… I swear I never…” he broke off, avoiding her gaze.

“No… no, Deron…” she said, mellowing. “I’m the one who is sorry. I don’t like to talk about the things that happened in my past, and even less have my mind read about them…” There was a rather awkward pause. “I… I overreacted.”

The golden elf had fallen strangely silent.

“It’s all right, Liriel. I’ll try not to do that again. If ever you want to talk…well just tell me… I mean; secrets can’t be kept forever…” he said at length. With a distant look in his eyes, the young mage sauntered out of the room. The bard could feel the weight of something that hovered over his heart.

I wonder what the matter is… she thought.

A short while later, the sheriff of a nearby town (the only town in the region, Liriel learned, that actually had a sheriff) came to the tavern to dispose of the bodies. She and Deron were both questioned for a brief period (justice in the region seemed rather lax) and were permitted to look at the bodies of the assailants.

Spring weather being what it was in the Sandeni highlands, the smell was less than rosy. The pair spent as little time examining them as possible, but it took only seconds to realise that something was not right. The former attackers were human, yes, but they both bore the ritual symbols of the orcish clans, their force medallions, different religious pendants, and the tattoo patterns of high-ranking warriors.

To find all these items on one orcish warrior was one oddity, but to find them on two humans was unheard of. Deron watched in silence as Liriel bent over each of them and stared, unblinking, at what was definitely not a pretty sight. The golden elf preferred to turn away from the sight, as his companion seemed much less disdainful and sensitive to such matters as death than the rest of their shared race.
After what seemed to Deron an eternity, the elf girl stood up quickly, thanked the sheriff and strode briskly away. The mage followed on her heels, not needing a minute more with the cadavers.

Liriel, not even bothering to speak to him, continued up the creaky staircase and proceeded to plunk herself down on her bed, extracting from her sleeve a small bundle of objects. She spilled the contents out on the bedspread. A few tokens with odd runes inscribed, feathers on necklaces, a strange metal tube, a small bone knife and a bronze bracelet tumbled out of her sleeve.

“You stole from the corpses?!” he exclaimed. The argent elf looked at him matter-of-factly.

“Well they’re dead, aren’t they? Will they need these things? No.”

Deron shrugged, resigned.

He then watched as his companion studied the clay tokens, and discarded each one by one. She fingered the necklaces, and then did the same. The ivory knife, which would have been nought but a butter knife to the massive man that held it, made a fine dagger for an elf. Liriel proceeded to fasten it to her belt, under one of her scarves. She examined the metal tube.

“Hmm,” she said.

“What?”

“You’re a mage,” she stated. “Recognise this?”

Deron took the tube from her hand, frowning.

“It…does… I read something…in a book… But what?”

Liriel, in the meantime, snatched the object out of his hands with a smile.

“It’s a…” he began, just as she unscrewed the top.

“No, don’t!” he yelled, diving for the bard and knocking her off the bed.

He flung her to the ground and covered his head, waiting. He opened his eyes, previously squeezed tight shut and looked at Liriel, who bore a somewhat bemused expression.

“Yes?” she asked, inches from his face. “It’s a what?”

“A spell-scroll,” Deron answered, beginning to feel a bit foolish.

“And what does that have to do with you lying on top of me?”

He was definitely feeling foolish.

“They’re powerful spells rolled into little tubes,” he explained, the red spreading from the tips of his ears towards his face. “You don't want to open them, because you never know what their effects can be. They might just explode in your face.”

“I see,” answered Liriel.

Spell-scrolls, eh? She thought. That makes sense. Those men were far stronger than they ought to have been. Magic made them that way… But that means we have a mage on our hands… Well, I hope this was all a mistake…Another mage on my back would be more than I could take, even if Deron doesn’t want to kill me… yet…

With a smile, she returned her thoughts to the man that lay sprawled over her on the floor.

“You wouldn’t happen to be inclined to get off me, now that we’re sure this spell won't blow up in our faces? Not that I’m not enjoying myself, but…”

If it were possible to turn redder than the elf already was, Deron did it and frantically scrambled to his feet. Helping the argent elf to her feet as well.

Brushing herself off, Liriel returned to the objects on the bed. She handed the tiny scroll to the mage.

“A strengthening spell, isn’t it?” she asked.

The other elf eyed it for a moment then nodded.

“It’s a little more complicated than that, but in essence you’re right.”

She handed the heavy bracelet to Deron.

“Here. Take this too.”

“What’s this for?” he inquired.

“Wear it. It will come in handy eventually.”

“This really isn’t my kind of jewellery, Liriel. It’s orcish. It’s foul.” Thinking of the orcish race, the mage’s mouth turned down to a sneer of disgust.

“Oh, please, Deron. You are no longer in the comfort of your forest. Lose your elfish prejudices and racism and you will survive longer.”

“I believe that I have been ‘surviving’ for quite a while, albeit my ‘elfish prejudices’, dear.”

She looked at him flatly and said,

“Wear the hell-damned bracelet, magician.”

He shrugged and clipped it onto his wrist.

Chapter Three


The spring rain pelted down on the leafy canopy and turned the dusty trail to muck. Two horses, a palomino stallion and a white mare, trudged wearily through the mire. They were not weary in body, far from it. The two superb animals were weary of those they bore on their backs. In the lead sat a young-looking woman, stiff-backed despite the water that trickled down her face and into her green cloak.

Riding behind her, carrying a large sack across his knees was a young man. Both were very different, yet very alike. One was very pale, had skin like ivory and silver hair. The other, though almost as pale as the first, had hair of sunny gold. But they both had exactly the same scowl on their faces. Over their heads seemed to hover a dark cloud more ominous than the ones that were dumping their contents on the earth at that very moment. This was how Talisker Geharra saw them.

Trying her best to ignore the water all around her --matting her beautiful spotted coat, much to her dismay-- she stalked the two voyagers from the underbrush. She purred softly to herself as she assessed the situation. The woman was bound to be weaker than the man, but she seemed the type to carry a multitude of hidden weapons, therefore she would not be entirely easy prey. The man would be stronger, perhaps faster, and the scimitar he had slung at his hip was of a kind with those she had seen used in her homelands.

If he handled it well, he would indeed be a force to be reckoned with... the two horses looked somehow more intelligent than the other pack beasts she had seen on that road, but Talisker dismissed them as less than threats. She followed a while more in the shadows, listening to snatches of their conversation.

“I still can’t believe you suckered me into coming with you, Liriel,” the man griped.

“Ha!” snorted the girl; Liriel, he had called her. “You were the one who practically begged to come along! To ‘make sure I wouldn’t get into more trouble’! If you were brainless enough to want to come along, it’s your own fault! I can protect myself just fine, thank you.”

“Protect yourself?! Is that what you were doing when I had to save you outside the stable?”

Talisker lost the girl’s reply to the palomino’s whinny. She didn’t believe that she had replied at all. Silence befell the pair as they continued their way. The chetae quickened her pace under the fern fronds beside the road, using her “talents” to further muffle her footsteps. Not that she needed to anyway, but it was always good to be cautious. She sneaked along until she was several yards ahead of the mare, crouched down and waited.

She knew not for a second that she was not the only one that lay in wait for those particular travelers.

They had both left the tavern that morning, and he was glad for that. He could no longer smell their horrid stench. The man spat, thinking of the two elves. Ever the sworn enemies of his adoptive race. He would have killed them both himself, he thought, stroking the bone swords carefully concealed under his cape. He would have, and it would have been easy, if not for his master’s strict orders.

He was to keep a close watch over the comings and goings of the tavern, and look for the one with the silver hair. The Master’s goblin spies had informed him that the One was a girl on horseback, being pursued by eagle-men.

The hunter wondered if the One could have been the elf-girl…

No, she was a girl, and she was on horseback, but he had not seen any sign of pursuers, her immense powers or the silver lock of hair that would betray the One’s birth. And yet… doubt still invaded his mind, so he went outside to see if he couldn’t pick a scent off the wind.

There was a small crowd beside the stable, and he could smell the sweet, overpowering perfume of death hanging in the air. He took a few discreet steps to see and inhaled sharply. Sturm and Drang lay on the ground, their blood black on the sawdust. They were dead. Sturm and Drang were dead. The Master’s favourite fighter and his prized spy… butchered so beside a stable!

The man inched closer. Drang had one small wound on his chest; he had simply been run through, and Sturm had a large hoof-print on his forehead and a deep slash across his ample belly, from hip to collarbone. Using the magic of the Master’s scroll to heighten his senses, the man sniffed in their direction, trying to figure out to which race belonged his blood brothers’ killers. His jaw dropped and he quickly turned away.

Elves. Elves killed them. The same two from the tavern. He couldn’t believe it. He paced across the dirt road and plunged into the wood. Drang would have been rather easy for an experienced blade, but Sturm? Sturm had had a force bracelet, sacred symbols and their master’s blessing. He could not fathom how two scrawny elves had managed. He pushed on into the forest at a sprint. His master would have to hear about this. They still had time for revenge.

It took the hunter several hours to reach the rest of the orcs. He had the misfortune to interrupt a ceremony in honour of their master and he expected to be severely punished, in spite of the severity of the news he brought.

Whoever said that we don’t kill the messengers? he thought to himself as he plunged into the crowd.

The mass of orcs stood in a natural pit formed by the trampled forest ground. The trees on either side of the clearing had all been hacked down to make huts and crude carvings of their master. He stood on a platform built upon the slope of the clearing, where the pit’s walls rose sharply upward. It was from that vantage point that his master contemplated his troops.

More like his followers, now. Indeed, ever since his arrival among the first clan, he had led in a way most natural. By and by, the orcs under his sway grew to adore him more and more. Until ceremonies like this were held daily, elevating his master to near-godhood among the goblin-beasts and their relations.

The hunter thought back on the day that he fell into the master’s graces. Their leader had chosen him, a simple human, to be imbued with a fraction of his awe-inspiring powers. He brushed back a tear, remembering that his master’s powers could hurt as much as they could elate.

The hunter smiled, dodging a frenzied orc who was hacking away at his forearm with a knife, screaming the glory of their master. The mental opium that pushed his adopted clan to this self-mutilating ecstasy affected the hunter considerably less, but he had to fight with all his strength to not let himself give in to the urge to join them.

The ceremony was in full swing, orcs’ blood and hair sprayed the ground and on the platform the master looked out upon the chaos, serene and smiling. He was so beautiful, thought the hunter, his hair the colour of fire, the strength that radiated from the black pools of his eyes… as he swayed to the orcs’ chants and screams even the silver lock of hair on his head glistened like freshly-spilled blood in the firelight…

Mustering up all his courage, the hunter stepped the last step between him and the platform, knowing the pain that he would soon suffer, and gladly receive, for the glory of his race.

It has to be done, he thought. We can have our vengeance on the stinking elves. We still have time to catch them before they reach the next town.

Dreaming of the revenge they would reap made the thought of the pain a little more bearable.

The hunter stepped up to the platform.

His master looked at him, fury in his eyes.

It had been a day since the fateful ceremony and the hunter still felt sick as the thought back on it. The pain in his back and innards had grown to a distant throb, made all the more manageable by the fact that he blamed it squarely on the elves. He had learned that channelling his hatred could do much good for him, as it heightened his senses even now. He was leading a thirty-strong band of orcs through the woods, following the trail of the two elves.
It turned out that the master had known all along about them, and had sent Sturm and Drang to kill them before they fouled his plans to kill the chosen one. Now that two of his brothers had been done away with --the hunter spat on the ground, disgustedly-- his master had decided that he ought send out more troops.

The hunter wept tears of joy for having been chosen the one to lead the party. He knew he was on the right track. He could also pick out the scent of a young chetae, a female, but that was of no consequence to him. He would reach and surround the elves in a matter of minutes, and that was all that counted.

Talisker watched closely as the pair rode on in infuriated silence.

I do wonder why they are so angry…I truly do not understand. It even seems as if they… Oh well…curiosity did kill the cat, after all. I would do well to ask myself fewer questions… the young woman thought, albeit unable to shake the strange feeling, the resonance she got from looking at the two unearthly creatures. And yet…in all my lives as a thief… I do not believe I have ever set eyes upon a stranger pair…

Once again berating herself for her curiosity, she crouched still lower in the soaked ferns, ready to pounce on her victims. The unsuspecting pair was coming up to her hiding place.


“Can you feel that?” Liriel asked, rather unnerved.

“I… yes, I can… it--I don’t believe it!”

“Magic around here,” she whispered. There was a stillness, even with the rain, a presence in their minds and a metallic tang on their taste buds, as the tension in the air stretched like an elastic ready to break.

Take the man out first, she thought. He has a sword. The woman will be easier. She doesn’t have much in the way of weaponry. She re-evaluated her strategy for the fifth time. The man will have to die, she decided. Unsheathing her long daggers, she prayed for her feline luck to hold.

Talisker snarled as she leapt out of the underbrush.

But things, for once, were not exactly going to go the way she had planned.


The odd taste in Deron’s mouth intensified as he heard the rustle in the ferns beside him.

Time seemed to have slowed down enormously by the time he heard Liriel scream. He saw, with a sort of split vision between he and his bond, the man-leopard jumping out at him. In a half-second, he was drawing his scimitar, but he soon found out that he hadn’t needed to.

The feline girl was coming at him furiously. She reached him while his blade was still half-sheathed. He struck out at her instinctively with the back of his other hand. Then, incredibly, she was flying backwards in the air. She landed with a thump in the bushes, almost twenty feet away.

Deron stared at his un-bruised fist, astonished.

“I…I didn’t know that I could do that…”

Liriel, appearing much less surprised than he, turned her head towards him, an amused expression on her lips. She made to speak, but no words had the time to come out.

Deron blinked and then Liriel was no longer on her horse. Alagos whinnied furiously and stamped, moving to protect her fallen rider. Deron blinked again and Alagos screamed, two arrow-shafts imbedded in her rump. The golden elf half-jumped, half-fell off his mount Faralorn, just as an arrow hit his mount in the flesh of his shoulder.

The magician closed his eyes to the arrows flying from two particularly inept archers on either side of him, closed off his ears to the guttural commands of the orcs, and closed off the sharp, hot pain of an arrow grazing the skin of his neck.

He sensed the energies gathering and unleashed them, upon the archers. There was a sudden orange flash from the wood, even through the rain, and the archers and their equipment burst into flames.

“Alagos, go!” shouted Liriel, picking herself off the ground, clutching her right arm tightly. The horse obeyed and along with Deron’s mount, escaped to safer ground.

“Liriel!” he shouted at the sight of the shaft sticking out from between the fingers of her left hand. “Are you al…”

But he had not the time to take one step in her direction before orcs swarmed from both sides of the trail.

The orcs charged like an incoming tide. They were hideous. Their breath stank of rotten meat, muscles like wrought iron bulged from beneath their foul-smelling tunics; their bone-carved blades spoke of death and their blood-red eyes spoke only of revenge.

Their hoarse, throaty voices were one as they screamed for blood and they swarmed Liriel and Deron with the synchrony of some terrible dance.

The mage didn’t even try to count them all, to him it looked like they were fifty. He drew his sword, panicking, thinking only of his bond’s safety. He began desperately hacking his way toward her, but when one beast fell another replaced it. They came from all sides at once, at least fifteen of them. Deron ducked, crouching into a ball and yelling a spell that sent them flying off his back in a gust of wind.

Deron could not see the woman fighting beside him; she had been engulfed by the beasts.

“Liriel!!!” he screamed. “Liriel, are you alright?”

His response was a flux in the balance of magic, a sudden gust of wind, and a dozen orcs flying through the air, landing in heap of broken bones and twisted limbs. He caught a glance at her. She had her sword in her left hand and held her right close to her body, blood still blossoming from the base of the arrow. She did not seem to feel the pain; she had a fierce smile on her lips, her hair blowing in the high winds she seemed to create…he surprised himself, thinking about how beautiful she looked, and he paid his loss of concentration dearly.
An orc, a great towering beast that stood eight feet from the forest floor, slammed the hilt of his bone sword down on his forearm, sending pain shooting up to his shoulder and possibly breaking something.
Deron doubled over, initially in pain, but the move let another orc, this one making a wild swing at his head, smash his other attacker with a spiked club. He used this momentum to kick a third brute square in the stomach. The force of the blow sent the orc flying back into a tree, a half-dozen steps away. The elf stood in amazed silence for a second time, wondering what force had suddenly gifted him with such unusual and inhuman strength.
He then felt an object whiz past his ear. He turned and saw an ivory dagger imbed itself in a charging orc’s throat. He and Liriel exchanged a smile, before turning back to the beasts. He felt another surge of magic and his companion sent another five beasts flying out of the fight.
Out of the whole, half were left, mostly thanks to Liriel. But trouble was still to come, and in great quantities.

One especially intelligent orc, realising the threat that the one simple elf-girl posed, rushed up and wrapped her in a crushing bear hug. Liriel felt the air eek out of her lungs and she heard her elf’s ribs creak. Deron saw her, infuriated that he could do nothing to help her that would not end with his head removed from his shoulders. He hacked desperately at the orcs surrounding him, hoping against hope that she would be able to hang on until he could get to her. But the pain in his chest and the dimming vision in his mind told him otherwise. He felt a pain in his soul like none other at the thought of losing her; she had already become a part of him.

“No!!” he shouted at a nearby orc, scimitar and magic working in tandem to slay the beast. He felt a snap in his chest and heard Liriel cry out in his mind. But then he saw the rope between them, glowing brighter than it ever had. The sudden crackle in the air, the sheer force of magic welling up made the hairs on his neck stand straight. He prayed to the Trinity for protection and used the last scrap of concentration he had to begin the weaving of a magical shield.

Of course he never had time to finish it.

Just as the blackness almost completely invaded Liriel’s mind, he felt an acute flash of lucidity and then his senses were overwhelmed. It seemed to him at that instant, that all the storms of the world had converged upon Liriel. A typhoon raged at her feet, revolving around her in a lazy circle. A flash of lightening struck a nearby tree, lighting up her strangely serene face and crushing two of their attackers. The orcs had stopped fighting. Time itself seemed to have ceased existing. Then the storm exploded. Deron saw the wind and the water, the bolts of lightening that shot through his body. But he felt nothing as the storm’s rage spent itself.

It was as if he were excluded from reality. He closed his eyes, drowning in sensation, as the wicked magical storm washed over him. It felt almost refreshing, and certainly awe-inspiring to feel so much magic in one place and time. He spread his arms and smiled, despite the natural cataclysm around him. He felt only joy in his soul, and serenity. He vaguely remembered laughing. All around him, orcs flew light as feathers, and danced in the air with uprooted trees. He felt Liriel very clearly, and the wild, elemental joy that held her in a trance. Their bond pulled them closer then ever. He had never felt so much magic in his entire life.

And just as suddenly as it had begun, the hurricane died away.

Time began again, and the image the elf saw was forever crystallized in his memory.

Several paces separated them.

Liriel stood still, drenched in rainwater. She looked fragile as glass, her eyes wide and fearful. Her silver hair gleamed in the light of the new sun, reborn from behind the clouds. She just stood there. They stared at each other. Deron himself was soaked. His golden hair was plastered to his face, and he felt just as frail as his companion looked. His heart pounded like a stampede in his chest.

Time is crystal, frozen still, thought Liriel disjointedly. What have I done?

The pair stood in the centre of a muddy crater ten paces in diameter. Everywhere around them, there were bodies and tree trunks strewn haphazardly like a child’s toys after a tantrum. The ferocious winds had whipped the vegetation into a pulp and the mashed greens speckled the road and the bodies and Deron and she. The sun poked its face from behind its cover. Rays of light sparkled off the puddles, playing with the shadows on her bond’s face. The crystal of the moment stretched thin. He swayed, the weight of his wounds and exhaustion pressing down heavily.

The serene mask on his face slipped, he looked rather sad. Liriel knew the troubles her own face betrayed. Suddenly dizzy, she fell forward. The shock of her hands hitting the ground jerked pain up her arm to the arrow imbedded in her flesh, the dull grinding throb began again and she felt the blood flow forth from her wound anew. She slid almost to her stomach, wincing as the rib she knew was broken touched the ground, hands and elbows slipping in the mud.

Deron sunk to the ground with her; she knew he was suddenly remembering the existence of the myriad of scratches and cuts that covered his body. He himself had practically been torn to bits. His linen shirt was torn and shredded and through the bond, Liriel could feel the throb in his arm. He seemed to have somehow forgotten it during the fight. Liriel shuddered, shaken to the core.

He almost died for me… she realised. He almost died to get to me. Oh gods, what have I done? What have I done to him? What have you done to me…to us?

Eyes blurred from tears and pain, Liriel raised her chin out of the mud and looked at Deron, on his knees, keeping his balance only by hanging off his sword, planted in the ground at his feet.

They panted, exhausted by simply staring at one another, for the longest time.

Then a snarl, low and feral, shattered the crystal completely.


Chapter Four


Deron raised his weary head to face the growl behind him. He expected an orc, or maybe the chetae he had knocked into the woods, if she wasn’t dead already. His every bone ached and he doubted he would get up in time. He spooked himself, knowing that he would die in a few seconds, but not fearing it. He heard a grunt and knew it to be Liriel, slowly getting up from her knees. He followed suit, painfully aware that in his state --gold hair plastered to his face and neck, covered in mud, blood and vegetation; barely able to stand-- he was not a sight to strike fear into the heart of his enemy. Slowly, achingly, he turned to face the source of the snarl.

His eyes widened, realising that their attacker was not a blood-lusting beast, but a simple human, with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes and a gaunt, lean, body. Madness, like the one he had seen in the orc-men outside the stable, glittered in his eyes.

Deron stopped leaning on his sword, hefting it --by the trinity, this thing weighs a ton-- and standing, desperation plain on his face, to meet this madman. He could hear Liriel’s breath catching as she too lifted her weapons. The elf wondered for an instant how she managed to stand with her broken rib and the fatigue of wielding so much magic at once, but he had no time to pursue that train of thought, no time for anything anymore, it seemed…

The dark man, shrieking something unintelligible, lurched to a sprint with his two bone swords in hand. Once again, time seemed distorted, everything was moving as if the air had suddenly become syrup. The dark man running towards them at full tilt slowed down to a crawl.

The two elves stood, wavering, waiting.

Deron heard his heart and Liriel’s give a beat.

A reminder that we’re alive…

The golden elf’s legs felt weak.

Not for much longer.

He looked back to where his companion stood.

Thump-thump, went their hearts.

She smiled tightly, as if to convince them both that they would live, yet not believing it.

Thump-thump.

Like the two at the tavern, froth had begun to dribble down the man’s chin.

Liriel, I--

He was still screaming, only this time Deron thought he almost understood.

Liriel forgive me…

Numbly, hopelessly, the elf bared his scimitar.

Thump-thump.

Moving forward a fraction of a wobbly step, to meet their attacker.

…for failing to protect…

And the next thing he knew, he was toppling aside, rolling in the mud and stopping in the remnants of some destroyed ferns. He heard another roar and propped himself up to look at what was going on.

Someone else was fighting the man, and it most definitely was not Liriel.

This person was obviously in good shape, and rested. He fought with astounding vigour, leaping and slashing in a way no human --or elf, for that matter-- could have ever managed. Of course his tail greatly aided his balance, making him and his curved sword and dagger a fair match to the man’s bone swords.

Of a sudden, a light flashed in Deron’s head.

Tail?! he thought.

Deron jerked his head up, ignoring the protests of his injuries.

The man helping them was not a man at all! It was the chetae girl! But…fighting with them? Indeed it seemed… and the leopard-girl fought well! She had even wrestled the advantage from her opponent. Slashing and leaping wildly, the feline had only a scant handful of scratches to show for it, whereas the human was bleeding from several more serious cuts. Suddenly, the man lifted his head and stepped back, as if acknowledging an order he heard in his mind. He took two mighty swings to fend off her attack before turning tail and bolting into the forest, at a speed even Deron would have been hard-pressed to match. The girl did not follow, turning instead to Liriel.

She stood, forgotten by the skirmish, immobile.

She had lowered her blades, and was now leaning heavily on her sword, grimacing with her hand tight around the arrow.

The golden elf tried to spring to his feet, realising what the cat intended to do. He instantly regretted the move, as his aches came back in waves and his many cuts spitefully chose to bleed again. He stood up shakily, too late to do anything.

Liriel feeling the echo of his dizziness, swayed as well. The tip of the blade she was leaning on slid in the mud and she slipped with it, falling forward.

Deron cursed himself, as he could do nothing but watch as the girl, who had tried to kill him once before, sprint forward to the argent elf.

But the feline’s blades never touched Liriel.

She cast them aside instead and caught the elf as she fell, letting her gently to the ground.

Deron, uncomprehending, rushed to his bond, still wary of the girl steadying her.

The chetae took the arrow in her hand and gave it a sharp, jerking twist. Deron felt the pain as keenly as his companion, and it was enough for his body to tip the scales in favour of his injuries. He swayed back, spots dancing in front of his eyes.

He imagined he saw a brief flicker of light over the cat’s head and tasted that odd, metallic tang, and then all at once, Liriel was standing again, holding him up this time, lowering him gently to the ground.

She smiled.

“Fool,” she said, touching his cheek.

He saw the string between them light up before the darkness and confusion crowded his vision.

When he came to, he was first aware of Liriel’s hand supporting his head. Then the world shifted back into focus and he was staring at two women, smiling like old friends.

The hunter ran, using all his strength and the master’s gifts, shame burning his face. The sweat ran into his eyes; stung the wounds the accursed girl had carved in his skin. He had never in his entire life suffered such a defeat! It was a shame to his master, a defeat that ought never tarnish his glory.

The hunter would have stopped by the side of the road to flail himself with a switch of willow, but he was far too obsessed with fleeing his shame. He had to leave, lick his wounds and let the desire for vengeance curdle in his gut. This was another thing he blamed squarely on the elves. He wanted nothing more than their entrails spilled on his feet, but was quite a ways from getting that.

So engrossed was he with his self-torture and cruel ideas, that he only noticed the man in front of him at the last second.

The hunter skidded to his knees and looked up half-hopefully.

Dressed not in orcish manner, but in fine leathers of jet-black, hair whipped by the wind, red eyes burning like flame, stood his master. Rage was plain on his face.

“You disappoint me greatly, Hunter,” he said in a low, dangerously level voice.

“Please, master, please! I can explain! It was the elf-girl!” he grovelled, knowing his fate. “I beg of you, exalted One, please! Pleaase don’t kill me! I can make things right!”

The hunter collapsed into a blubbering heap at the feet of the man who had become their adopted god. The master leaned over, grabbing a handful of greasy dark hair.

“Now you know that you are my friend, hunter, and that is the one and only rea