Chapter 1

Part 1

Thirteen days to the hour, and Keros had still not found it. He cursed his luck, although he always cursed his luck when his abilities seemed to fail him. It was not beyond him to find a mountain pass without a local guide when need drove him, but this particular need had driven him beyond reasonable behavior. He had been awakened by a message crystal a fortnight ago from his brother Derivan, who had lived for many years in the border town of San-Elos, where he had grown rich from a brisk trade in spices, rare woods, and exotic slaves from far-flung lands. It was only to be expected ... Derivan had been the brother who could talk ather out of anything, and so naturally turned that ability towards a merchant life.

Keros was neither convincing of speech nor desirous of wealth. He had struggled as an adult most of his life, choosing what master to learn from, picking up what skills he could, then moving on when either his mind felt full or his welcome wore out. He was the epitome of a jack of all trades, master of none. He knew enough swordplay to save his skin from the average lord’s man-at-arms seeking to ‘tax’ him as a newcomer; he had learned some sorcery so he could protect himself from the once rare but now all-too-common appearances of minor demons and other nether creatures of ill-will; he grew hard and confident in the streets of the western cities of Ghesh and Comer, where the only work to be found was thieving from one noble to sell to another; and he had learned of women from a hundred different races and species. His mind was not closed in any way, but even as he had learned of the world, he had found his heart grown cold and distant from others personally. Women tended to find him aloof, and it was with no surprise that he had never wed. It was not a condition he enjoyed, but it seemed to have chosen him—the road was his mistress. An unhappy marriage, but one of necessity.

And now, Derivan was in desperate straits, calling out to his only surviving brother by expensive magic, imploring him to come to his aid, for he and his daughter were set upon within their estate by an uprising in San-Elos. Derivan had told him little actual information, other than the clear and obvious panic he had in his voice and eyes, but it seemed that a shaman of the nearby nomadic Jekkani tribe had roused more than a few of his brethren to his call, and in a fit of religious fervor attacked the town of mostly transplants from other lands. The handful of town guardsmen were quickly slain, driven away, or fled, and the common townsfolk were left to fight from their own homes and streets, or die. Being that many of the wealthier merchants had walled estates higher up along the foothills, they attracted the attention of the wild and rapacious tribesmen. Derivan said that his own mercenaries and guards had driven off three attacks already, but they were minor, and as other estates were taken and looted, the next attack on his compound was larger each time.

Keros nodded as he climbed over the lip of a small dell and saw the pass he had been searching for, feeling relief wash over him. No, Derivan was not close as brothers went. They had visited each other but twice since Keros has first left their father’s home among the elves of the Tindrei Woodlands. Derivan was older, possibly smarter, but not as worldly-wise. He had taken a human wife, as father had, and he had been the same kind of husband father had been to mother, who Keros now barely remembered. He hoped Derivan had not been the same kind of father to his daughter.

Keros slipped through the pass as he remembered the message crystal blossom above the bed, seeing Derivan in a panic, but there, just in view behind him, a girl, visibly trembling even through the hazy image. He assumed it was Derivan’s daughter, his own niece, but he did not know either her name or age. It had been that long ago he had seen his brother, not long before his sibling’s third wife had died, the one he claimed to love more than the others. Hmph. Something within him was stirred at the sight of the girl, something that drew him from his bed that night, more than his tenuous connection to his brother. She, surely, was family, and innocent of any slights and insults Derivan had given to him. She had probably spent her whole life in San-Elos, protected within the walls of a wealthy estate, probably spoiled, likely arrogant, but something, something otherworldly, had settled within him at his seeing her, despite the haziness of the image and the inability to make her out clearly. As he had climbed out of bed a night-bird that had somehow slipped into the inn-room fluttered down from the rafters and thatch above, and landed on one of the bed-posts. It stared at him as he stood there, motionless. It stared at him, and then sang its beautiful, melancholy song. Then it fluttered its wings again, rose in a flash, found a space in the dark thatch above, and was gone. Something, yes. The omen awoke something in his heart and mind and soul, and he found that, indeed, he could help his brother ... and niece.

Part 2

As he climbed down from the pass, only an hour or so from dawn, he saw San-Elos, and the lazily rising smoke. Thirteen days. Why he did not feel panicked, he attributed to the knowledge of the omen. The gods did not send messages only to lie about them. He was certain they were still alive. He crept closer to the town, passing farmsteads with burned-out cottages, the fires dying many days ago, as likely were the inhabitants. Here and there he scared away scavengers of both natural and supernatural sort, with a whimper, a growl, or a puff of incandescent smoke. He did not fear them, for they were lone individual beasts; he had a good sword and dagger of well-tempered steel, and the sinews and knowledge to wield them in deadly earnest.

He approached the town gates, scored and burned, lying open against the brown stone walls of the town. He grimly noted that caravans and trade between the local provinces and fiefs would avoid this spot for some time, until a group of heroes wandered along and destroyed the ravaging tribes; the town was too far into the borderlands to elicit a response from any great lord or kingdom.

The air was filled with silence. Apparently the tribesmen had ravaged to the point where there was nothing left to satisfy their appetite, and left. He headed directly for his brother’s estate, some half-mile ahead. As he walked he passed bodies that appeared fresher than those outside the walls. The tribesmen had not been gone for long, it seemed ... at least, no long enough to ease his mind. He eased his sword, instead, from it’s scabbard, and muttered arcane words to ensorcel the blade with a biting venom that would paralyze any it came in contact with. He wished no mistakes from this point on.

When he finally caught sight of Derivan’s estate, the first inklings of fear touched his belly. Like the city, it’s smaller gate was ripped open. There was a pile of debris right at the gateway ... no.

On drawing up to the gateway, and the dawn coming finally over the distant Rishash Mountains, he saw the body of his brother, cruelly torn. There were other bodies; retainers or guards, certainly. But no niece. Black thoughts came into his mind; he was amazed at the sudden response his heart was giving ... not to his brother, but to a niece he had never before met. Was she taken? If so, he would find her, track down the last tribesman who had violated her, and take his revenge ... again~, he caught himself. He felt a touch upon his mind, and recognized it as magic, his own skills in spells minor but his understanding of their workings considerable. There was something supernatural going on, some push, some need of another who was much more powerful than him, that was instilling these feelings. He knew not whether to resist, in so doing incurring the wrath of some unknown deity who might be using him as some pawn in a incalculable game of the gods. Regardless, he needed to find her, his nameless niece.

A sound further back in the compound suddenly drew him back to reality. Then there was movement in the darkened doorway of a servant’s hut, its door ruined. He sprang towards it silently, sword drawn, and with his free hand signed a spell that caused a small orb of light to spring into being. Waving it forward, it illuminated the entryway to the damaged home. The sudden light caused someone to gasp from within—a high-pitched female voice—and he immediately stepped within the place.

There, in the light of the aura of his own spell, cowering by a shattered table, was a girl of perhaps fourteen seasons. She was slender and petite, even for her age, and under the dirty and torn white shift she wore, a pair of small, perky breasts with hardened little nubs tented the thin fabric in the chill morning air. His eyes were mainly drawn to her face, though. Long locks of chestnut-black hair curled around it and hung halfway down her back in a tangled mess. Her cheeks were rosy in the cold, curved and feminine even short a smile. A narrow and straight jawline trailed under those cheeks, giving her face a full and healthy appearance. Her young lips were soft and abnormally full, below a puckish, narrow-nostriled nose, with a dusting of freckles across it and her cheeks. Bright, jade-green eyes were wide and terrified below long, thick lashes.

It must be his niece. It could be no other. There was an unmistakable resemblance to his brother, even if it was faint. Her mother must have been beautiful indeed, to produce a girl so lovely at her young age, terror and dirt and blood notwithstanding.

The girl’s slim and exposed body trembled violently, from both fear and the cold. Her bare skin was covered with gooseflesh, and dirty, dried tracks of tears were also apparent on her face now as he drew closer. But there was defiance there, too. In one hand she held a curved Lutinian dagger, and she held it well enough to show she had at least been trained to aim it in the right direction.

“I’m here to help you,” he spoke softly in his deep, gravelly voice. “I’m your father’s younger brother, Keros.”

The terrified girl did not respond to his words, other than to position herself a bit more behind the broken table and debris, raising the dagger higher before her.

Keros stopped, sheathing his sword and raising his hands. “There, see? Not dangerous.”

An elfin, soprano voice, nonetheless steely in it’s quivering resolve, answered him. “I can see you use magic ... I am not a child to be tricked so easily!”

“Aye, I do use magic,” Keros replied. “But do I look like a tribesman? Only their shaman use magic.” Considering, he smoothed back the hair by his temples, revealing the slight point to his ears. “I am part elf, just like your father ... just like you.”

The girl seemed to tense at the mention of elf-blood for just a moment, her eyes widening ... and then she bolted for the doorway. But her body, unlike Keros’, had been weakened by fear and hunger and lack of sleep. He easily caught her up in his arms as she passed, and then deftly reached around her slender wrist as she tried to bring her dagger up to his throat for an ill-advised slash. Applying some pressure, he easily forced her to drop the blade. She was undersized and somewhat scrawny, different than many well-off merchant children he’d seen over the years, but that mattered little at the moment. She fought back against his grip, slippery as a snake, and shrieked wildly like her life was in doubt.

But Keros was a healthy, strong and experienced man, a warrior in body and spirit, and did not lose his grip on her. Instead, he shifted her and held her to his chest, wrapping his arms about her and pinning hers to her side. She fought wildly, screaming in her faerie-like voice for many seconds in an animalistic burst of fury and terror, but it was to no avail. Finally, her strength spent, she collapsed against his body and wept uncontrollably, shaking as if in a fit, unable to contain the turbulent emotions brought about by her ordeal of the past two weeks.

For his part, Keros was unnerved. He had never had a child, nor cared for one at any point in his life, but he knew enough to simply let her spend herself in mourning. He sat, cradling her for many minutes, untensing his arms somewhat, and when she did not try to bolt again, he loosened them some more. Instead she curled up within his burly arms, against him, and her little body trembled violently while her tears soaked into his tunic. He tipped his head down, and in so doing smelled her hair, which, while dirty, had the familiar scent of woman in it, despite her age. In fact, even with a fortnight with no bath, she still had that very pleasant female aroma which he’d always enjoyed. It was a brief thought, and while it did not intrude further into his concerns for her right then, it settled deeply within his psyche, to take root and grow and make its presence known at some future time.

When many minutes had passed, and her sobs and shaking had changed to sniffles and soft trembling, she finally fell silent but for a spasm now and again. She seemed to take a great comfort from his form, both hands reaching up to grasp his tunic over his powerful chest. Finally, after much time, he felt more than heard her childlike voice, ghostly and rasping: “Are you really my uncle?”

“I am the brother of Derivan, son of Teros. And if he was your father, than I am your uncle,” Keros softly replied.

The girl nodded her head almost imperceptibly. “Yes,” her voice whispered hollowly. “I am ... was ... his daughter.”

She looked up at him, eyes seemingly huge and glassy, reflecting pain and loss. “I am Chelone.” Her plump lips remained parted, the lower one trembling uncontrollably, as she looked up at him with an expression of hopelessness and anguish.

Keros nodded. “Chell ... oh ... nee ... after the Lutinian goddess of beauty, yes?”

The girl nodded mutely, a single tear coursing down from her left eye.

The large man reached out a hand, wiping the tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb, then offered a smile as his hand finished by caressing her cheek with surprising gentleness, brushing some of her dark hair behind an ear. “You were well-named, little one.”

The girl blinked twice, caught by surprise at his words, and then a halting, almost painfully shy smile crept across her face. A moment later she looked down, blushing deeply. She sobbed once, then hiccuped, shivering again in his arms. “I’m cold,” she murmured, burrowing into him. Somehow, something spoke to him of her actions—that it was not just cold that was making her behave so. He would have to question her more over what had occurred, and how her life had gone before this disaster, but for the time being, survival was most important.