The Heritage Of The Halflings (The Halflings Of Athranor 2) Fantasy E-Book

Alfred Bekker

• Herausgeber: Alfredbooks
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 616

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The Heritage Of The Halflings (The Halflings Of Athranor 2) Fantasy novel by Alfred Bekker The halflings of Athranor led a quiet, tranquil life. But now Arvan Aradis, the young human who grew up among them, has returned. He is in search of the only weapon that can defeat the Corrupter of Fate - and that was entrusted to the halflings centuries ago. But the small race has long forgotten its obligation. Arvan and his companions - the halflings Borro, Neldo, and Zalea, and the elf Lirandil - are on their own in their search for the lost Rune Tree.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

The Heritage Of The Halflings

Copyright

Prologue

The fight goes on

Arvan's case

Half Talk

The new High King

Welbo's warning

Magic in the Sinking City

Departure to Asanilon

The magic of the tower

Light in the eyes

Battle in the throne room

Dwarf worries

Lirandil's message

Risen

Return to the halfling forest

Losses

Neldo's way

The rune tree

A sad reunion

Dwarf fate and battle noise

The Elven Staff

A high king in bloodlust

Neldo's fight

Bearer of the Elven Staff

In the land of terror

Cursed dwarves

Elvish Student

After Colintia

Rude awakening

On the coast of the orcs

The dead fall

Path to the darkness

Arvan and Ghool

The Heritage Of The Halflings

The Halflings Of Athranor 2

Fantasy novel by Alfred Bekker

––––––––

The halflings of Athranor led a quiet, tranquil life. But now Arvan Aradis, the young human who grew up among them, has returned. He is in search of the only weapon that can defeat the Corrupter of Fate - and that was entrusted to the halflings centuries ago. But the small race has long forgotten its obligation. Arvan and his companions - the halflings Borro, Neldo, and Zalea, and the elf Lirandil - are on their own in their search for the lost Rune Tree.

Copyright

A CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books, Alfred Bekker, Alfred Bekker presents, Cassiopeia-XXX-press, Alfredbooks, Uksak Special Edition, Cassiopeiapress Extra Edition, Cassiopeiapress/AlfredBooks and BEKKERpublishing are imprints of

Alfred Bekker

© Roman by Author

COVER A.PANADERO

© of this issue 2023 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia

The invented persons have nothing to do with actual living persons. Similarities in names are coincidental and not intended.

All rights reserved.

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Prologue

It happened in the time when the Elves still settled in their ancient homeland, the continent of Athranor, and King Péandir ruled their kingdom. At that time, Ghool, the Corrupter of Fate, rose from his banishment after many ages and threatened to gain power over all of Athranor. A spell of the elves defeated Ghool's hordes in battle at the Hill of the Three Lands, and the valor of a son of man raised among the halflings killed the terrible Zarton, a ghastly monster Ghool had chosen as his commander. The name of this hero was Arvan Aradis. Arvan had been adopted and raised as a son by the family of the halfling Gomlo from the tribe of Brado the Fugitive.

And while people at the court of the Elven king succumbed to the fallacy that evil had already been defeated before it could really rise up, in truth the war had hardly begun.

The forces of evil gathered - orcs, demons, shadow birds, monsters of various kinds, and all those who were subject to Ghool moreover went about murdering and pillaging in his name. A flood of terror against which there seemed to be no weapon.

No one yet knew what powerful legacy the legendary First King of the Elves, Elbanador, had given the small nation of halflings many ages ago to preserve them for the hour of danger.

And still no one suspected that the one who should take over this inheritance could not be a halfling himself ...

From the Older Book of Keandir

––––––––

Hidden was the powerful heritage of the halflings for a long time.

Protected by spells and magic.

Unattainable since the day the immortal Elven King Elbanador - the only one who could have awakened the legacy - met his death in the battle for Noragorn's lands.

Preserved in the legends of the Little People.

From the chronicle of the Blue City

The fight goes on

Like the scythe of death incarnate, the sword whizzed down. Arvan was just able to dodge the blow. The blade passed him by a hair's breadth.

Groaning, the young man backed away. He snatched up his own sword. He had named the mighty blade Protector because it had saved him in the battle against the orcs, and at the moment Arvan could only hope that the weapon would live up to its name this time as well. Steel clanged on steel, so powerfully that sparks flew.

Arvan grasped his blade with both hands. Remember your anger," he said. For this rage gives you the power with which you could kill even an overpowering monster like Zarton!

With great difficulty, Arvan parried another blow from his opponent. His blow was so violent that a terrible pain went through Arvan's hands, up his arms and into his shoulders. For a moment he thought he was paralyzed and could not move in time to parry the next blow.

His opponent took a swing.

Arvan ducked. The blade passed over him. Then he sped forward, letting the tip of the protector drive toward his opponent's body.

But he let his sword snap back. The blades clashed against each other. The blow was so powerful and precise that Arvan could not hold his weapon. The protector was torn from his hand in a high arc.

Before he had even taken a deep breath, he felt the cool metal of a sword tip against his throat.

"Don't try to fight like a halfling, Arvan!"

"But ..."

"Because you can't, and the fact that you grew up with them doesn't change that."

"How would you know how halflings fight? Are there any where you come from, Whuon?"

The dark-haired warrior grinned broadly. "I was able to observe your halfling companions during the battle, at least for a short time, before I lost sight of them and I followed you to protect you from the consequences of your own battle rage." Whuon lowered his blade. He took a deep breath. The swordsman's upper body was exposed, as he had wanted to spare his doublet in this practice fight. Arvan's gaze kept being drawn to the metal plate embedded in Whuon's chest, magically connected to his body as if it were a part of him. Whuon twirled the blade through the air a few times and then let it slide into his other hand in one smooth motion. "What is it? Do you still have enough rage left in you to fight properly, or are you poking the air with your blade as if you were holding a halfling's dainty rapier?" he taunted.

Arvan swallowed.

"I don't think my anger is enough today to really be on my game," he said.

"What is it?" asked Whuon. "Does anything occupy your thoughts so much that it kills your will to fight, or is it that?" With a swiftness not expected from someone wielding such a massive, broad sword as Whuon, he suddenly let the blade lunge forward. Sideways, he let the steel clap against the shaft of Arvan's right boot.

If this had been a real fight, he would have smashed my knee and I would not have been able to take another step, Arvan knew. Even the special self-healing powers that are inherent in me could hardly have saved my life then!

"There's nothing wrong with you wearing shoes and no longer walking around barefoot like a halfling," Whuon agreed. "But the question is whether you've really gotten used to those heavy stocking boots yet."

"I did," Arvan asserted. "Could I have slain the seven-armed giant Zarton if it were otherwise?"

"You were lucky!"

"What?"

"Arvan, you're starting to get cocky about your greatest feat. That is usually the first step into the abyss and a good condition for not surviving the next fight or battle. Believe me, I have served in so many different armies and seen so many warriors find their grave through hubris. It's always the same."

"I don't overestimate myself," Arvan objected.

"You rely on the fact that nothing can happen to you. You think someone who slew Zarton can do anything. And you believe that the elvish healing spell performed on you when you were an infant will always protect you from being smashed to pieces in the future." Whuon pounded his fist against the piece of metal in his chest, the surface of which adjusted eerily when he breathed or moved. "I would also never rely on this and think myself invulnerable because of this magical piece of metal."

Whuon took a step to the side. The swordsman had put down his doublet in one of the embrasures between the stone battlements. Now he put it on.

They were on one of the countless towers of Gaa. And since this tower was not located on one of the outer walls, which were important for the defense of the city, but belonged to one of the inner ramparts, it was unoccupied at the moment. From here one had an excellent overview of the capital of Gaania, the southernmost province in Haraban's empire. From the north flowed a river that fed from the Long Lake and poured into the Long Fjord at Gaa on the Caraborean Sea. A bridge stretched from Gaa to the other bank of the river to the province of New Valdania. There, a wide army road ran parallel to the riverbank to Waldhaven. There was also a road on the Gaan side of the river, albeit a much narrower one. Columns of soldiers moved along both roads in never-ending streams to Gaa. The mercenaries of the forest king Haraban were the majority in these columns. The trumpeting of their war elephants could often be heard for miles. Huge catapults were rolled over the smooth pavement of the two army roads. In addition, fresh troops of the King of Bagoria arrived - among them more than half green-skinned ogres who had the habit of singing boomingly in deep voices during their marches.

In the meantime, countless ships had moored in the port of Gaa. Time and again, cog-like, bulbous transport ships shuttled between the port city of Lyrr, located on the opposite shore of the fjord, and the port of Gaa. They brought mainly armored knights from the kingdom of Beiderland. The allied armies of the human kingdoms of Athranor needed nothing more urgently than supplies of fresh troops. Even though the battle on the hill of the three lands had ended with the death of Ghool's commander and the destruction of a large part of his army consisting of orcs and demon creatures, the blood toll on the side of the allies had been so high that they could hardly recover from it.

"The next battle will come as surely as the blood-red rising of the sun," Whuon said, while Arvan looked thoughtfully for a moment in the direction of the harbor, where another ship with knights from both countries was just landing. "And as much as you may have learned already, it would behoove you to perfect yourself before the time comes."

"Certainly," Arvan murmured.

"For you should remember one thing: since you slew the seven-armed giant Zarton, you are no longer just anyone. Ghool will have heard your name by now. And you have now become a target of his hatred..."

"Where ..."

"How do I know?"

"You are, after all, a stranger who came to Athranor through the World Gate in Thuvasien. But apparently Lirandil not only instructed you in the language of the elves, but also imparted much of their knowledge to you."

Whuon laughed boomingly. "All it takes to put that together is an alert mind, Arvan! You'll have to take great care of yourself in the future, and I don't know if I'll always be around in time to watch your back."

Arvan smiled. "You know I can take a lot and that my wounds heal quickly."

"For a severed head, that shouldn't even apply to you! We need to work on your cover, Arvan. Otherwise, you'll be walking straight into an open blade at some point."

"That's exactly what happened to him in a similar way," a bright voice interjected. Arvan and Whuon turned around. A halfling girl had climbed the tower completely silently.

"Zalea," Arvan murmured.

Her hair fell far over her shoulders. The pointed ears stuck out of it, and the slightly slanted eyes gave Arvan a benevolent look.

"Lirandil has called us all together. For some reason, I guess it's very urgent."

"Typical elves," Arvan commented. "May wait centuries for anything, and then all of a sudden it has to happen very quickly."

"We shouldn't try his patience," Zalea urged.

"Overstress?" Arvan shook his head. "Weeks have passed since the battle at the Hill of the Three Lands. For a while, yes, it made sense to retreat to Gaa to regroup our forces, but now we've been hanging around for so long. A new High King hasn't even been elected yet to lead us."

"Why are you complaining?" interjected Whuon. "You could have accepted this office, after all. And the hero who slew Ghool's commander would certainly have been followed by all."

But Arvan shook his head. "I had good reasons not to do that," he explained. "It may be that the warriors would have followed me. But the kings would only have envied my glory that much more. Or they would have seen in me a foolish youth, easily manipulated."

"You missed an opportunity," Whuon believed. "But everyone must make his own decisions and then answer for the consequences. In any case, I find the fact that a High King has still not been proclaimed more troubling than the thought that a seventeen-year-old boy would have led the army."

"Leave it, Whuon," Zalea said very firmly. "I think Arvan's greatest hours are yet to strike."

Whuon closed his doublet and laughed harshly, while Zalea was already walking toward the entrance to the stairs that led down. "She thinks highly of you, though, if she thinks you could do even greater deeds than slaying the seven-armed giant!"

The meeting took place in a high, generously furnished room, which had been assigned to Prince Eandorn as befitting quarters during his stay in Gaa. The castle of Gaa had already reached its limits in this respect, after the battle on the Hill of the Three Lands, when the King of the Forest and the rulers of Beiderland, Ambalor and Bagorien had also taken up their quarters here with their entourage of nobles, some of them many-headed. And since the arrival of the king of Dalanor with his troops was expected at any time, even the governor of Gaania had already cleared his private chambers for the numerous guests.

Arvan and his companions had, of course, had to make do with much smaller and more modest quarters - despite the fame he had achieved in the meantime. But since they were still much more generous than the dwellings on the Halflings' trees that Arvan had been used to in his previous life, he would never have thought of complaining about them.

When Arvan, Zalea, and Whuon arrived, all the other companions from the motley group that had set out to forge an alliance against the power of the Doom Corrupter and confront evil had already gathered. Lirandil, the elvish tracker whose extraordinary diplomatic skills had ensured that a tenuous alliance had been formed in the first place, looked very serious. He was conversing with the elvish heir to the throne, Prince Eandorn, in the language of their people when Arvan entered the room. The two halflings Borro and Neldo seemed rather impatient. And from the worried face the red-haired Borro made while leaning on his bow, Arvan suspected that there was bad news and the two had already heard at least part of it. To their left was Brogandas, envoy of the Dark Albs of Albanoy. The branded runes that covered almost his entire, completely hairless head seemed to change shape slightly. A sign that troubled Arvan even more than Borro's expression. Brogandas' gaze met Arvan's, literally piercing him. When the runes on his face change, magic is involved, Arvan knew. Sinister dark-alb magic... During the journey they had traveled together, this magic had once saved them by the skin of their teeth. What danger is he preparing for? What threat does he sense?" Arvan thought.

The more you try to find out, the more he will close his mind, the voice of Lirandil's thoughts reached him, with which the elvish tracker sometimes used to contact him since he had merged his mind with Arvan's for a short time. So don't even try!

Sometimes Arvan was not sure whether he actually perceived Lirandil's thoughts or whether they were just a reflection of his own, which he put in his inner hearing with Lirandil's voice and thus, in a sense, put them into his mouth. But in this case Arvan was sure.

Two elvish warriors from Prince Eandorn's retinue stood at the entrance to his chambers. Eandorn instructed them in Elvish to stand outside.

"I have called you all here together because there is news. News that should worry us. It is true that the king of the Dalanorian Empire is on his way here with a contingent of his warriors, and meanwhile knights from both countries reach this fortress every day. But first of all, this can hardly compensate for the losses from the battle on the hill of the three lands, and secondly, I just received the news that the orcs have razed the Sy Castle in the north of Rasal to the ground."

"This means that Ghool now controls almost all of Rasal up to the border river to Pandanor," Brogandas stated. The runes on his face had returned to their old form.

Lirandil nodded. "Except for the enclosed coastal cities, but they will certainly fall as soon as Ghool orders another wave of attacks."

"What about the resistance of the orcs of the Western Orc Empire?" asked Brogandas.

"It should have been completely broken long ago," said Lirandil. "What's really bad is that Ghool's minions are now everywhere between the Rasalian coast and the Long Lake. Nothing and no one is safe from the orc hordes that have infiltrated there. And at the same time, there are reports that Ghool is gathering another large army of orcs and demon creatures."

"The situation was troubling before, but I don't see what should have changed substantially," Brogandas opined.

Eandorn and Lirandil exchanged a brief glance, as if they had already reached an understanding among themselves and only a residue of doubt remained as to whether they should include the Dark Elf in their knowledge. To what extent Brogandas could really be trusted had never become completely clear. On the other hand, he had saved all their lives when, using his sinister Dark Elf magic, he transported them to the inhospitable Mark of Twilight before they could be cut down by the mysterious bird riders Ghool had sent to prevent them from reaching the Elven Kingdom. The magic of the Elves, though weakening for many ages, was still powerful enough to be a decisive factor in this war. And so it had been of the utmost importance to rouse the Elves from their lethargy and get them to intervene.

If Brogandas had only wanted to sabotage our mission, this would certainly have been a good moment to do so, Arvan thought. So there was really no reason to treat him with suspicion. On the other hand, the mighty of Khemrand, who ruled the Dark Albanian Empire of Albanoy, had still not decided whether they wanted to intervene in this conflict at all and, if so, on which side. And the same was true for the mages of Thuvasien, who were building up a huge army far to the north, of which no one knew yet against whom it would turn one day. The fact that the kingdom of the dwarf king Grabaldin, lying under the seabed of the Dwarven Sea, was still waiting to see how the scales of the conflicting forces would tilt before it could position itself on the side of the victors was a comparatively minor problem.

"The way I see it, Ghool will think very carefully about mustering such a concentrated force once again, seeking decision in open field battle," Brogandas believed. "He knows now that he must fear the magic of the elves."

"He doesn't have to," Eandorn said gravely, apparently getting to the heart of the problem.

The runes on Broganda's face changed, and Arvan suspected that it might simply be a sign of his confusion at that moment. "I don't understand! The combined forces of your mages and shamans have used Riboldir's spell for the first time in many ages. They could do so again at any time, burying Ghool's hordes under a rain of rocks and boulders The Elven Mountains should be far from eroded, and if that danger does exist, there are surely other mountains from which boulders could be raised into the air and dropped over the enemy army!"

"You have no idea of the effort it has taken our mages and shamans to use this spell again for so long," Eandorn explained. "It is doubtful when they would be able to do it a second time. But it's also questionable whether the elvenkind would be willing to intervene at all again."

"Have you received any new news from the Elven Kingdom?" asked Arvan.

Not even 500 years old, the heir to the throne was still quite young by Elvish standards, and he turned his head in Arvan's direction. "Elves who are very close to each other are sometimes in more or less strong spiritual contact with each other even over long distances," he explained. "And as much as may separate me from my father King Péandir, we are undoubtedly very close in terms of our views on the future of Elvenkind. I know what dominates his thoughts. He believes that the danger has been averted for now and that there is no need to intervene again. After all, Ghool was defeated once before, many ages ago, when the Elves, under King Elbanador, went against them in battle at Mount Tablanor alongside the First Gods. Even by Elven standards, an unimaginable amount of time has passed since then, and apparently the thought has spread that this time, too, they would have eons before they would have to put Ghool in its place once more."

"But this is an obvious mistake!" snapped Arvan. "How can it be that the supposedly wise elves can be so foolish?"

"A mixture of a realization of their increasing weakness and a long-running disinterest in everything that happens beyond the borders of their realm," Eandorn readily answered. "While my father doesn't think people are legends, as do more than a few of our people who have often spent millennia barely out of the immediate vicinity of their castles, in principle he is much like the majority of his people."

"Then you will have a difficult legacy if you should one day succeed him, Prince Eandorn," Arvan believed.

Eandorn seemed to have a similar opinion. He nodded slightly. "Before we left, Brass Elimbor told me a secret. I have had to guard it until this time, as I sense the tide turning and that in the future we cannot rely on my people to actually side with the alliance against Ghool."

Before Arvan's inner eye appeared the face of the ancient supreme shaman of the elves. He was so unimaginably old that even long-lived, nearly immortal Elves had trouble truly imagining the length of this life. Brass Elimbor had lived when the legendary First Elven King Elbanador had gone to battle against Ghool on the side of the First Gods at Mount Tablanor. And so it was not surprising that he of all people was aware of the full extent of the threat. He had therefore tried his best to influence King Péandir and his throne council to throw their weight in this conflict in favor of the alliance. It was obvious that without Brass Elimbor's influence, the mages and shamans of Elvenkind would never have used Riboldir's spells, and the battle on the Hill of the Three Lands would certainly have had a different outcome. Arvan's heroic deed alone could not have turned the tide.

Prince Eandorn paused meaningfully.

"Brass Elimbor opened to me the way in which our First King decided the battle between Ghool and the First Gods at that time," Eandorn explained. "He said that Elbanador had used a kind of magic then that we Elves reject. A dark power, against which even the black magic of the Dark Elves, which we reject, is like a faint breeze against a full-blown storm."

"Well, well," said Brogandas. "To be honest, there have always been rumors and legends that it was by no means Elbanador's heroism alone that decided the battle." There was no mistaking the mockery that resonated in the Dark Elf's words.

Eandorn turned to Brogandas and explained, "I would in no way compare Elbanador's actions to what you Dark Alves did. Elbanador used a forbidden type of magic once, knowing that it was the only way he could effectively combat the evil power of Ghool. You dark alves, however, have devoted yourselves to various kinds of sinister forces, and have long since become slaves to the powers that calling upon has become an evil habit and later an addiction for you."

Brogandas screwed up his face. "And yet efforts are still being made to enlist us Dark Alves as allies to use our magic against Ghool!" He made a throwaway hand gesture, and some of the runes covering his hairless head changed, forming thorn-like, pointed to sharp-edged shapes that continued and began to intertwine, eventually forming a fine pattern. "Anyway, I guess the elven people have always been prone to double standards."

"If only I had learned sooner that there is apparently a weapon against Ghool!" groaned Lirandil.

"I made Brass Elimbor swear to keep silent as long as there were alternatives to using this kind of magic," Eandorn explained. "And those alternatives existed as long as the mages and shamans of Elvenkind were willing to combine their powers and use them against Ghool. But now the situation has changed. I feel more and more clearly that my father does not have the inclination to repeat this mission. And besides, it is also questionable whether using Riboldir's spell again would have any resounding success at all - even assuming that our mages and shamans had gathered enough power for it again. Besides, no one knows how quickly that could happen even in the best case scenario."

"What does this weapon actually consist of, if I may ask?" Borro, notorious for his cheekiness, spoke up. Both Lirandil and Brogandas gave him a reprimanding look. Both seemed to feel that it was not his place to ask this question, but that it would have suited his status, age and position within their companionship to wait patiently until this question was clarified.

But Borro usually did not care about such sensitivities of his fellow creatures.

Whuon grinned cautiously. The mercenary and swordsman was also used to not mincing his words and to always speak his mind straightforwardly. And he didn't care whether he violated any conventions or offended anyone.

"What kind of magic King Elbanador once used, I do not know," Eandorn said. "Brass Elimbor was sworn to silence about it at the time, and he apparently feels bound by that oath to this day. But he told me where to find the secret. Elbanador wrote down all the forbidden knowledge that was available to him at the time. These writings were almost destroyed when forces gained the upper hand within the Elven Mages' Guild that wanted to erase all traces of black magic. At that time, Brass Elimbor gave these writings to the mage Asanil, who had fallen out completely with the entire magehood of the Elven Kingdom, and in particular with my father."

"I know Asanil well," said Lirandil. "Asanil preferred to live in exile among humans because his magical inventions were rejected as unelven in the elven realm. He even grew a long beard to distinguish himself from his peers and to express his indignation at the ignorance of Elvenkind. The last time I was a guest was a good three and a half centuries ago in the tower where he lived until then and where he docked his magical sky ship. After that, he set out on a long, thousand-year voyage in the sky-ship to explore, among other things, the forgotten lands of the sea-lords of Relian beyond the Boiling Sea, to which the connection was severed long ago."

"But surely his tower will still be found where he once built it!"

"A whole city has formed around this tower in the last centuries, dear Eandorn! It is called Asanilon, the city at the Asanil Tower. No one approaching the coast of Transsydia can miss this place! Asanilon is one of the largest cities in Athranor - surpassed only by Carabor and the two-country royal residence of Aladar! And the tower serves as a beacon for ships visible from afar!"

Eandorn smiled cautiously. "It seems that we in the elven realm are indeed little informed about the things that have happened in the realms of men, for this is the first time I have heard the name Asanilon."

"Anyway, the tower stands in its place - locked and filled with one of the greatest magical libraries that might exist outside the Elven realm," Lirandil explained. "It's a truly unique collection that I've always enjoyed browsing while that was still possible."

"Then the writings of the first Elf King should be among them, unless Asanil took them with him on his journey!" concluded Prince Eandorn.

"There would be no reasonable reason for that," Lirandil explained. "Especially since Asanil, after all, left his own magical writings there and magically sealed the tower." Lirandil took a step forward. The elven warrior's right hand gripped the hilt of the long, slender sword of elven steel at his side. The gaze of his gray eyes seemed to be directed into the distance, and one had the impression that he was lost in his thoughts for a few moments.

"Well, are you able to break this seal, Lirandil?" asked Eandorn.

"I'm not sure," said the tracker. "And since Asanil sometimes did not shy away from using forbidden magical practices, we may have to rely on the help of a distant relative." As he said this, Lirandil's eyes met Broganda's.

Arvan had noticed before that the dark alf was distracted for some reason. His nostrils moved slightly, like an animal taking in scent. The runes on his face were subject to perpetual change, and his gaze wandered restlessly, as if searching for something. What is it that he senses," Arvan thought.

"Darkalves are considered masters of magical sealing - and its dissolution," Lirandil said, "I assume we can count on your support, Brogandas?"

"Certainly!" hissed the dark alf from Batagia. But it was abundantly clear that his attention was on something else.

"What is troubling you, Brogandas?", Lirandil now asked the question that had been burning on Arvan's mind for some time.

"Nothing ...", Brogandas murmured. He turned his gaze searchingly once more, then shook his head and continued, "I had thought I felt a certain kind of magical lines of force, but that sensation was very faint."

"Can you describe this sensation in more detail," Lirandil asked, frowning.

"No. I'm sorry, but I'm very confused about it myself. And so it's not possible for me to be more specific about it. It was just ... a fleeting impression." A jolt went through Broganda's slender, towering figure. His face now showed a broad smile. "As for the magical encryption of this tower, I will, of course, be glad to assist you in any way I can."

It obviously amuses him that Elves depend on the help of a Dark Elf, Arvan realized. But that is probably understandable in light of the eons-old checkered history of these two so closely related peoples. A history, after all, that had a common origin before they both evolved along separate paths.

"I had offered Lirandil to take you to the Tower of Asanil with my entourage, but he made it clear that there were weighty reasons against it. Reasons that convinced me." Prince Eandorn bowed his head slightly, signifying to Lirandil that it was up to him to present those reasons.

"If we travel to Asanil Tower together with the heir to the throne of the Elven Kingdom, it would cause a great stir. There are Ghool's spies everywhere, and apart from that, he also has magical means to be informed at all times about what is happening on the side of his opponents. However, he must not become suspicious of our plan too soon. We don't know yet whether the magic of the First Elf King can help us at all. After all, times have changed since the days of King Elbanador. Not even Ghool himself is likely to be the same as he was then."

"Then it's ultimately nothing more than a vague hope?" asked Borro.

"A vague hope is always the beginning of change," Lirandil said, "and that hope is definitely more than vague."

"Lirandil has also convinced me that I must return to my father's court at Elvish Fjord without delay. Otherwise, there may soon be no prospect of the Elven Kingdom remaining part of the alliance against Ghool. I will have to use all my influence and persuasion to keep my father and the throne council on our side."

Arvan's case

At that moment, Brogandas made a quick movement. He pointed his hands in Arvan's direction, muttering a formula. Flashes of black light shot out from his fingertips. They fanned out, branching into a pulsating web in an instant. Arvan wanted to avoid this web. But he was unable to move. Out of the corner of his eye, he only noticed how Zalea was flung away from him, hit the wall hard and slid down it.

At the same time, Arvan felt an almost irresistible pull. A force seized him and pulled him down. The ground beneath his feet began to dissolve. It swirled like a whirlpool. Everything began to spin and blurred before Arvan's eyes into a mixture of colors and shapes flowing into one another. For a moment, he felt like he was falling into the bottomless pit. He cried out. His scream seemed strangely stretched. An unnatural echo made it become a droning, completely alienated sound, the sound of which no longer had anything in common with his voice.

For a brief moment, it seemed to Arvan as if two conflicting forces were tugging at him, and a terrible pain raced through him.

Then everything was dark around him. He fell onto a hard surface and tried to roll himself off. Only blackness surrounded him. A blind man could not have seen less. Arvan struggled to his feet. He heard a growl and instinctively reached for the protector. His hand tightened around the hilt, but he did not draw the weapon yet. The leather scabbard his foster mother Brongelle had made for him could be strapped across his back or belted around his hips. He did the latter quite often since they were staying in Gaa and he had seen this frequently with the knights from Beiderland. So now he wore it on his left side to be able to pull it with his right. He had therefore moved his long knife, made in the manner of the halflings, to his left side. Arvan heard sounds again. Footsteps, boots on hard, stony ground, rattling breath.

Orkatem!

He heard whispered words in a language of which he did not understand a single word, but which he immediately recognized.

He had fought orcs too many times in the meantime, listening to their communication, for him not to have immediately recognized this language.

He ripped out the protector. The blade began to shimmer. A metallic glow radiated from it. Arvan stumbled. Wherever I may have gone, it must be a place where strong magic is at work, he realized. Often enough he had heard the story told among the halflings that magic could have such an effect on metals. Even when it was just ordinary steel from which blades or axes were forged. And Arvan had no reason to believe that his sword had anything special about it. It was an ordinary blade, even though he had come to attach a special significance to it because it had saved his life many times.

The glow grew stronger. It finally illuminated part of the dark room he had entered. The room was bare, and the walls were made of gray, damp rock. A cave, not a dungeon or basement, Arvan realized. There were paintings on the walls, applied with colors that looked amazingly lifelike in the light of the glowing sword. The painter had integrated the structure of the rock, its countless bumps, breaks, elevations and depressions into the paintings. Arvan saw detailed herds of large horned lizards.

And in between groups of - orcs!

The shapes of the strange swords, the obsidian-tipped clubs and monstrously large battle axes were precisely captured. Even the hulking body forms were more or less clearly recognizable, even if some of these figures were drawn only in silhouette. On some, however, even the tusks stood out so clearly that there could hardly be any doubt as to who was depicted on these cave rocks.

Scenes from the everyday life of the orcs had apparently been gathered there. They wallowed in the mud pit, split the skulls of their enemies, and ate the brains (though it was impossible to tell whether these enemies were also orcs or members of other races). Arvan walked a short distance along the cave wall. Orcs could now be seen grasping with bare paws at swarms of insect-like flying creatures. These had to be the giant horrors, about the length of an elbow, that hatched in the swamps of Transsydia and then migrated in great swarms toward the Western Orc realm. These voracious creatures were everywhere seen as a symbol of death, corruption and uncleanness, especially since they devoured literally everything from grain to carrion to excrement. If they found nothing else, they even gnawed wood, and in unfavorable winds they reached as far as the halfling forest at the Long Lake. Arvan had often accompanied his foster father Gomlo when he set out once a year to lay out the foul-smelling black mosses soaked in the magical essence of tree sap to keep the swarms away.

However, these very creatures, which humans, elves, and halflings disliked more than almost anything else, were considered one of the orcs' main sources of food.

Arvan held the sword in front of him like a torch and searched for the origin of the sounds he had heard. It almost seemed to him as if they came from the pictures and belonged to the scenes depicted.

By all the forest gods, where have I been taken? he asked himself. And at the same time he tried to organize his thoughts and remember what exactly had happened. Brogandas' words came to his mind. The Dark Elf had pointed out that he, Arvan, hero of the realms allied against Ghool and victor over the monstrous Zarton, would certainly be a special target for Ghool's infinite hatred from now on.

Had the dark alchemist's warning come true so soon? And what role did Brogandas himself play in the event that had brought him to this unknown place? Did he try to save me with his black magic - or did he do the opposite and throw me into the dark maw that brought me here? The thoughts were just racing in his head. He simply could not make sense of all this.

Meanwhile, the orcs' voices grew louder. Their words and rasping breaths were interrupted by derisive laughter and raucous shouts. And then Arvan noticed something moving on the fresco.

He flinched, thinking at first that it was an arachnid or the shadow of some other creature that might have made its home among the crevices of this dank cavern.

But then he noticed that the picture itself began to move partially, as if the figures and creatures depicted on it had magically come to life. A group of orcs, who had just been sitting by their fire and sharing the contents of a skull among themselves in a very unork-brotherly way, now jumped up as if at a secret sign. And at the same time, the flame of the fire around which they had been grouped until then increased in size.

Arvan stared at it as if spellbound.

One of the orcs threw the open skull into the blazing flames, whereupon they rose a little further. At the same time, he shouted words that might have come from a magical incantation.

The group of orcs now rushed toward Arvan, as if they wanted to leave the picture. Involuntarily, Arvan took a step back. The first of the orcs now jumped out of the fresco. He grew to life size.

Without hesitation, the orc lunged at Arvan. The scythe-like, slightly curved and very wide blade, which he wielded with his left hand, passed close to Arvan's head, who just managed to avoid this terrible blow. In his other hand, the attacker held a single-handed battle axe with a double blade.

The blades of his two weapons shimmered in a similar way to Arvan's protector, so that the cave was now comparatively bright. Shadows danced on the walls, and it became apparent to Arvan the vast dimensions of the cave vault into which he had been transported by some sinister spell. All the walls were almost completely covered with similar paintings, and even the dome-like ceiling of the cave was almost completely covered by these frescoes. No unevenness, no crack in the rock, no protrusion and no depression had remained unused; all surfaces had been included in the frescoes.

And everywhere the images began to move.

The orc lunged again with his sword, and Arvan barely parried the blow. The blades met with such force that Arvan staggered back and almost lost his balance. The orc hurled his axe at him. With an instinctive upward movement of the protector, he deflected the throw. He hit the axe just below the double blade. It was flung upward and crashed against the wall. The blade glowed brightly as it touched the stone. Some of the paint flaked off that had actually belonged to the massive back of a large horned lizard. A piercing, animalistic roar now pierced the cavern at a deafening volume. The orc grasped his sword with both hands and let it swing through the air again.

With a succession of several blows in close succession, Arvan was driven back a little further before he then dodged one of these blows, sent the protector hurtling towards the orc's throat with lightning speed, and rammed it down his throat with a powerful thrust. A gurgling sound escaped from the beastly mouth. Blood poured from both the wound and his throat, running down his tusks. Arvan's next blow severed his head from his torso. When the skull was already rolling across the floor, the orc threw one last punch, but it fell flat. He collapsed.

Three more orcs had meanwhile emerged from the frescoes. And a fourth one just jumped out of the rock. The metal of their weapons glowed so strongly that the cave was now already more brightly lit than if a dozen torches had provided light.

The orcs growled something. They spoke in their language, and Arvan only guessed that it was probably about him. They were probably discussing which of them should attack Arvan next.

A fifth orc emerged from the opposite side of the cave from the fresco. He landed with a leap on his stocky legs and pointed his battle axe in the direction of the sheusel that Arvan had slain. As he did so, he let out a loud cry of rage. And lunged at Arvan from behind.

The latter whirled around, parried the first blow delivered with the battle axe, and then let the protector drive deep into the flesh of his opponent. Blood spurted. The orc collapsed, gasping. At the same moment, two more orcs attacked Arvan from behind. One hurled a throwing dagger. Arvan whirled around, jerking the sword up. The dagger only stiffened his neck, but that was bad enough. Blood spurted from his artery. Arvan fended off the blow of the second opponent, who thundered at him with a club studded with razor-sharp obsidian splinters. With his left hand, he held his neck. Blood ran in streams between his fingers. He pressed the heel of his hand as hard as he could on the wound, even though he knew it was impossible to close such an injury in this way. Life spurted out of him with every heartbeat. Everything began to spin before his eyes. He lashed out, missed his opponent, and in the next instant was also hit in the shoulder by the obsidian club. The spikes from the sharp volcanic stone effortlessly penetrated his jerkin and tore into his skin. Arvan staggered to the ground.

But before the other orc could lunge at him and cut off his head with his scythe-like, curved broadsword, Arvan had the protector wheeled around. He gritted his teeth and let out a loud scream - half in pain, half in anger.

The protector drove his opponent through both knees with incredible force. The orc's sword stroke was snapped as a result; the blade slid close over Arvan's head. The orc lost his balance and cried out as he went down.

Arvan rolled over. The blood was still pulsing from the wound on his neck. He tried to stand up. For a moment, his eyes threatened to go black. He therefore lashed out with sweeping movements, sending the protector whirling through the air to keep the orcs at bay.

These actually receded.

The warrior lying on the ground, whose lower legs Arvan had severed with a sword stroke, was still screaming loudly and shrilly. One of the other orcs struck him on the head with the flat side of his battle axe, whereupon the scream died away. Before he could recover from this blow, the injured orc had probably bled out long ago anyway.

Arvan's gaze became clearer again.

Once again he let the protector circle through the air - but then he realized that this was probably not the only reason the orcs had backed away from him.

Arvan stared at the fresco. The campfire around which the group of orcs had been sitting, who had then magically materialized and jumped out of the cave painting, had changed once again. Even before that, the flame had flared up many times over and grown taller. Now it had taken the form of an almost human-like shape.

A figure that seemed to consist of pure glow, interrupted only by a few dark spots that were located exactly where one would have expected the eyes from the proportions. As if the rock itself was beginning to melt, shudders ran through Arvan's mind, and for a moment he no longer even felt the unpleasant pulsing beat of his heart that seemed to drive the blood from his wound.

He felt as if an icy hand had settled on his shoulder.

The figure was still changing. Especially the length of its arms seemed to be variable. A weapon in the form of an axe grew out of the right arm, while the left formed something that seemed like a whip. A whip of flames.

"Demon!" one of the orcs groaned, using the relinga common in most human kingdoms. "Demon of fire!" he continued, emitting a gurgling sound that was probably the orcish version of an errant, spiteful snicker. "Kill you!"

A booming sound echoed through the cave the next moment. It was so loud that Arvan thought for a moment that he would go deaf and never be able to hear anything again. The deep, booming undertones that resonated in that sound caused an uncomfortable pressure in the stomach area. Even the cave floor seemed to tremble under it. Small cracks formed here and there and branched across the rock. These cracks flashed briefly; so strong was apparently the magical aura emanating from this flame demon.

The orcs fell silent, moved aside, and seemed quite intimidated by the demon.

The demon stepped out of the fresco with a wide stride, growing two and a half times his previous size. Arvan just reached the middle of his body. He took another step back. At the same time, all over the frescoes, more orcs now began to move and turn toward the action. They shouted in confusion, and Arvan almost had the impression that they were trying to cheer the demon on. The orcs that had stepped out of the paintings and materialized were much more restrained. And there was a reason for that. The demon made a jerky movement. He let the flame whip soar. His whole body glowed. The whip struck one of the orcs and left a black burn mark that hissed from his forehead across the orc's mouth with the four tusks and his upper body. Crying out, the orc retreated a little further and pressed himself against the painted rock wall, with which he then melted, so that he once again became part of the fresco.

In the next moment, the demon made a lunge - as fast as Arvan would not have believed this huge, so far rather gravitationally moving figure. Glowing drops of molten rock ran to the ground and burned there with a hiss. The demon struck at Arvan with a glowing battle axe that had grown out of his arm.

The latter dodged the first blow.

Immediately after, the flame whip wrapped around his sword like a snake.

The blade, already glowing from the magic of the place, now glowed. Arvan grasped the hilt of the sword with both hands. Whether the blood spurted from his neck, he was indifferent at this moment. He did not want to let the sword be torn from his hand. Not at any price.

Arvan clawed tightly, feeling a cruel pain run through his arms and grip his entire body. With a sweeping motion of the flame whip, he was flung upward, flew across the room, and struck hard against one of the painted rock walls.

The orcs and even the horned lizards depicted on it moved away as if they were backing away from the body coming towards them.

Arvan struggled to his feet. The very next moment he was on his feet again.

The protector was still in his hand. That was the most important thing at the moment.

But Arvan had no time to catch his breath. The demon rushed at him. He had barely stood up when the glowing blade of the demon's monstrous battle axe descended from above. Arvan ducked to the side. Embers dripped close beside him and sparks flew as the axe passed easily through the rock of the cliff face. The orcs in the fresco backed away even further.

Arvan thrust with the protector. With all his might, he rammed the sword into the demon's body. His blade glowed as he did so.

The demon let out a piercing scream. Arvan pulled out his blade and cut off the demon's head. It rolled across the ground, dissolving like molten lava, and finally solidified into a shapeless lump. Another blow severed the axe arm from its body. It fell to the ground. Arvan's protector pierced the demon's body with great ease.

The flame whip suddenly jerked forward and closed around Arvan's neck. The whip burned into his throat with a hiss. Arvan could not even scream, because he could not breathe.

An upward slash with the sword severed the glowing whip. Hastily, he stiffened the end that had wound around his neck and burned his hand in the process. The fact that the torn carotid artery now no longer bled, he noticed only casually. The pain and anger were too overwhelming.

The demon changed its body shape. The severed head grew out of his body anew. So did the severed axe arm. He did not seem to mind the blows that Arvan had taught him. A booming laugh now came from the orcs. This seemed to be no surprise to them, but apparently it had some entertainment value for them to be able to observe Arvan's bewilderment. Some made snapping noises, ironically cheering Arvan on.

Arvan backed away from his opponent. But after only a few steps, he came too close to the orcs. One of them was already pointing his spear in Arvan's direction. He didn't seem to dare to simply hurl the spear, lest he get in the demon's way.

The latter extended his arm, which began to grow and form a new, snake-like flame whip. As it sped toward Arvan, he reacted with a quick slash and severed a piece of it. The embers dripped to the ground and solidified there. With more blows, he advanced on the demon, cutting off more pieces of the flame whip and finally even part of the arm.

However, it grew again.

He obviously could not kill this opponent so easily. Probably magic was necessary for that.

A weapon in the form of a battle axe had once again emerged from the other arm. This battle axe glowed at first, but then turned completely black. The demon let it whirl through the air. Arvan could not retreat, if he did not want to run into the orcs' bare blades. So he parried the first blow. Unlike the glowing body of the demon, the axe was hard and impenetrable. Clashing, Arvan's protector met the style with the sensation of striking stone. Sparks flew. Ordinary sparks - and those of black light, which sprang from the dark material.

Arvan was able to withstand the very next blow. Another blow tore the sword from his hand. It slid across the floor - out of his reach. The newly grown flame whip wrapped around his feet. Arvan lost his balance, coming down hard on the ground as the dark axe hurtled down to split his skull.

At that moment, an opening appeared in the cave ceiling, filled with swirling lightning that formed a vortex of light.

The Demon's axe blow came to nothing, for a tremendous force yanked him back. He staggered, and with the flame whip wrapped around Arvan's feet, he dragged him behind him.

A dark figure, visible only as a silhouette, leapt down from the vortex of light on the cave ceiling, landed springily on its feet, and released Arvan with a sword stroke that cut through the flame whip.

The demon roared. In its face, consisting only of two black eyes and dark red embers, a mouth now opened, filled with yellowish fire. The flames shot out in a wide beam.

The dark figure raised a hand. The flames from the ever-widening demon dragon crashed against an invisible wall, from which they were thrown back. The dark figure muttered an incantation in a booming voice. The demon staggered now - hit by its own embers thrown back at it, which seized its head and torso. The color there changed from a dark red to a bright yellow. For a moment, he seemed to lose form and flow apart.

One of the orcs attacked the dark figure from behind. The attacked spun around, cleaving the orc's skull horizontally with one sword stroke. The hood of the dark robe he wore, which left his face in shadow, slid back in the process.

"Brogandas!" escaped Arvan, who struggled to his feet.

"Take that!" shouted Brogandas.

The dark alf muttered a formula while moving his hand. Arvan's sword rose from the ground as if gripped by an invisible hand. The weapon flew through the air, spinning several times around its center of gravity, and Arvan caught it - just in time to fight off one of the orcs that was now lunging at him.

The fire demon now attacked once more. He had regained his form and charged at Brogandas.

Brogandas let out a scream. A beam of pure black light surged from his palm, completely engulfing the demon and hurling him against the cave wall. Screaming, he melted into the wall, and the next moment was seen only as a frozen figure, part of the fresco.

Meanwhile, Arvan was fighting off several orcs at once. But before he could slay one of them, bright beams of light began to emerge from the wall frescoes. They seized the orcs and so called them back into the pictorial world of the murals. It took only moments before none of them were in the cave anymore. They were again part of those magical frescoes from which they had sprung. Some still moved a little, but finally froze in mid-motion.

For a few moments, the colors of the frescoes lit up in a way that illuminated the entire cave. Then this light went out and it became quite dark.

As dark as in the beginning, when Arvan had come to this mysterious place so suddenly and by unknown powers.

Only the protector's blade still glowed - as did Brogandas' sword.

"I hope you didn't get hurt too badly," Brogandas said. He held up his sword like a torch.

Instinctively, Arvan now grabbed his neck. It hurt like hell when he touched it. The skin must have been completely burned when the flame whip had wrapped around his neck. But the torn vein from which the blood had gushed had closed. Arvan felt a crust.

"Hands off!" said Brogandas.

"But ..."

"Your self-healing powers may be amazing, though perhaps the most amazing thing about them is that this elvish healing ritual you were subjected to as an infant works so well on a human at all, as it apparently does on you! But you shouldn't tempt fate too much."

Arvan tried to swallow and say something back. But a thick lump sat in his throat. In the glow of the two swords, he saw that his boots also bore scorch marks from the flame whip.

Brogandas raised his head. The runes on his face were in constant motion. He closed his eyes, as if to concentrate better on his other senses. "Come now!" he demanded.

"Where are we, anyway?", Arvan now brought out. "And what happened in the first place? At first I had the impression that you were ..."

"Yes?"

The dark alf opened his eyes. The look he gave Arvan was difficult to interpret. But Arvan felt very clearly the will of his counterpart. He desperately wanted Arvan to follow him now. Arvan thought of how he himself had influenced tree sheep and creepers with sheer force of will and forced his will upon them. Something he was better at than almost any of the halflings he had grown up with. But I am not a tree sheep, he thought. Nor am I one of those humans and halflings who live in your realm as easily influenced subjects ... He would not let anyone take away his own will.

"If you had pushed me into the maw with your Dark Elf magic, I don't know why you saved me afterwards," Arvan said.

"So you felt the conflicting forces ... Very interesting."

"Brogandas, explain it to me!"

"I already have."

"Excuse me?"

"Before you got here, I told you that now you are no longer a nobody for Ghool. That he knows for sure who killed his commander, and that he will now pursue you with all the strength of his hatred!"

"And that's what happened?"

"Who do you think sent that demon?" Brogandas sighed. "Oh, you are so simple-minded, and your behavior is so easy to predict. It's going to be hard for you."

"What's going to be hard?"