Obsidian Gate - Chapter Nine

*Well, here we are. Comments, suggestions, etc. are all welcomed. Zantriel Silvermoon is a character that belongs to my friend Joseph LaPage and I am using him with permission. Some things have been changed to suit this world but I've tried to keep close to the character of Zan as it was told to me. Because of not having a chance to show this to Joe, there may be changes and edits later on before this gets officially published and, depending on his wishes, Zan may even be removed, so heads up on that one. Tann Furrfoot and Kern Bloodaxe are the brain children of my friend, Scott Payne, and he has graciously filled me in on them and allowed me to experiment. The same warnings about potential changes apply and the Bloodaxe clan itself may even be reworked, depending upon what Scott thinks, before publication. Edits have been made, though maybe not as many as I would have thought. More may come but, otherwise, enjoy*

Chapter Nine
Dungeons, Bombs, and Assassins, oh my!

- Solaris -

Zantriel Silvermoon looked pretty healthy for a man who was supposed to be dead. The moon elf brushed a multitude of sweat away from his brow, along with several strands of his straight, hip length silver hair that had stuck to his forehead. Stopping, the elf took a moment to straighten out the long, trailing ponytail that hung down his back, before returning to the decidedly mind-numbing task of hauling away rubble. Bare from the waist up, the elf wore only a very well worn pair of royal blue leather pants and a sturdy pair of black leather traveling boots, sweating even though the chill of winter had only just faded from the air. Had anyone watched him work, the multitude of new scars he possessed would have been plainly visible, marring his perfect silver skin, as they crisscrossed a good portion of his upper body. While these were all mostly small and would fade with time, they served as a painful reminder of things that Zantriel simply wanted to bury. For now, thankfully, he could simply lose himself in straining his corded muscles and using the work to exercise his tired, yet lean, body.
Zan was built tall and rather muscular for a silver elf, standing at about six feet and four inches tall and weighing near to one hundred and eighty pounds, a good percentage of that being muscle. While he had the slender waist, long legs, and agile movements that all elves were famous for, his arms were solid blocks of muscle, strong, hard, and unyielding. Right at the moment, they were slightly protesting and were ecstatic when Zan finally deposited his load in the small quarry where he was gathering all unusable material in the area.
The moon elf’s steps were sure and strong, as he rounded a bend, climbing the long, rocky trail through the forested mountainside that lead to his home, Silvermoon Keep. The elf shielded his royal blue eyes from the setting sun and finally came face to face with what had become a daily reality. His keep, or what was left of it, stood before him. The dying light turned the castle black, like some charred beast whose remains had been left behind. What had once been proud turrets lay scattered in ruins, the bluish/black stone standing out garishly against the green grass that was struggling to grow around the ruins. The roof was collapsed in several places, leaving most of the second floor bare to the elements. The immense corpse of a red dragon was literally cutting a hole right into the interior of the Keep, having crashed right through it in its final throes.
The courtyard where Zan was standing had once been lush and green with flowers and now resembled more of a minefield, with great craters blasted into the earth on all sides. He could see Polaris and Rubeus, the blue and red moons of Solaris, rising slowly, their thin crescents filling the darkening sky, as the sun sank. The sun itself, in its dying moments, cast a thin veil of blood red and fiery orange across the edge of the snow-capped mountains. Soon, the white moon, Luminost, would be peeking its head up and the night would truly begin.
The devastation, for a moment, somehow seemed less real and the moon elf indulged himself in those few moments of peace as best he could. It was almost like dream walking but it only served as a momentary distraction. Eventually, reality intruded, as Zan took a good look around him. The grounds where his home had once stood were situated on the lower edge of the majestic Dwarfshold Mountains and it afforded him a great view of the plains and forests below.
From where he was, Zantriel could see that even the Unicorn Forest had not been untouched. One could still see that the very edges had been singed and tattered, like fabric hastily torn apart. The slight stitch in his side was enough to remind him that he had taken some pretty nasty wounds himself. It would be about a month before he was fully healed, if he was reckoning right.
“Some wounds will never fully heal, though” he thought, staring at the mound of fresh-turned earth before him.
Combined with the ambiance of the ruined Silvermoon Keep, the fresh grave in the courtyard only served to bring his losses screaming back to him. He remembered the last time he had seen his lovely wife, Mireille, alive and the memory caused an ache within him that was not unlike being torn open with a thousand blades. How he missed her! Thoughts of her soft blue eyes and short black hair and sweet smile assailed him, tortured him, with thoughts of all the pleasant times they had shared together, all those times that would never come again. Burying her had buried a part of himself and Zantriel knew that some part of him would always be in the grave at Mireille’s side.
“If only I’d been there a little sooner,” he thought, morosely, “I might’ve at least been able to find our children!”
Zantriel stood there for a few more moments, allowing sad thoughts of Mireille and of his twin children, Mysta and Dantith, to fill his head, and then finally forced himself to stop. Wiping away one last tear from his royal blue eyes, Zan flicked a strand of his hair out of his eyes and concentrated. The elf reached inside himself to that silent part of his mind that had always been connected to his best friends, the Silverlords, Tann Furrfoot, Kern Bloodaxe, and Danthias Silverbow. He tried his best to reach through the telepathic link but, for the thousandth time, got nothing. Either all three of them had perished or the link was down. Either way, the situation was not good. Sighing in frustration, Zan slowly let his consciousness return.
“Where in the Nine Hells could they be?” he wondered.
He was worried about them, especially his best friend, Danthias. He and Dan had grown up together and he knew his fellow moon elf would not take the news of Zan’s “death” very well. That Tann and Kern should also be missing truly unnerved Zan more than he cared to admit. He had not been able to contact them for nearly two weeks and this was starting to really bother him.
Just as he was about to try to figure out where the best place would be to start getting some information on his friends’ whereabouts, Zantriel heard a noise behind him and sighed heavily. Quick as lightning, his hands went to his twin blades and the swords sang out, glowing bright silver/blue as Zan’s natural powers infused with them. The strong sound of metal meeting metal clanged through the air and Zan found that the quick turn he had managed while swinging had brought him face to face with a tall, burly character clad all in black. While he could not see any of the attacker’s features, the deadly knives in his hands, the sheer bulk of him, and the massive strength behind his thrust betrayed him as scro, a remarkably intelligent sub-race of orc, and a very well trained one at that.
“Not bad, Friend,” Zantriel commented, speaking to the scro in his own language, “I almost didn’t hear you coming there, however, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave the premises.”
The black-clad stalker said nothing, examining the specimen before him. The elf certainly did not look like all that much, despite the fact that he was a good deal taller than most of his race. The scro was willing to bet he was not pure moon elf but did not let his musings distract him. The man matched every description he had been given; the handsome, angular features, long, silver hair, piercing blue eyes, silver skin, the silvery crescent moon birthmark on the right cheek. He was even dressed in the blue and silver remains of what must have been nice clothes and the short swords at his hip were no trinkets. The hilts, wrapped in blue leather with a silver crescent moon branded on them, fairly sparkled and crackled with power. They were the same swords that had been described to him. The scro quietly took stock of the elf’s taut physique and had to admit that at least he didn’t look like your typical, scrawny elf. At least this one had some idea of how to properly put on muscle.
Big as the elf was, however, the scro was still a good deal taller, nearly seven feet, and he was prepared to use every inch of his advantage. More than one scro had made the mistake of underestimating this wily little popinjay and he was not about to be one of them. Finely tuned muscles moved beneath the scro’s brownish yellow skin and he looked the elf over from head to toe one more time, quietly admiring the determined look in the elf’s eyes.
“Zantriel Silvermoon,” the scro said quietly, “You look tougher than I expected; at least this should be interesting.”
Not even bothering to allow Zan a chance to respond to his blithe comments, the scro simply moved in for the kill, fast, low, and hard. The knife shrieked out, nearly burying itself in Zan’s ribs. The elf nimbly moved at the last second, stretching himself just out of range. Up close he could see that the blade had an odd, brackish tinge to it.
“Probably tipped with some kind of poison,” Zan mused.
As he moved, Zan caught a glimpse of almost lifeless yellow eyes and a craggy, lined face that would make a mother weep, all hidden within a simple, black cloak, which the scro quickly tossed aside. He was wearing simple black leather underneath from his armor to his pants to his boots. If there was a shirt underneath it all, it had to be just a plain black one, probably just barrier for the armor, rather than any attempt at fashion. The creature’s long, oily black hair was set back in ragged dread locks that hit somewhere in his mid back and there were scars all over his body.
“Typical scro, how lovely,” Zan thought, musing on how they only seemed to get uglier with time.
Without wasting any time on wondering what kind of poison the man had on his weapons, the moon elf responded by knocking the knife away and slashing quickly at the scro’s midsection. The taller creature saw this coming, however, and deftly maneuvered out of the way. It had not been a killing blow but it was closer to one than what the scro would have liked. He dodged Zan’s retaliatory efforts and came up with another knife, this one dripping with poison the same as the other. Zan could also see the telltale glint that alerted him that this was a magical blade. This scro had done his homework and wasn’t taking any chances. Zan dodged the scro’s first swipe and took his feet out from under him, coming at him quickly, while he was prone, in an attempt to get hold of his weapon.
The scro saw this coming and quickly grabbed Zan’s wrists, trying to force the moon elf back from him far enough to strike. Zantriel got a good look, not to mention demonstration, of the scro’s arm muscles. His biceps and forearms were alarmingly big and they seemed to dwarf the elf’s by quite a bit. Zan didn’t let this concern him, as he knew orcs of any kind tended to put muscles on in a much more obvious way than his own race, but it still unnerved him that this creature was so strong.
“He’s far too close for me to try any fancy spells but maybe I can use something simple to catch him off guard,” Zan thought.
Letting the scro throw him off gave Zantriel the split second he needed. Letting his opponent think he had the upper hand, Zan let one of his swords drop, and flicked his wrists in a quick, arcane gesture. Instantly a bright, white light engulfed the scro, flashing before his eyes, momentarily blinding him. Zan scooped up his sword and, in an instant, was taking the fight to the startled scro.
Backing away, the scro snarled,
“You and your children will suffer elf,” he sneered, “The days of the Silverlords are numbered!”
“It’ll be a cold day in all Nine layers of Hell before one of the Silverlords falls to an amateur like you,” Zan said coldly, leaping nimbly aside from a swipe that seemed almost half hearted, “and, as for my children, you’ll never lay a hand on them.”
The elf dodged quickly inside the small hole that had suddenly appeared in his attacker’s defenses. Unable to avoid the damaging down stroke, the scro simply met his fate, Zan’s sword buried halfway through his chest. Without so much as a word and very little sound, the body slumped to the ground and did not move. The elf took no pride in his victory. He was an accomplished swordsman, one of the best, in fact, but his worst fears were confirmed when he saw the brand on the dead scro’s right bicep. It was a fist clenching an arrow, snapping it in two.
“Nadraal Morkina,” he thought, “the Death Dealers aka Elf Killers.”
Zan sighed heavily. He knew for a fact that this was only the first of a round of assassins that would be dogging his step. He had ruined the victory for the scro and hurt their pride way too much for them not to respond and each assassin would just be worse than this. For them to have sent a member of an order so militantly determined to wipe out the elves from the face of Solaris, they had to be either very angry or very desperate. After the way the war had ended and how badly the nation of Maelstrom, home of the orcs, had suffered, Zan was willing to bet it was a bit of both.
Reaching carefully inside the scro’s clothing, the elf began to rifle around, searching thoroughly for anything that might give him a clue as to who had sent this creature and why. The references the scro had made to the elf’s children bothered him and Zantriel began to regret killing him hastily. Could they be alive? Had he let a valuable clue to his children's’ whereabouts slip through his fingers? The very idea was maddening. It did not take long for him to sort through the contents of the scro’s pockets. There was a handful of silver, some detailed maps of the area, a small dossier that had relatively good descriptions of each of the Silverlords on it, and a list of their haunts. Circled in red ink was one place name in particular: Shale.
Zan’s blood ran cold and he straightened from where he was in alarm. Were they holding his children hostage in that city? Could they be targeting his friend, Kern, next? The possibilities were maddening and Zantriel kicked himself for allowing grief to cripple his better judgment.
“No more,” he thought, “My body and mind are healed. Now it is time for me to start taking care of things left too long undone. I WILL find Mysta and Dantith, if they still live, no matter what it takes, and gods help whoever gets in my way.”
Heaving another heavy sigh, Zan walked over to where he had left the rest of his gear piled up. He slid on a simple, blue cotton shirt that vaguely matched his pants, and reached for the one piece of equipment he had that had not taken a beating. His cloak was folded reverently in a neat pile next to the rest of his gear. Royal blue silk, lined with real silver thread, caught the very last vestiges of the light and Zan could not help but feel a little better, as he slipped it onto his shoulders. It had been a gift from a very important, very dear friend, and was one of the most highly magical things he owned. It always reminded him of how lucky he was and how important friendship was to him. Absently straightening his cloak around him, Zan started off slowly towards the mountains. It was time to see for himself what had become of his children and his friends. He would go to Shale and see his friend Kern’s family. If anyone would know what he was up to they would and they could give him the warning about what was going on. They might even be able to help him scout the city for information on his kids.
A nagging worry was beginning to build within him, as he thought of how long it had been since he’d heard from them last. Anything could have happened and Zan would not be satisfied until he had incontestable proof that his friends were all right. To find out what had become of them, he would need to get information and there were only a couple of places where his friends would be looking. Luckily, he knew each of their haunts like the back of his hand, most of them anyway, and the best place to start looking was not far into the foothills of the mountains. On top of that, scro would have to tread lightly to venture where he was going and they would also have a harder time tracking him on the move. He stopped long enough to grab some extra provisions and then, shouldering his haversack, was gone.


2.

The next day dawned clear and pristine or at least as close to it as any day on Earth in New York could get. Danthias awoke yawning heavily, feeling the rewards of a good night’s sleep and a full stomach and smiled. It seemed just being alive this morning was its own high. Bounding up out of bed, the elf gathered up some clean clothes and proceeded into the bathroom that adjourned his room. Charlie had given him the use of his spare room for as long as he needed it and had shown him how to work everything in it. Just being able to enjoy a hot shower was enough to make Dan want to see that nothing bad ever happened to Charlie Hutton. The man was a saint.
When he had cleaned himself, brushed out and braided his long hair, and otherwise made himself presentable, the young elf headed jauntily down the stairs and into the common room of Charlie’s. There had even been spiffy new clothes, all in black, including a trench coat and Ray Ban sunglasses waiting for him when he got out of the shower and Dan could not wait to show them off. He had agreed to meet the Sirens downstairs when he was ready, or at least the ones he had already met (apparently there were more). It felt good to know that he had all his possessions back and his freedom as well. While a frantic search of the local alleys and his haversack had failed to turn up the precious moonstone necklace and its absence weighed on him, Dan was determined to be positive. It would turn up soon. It had to and the elf told himself that repeatedly until he believed it down to his core.
Coming around the corner from the stairs and into the main part of the bar, Dan caught a glimpse of Sarah and Alexandra Lee sitting with Marissa in the back, near the stage area. Dan loped over to them, taking a moment to admire the decor. The front of Charlie’s may have been done in cherry wood but further out, towards the large tables, dance floor, and stage, everything was made out of oak. The walls in this area were pristine white with a flattering ivory undertone and not a speck of dirt in sight. The stage itself was raised with nearly thirty globe lights embedded in it, all of which could be lit at any time to add a soft light to the surroundings. Each table had real crystal candle holders with very tasteful white and blue candles in them. Danthias supposed they would make for a rather romantic atmosphere but he was too busy contemplating what the women were ready to tell him. They were gathered around the largest table right in front of the stage, Sarah appearing to be in deep thought as she studied some notes.
The one named Alexandra looked up at Dan’s approach and fixed him with a smile that melted him right down to his toes. Her sister looked up a few seconds later and gestured towards a seat. Giving a quick nod to Marissa, who was standing against the stage with her arms crossed, Dan flopped down directly across from Alex and flashed the girls his most charming grin.
“Mah, mah, don’t ch’y’all clean up nice,” Alexandra commented, taking in Dan’s appearance from head to toe.
“Glad you like what you see,” Danthias replied, without missing a heartbeat, gratified to see the woman’s face turn slightly red once again.
That done, he turned to the rest of the Sirens that were gathered there.
“Morning ladies,” the elf said, “What’s new?”
“You remember me telling you that we are paranormal investigators?” Sarah said, waiting for Dan’s nod of ascent before continuing, “We run a small business called the Sirens’ Detective Agency that handles mostly cases dealing with the paranormal and, after a lot of consideration, we have decided to take you on as a client, if you will have us.”
“Any help you ladies can give would be most welcome,” Dan replied, “So where do we start?”
“Seein’ as we ain’ the experts on the whole magic an’ magical phenomena gig, we called in a couple members of our team with more experience in that department,” Alex said, “Might be they can find out about that portal that brought y’all here.”
“That’s great!” Dan exclaimed, the thought of being able to return home leaving his insides soaring with a high that was not unlike a drug.
Charlie came lumbering out towards them, his arms laden with a tray full of hot, good smelling food and the lycanthrope’s eyes brightened a bit. The weretiger was about to begin asking a few more important questions when he heard a faint humming sound, a buzzing that he could not quite identify. It was pitched in a low enough frequency that only he and Marissa jerked at the sound of it. While this was not entirely a surprise, it still filled Danthias with dread. The elf opened his mouth to shout a warning, noticed that Marissa was poised to do the same, and then a small package came flying through the front window of Charlie’s, shattering all the glass in the front window, as well as the red neon sign that had hung there, with a sound of falling shards, each giving an almost merry little tinkle as they hit the floor.
Before anyone could make so much as a move, Danthias saw the object which had destroyed the window. There was a length of rope or some kind of twine which had been twisted and stuffed into a small green glass bottle, filled with some unidentifiable liquid, and then lit. The fiery projectile rolled once, twice, three times before coming to a final, terrible stop somewhere near the bar, the bar which was filled with who knew how many bottles of alcohol, nothing but liquid accelerant.
Dan tried to scream a warning but it was far too late. The flame had already reached the end of its impromptu wick and ignited with the fury of a hurricane. The elf did scream then and duck, trying to knock as many of the women to cover as he could before he fell. Then, as if in slow motion, he heard the air gather in, as if preparing for some great, hellish scream, and all was blackness, as the air was rent by an explosion so vast, it sent the elf tumbling easily thirty feet. Dan landed in a crumpled heap, as chaos erupted all around him, and knew no more.

3.

~ Solaris ~

The dungeons of Branneth were not nearly as bad as she had heard, nor nearly as bad as some she had seen herself, however, Lady Anya de Wynter would just as soon have avoided the dubious pleasure of residing in them. It seemed as though the rats simply knew just when to skitter across her foot, making her jump. Apparently the joke about dungeons not being able to exist without rats was true, though Anya would have been more than happy to try it. Right now, the little blighters were laying in heaps, frozen solid into little ice sculptures, the same fate that Alton DeVir had so narrowly avoided earlier that week. Idly, the Lady wondered where she was going to hide the tiny frozen corpses, how she was going to explain, then gave up. It was not as if she was going to be in this cell for long. She was already tired of the bare, dun colored stone walls, the musty straw pallet, and the simple tin bucket that comprised her cell. There was a small, barred window to let in some light and air but it managed to do neither and only annoyed Anya, who preferred darkness anyway.
Just as she was plotting many devious ways to get herself out of jail and wondering if the courts would ever get around to selecting an attorney for her, one of the young guards came to her cell, keys in hand.
“Your attorney is here, Milady,” he said, “Please approach the bars.”
“Calton moved quicker than I though he would,” Anya thought, filled with a sudden fondness for her old butler, as the guard carefully undid the locks on her cuffs and door, then gestured her into the hallway.
It was a short walk to the small room at the end of the hall. The Lady and her silent shadow made their way in silence and the guard wasted no time in opening the door and ushering Anya inside. Before she could ask what was going to happen now, Lord Albert Atherton appeared from a door to the left. He approached the small table in the middle of the room cautiously, as if uncertain of his client’s mood. Anya froze just across the length of the table from the newcomer and stared at him.
“My Lady, I was approached by your man, Valerius,” he said, “Apparently he was contacted by one Calton Bancroft and Sir Valerius was kind enough to engage my services on your behalf.”
“Calton did even better than I expected,” Lady de Wynter thought, “I must remember to give that man a raise.”
Out loud, Anya said,
“You’re Lord Albert Atherton, the so-called “Prince of the Courtroom.” They say you’ve never lost a case.”
“You’re quite correct, Milady. I’ve been very fortunate that most of my cases have succeeded. I certainly hope yours will be the same and I do apologize for taking so long to get here. Sir Valerius wanted to make sure that everything was in order for your defense and it took longer than expected.”
“The shaved apes who brought me here were kind enough to inform me of what I’ve been accused of,” Lady de Wynter said, “I would much rather make sure my defense is indisputable than take my chances with the headsman or the gallows. I also happen to trust Sir Valerius’s judgment implicitly. If he says you’re the man for the job, than you are and I am grateful to have you.”
“You’ll need a very sound defense to beat this,” Atherton replied, “and I don’t think I need to tell you that the odds are not in your favor with so many of the nobles against you. You have some very powerful enemies, Milady.”
“Tell me something I don’t know!” Anya said, scorn dripping from every word, bitter as poison as she thought about her situation.
The Lady was able to conceal her shock and anger behind a mask of icy indifference but she told herself that she had known this was coming. She had forseen it a long time ago. All those years of fighting the Council in the courtroom was coming back to haunt her, after all, no good deed could ever go unpunished.
‘The Lords have hired Guiseppe Gildarin to prosecute you and you’ll probably be getting Judge Sheverton. My father refuses to handle any case where I’m the acting defense attorney.”
“Sheverton’s a lot tougher than Atherton,” Anya mused aloud, not surprised at the relation between father and son, “A wise choice on their part.”
‘I truly fear for your chances, Milady, but if you stick with me, I’ll do my best to set this to rights,” Atherton promised.
“I should hope so! I like my head where it is,” Anya sighed.
“I think we can do this but you have to tell me everything,” the attorney said, then slowly lifted up the sleeve on his arm to reveal a small tatoo.
Lady de Wynter used every ounce of breeding she had not to react. The mark was the holy symbol of her goddess. Atherton was a member of the Church of Nes’reena, probably from one of the branches out of town. No wonder it had taken so long for Valerius and Calton to get a hold of him. In one fell swoop, they had insured she would get a fair trial and found someone willing to make sure that she avoided death at all costs. To top it off, his qualifications were impressive and his reputation beyond reproach. The lawyer regarded Anya soberly and said,
“I will not let you down, Milady.”
Anya took a moment and regarded this man who was her attorney. He was decent looking for a man nearly in his fifties, with deep brown eyes and short, neat salt and pepper hair that used to be black. He was dressed in a simple but elegant tan doublet, vest, and hose. Even his boots were clean, simple, black suede. He fit the perfect image of a kindly, benevolent man fighting for justice. If anyone could keep her name clean, he was the one. Slowly, Anya cleared her throat and began to talk.

4.

~ Elsewhere on Solaris ~

It was just before sundown in the Dwarven city of Shale. While the very nature of the large cavern that bordered the city made it hard to tell what time it was, the dwarves had devised various methods; the way the shadows fell, the length of the small stream of sunlight that came from the entrance of the cave that housed the immense city, all little tricks learned from their ancestors, who could still tell day from night by no more than the temperature of the rock and stone around them. All-in-all, Shale, like most communities of the Dwarfshold Mountains, was a very close-knit community, despite the sheer size of it, and the dwarves lived in quiet harmony with their nearby neighbors, the small influx of humans, gnomes, halflings, and others who had decided, for whatever reason, to make Shale their home.
The main street of the city was crowded with people just finishing their shopping, while the dwarves, who outnumbered and overruled everyone else, trudged home from their forges and their mines deep within the mountains, leaving the merchants to their last minute sales. The pedestrians began to amble home slowly, many passing the large stone clock that the dwarves had built for those who couldn’t tell time the way they could. Based loosely on a drow design and highly modified, it used a complex system of shadows and light created by magic to recreate the rough effect of a sundial. Fashioned from a single stalagmite that stood some eighteen feet tall, it towered over the small area of stalactites and stalagmites behind it, which neatly bisected the main thoroughfare of the city. It was called Clock Tower Rock by most and it was the gem of the city. A large plaque carved from stone and mithril stood before the immense clock. Dwarven runes etched into the stone proclaimed the city’s history and how to use the large device behind it. It had been put there at the city’s founding for the people and it commanded a great view, both of the main part of the city behind it and the smattering of dwellings that made the outskirts before it.
Zantriel Silvermoon took it all in, as he had many times before, and was glad to let the appreciative awe he usually felt when seeing master craftsmanship overwhelm the numbness that had come to dwell within him. Shale was always a marvel to behold with its high, arched ceilings dotted by calcite teeth and the many houses formed of stone and rock that had been fashioned by Dwarven artisans. Even the dwellings that housed the non-Dwarven residents were built in the same fashion as the Dwarven fortress homes. High, arched doorways carved with protective runes and steel doorways fastened hard against dangers of the mountain all surrounded Zan. It made the elf think of the old joke about how if the caverns around Shale collapsed, the Dwarven built homes would simply laugh, long after the people were dead. The things that Dwarves could do with stone and metal were legendary and never ceased to amaze Zantriel, however, the elf knew he wasn’t here to admire the masonry or stonework.
Behind Clock Tower Rock, at the head of the main route through the city, was the large, imposing façade of the fortress hall of Clan Bloodaxe. It stood out among the buildings, its blood red stones contrasting violently with the more conservative earth tones of its neighbors. Zantriel couldn’t help but smile and think how fitting that was for the clan of his friend, Kern. As the unspoken leaders of Shale, they had always had a certain flare for the dramatic and it seemed to suit them perfectly. Pulling up the hood of his cloak, mindful that he was still being hunted, Zan eased into the line of pedestrians headed in the general direction of Clan Bloodaxe’s stronghold. He wondered what kind of welcome he could expect among his old friends and said a quick prayer to his deity, Corellon Larethian, that all was well with them and that his presence would not bring any undue trouble amongst them, as he plodded wearily on his way.

Flint and Thorin Bloodaxe moved silently side by side, as they made their way through the vaulted halls of Clan Bloodaxe’s stronghold. Walls of fifteen foot thick stone twenty feet high made the sound of the dwarves’ steel plated boots echo and the gems embedded into the blood red walls, floors, and ceilings twinkled in the torchlight, ruby and diamond brilliance to accompany the sounds. The two men entered a large sitting room, passing through it to a set of steel-reinforced double doors that were at least five feet thick. Thorin, the elder of the two, opened the doors gently and he and Flint walked under the protective runes carved into the doorframe, proceeding out onto a masterfully carved stone balcony that overlooked the city below.
Built on the highest point that Shale had to offer, the stronghold of the Bloodaxe clan had stood here going on fifteen hundred years. There had always been a Bloodaxe in Shale, serving the community, and there always would be, especially if the clan itself had anything to say about it. Fifteen hundred years was, after all, a large chunk of time, even as some of the longer lived races on Solaris reckoned it.
Easily two or three stories higher than any other building in the city, the fortress commanded the best view of the whole city and this place was the best spot from which to enjoy that view. It had taken the Bloodaxes decades, several generations in fact, to make this compound the work of art that it was and they were all proud of it. The two dwarves stood on the balcony and smiled. This was one of the few quiet and peaceful places to be found in the entire complex and they had all had enough of tumult for a while. It had been hard to fight back from the lean times of the war but somehow the city had done it. The city of Shale had always been busy and today was no exception. Humans and dwarves alike milled busily about, purchasing as many of the goods for sale as they could.
“Beautiful, isn’t it, Son?’ Thorin commented.
“Got that right,” Flint replied, “The mithril’s been good this year and we’ve sold more than I thought we would with the short time we had to get things together after all that business with the orcs settled down.”
“I don’t think we’ve seen the last of ‘em just yet but at least the people’re smilin’ again,” Thorin said, “When my father built this place, I don’t think even he could’ve forseen all the hardships we’ve had to go through and I just want things t’get back t’normal around here.”
The old dwarf was about to say something else when he noticed a familiar form darting in and out of the crowd below the citadel. No one else would have noticed the six foot four elf dressed in royal blue and silver silk. He appeared just another rich nobleman from another land seeking mithril. Thorin Bloodaxe, however, had caught sight of the silver crescent moon birthmark on the elf’s right cheek and smiled.
“Zantriel Silvermoon, get yer pointy-eared, Elven arse up here!:
Zan jerked up and the sound of his name and then could not help but smile as he recognized the familiar faces at the balcony of Clan Bloodaxe’s compound. Mentally, he cringed at the thought of how many unfriendly ears could have heard the cry as well but he was happy anyways. Thorin and Flint were, respectively, the grandfather and father of Kern, one of his best friends, and Zan knew how much they enjoyed seeing any of the Silverlords grace their roof. Point of fact, Zan was one of the few elves that Thorin could actually stand. Using a quick incantation and a flick of the wrist, Zantriel magically levitated himself up nearly seven stories and onto the balcony, landing beside Thorin with a graceful, almost chipper bounce, dodging the wrought iron spiked railing as though it weren’t there. Standing beside his friends, Zan smiled.
Though he towered over both Bloodaxes, Zan appeared smaller, more slender in build next to them. Flint and Thorin were both built like short, stout battering rams. Both were about four and a half feet tall with board, burly frames and the typical waist-length flame red hair and beard and flashing bright green eyes that typified men of Clan Bloodaxe. Thorin’s face was slightly more lined and worn than his son’s with a lot more grayish silver cutting through his hair and Zan knew there were scars running here and there across his burly body, a legacy from the many battles he had fought and won. Zan had once watched Thorin work at the forge and he knew well what kind of strength was in those arms. Thorin was an accomplished armor and weaponsmith and there was not a single piece of armor, weapon, or shield in the compound’s armory, or in the hands of the clan’s warriors, that Thorin had not personally forged or overseen himself. The man could do things with metal and stone that many elves couldn’t dream of doing with wood and it showed in the clan’s tasteful home.
While Flint’s features were less lined, he was no less battle scarred or less hearty than his father. He had stemmed the tide of the battle here in Shale all by himself while his clan had worked feverishly to help those who could not fight to get to safety. The man was a whirlwind of skill and death, a trait that had been earned from his father and passed on, in abundance, to Kern. Both were dressed in tasteful blood red tunics and leggings and had simple black boots on their feet but Zantriel was not fooled for a moment. He had seen these two craggy featured men fully dressed for battle in the blood red adamantine Dwarven plate mail that was the standard of Clan Bloodaxe. It was truly an awesome sight to see.
Thorin and Flint, each in turn, roughly embraced the elf, clapping him on the back, big, toothy grins on both of their faces. Zan returned the back clapping heartily, allowing himself a moment to revel in the love of his friend’s family. Both these men had earned his respect a thousand times over and he allowed himself to show that respect.
“Thorin, Flint,” he said in perfect Dwarven, as he gave a slight bow, “So good to see you both again.”
“It’s been an age, elf, where the Hell’ve ye been?” Thorin said.
“Busy, my old friend,” Zantriel replied, ‘The war’s kept me quite occupied.”
“So we hear,” Flint said, “You really cap off all them scro over in Camelyn?”
“As many as I could but I fear I was almost too late,” Zan said, “If I’d’ve arrived any later with my allies to aid King Aldreas and his men, we’d’ve all been done for,”
At this Flint shook his head.
“Should’ve guessed the rumors ‘bout you pushin’ up daisies’re falser’n ol’ granny’s tooth,” he said, smiling.
“Yes, those rumors have indeed been somewhat exaggerated,” Zantriel replied, unable to help but grin a little, “but we really should continue these discussions in private. I fear there’re far too many eyes and ears out here in the open.”
Both dwarves regarded him somberly for a moment, then Thorin simply nodded, gesturing Zantriel into the complex, as he began pulling shut the balcony doors. Zan followed Flint into the sitting room just beyond the balcony and waited while the two dwarves shut and secured the balcony doors. It took a moment for Zan’s eyes to adjust to the dimmer light but once they did, he strolled forward and had a seat in one of the overly large, plush chairs that dotted the immense room.
All along the walls red and gold tapestries depicted the honorable heritage of the Bloodaxe clan and thick walls, all drawn in the smooth, straight, square style dwarves preferred surrounded Zantriel. Under these banners, proclaiming the valiant and victorious deeds of the Bloodaxe ancestors, Zan felt an immense wave of guilt for the horrible news and trouble he was bringing with him. The smile faded from Zan’s face, replaced by a most somber look, as his friends started a fire in the massive fireplace, which was big enough for two dwarves to walk into side by side and then some. As they secured the room and, in general, tried to make Zantriel comfortable, the elf fought with himself, trying to find the right words to utter the terrible truths he had to impart to these two men. Thorin, however, was far more astute than Zan had originally planned. He noticed the elf’s quietude and felt the tension vibrating within him.
“You look like someone just spit in yer ale,” the dwarf said, clasping his hands behind his back and pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, “What gives?”
‘First, before I say anything, are you certain you wish to involve yourselves and possibly your clan in my troubles?” Zan asked gently, “Just my telling you what’s on my mind could drag you all into it.”
Thorin stopped and spun to face Zantriel, scowling hard enough to bring his fiery brows to a point, and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Boy,” he said, “I might’ve stepped down as head of the clan so Flint could take care o’ things but I’m still an Elder and I’m far from powerless here. My word still carried a lotta weight under this roof and, if I say what threatens you while you’re under this roof threatens us too, my clan’ll back me.”
Touched by the old dwarf’s gesture, Zan smiled wanly.
“I had to be certain,” he said, “I couldn’t, in good conscience, endanger you all without warning you first.”
“You know the Silverlords are family here,” Flint said, coming to stand beside his father, “Any trouble that comes, we’ll weather it with you because we’re all family.”
The younger dwarf crossed his arms and glowered in such a perfect imitation of Thorin that Zantriel was taken aback for a moment. It was like seeing a mirror image of Kern, or rather what Kern could be at their respective ages, and it threatened to overwhelm Zan’s already fragile emotions. He knew for a fact that Thorin had taken as much care raising his family as he had taken with every ounce of metal and stone he had crafted, the kind of generosity and care that had been passed onto Kern in abundance. It was just as much a part of the Bloodaxe tradition as the temper, the red hair, the beard, and the flashing green eyes. It made Zan miss Kern terribly all of a sudden. It took everything Zan had nto to lose it right then and there, to just break down and weep, but he managed, barely, to stop himself when he felt his eyes get misty with tears.
Thorin, as usual, noticed the elf fight back the unshed tears and gain control of his expression and the dwarf’s face fell instantly into a look of fatherly concern.
“Zan, me boy, what’s wrong?” he asked gently, putting a calloused hand gently on the elf’s shoulder.
“Mireille’s dead,” Zan said, nearly choking on the hated words, “My children are missing and I haven’t been able to contact any of the Silverlords. I was hoping that maybe you’d seen Kern or had talked to one of the others. I could really use their help right now.”
Whatever else they might grumble and complain about, dwarves were very family oriented and children were considered sacred, since most dwarven men were only fertile enough to have one child, two children if they were really lucky. The news that Zan’s children were missing seemed to shoot through both dwarves like electricity. The look of fatherly concern on both of their faces almost outdid Zan again but he managed to hang on by a thread.
‘Gods, lad, I’m sorry,” Flint said softly, “Mireille was a damn good woman. I’ll miss her a lot.”
“Aye, me too,” Thorin said sadly, “If there’s anything we can do t’help ye find those kids, ye let me know. We’ll do it.”
“Thank you both,” Zan said, “Anything you can do to help me would be appreciated. I’m looking for any clues at all to Mysta and Dantith’s whereabouts and I believe all the Silverlords are in danger. The only clue I have is this.”
Zantriel pulled out the small scraps he had gotten from the first assassin and showed them to Flint and Thorin. Both dwarves studied it very thoroughly and with concerned looks on their faces but, in the end, handed the papers back to the elf apologetically.
“Wish we could help ya there, kid, but we can’t,” Flint said, “Kern took off about fortnight ago. Wouldn’t say exactly where he was goin’ but it was something about helping that halfling friend o’ yers out of a tight spot. Brunnhilde was real mad.”
Knowing Brunnhilde, Kern’s wife, the way he did, Zantriel could definitely imagine.
“That sounds like the kind of thing Tann would get into,” Zan said, sighing as he started to rise, “I should go to Branneth and check in with Tann’s wife and parents. They might know where he’s gone and there’re lots of merchants there who deal in information. Maybe they can help me find what I’m looking for.”
“Hold on a second!” Thorin said, halting the elf before he had fully risen from his seat, “Where do ya think yer goin?”
“Before Zan could say anything more, the dwarf continued.
“Sure you don’t wanna stay fer dinner? Maybe catch some ale? Yer lookin’ kinda peeked and scrawny there. A good Dwarven meal’d put some pep in yer step and some meat on yer bones.”
“He’s right, lad,” Flint said, “What’s yer rush anyway? A bit o’ roast mutton or beef an’ a spot o’ ale’d do you good.”
Zantriel could not help but smile in spite of himself. Dwarven hospitality, despite the rumors, was something not to be scoffed at and it pained him deeply to have to disappoint them.
“In less urgent and better times, I would be honored,” Zan said sighing, “but I think I’d better find my children and track the rest of the Silverlords down quickly. Something tells me all is not right with them. Unfortunately, I also have the Nadraal Morkina after me and the longer I linger, the more I put both of you and your clan in jeopardy.”
“What d’the elf killers want with you?” Flint demanded.
‘The scro sent them personally to kill me,” Zan replied, “It was they who attacked my keep and slew my wife. I’m willing to bet they’re also holding my children.”
“These guys know where you are?’ Thorin asked.
“I’ve already dodged one assassin since yesterday and he called me by name. I’m not taking the chance of having to repeat the task when so many innocent people are near to hand.”
Zantriel stood again to attempt to leave but before either of the dwarves could renew their protests, the balcony door exploded inward. Shards, sparks and fragments scattered everywhere. Zan, Thorin, and Flint were all armed before their brains had even processed the events that were taking place. Six dark cloaked figures swept into the room, snarling, weapons out. Zan recognized the insignia on their cloaks and shouted a warning.
“Nadraal Morkina!” he yelled, “Scro mages! Be careful!
Zan needn’t have worried. Thorin and Flint’s ruby and diamond encrusted mithril battleaxes blazed into battle. The two scro mages barely had time to even move their fingers before the two dwarves hacked them to bits and stood ready to face the four remaining warriors. All of the carried wickedly curved daggers and short swords, no doubt forged in the hellish fires of Maelstrom, which tainted them.
They wasted no time in engaging their opponents. Two of them leapt at Zan in perfectly timed moves that would’ve killed a lesser man. Unfortunately for them, Zantriel was a superior swordsman and far faster than they’d reckoned. His short swords lashed out in a brilliant arc, meeting their single swords with incredible ease. As they pulled back to try again, Zan casually kicked one in the ribs and blocked the other’s hit.
Both scro surged forward, knocking the heavy Dwarven chairs and table aside. The heavy pieces tottered back into place, as the scro charged forward, and Zan saw his opportunity. Moving with uncanny grace and speed, Zantriel leapt up, as the scro attempted to pin him against one of the chairs, and landed elegantly upon the chair’s spine. Leaping and dodging their blows, Zan quickly parried their thrusts and vaulted to the floor in an aerial manuvere that left the scro dizzy. Another blinding round of thrusts and parries and Zantriel had forced the invaders back almost to the wall. The scro moved desperately but to no avail. Zan’s blades were simply too fast, too agile, and too cunning. Within moments, Zan had skewered both of them by the ribs and recovered his breath, inhaling slowly, as they expired at his feet.
The elf spared a glance to his companions but smiled as he saw, once again, he needn’t have worried. Thorin and Flint stood tall over the corpse of one scro and were holding the last at axe point. They glanced over at Zantriel curiously, as the door burst open, admitting several of Clan Bloodaxe’s finest warriors. Like a small tide of deadly steel, they flowed into the room, prepared to defend their home, their honor, and their leaders.
Foremost among them was an unusually tall female with long, golden blonde braids and eyes like two gems of pure blue ice. She had pale skin and wore armor that was all white and gold, a pale star next to the raging flames that were the Bloodaxes, yet she was every bit as fierce as a valkyrie and looked it. Two golden axes crossed the breastplate of her armor, a tribute to Haela Brightaxe, the dwarf’s goddess, and to the Battlehammer Clan from whence she'd come. Not that Zan would have needed that to identify this woman. No one else wielded a golden colored axe with a crossguard shaped like angels’ wings and an immense silver shield with trumpeting angels emblazoned in gold gilt on the edges. Kern’s wife was a very distinctive person.
“Brunnhilde,” Zan called, “It’s been a while.”
“I don’t suppose you’d know what my brat of a husband is up to?” she inquired, raising one golden eyebrow.
Her perfect features betrayed none of the worry and anger he was sure she must’ve felt when Kern had left. The elf had never dreamed that his friend would have had to sneak away against his wife’s wishes but he truly hoped Kern wasn’t up for a whole month on the couch when he returned. Brunnhilde was tolerant but only so far and her stance, one hand defiantly on her hip, foretold nothing but trouble. If the elf towering over her bothered her, Brunnhilde did not show it. It took more than height to intimidate that woman and one would have to be much more of fool than Zantriel Silvermoon not to tread lightly.
“Not a clue, sorry,” Zan said, smiling, “It’s nice to see you too.”
Brunnhilde rolled her eyes. Her cherry red cupid bow mouth twitched in what might have been a smile and her round face took on a slightly more gentle demeanor. For Hilde, that was amazing in and of itself.
“I’m glad yer not dead,” she said, then, looked over at Thorin.
“Are you alright, Lord Thorin?’
Thorin silenced any and all worried banter with a hand.
“Lord Flint an’ I’re fine an’ so’s our guest,” he said, directing the men towards the bodies that lay where they had fallen.
“Have you two heard from Kern yet?” Brunnhilde asked gently.
Thorin rolled his eyes in an almost perfect imitation of the taller woman and glared.
“Of all the foolishness! Great gods, girl, you think we’d keep you in the dark if we’d heard something by now?!” he exclaimed.
Brunnhilde seemed to take this as a sign to get to work and nodded Zan’s way, sighing heavily. She then moved with the men to clean up the mess, while Thorin looked at Zan questioningly.
“These those chumps you were talkin’ about?’ he asked, prodding one with his boot.
“Yes,” Zan replied, cleaning his swords off.
Pausing, he added,
“You know she’s just going to keep pestering all of us until we produce some kind of answer for her.”
Flint groaned and nodded.
“One problem at a time,” he said thoughtfully. Turning towards the captive scro, he glared.
“Was this your entire crew?” Flint demanded, setting his blade under the chin of the remaining scro, “Talk or ye’ll never have the pleasure again.”
“Yes,” the scro said, “Not that it matters. There’ll be others.”
“Six guys for you?” Thorin said, looking at Zan incredulously, “Man, that’s just fuckin’ insulting!”
“Tell me about it,” Flint snorted, “They’ll need an army t’take down Zan here.”
Then, turning to the matter that was nearer and dearer to all their hearts, the dwarf renewed the threat.
“Where’re you hidin’ Zan’s kids?” Flint demanded.
To that the scro just smiled and shook his head. Zantriel had thought he was tired and weary of fighting but in that moment he found that he had more than enough strength left to lift the scro straight off the ground by his tunic.
“Answer the question,” he growled, shaking the scro roughly, “Where are they?”
Before Zantriel or anyone else could say anything, there was a horrid crunching sound and the scro laughed luridly in the elf’s face, his rotten teeth and foul breath mocking everyone in the room. Zan cursed, realizing what the cur had done, but it was too late. The scro’s body began to convulse and shake and his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. In no more than a moment the scro was dead and Zan dropped him at his feet with an inarticulate cry of fury, sinking to his knees and putting his head in his hands.
“Don’t worry about it, lad,” Thorin said, giving Zan’s shoulder a pat, “These wimps ran from the very thought of what you were gonna do to ‘em. Ye’ll find those kids and ya don’t need them t’do it.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence, gentlemen, but had I been alone and these mages not dispatched so quickly, I fear it might’ve gone rather differently. They’ll be back and this time with greater numbers and better prepared,” Zan said, “I think the time has come for me to leave this place before just being in my presence becomes a hazard to you and yours.”
“Well, I still say you can stay here an’ the whole lot of ‘em be damned but that’s not my call,” Thorin said, “Ye know yer more’n welcome t’stay.”
“I know but what if they decide to go after my friends and their families next?” Zan said, “You’ve been warned but Tann’s family hasn’t had that luxury and what about Dan’s family in the Unicorn Forest? Wherever he is, he’d die if something happened to them. On top of that, there’s still a whole city to search. I can’t just leave my kids.”
“Yer right,” Flint said, “Just don’t expect us t’like it.”
Zan nodded, smiling.
“I’m going to need all the Silverlords together on this one if I’m going to stay alive long enough to find my children,” Zan said, “Maybe together we can root out these assassins.”
“You sure we can’t coax ya int’stayin’?” Thorin asked.
Zan shook his head emphatically.
“They’ll have a harder time tracking me if I stay on the move.”
Leaning down, he quickly groped the pockets of the dead scro and what he turned up did nothing to allay his fears. It was all the same papers the other had carried, only the city circled in red was Branneth.
“I don’t know if this’s a red herring or not but I’m beginning to get really worried,” Zan said.
“Wish we could be of more help but we got problems of our own, just trying to get things back to normal around here,” Thorin said.
“You take care of your people,” Zan said firmly, “I’m sure something’ll turn up and tell Brunnhilde I’ll look after Kern for her. I’ll send him home to her just as soon as I can.”
“You be careful and you let us know if you find something out, okay?” Flint said, realizing there was no longer any point in talking Zantriel out of anything, “You need any provisions or anything, you just let us know.”
“Consider it done,” Zantriel replied, whipping his cloak around him in a flourish, “It was good to see both of you again.”
“Later, elf,” Flint and Thorin both began to say. Before they could even get the words out, however, the blue and silver cloak finished its arc and Zantriel was nowhere to be seen. In a flash of bluish silver light, he was gone.
“Show off,” Flint muttered, rolling his eyes.