Chapter Two
The king of Caryn sat in his study, deep in thought. The room was full of scrolls and books from the far corners of the Mainland, books of knowledge and of histories concerning the migrations to Atalmor and the beginnings of the land known as Caryn. The king was studying one such tome when a servant burst through the tall arched doors. “Your Majesty, pardon the intrusion, but the High Mage beckons you. Urgently,” the elf servant huffed as he doubled over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
The king smiled softly as he said, “I will be in the throne room in a moment. Thank you, Myrad.” The king stretched as he rose from his comfortable chair, placed the gold bejeweled crown back on his head, adjusted it, sighed hard, then left the study.
The tall, muscular king stood a full head above any other man in Caryn. Today, he was dressed in his favorite cloak, an old, tattered cloak worn long ago by his birth father, the colors of which had long faded to a pale red-brown. He had his customary garb underneath; a dark purple shirt embroidered with his crest, black cloth pants without pockets, and black leather boots. Around his neck was an old pendant that his mother had given him when he was a baby, and on one finger he wore a gold ring. He had neat, dark hair, a full trimmed beard, and many well earned battle scars on his cheeks and neck. His eyes were deep-set and emerald green, steady, and ever determined under his thick brow.
As he entered the throne room, everyone in the room bowed or knelt until the king sat on the large marble throne. “King Tystyl,” the shriveling old mage's voice cracked out, “there is a very urgent matter we must tend to.”
King Tystyl waved a hand in dismissal at the other occupants of the room, “Leave us to talk privately”, he said to the many servants and guardsmen there. When the room was empty, he blew a long sigh and said, “Now, what is it, Fael?”
“Sir Wyrmwood's Elder Ring has been used,” said the decrepit old man.
Tystyl's stern discontented expression washed away instantly into a wide smile. Excited, he asked, “He lives? My dear old friend lives?”
“It certainly appears so, my King. I know not where, but I have a general idea and have already sent out a search party for him. We cannot let him go. Not this time,” said the gray-eyed old man as his purple robe faded to blue, then green, now orange, and back to purple.
“How far out is the party?” inquired Tystyl.
“An hour sir, going south,” was Fael's reply.
“I must join them, I cannot let him remain lost to me.” At this, the king quickly stood up, hurried to a large chest hidden behind the throne. Opening the chest, Tystyl smiled as he always did when he saw its contents; a full suit of plate armor, a great axe, and two bastard swords sheathed in elven made leather scabbards. He removed his cloak and crown, setting them reverently on the seat of the throne. He then donned his armor, strapped the axe to his back, and buckled his sword belt securely around his waist. Fael bowed and left the room, smiling wickedly as soon as his back was turned to the king.
Tystyl rang a bell, and seconds later Myrad appeared in the throne room. “Myrad, make ready my black horse and arrange provisions enough for a week,” Tystyl ordered. Myrad, an elf who had been the king's personal servant for a decade or more, smiled and bowed, and in a moment was gone. Tystyl glanced around the ornate throne room, looked at all the colorful and intricate tapestries, mostly images of the last battle Caryn suffered, at the beautiful stained glass windows, and the granite floor, and sighed. It had been three years since he last stepped out of the great city of Caryn, the one that he had rebuilt atop the ruins of the old city some fifteen years before, and on a similar mission, no less. Wyrmwood had been rumored to have been seen somewhere near Strungvali, just on the north side of the border. Tystyl had himself gone to investigate, only to find not his precious Wyrmwood, but a younger blue-bearded dwarf, whose name escaped Tystyl's thoughts now. “Why did I let them take his title? I should have listened to Father and Lisann, and not that damned Fael,” he thought to himself.
When he reached the stables just outside the castle, his favorite horse stood ready. “Old friend, are you ready to go find our father?” he asked the steed. As if in reply to the king's question, the horse stamped his mighty hoof then gave a snort as he lowered and raised his head. “Well, then, we should be off.”
*******
At first light, Kryzzl stopped for a rest after the long night of walking. Kryzzl brought out some smoked meat and cheese from his pack. Sitting on the grass beside the road, he considered where he should try next. If Wyrmwood had been this far south, perhaps he could be in Strungvali, which was only a few more miles down this road. Kryzzl could go to Strungvali, however the elves may not welcome him. He could try to get more information, but the only town this far south in Caryn was Ravenwood, and he certainly wasn’t going back there. The only option it seemed was to carry on into the land of the elves and take his chances.
As he walked along the road, he was thoroughly enjoying the crisp, spring morning. The suns were both up, the birds were singing their songs, and the early wildflowers were in full bloom. The smell of the morning dew was thick in the air. As he topped the ridge of a hill, a beautiful sight laid out before him. From this vantage, one could see the northern parts of Strungvali, trees and streams as far as the eye could see. There were rolling hills, serene valleys, and meadows all about the forests. The leaves on the trees were of all hues of the rainbow. He paused for a long moment to take in the majestic view before continuing down the path for the last mile of the road leading into the land of the elves.
Upon entering Strungvali, an elf in a greenish tunic and brown leggings dropped from the nearest tree. With an arrow resting on his front hand, the elf drew his bowstring taut as he demanded, “Either state your business quickly, turn back, or die where you stand.”
From behind the elf, a gruff voice said, “That be the feller I told ye about, the one ‘twas to be meetin’ me.” To Kryzzl’s surprise, the dwarf from Ravenwood stepped into view.
“I- I have papers,” the man stammered as he reached for his pack.
“Those are not necessary here. I will repeat only once more, either state your business, turn back, or die where you stand,” the elf stated flatly.
Kryzzl swallowed hard, trying to get the lump out of his throat and said, “I am a representative from Jire, in search of King Bareet’s brother, Wyrmwood. He is a blue-bearded-”
The elf cut him off, “I know what Wyrmwood looks like, he needs no description here, but I am afraid you will not find your dwarf here. Seems he slipped off to the east into Gumlor,” was the elf's response. “You may find him in or near Wels.” He then turned to the dwarf as he lowered his bow and said, “Take the east road when you reach the valley.”
“Many thanks, good sir,” said Kryzzl. As they walked away from the elf, Kryzzl regarded the dwarf, looked at him for the first time in sunlight. He was quite tall for a dwarf, with black hair and beard. He had many scars along his cheeks and crossing his large round nose. The bare arms of the dwarf revealed corded muscles, veins winding through them like vines choking a tree.
“I ne’er thanked ye,” the dwarf finally said at length.
“Why did you help me back there?” asked Kryzzl.
“Why’d ye help meself in the dungeon? I felt ye needed it. Ye would ne’er woulda’ got past the elf without me.” The dwarf looked hard at Kryzzl. Something seemed off about the man. He could not put his finger on it, but something was definitely different about this man. “What be yer name?”
“Kryzzl, and yourself?”
“William. Yer eyes, they be a little distinct. Not sure I seen any like ‘em,” the dwarf stated.
“Well, I’ve had them all my life,” Kryzzl replied, and they continued in silence for a long stretch.
“Well, we need to make the valley before the moon rises,” William replied.
The road to the valley curved, climbed, fell, and seemed to sometimes shift in several directions at once. Kryzzl had never been to this land before, had never seen anything so beautiful. Under the colorful canopy reaching out from the trees, he stared at the bright sunlight shining in tiny rays through the leaves. All manner of creatures scurried out of the way as the strangers passed. Kryzzl watched vividly-colored birds take flight as the dwarf and he approached. William stopped at an enormous oak marked by a single rune on a stone in front of it and said, “I left something here last time I was through, I need to get it.” He stepped behind the ancient tree. Kryzzl heard some scratching and digging noises from the tree, and William returned with what looked to be a newly forged double bit axe. The head of the axe was as broad as the dwarf who held it, with cruel sharp edges on either side. It had gold inlaid into the silvery steel in intricate patterns. Kryzzl stared at the fine weapon. He had never seen anything like it.
“That is a mighty axe, William, is that the same one you were put in the dungeon for?” Kryzzl asked as the dwarf strapped it to his back.
“No, this one be me own. The other I had made for a friend o’ mine,” he said. With that, they made haste to get to the valley before nightfall. The suns were already going down, and the two could not afford to be on the road after dark, not without an elven escort.
They arrived at the head of the valley just as the last light of day was giving way to the darkness of night. An elf guarding the entrance recognized William and allowed the pair of travelers to pass. “I will set ye up with me old friend, Jak, and I meself will stay with another friend this night,” said William as they reached one of many small huts scattered just outside the elven city. William bade him, “Stay, whilst I explain to Jak what we be doing.”
“As you wish,” came Kryzzl's answer. William walked into the hut, and Kryzzl heard much whispering and hushed tones coming from inside. Kryzzl took in the layout of the lively village. He saw several huts gathered around the wall that protected the elven city. There were gardens and stables tucked away in almost every corner, and a large fire pit that appeared to be for religious gatherings, for it had stones with ancient runes carved in them and spaced evenly around it, right in the center of it all. Moments after he went into the hut, the dwarf emerged with a smile on his face, beckoning Kryzzl to come.
“Jak has a straw bed set for ye, an' a fire. 'Twill be a cool night here in the valley.” As William was speaking, Jak, a tall elderly elf wearing the same garb as all the other elves they had seen that day, appeared in the door of the hut. He silently showed Kryzzl the way in.
“Do you think he is truthful?” the elf sitting across from William a little while later in a different hut asked.
“Nay, Emir, he shows kindness from his right eye, while I see deceit in his left, he's not to be trusted. 'Twas why I gave 'im a fake name ” answered the dwarf. “I think he has me ring. Lisann would ne'er let it out o' her sight, unless...” He trailed off for a moment and a look of pure dread and profound sadness crossed his weathered face.
“Jak will find out soon enough, Sir Wyrmwood,” said Emir after some thought. “Worry not for Lisann, for even if your fears are realized, she will have passed to a far better place.”
*******
On the trail south, King Tystyl easily caught up with his men, and after another hour or so of riding, they settled in a flat spot to camp that night. Fifteen knights, most in dirty armor, sat around the fire as their king played on his lute and sang a song of glorious wars waged long ago. When the king had finished, the closest of his men and Captain of the Guard, Omarus, asked why he was with them.
“To find our father,” he said simply. “I will not stop this time until I do. I wish to ensure his safe return to the kingdom, and to show him how I have missed him all these years. I rue the day that he was dismissed from my court, forced out by that damned mage. Fael has something else up his sleeve as we speak, I can feel it.” When he was finished, King Tystyl put his bedroll down on the ground and laid down to sleep. The other men followed suit and soon there was a chorus of loud snoring echoing through the forest.
The king was soon awakened by the sound of thunder. Quickly, he roused the rest of the party and they all started gathering up their campsite. He told them after studying the movements and scent of the wind, “We should make our way to Lightwood before the rain comes in.”
Mounting their horses, all the men eagerly agreed, and set off quickly to the small town in which many of them were raised. Omarus, riding beside King Tystyl behind the rest of the men, asked, “Why do you want that damned dwarf back so badly? He is a traitor and a threat to the throne itself.”
“So says Fael,” the king snapped, “do you not remember how he took us in, raised us as his own? We were all brothers under his care. I love that dwarf as should you. Every man here owes his station and his very life to Wyrmwood. We all have good reason to return him to Caryn alive.”
“True, but we all have a thousand golden reasons to return only his head,” Omarus sneered as he aimed a tiny hand-crossbow hidden under his cloak, “and even you, The Great King Tystyl cannot quench our thirst for gold.” He pulled the trigger, the bolt tore through his cloak, hitting King Tystyl squarely in the neck, knocking him of his steed, slumping lifeless to the ground. “Eternal sleep is yours, 'brother'...”