Prologue

In the beginning, there was the air, the fire, the earth, and the spirit. There was no such thing as mountains or valleys or even your kind. Your kind is new and young, and you have much to learn. But pardon an old shape shifter, I get lost in the past, sometimes my mind thinks it is one age and my heart thinks it is another but that is all said and done now. So, you want to know about dragons? Well, let me tell you I knew the greatest dragon who ever lived, him and many more. But one thing you must realize is that the story of the dragons is, as all things are: interwoven. We are all dancers in the circle of the universe. One cannot learn of dragons without learning of unicorns, griffins, elves and yes, eventually you human folk. I don't suppose there are any more shape shifters to learn of. We are a rare race, too often sinking into the culture of our choice forms. How have I remained after all these years you ask? You wonder how I survived the war, how I knew the dragons and their ways? You ask too many questions. But I will tell you, if you pardon my opinions.

Our Mother Earth was still a maiden you see, when the humans of the east began to distain the creatures in the forests and mountains surrounding them. Their kingdom was a small one, nestled between the ancient Mountains of Karah, who stood as guardians before the unmapped territory beyond. Humans were a young folk, scattered all about the valley. Their world was the valley and the coast of the Sea of Sunar. The Karah Mountains curled their way around the valley so that the villages were blocked on all sides but for the ocean. We creatures of the wilds liked it that way; you were out of our hair, tucked in vulnerability. No man would dare to make the perilous trek atop the great guardian mountains, through the thick woods unknown. It was best that way. You should have listened to your nanny's when they told you not to run off. But you humans just don't know when to stop pushing your limits do you? Silly things you are, it's a wonder you won the Great War.

Our kind call it The War of Souls, for it was that war, which shifted the soul of this here universe and souls of those who have passed and the souls of those yet to come. Human and faerie. Go now human; I have spoken of too many painful things this night. All that was to be has been and all those who have died are gone. There is no more magic or mystery. The war was long ago and I see too much blood n’ death, go, before I wake to emotion and spill yah’ innards upon the floor. Go now n’ tell the tale to yah children. They are young yet, and we still live within their minds. No...Wait...do not go...too long I have held this story in my heart and you must first be told it if yah are to ever tell yah little ones. Sit...do not fret…I will tell you of the war you won. The stars made it so; it was our fate, to fall into your bedtime stories and books.

Do not fear. If I were to kill you, I would have done it already. I am an old shifter, not blade neither illness nor one of your modern weapons kill me. The only thing that can send me into the vale is my own doing. Come and pleasure an old veteran, I have much time to spare; time and I are great friends. As are death and I, but I do not seek her company tonight. Tonight I will tell you a story, if it pleases you, and all of your questions will be answered. Now, sit, the fire is impatient and cackles his excitement. The tea is brewed and bread is baked. The stars watch over us this night, I think they too, would like to hear a story. Sit human, and forget the voices of your elders. Mine is the only one you shall hear henceforth.

One

“Here my lord! My lord, hurry! He is wounded!” Glabell ran, galloping passed the mares and their foals at pasture in the mid-autumn sun. Not another one, he thought. One of their herd members, a young stallion, had gone missing a few suns ago. At first the Unicorn King had not thought much of it, the herd he led was the only unicorn herd in existence as far as he knew. Members roamed in and out of the group to seek remote lives elsewhere, never staying for long. Only he, his son and a few elders made up the permanent members. He had whished Fer luck, as the young stallion prepared to leave, warning him to be wary. There had been a number of killings done in the forests of the Wild Wood which boardered the plains. Unicorns right and left had been found dead with spears and arrows in their hides, horns taken, sometimes hooves and tails too. Glabell had thought Fer clever enough and strong enough to roam about on his own but when news of more deaths got to his ears, he had sent runners out to warn the young stallion. That had been some suns and moons ago, now before the sight, the smell of blood reached the king’s nose.

“My lord…he’s wounded.” The young runner Herlven said, letting go of Fer’s mane, from which he held him in his mouth, dragging him across the field. Glabell stopped, examining the wounded stallion. Several arrows had pierced his chest and flanks. The two most urgent injuries however, was a spear through the side, between the ribs and the bloody stub upon his brow where his horn should have been.

“How long ago did you find him?” Glabell demanded. It was Jag, the other runner who answered, “Three days ago my lord. It took us two to drag him back here, we found him on the east slopes of one of the mountains, facing the humans stronghold.” The king nodded and looked to Fer who thrashed feebly. Blood seeping from the wound in his side, his brown oak colored coat swelled and scabbed around the point of the spear in which it entered his body. Dried blood scabbed and broke every time the young stallion twisted, his eyes were wide with fear and his breathing labored and shallow.

“Herlven, Jag, go to the wood and gather moss from whatever old oak you can find. Bring it to me.” The young unicorns looked down upon their comrade in dismay, not wanting to leave him like this. A furious neigh from their king, however, sent them galloping for the woods.'Glabell watched them go, cursing the young foolish yearlings. A weak cough brought his gaze down to the wounded Fer.

“My lord…humans…” he tried to gasp, twitching in pain as his lungs tried to force air through his throat to speak.

“Hush Fer, I know.” Glabell grabbed the end of the shaft between his teeth. With a pull of his muscle and a smack of his horn, the spear-nearly three horns length- was pulled out of Fer’s side. Glabell tossed it to the ground with a flick of his head. Fer gasped and shuttered in pain as the pressure of the spear was released a stream of blood seeped oozed and then trickled down his fur, staining the brilliant brown a dark shade of maroon. Glabell crossed over to face Fer head on, he bent his head so that the tip of his horn touched the bloody stump of Fer’s brow.

The horn of the king begain to glow white with light that shot down from the base where his horn met his flesh, down the pointed spiral and to Fer’s bloody brow, in the blink of an eye the bloody stump had healed. Fer shuddered with the heat but smiled.

“Tha..thank you my lord.” Glabell nodded and attended to the unicorns lesser wounds. Licking the ones he could. Those wouns that were larger, he healed with magic, his horn turning a pure white glow each time.

“Humans…my lord…men…from the eastern castle…hunting…they were hunting…d…dragon scaled armor…elven arrowheads. There will be more deaths…the banner men bore the sigil of the green sword…” Glabell listened intensively to the dying Fer’s words, all the while swooshing his tail in impatience at Helvern and Jag, cursing the lazy youths. There was a silence that fell over the field then. Fer tried to lift his head, but collapsed with a whimper of pain, his shanks twitching and lungs growing weary. The spear had been removed and lesser wounds healed, but the internal damage had been done.

“Where…do..I..g..go my lord, a wanderer like I? I never mated…never fought any battles. Hornless…for some man’s courtroom wall…” Glabell nosed him gently,

“The same place I will go, my friend. To the unending fields where it is always summer and the sun always sings. You go to your sires side to run beside him to your mothers heart. There will be fresh grass and cool springs. An eternity of peace for you Fer, free from pain and cold.” Glabell kept his voice calm and eyes steady as the young stallion finally exhaled painfully and went still. The only movement from him was the running of blood down his coat. Glabell bent down once more, touching his horn to the young stallions brow and let out a whicker of respect. No matter how many unicorns had been killed in the past few moons, each pained him differently.

I will not stand for any more deaths. If Fer spoke the truth, it means that the humans are not only killing unicorns but elves and dragons too. There must be an end put to this before something worse starts.

As the unicorn king turned to go, leaving Fer to the earth from which he came. Helvern and Jag came tearing down the hill out of the shadows of the trees with several patches of moss in their mouths. They ran sweat caking their coats and halted at Fer’s body. Turning his head to look behind, Glabell said solemnly:

“Use the moss for yourselves, your friend is dead. You will need it more than he does now when you are wounded..” Without a word the unicorn king turned galloping to the rest of his small and fragmented herd to make sure the mares and young were still safe in his absence, thankfully all were accounted for.

As the king gazed upon the stars that night in the landscape of moonlit blue he thought:

It was only a matter of time before the grasses turned and swayed a different direction. If the humans want to kill, than who are we to stand by and let them? Great Aior goddess of the air, guards your children the unicorns who dance with your wind upon the plains. Demmeter, give me wisdom to stand against those who have wronged us. Give me strength.

In an answer to his prayer, the wind howled that night, sending the scent of the human’s kingdom across the rolling hills, stirring the horn of every member of the herd.

Two

Marin of the Fifth Clan of the Griffin Desert, ambassador and warlord to the Great Jarkin, scanned her bright eyes over the unfortunate victims. Twelve fully grown and fully fierce young male griffins snarled, clawed and pecked at one another. Out of these twelve, only six would survive the trial. Marin opened her wings and shrieked, the twelve males falling silent.

“On my command you will raise, you will wait until I sound off again and you will fight, may the gods smile upon you and take mercy on your wings.” With that the griffin shrieked once more and in a chorus of feathers, squawking hopefuls rose into the cloudless sky. The air was dry and the sand was still, the bleached rocks were the only thing that contrasted against the dunes as far as Marin could see. She did not feel guilty sending at least six eligible fighters to their deaths. This was the way it was, the way it always had been, she had been tried just like these youngsters, and she had been the only female, a first for any of the Great Jarkin’s ranks. She had been brave, had not shown fear and she had won. Now it was their turn to prove themselves. Feathers and anxious chirps bit the air. She did not listen to the sounds of death above, nor did she pay mind to the blood that rained down. It didn’t matter; all that mattered now was how long it would be before they retaliated. Three moons ago, humans had emerged from their tents, killing thirteen of their clan. Thirteen from the Fifth Clan, the most feared of all the Clans of Griffins, the Clan which the Great Jarkin himself descended from and he would be furious if he found out there had been murders. He would expect retaliation, and Marin would carry it out.

I will not let you down, I will bring your warriors to glory; I will avenge those who have died. You will not be disappointed. Then I will be free to fly across the sea. Her thoughts were quickly jarred from her as one of the prospective fighters tumbled to the ground in death throws. He had been ripped from beak to tail, his innards hit the ground before his skull and a sound from somewhere amidst the flock shrieked, Marin hissed lashing her tail, the warriors mate, or mother or clutch sib. She wondered why they were allowed to come at all. Family had no place with battle, and there was room for nothing else but battle these days. Two more fell to the ground, more screams of pain and feathers flying, the crowd of females reacted with equal shrieks, some ruffled their wings and laughed. Marin rolled her bright eyes and scanned the horizon, it had become a habit since the more frequent attacks, she couldn’t help it. Critically her eyes scanned the bright dunes that baked in the white sun. More applause in the form of shrill screams as another fell, wing broken, blood mixing with sand. Marin sighed and stopped her critical gaze, leaping over the rocks with agility unmatched to the fallen griffin. She examined him with eyes like stone; in her heart she felt nothing but disgust. He was scratched across one eye that bled and boiled in the sun, his beak was cracked and both of his wings were broken. A single eye pleaded for her mercy as the young warrior thrashed beating his wings and tearing at the air with his claws, trying to propel himself upwards, his tail madly moving his lions tail from side to side in order to help him gain balance, his rear paws kicking. Marin artfully moved out of the way and snarled coming down upon him and clamping her beak around his furred throat, with a single shake and a snap the warrior went limp and Marin hissed, dropping him.

Pathetic.

Shrieking squawks brought Marin back as she lifted her head upwards. In the air the remaining six griffins were attacking each other in a mess of fur and feathers, beaks and claws and talons, blinded by their rage.

“Enough!” Marin shrieked over the noise of their screeches and the remarks from the on-lookers. The warriors landed, save for one who dug his hind claws into another’s back as he tried to land, pain filled the victims eyes but he landed and did not move to defend himself. The aggressor sunk his claws deeper, crimson melting with brown. Marin snarled and leapt into the air, talons open and she grabbed the raging warrior by his throat and banked her wings to the right, tearing the two apart. Before landing she dived her head down and in a single crack her powerful beak split the skull of the warrior whose form dropped instantly. She landed before the remaining five, their eyes staring at the body of their fellow victor who had been attacking just minutes before. Marin let them take in the sight for a moment and then spoke,

“I will not tolerate those who disobey.” There was no answer, her emerald eyes moved from the warriors to the crowd. Somewhere a young chick squeaked, hushed by its mother. “Let that be a warning to you.” Marin took a breath; the blood on her beak filled her nostrils with a metallic smell that made her feathers shiver. “Congratulations. You have proved yourselves worthy of joining the areal of the Fifth Clan, founded by the Great Jarkin himself.” The ambassador smiled wryly at the bewildered looks, the Great Jarkin was more a legend than anything else. Books had been written about him by those who cared to write. Among the griffins stories were told in the nest to young ones of the how the Great Jarkin defeated sorceress and wizards alike. He founded the Fifth Clan, had even traveled across the realms. He defeated ten thousand elves and slayed fifteen dragon of the fire without suffering a single wound. Marin’s own heart danced as she spoke for she knew she was special, the Great Jarkin was real, she knew him, she had spoken with him, she had beheld him.

“Yes the Great Jarkin is real; he was born of Grendal and Garmoth out of sand and when he raised his wings into the air even the gods shivered in fear of him. He is real, he flied across this world, killing any and all of those who threaten our way. He is the magnificent and brilliant and though you may not be worthy to behold him, you will serve him as though he watches your every move, because in truth, he does.” Marin finished with a triumph as the young warriors smiled and shrilled in their excitement, she did not let them revel in it long. There could be no time for necessary emotion; necessary emotion was what got you killed.

“Tend to your wounds; we avenge our dead at dawn.”

Three

Len shifted his weight to his left side as he stopped to take a breath, his heart involuntarily jumping at the sight of the open plains after days of sneaking through the woods.

Finally, he thought. For the first time in many cycles of the moon the young prince was able to breathe safely, the warm winds cooled his pounding heart and the horn upon his brow felt lighter. It had been his idea to go to the elves who made their home in the Wild Wood, in the city of Quvoa and although Glabell had protested at first, Len had finally managed to make his father agree to let him go. Traveling had always been difficult and dangerous for his kind, but humans had not made it easier, killings had gotten worse. As he ran over the details of what the elves had said, he couldn’t help recounting the number of human villages he had also seen.

Too many, in a few seasons the entire forest will be full with them and then where will the elves go? Never mind the elves, where will we go?

The warm mid-autumn sun and the slight chill of the wind against his back eased his thoughts. There was no point worrying now, it was time to revel in home coming and the fact that he had made it safely.

"Father!" Len called out, laughing to himself as Glabell whirled, running to meet him, whickering with delight and relief. His father was a large specimen, larger than most fully grown male unicorns and lighter in tone and color. Len himself was a combination of his parents. His hide a light color of yellow with a dark mane, tail horn and stockings.

“Len, your safe.” There was relief in the king’s tone that Len could not help rolling his eyes at as his father touched his nose to his sons shoulder.

"Fer was lost last sun." Glabell said flatly. Len glanced up, eyes widening as he looked around, seeing the vultures afar, the prince made a sorrowful whinny and tossed his mane.

"Humans?" Glabell nodded, Len stamped his front hoof into the earth with fury. "The Elves talk of battle against them too, we could join them. I say we go after them father. Assemble some stallions, myself included. There's a small village, we could at least speak with them. Show them-"

"No." Glabell snapped, hitting his son with the flat of his horn across his back. Len backed up and reared, then held steady, eyes firm, he had the sense to hold his horn down.

Father you live in a world of fear, the elves see it, and they take it for weakness.

"We will not join with elves; more than just humans hunt us for sport. The only reason I sent you to their city was to talk, not to declare war."

"You sent me to the elves after nights of my own begging. Begging for you to take some sort of action! Father how many more of us should die?" Len asked in a thrill tone, almost a bray, and his dark eyes flashing. Glabell smarted his son with his horn once more.

"You are young Len, you will understand some day. For now, we keep on our guard and keep the herd close." Ice shown in the king’s eyes, ice that held Len's breast in a death grip. The prince bowed reluctantly. Silence passed between father and son before Glabell said softly: "It is good to have you return. Let us not argue. If we must go to the humans and meet with them, we will. But I will not send young stallions full of rage into man's city." Len nodded, his father was good and smart. He had been king for many ages and had seen many confrontations. He had fought against the elves and made friends with the dragons. Humans were small and had no scales or horns or talons to speak of, still restless toil within him.

The day passed, uneventful to Len's relief, the elves spoke truth then. Humans are getting stronger. More than a dozen villages alone were between here and Quvoa.

A dozen more between Quvoa and the mountains if Okenmard is right and Okenmard is rarely wrong.

Twilight danced across the plains that evening as foals stood beside their mothers, horns still only nubs upon their brows. Len fell asleep quickly, his temper towards his father calmed by the ever present winds on the plains.

A sound awoke him not an hour later, the sound of something softly crushing the earth. The prince’s eye's eyes flew open as he ran to the bank of the plains to the east, from which one could see for miles, apart from the wood. Trotting deliberately, the king searched the landscape with keen eyes, smelling fire, leather and mead, the human drink. The light night air was tainted, the need for actions stirred inside his hooves as he stepped forward, squinting to see better.

Out of nowhere Glabell stepped in front of his son with a gruff wicker. Len too, tried to make out any movement in the distance, yet saw nothing. All hung in the breath of the sleeping herd, when men from the forest exploded from the shadows towards them, carrying spear, sword and arrow. Glabell reared and shrilled loudly, waking the herd.

"Len, take the mares, yearlings and foals to the woods, west and wait for me there. If I do not return on the fortnight..." Len dug his hooves into the firm earth.

"Father I can fight!" He chided, furious but the king reared, twisting and shoved him with the force of his shoulder.

"Go!!" His father commanded, Len trembled for a moment, heart pounding, horn lowered.

Another time, his logical mind sounded and he let out a contemptuous neigh before barreling back to the rest of the panicked herd as the stallions and mares without young came forward to aid the king. The men were fifty by Glabell's count. In a matter of seconds, blood broke out. The king lunged and parried a man holding a dagger aimed for his throat. Rearing he landed a crushing blow upon the man's skill. A mare by the name of Jarara kicked a spearmen in the gut, sending him flying. Glabell twisted as a man holding a sword made a stab for his side. A young stallion caught the man at the base of his skull through the horn. The man jerked and twitched, blood stained the young's horn and dotted the ground.

Glabell fought with swift intensity, bringing down any man who dare come near him. Jarara let out a shrill winy as an arrow took her across the flank, not a mortal wound, but enough to make her stumble. Glabell looked wildly around as he stabbed a spearman through the neck with his horn, from what he could see, Len had gotten the herd farther enough away. The human men seemed to be dwindling in number, a few unicorns lay upon the ground, arrows filling their backs, and one stallion, Greven had two arrows through his eye socket, it oozed with blood and fluid. The king snorted and flipped out of instinct, as another man ran and jumped upon his back. Hitting the ground with a thud, the man was crushed with the force of the unicorn kings weight.

The skirmish continued until only a handful of men remained. At Glabell's fierce bray of furry, horn and body bloody, they dropped their weapons and made a run for it. Signaling to two of his fellow herd members, they chased them down, running the men through with their horns with ease. The king walked his way among the fallen, many men lay dead; he killed instantly those who were dying. Eleven unicorns in all lay dead and several others wounded. The men, who had tried to run, held severed horns and hooves in their pouches.

Len glanced around wildly, it had taken the better part of the early morning sunrise to gather the herd and get them to the western woodlands as his father had instructed. Far off, the sound of screams and whinny’s pierced the air. The smell of blood carried on the subtle breeze and set Len's mane on end.

"I knew this time would come Prince," Ieba, an old mare, blind in one eye and grey in coat said, her voice like mist. Len stood on edge looking in the direction from which they had just come. The old nag tapped him on his flanks smartly. "I've seen those humans grow in my day colt, they are no longer harmless hairless apes." Ieba was his mother's dam, old beyond the old growth trees and her horn showed it. The thing was an old withered gray with many scars and pieces that had been chipped off. Yet she was wise and even the king himself would look to her for advice. "Fear not for the king my lordling, he is a good fighter, seasoned in the ways of battle, Great Aior bless him." Len could only nod, his dark eyes searching through the trees. His breath caught as he heard movement, he lowered his horn, eyes and hooves at the ready. There was a good chance some of the humans had followed them. Several of the mares and young stallions raised their heads, Ieba spoke comfort.

"Peace my friends, has your fear griped you so that you no longer recognize the sound of your king?" Glabell, and the surviving warriors stepped from the shadows to join the herd. Len rushed to his father in haste.

"You saw the herd to safety, good work my son." Len nickered, more relieved than he could let on in action.

"How many were lost father?" Glabell glanced down, several bloody gashes covered his breast, bloody but not deep. He looked to the herd; a confidant fire lit his eyes.

"Eleven were lost. Ragona, Emar, Yazemere, Greven," he continued listing all of the names; each sent a stabbing pain through his chest. "We go to west to Quvoa, city of the elves. They too have been plagued by human attack, we will see if there can be an solution, or at least an agreement made." At that a wave of rears, brays and snorts arose from the herd. Some stamped their hooves and lowered their horns at the idea. Glabell let them carry on but a moment, "Peace. You forget yourselves my herd. I know well as any of you that the elves are not our allies. But as of the events, they are the closest kind we have who know of our troubles. The lord there reasonable, and will speak with me, you will not be in danger." Still the crowed protested with curses and bought of their horns.

"Hush! All of you, are you squirming foals whose legs cannot yet walk?" Ieba snorted loudly, the herd fell silent to behold her. "I have seen what these humans do to our kind. Our horns are priceless; our hooves heal their bodily suffering. We are hunted by them for the same reason the elves hunt us. But the elves have something for us that humans do not. Respect. Humans respect nothing that does not speak their own tongue. I spent a time among their company, some of it pleasant I might add. But these humans will scour the land until there are none of us left, we may very well have something more than a mere feud on our backs if we are not careful. They build tall walls of stone, which they rip from the earth. They poison Aior, choking her pure air. If we are to stop this, we must learn to face our fear and resentment for the elves. Listen to your lord, he knows the way. Aior beholds him. Go with him now or leave and be killed by the barbarians. May your horn and hooves live on in the soups and drink they make of them, may your memory and glory live on in the piss of their pots." Ieba snorted and did a half rear, pounding her hooves into the forest floor. The herd said no more.

Four

The stars are angry this night, Nierief thought as he lifted his hand to his brow, looking up through the canopy of the Wild Wood. Across his back his bow and pack sat waiting for use at a moment’s notice, the old one shifted stamping a hind hoof into the solid dark earth, his tail swooshed lazily in the crisp air. The flesh on his arms was riddled with goose-bumps, but it was not from chill. The old centaur sighed, drawing his gaze back down to the village beyond. Several fires broke the darkness in the human's village. The smells and sounds carried on the slight wind and Nierief huffed, their odors permeated his nostrils in distain.

"Do they ever sleep?" His fellow watchmen asked. Nierief nodded, eyes fixed on a group of men who sat around a small fire surrounded by their dogs.

"They will soon enough, and then we can move." The fellow centaur snorted, stamping a hoof and looked upwards to the night sky,

"The stars are angry this night; the light from the humans disrupts them." Nierief shook his head,

"It is not the light in the dark that angers them. It is something else,"

"Perhaps it is the all of the death. There has been much death," the younger of the two said softly, more to himself then to Nierief.

"There will be more death if we stay this far east much longer, Quvoa is not far." The red centaur nodded, though he did not seem convinced.

Stars be strong Okenmard's invitation is still standing. We cannot run for much longer, I cannot run for much longer. All of his life, Nierief had ran but he was too old for that now. He could feel it in his bones and in the stiffness of his joints. The humans would retreat to their beds with any luck, and then they could continue. Afar, several young centaurs of the band conspired, Nierief knew to ignore them. Attacking the humans would be futile, and only anger them at most. He had learned long ago that delving into battles for the sake of anger was not wise. He would not make the same mistake again.

"Nierief," the old veteran turned, Anu, only a few years his youth stood like a mountain against the trees:

"We are ready."

"We must wait a bit longer; they are not all in yet." The dark coated centaur flicked his tail,

"We can slip past them un-noticed I am sure of it."

"Well I am not and so we will not until I give the word. Now lower your tone, those men are not without weapons." Anu backed up, his nostrils flaring,

"Neither are we! We lost them last moon when the humans attacked us in our sleep! When Grabar, Treivon and Unalmin were killed!" Nierief did not need to speak his superiority, Anu backed down with a small bow,

"I will ready the rest." Nierief watched him trot backward through the wood, still the young centaur who had remained on watch, stood quietly.

"I'm sorry about him, he knows not to whom he speaks." Nierief turned, "he's never been one to obey, even when we were children. My brother's strength is his greatest weakness, I thought he had learned his lesson when Havain-"

"He joined me and he remains loyal. That is all that I can ask for. You joined me, and have stayed; that too, I am thankful for, though you may not realize your usefulness yet," Nierief said gently. Sagitar was young and naive but he had lived long enough to witness killing and to kill himself. His elder brother Anu was bull headed and rash but despite it, the two brothers had been a welcomed aid to Nierief's renegade band. Sagitar smiled sadly and looked once more to the human's fires; the men and their dogs had indeed retired to their huts, and now only the cries of babes and barks of dogs remained.

It is not safe to travel by daylight, we cannot wait. Nierief waved a hand, signaling the remainder of his company forward. Anu, Sagitar and twenty others, waited for the order of their un-official leader. With a nod of his head, Nierief walked forward, banking to the left to remain hidden in the shadows. Sticks cracked beneath his hooves and though he forced himself to keep a calm persona, his heart beat faster with every noise. Any sound could wake them and we are not nearly prepared for a fight, he thought as he walked. Over his shoulder the rest fell into line, slipping quietly between the trees. From the corner of his eye Nierief could make out the village sound asleep, but his mind knew better than to rely so heavily on physical perceptions. Weak as they were, humans it seemed had an uncanny act for doing one thing one moment, and then changing around dramatically to do something else, (usually to cruel or ignorant means.) Something snapped, the centaur jerked around despite his experience at stealth, his heart still skipped a beat in momentary panic.

“Pardon,” Sagitar murmured his face down cast as he stepped forward slowly. One of his hooves had snapped a branch. Anu struck him heavily knife hitting flesh with a thwack. Nierief turned, raising a finger to his lips, eyes darting over the village. Embers died in their pit and a breeze ruffled the skins of the huts but no sound of further movement. Cautious, they proceeded: This camp is larger than I thought. Nierief thought to himself as he snaked around another tree, looking over his shoulder to make sure the others followed timely. Sagitar had been pushed to the back, and Anu was walking with large, unmanaged strides. This land was once ours; he thought again stealing a moment to look at the stars. Suddenly, something moved the old centaur baked against the oak he had been walking past, reaching for his bow. The others stopped in their tracks, ducking into the shadows. None but the trees spoke; the air against Nierief’s skin grew cold with anticipation.

“What is it?” A young colt, blonde of hair and hide asked, he had a dagger slung to his belt which he held at the ready. “Is it…” he started, eyes wide and unblinking as an arrow hit him through the neck. Pale and still for a moment then the blood came forth as the youth gasped, clutching the arrow before he fell to the ground red liquid staining the trees. Anu held up his axe and raced into the camp, meeting a volley of arrows in his way. Nierief made an oath and slung an arrow to his bow, in a breath of anger he ran forward. Men rushed out to meet them in the camp, wielding swords and clubs. Nierief rushed to meet an attacker, a brute of a man whose beard obscured the better part of his face, if there was a better part to be had. He lashed out quick, aiming at Nierief’s torso but the veteran of many a battle knew better dogging to the left. The man stumbled and recovered but Nierief had already had arrow in hand. The man yelled something incoherent and made ready to strike again with his pointed spear, the centaur twisted away and came down upon the man burying the arrow in the base of his skull. As he fell, Nierief bent in a single motion snatching the spear and charging forward again. Three warriors were fighting a group of seven lightly armored but heavy weapon laden men, somewhere a woman’s scream cried out. Nierief turned to see Anu, rearing in all of his fury wielding a heavy sword. The woman yelled something back, clutching a babe in her arms but bravely holding a short sword she had snatched. The old centaur ran forward, knocking down three men, narrowly sliding between the two of them, meeting Anu’s force as he came down; sword above his head, Nierief through up his forearm. The blade cut his flesh deeply spraying them all with red blood. Anu’s eyes widened, opening his mouth to speak through the fury of screams and moans.

“We do not harm their women or their children.” Nierief snarled and pushed his arm forward, making Anu step back. He nodded slowly and ran off to cut down another dozen men. Nierief turned, the woman before him still standing there wide eyed and holding her wailing babe. The centaur nodded to her, in response she held her short sword out at him her stance determined.

“You will fare better if your run,” he hissed to her. She swiped down quickly, cutting his side in a thin gash. The baby in her arms cried once more but the woman only looked at Nierief. “Run.” He said once more.

“Rachel!” The woman turned sharply, looked back at Nierief for a moment then hid her sword and ran off supporting the babe. Nierief watched her run into the woods, followed by some men who had fled. Several of the warriors had begun setting fire to the huts; all who had not previously fled now took to flight. The only ones left were on the ground, a handful of some forty men or more. Nierief looked around, through the smoke and heaved a breath slinging his bow to his back. Anu finished butchering a young man who lay on the ground near a burning hut.

Nierief raised his bow, signaling to retreat into the woods once more in the opposite direction in which the humans had run. Sagitar stood behind a tree, pounding restlessly into the dirt with a fore hoof, tail twitching and eyes down cast. He had not even entered the fray.

“Where were you?” Anu snarled having seen Nierief’s signal and following.

“I…” his elder brother raised his arm elbowing him across the face hard.

“You are a coward, stand up. Your head is heavier than your hooves you useless wit.” Sagitar straightened himself, his legs tangling before he held his bleeding face fumbling to answer.

“Enough!” Nierief caught Anu’s arm before he could strike the youngster again. “You will leave me to carry out discipline.” The black centaur’s eyes narrowed, but he merely snorted and stormed off.

“I’m sorry my lord,” Sagitar stammered, clutching his jaw that bled profusely.

“I am not your lord.” Nierief silenced him with a wave of his hand and continued, glancing around in the still of the dark. After scouts had determined that there was no one from the village lurking about, they moved on in the dark.

“Where is Mraan?” Someone asked as they plodded through the tangles of the trees. There was a long pause, in front of the group Nierief kept his eyes forward but twitched his ears to hear behind:

“Dead, cut down by a man through the stomach.” Someone said slowly. Nierief continued onward, two deaths were better than three. Light began to creep once more in the eastern trees as they continued to walk. The wound from Aun’s sword now had stopped bleeding, with assistance of some moss that Nierief pressed to the wound while walking. The cut along his side was hardly worth the trouble.

“Niereif, it’s nearly daylight. We should find somewhere to camp yes?” a voice asked behind him,

“No,” he said realizing as his eyes met enormous trees in the distance, things strung between the branches like bridges and wooden buildings. Small lights of flame in the tiny structures were being blown out by their unseen inhabitance. “There is no need, we are here.” A collective sigh of relief went over the band, all but Sagitar for he remained silent.

They walked forward, pushing back branches in their way, the sky illuminated the rest of the large trees, much larger than the others in the Wild Woods. Houses made of wood and leaves were situated in the canopy of the interconnected trees. Stairways made their way up and throughout the trunks of the trees that were hollowed out to make for rooms and shelters. Quvoa at last. Nierief thought privately as they entered, city of the elves.

Five

“That’s the last of them!” The men stepped back, wiping their sweaty brows with even sweatier arms. Before them, in the square of the city of Malavalon twenty carcasses lay baking in the sun. It was unusually hot outside, but that didn’t stop the onlookers from coming out of their market stalls and staring at the pile of dead hypogryphs brought in from the northern tribes in the mountains of Karah. Clara joined the by standards, leaning against a wooden pole of a shopkeepers stall. Every one of those birds in worth three times that of any man. They thought bitterly and bit into an apple. The men patted each other on the backs, laughing about the amount of prophet they would surely make. Hypogryphs were rare and their talons were priceless, their feathers prized for fine fashion. Clara fingered the hyphogryph feather tied lazily into their own hair; running their fingers over it in a stab of sorrow as she watched the men begin to butcher the beasts.

“Good thing those rotting birds be dead, I heard a tribe across the mountains was slaughtered by centaurs a week ago.” one man beside her said. He was a plumper fellow and a skilled blacksmith, one of the many. Clara took another bite of apple and waited for the man to continue,

“Aye, don’t suppose they enjoy being killed off but after all they are only beasts themselves, creatures born from hell,” another said. The two continued to talk as Clara watched the gore unfold in the square. The smell of the gutted carcasses stunk with a foul odor, driving most of the onlookers back inside once more.

“Excuse me,” They turned to behold a short squat fellow, blind in one eye, bearing the King’s sigil. “The King requests your presence at once. He wonders if you finished your task in regards to the dragon.” Clara made no move to their stance but only took another bite of apple, chewing slowly before answering without meeting his gaze:

“It has been taken care of.” The nervous man stuttered to reply,

“I have no doubt of it, the king only wishes for proof of it.” They glared at him sternly,

“It has been taken care of.” They repeated. The man nodded slowly and then, gaining some courage answered:

“You may tell that to the king. Now please, I insist.” Clara nodded and stepped forward, allowing the man to lead them through the crowded streets. In nearly every shop something resembling dead fae was presented with pride. Unicorn hooves, fairy wings, mermaid fins. Each they eyed with disgust, trying not to imagine how many must have died.

The man did not lead her to the throne room, but rather a small courtyard that looked over the sea of Sunar. Strands of red hair escaped from their two long braids, obscuring their face; they pushed them back with a wave of their hand and coughed loudly. The King turned to them from where he had sat writing. He was not anything special, even in his lavish robes of green and gold. Black eyes glanced upward toward them.

“Clara, you’ve returned.” He smiled with false happiness.

“Where’s my money?” The king blinked dumbly for a moment then waved his hand,

“We will get to that. Now you have killed the beast haven’t you?” They rolled their eyes,

“It has been taken care of.” The king stepped closer, brow furrowed. If he meant to threaten them with his presence, he was failing miserably.

“That is not what I asked you,” he hissed, “did you kill the worm or not?” Clara did not break his gaze as they reached into a leather bag slung across her chest and pulled out a claw. It belonged to a dragon of the earth, molted brown and green scales slightly obscured by rust colored blood. The three claws still sharp were stained with gore. The king’s eyes widened, stepping back.

“So you have killed the monster.” Clara said nothing but threw it towards him; he did not catch it but let it drop upon the stones with a thud, cracking some of the scabbed serrated flesh. Blood trickled slowly from the severed limb.

“Where is my money?” They demanded once more. The king drew his gaze away from the dragon claw and regarded them with annoyance.

“Yes, yes you will have your money. I will have it brought to you tomorrow.”

“No.” Clara hissed, stepping towards him. “Today or I set free those phoenix your people keep caged in their shops and have them set fire to this place.” The king glared, his breath reeked with alcohol but his eyes were hard, his voice bordering on a snarl.

“You threaten me?” Clara nodded, gripping the dagger concealed beneath the furs they wore. Their hard gaze barring down into him, he was plainly thin of soul. They were not afraid of this or any other king, especially not a human king.

Clara’s eyes narrowed as they leaned in to his face, hissing. “I do my job and I am rewarded for it. I had to track that dragon for several weeks and it was damn hard to kill. See that I am given double my original charge.”

“You cannot be serious. You are a savage!” The king snarled but was unable to refuse them.

“Yes, I am a savage,” Clara smiled, “and you are rid of your dragon problem. Now, my sum.” The king only nodded gesturing them to follow. Together the three walked through the remainder of the courtyard and a poor one at that. Shrubs and trees alike had lost most of their greenery already despite the heat of this particular day. Clara took a breath as they entered the massive fortress itself, built more for protection and fortification then for luxury. Confined places had always made her uneasy in all of her long years of traveling, especially human dwellings. What troubled them more was that this was no flimsy hut but a huge fortification built of stone and iron. Inside was only slightly more impressive than the ill attended courtyard. Banners of many colors lined the gray walls, long wooden tables four in a row but for a single shorter one raised up upon a platform for the royal family made it clear it was a dining room. Behind the table, a detailed tapestry of color was woven. The hired killer eyed it with suspicion; it showed men on horseback slaughtering unicorns, dragons, griffins and other fae.

“Do you like it?” The king inquired as they stopped, Clara made no answer. “My father had it woven over thirty years. Glorious isn’t it, we will begin a new age. Rid of those devil creatures that not only make us rich, but will open the way to expansion in every direction!” They only nodded; the room was much colder than it had been outside

“My payment?” The king nodded,

“Yes of course,” he gestured to an attendant, a young man no older than twenty five with brown hair and a slightly over grown beard. The man bowed, wearing simply brown robes. “See that Clara gets her due,” the king commanded. The servant nodded, bowing once more before giving a nervous glance to Clara and running off.

“I am not a lady,” Clara snarled turning to the king. He simply laughed,

“Call yourself what you will, you will get your money.”

“I am a savage,” They cut him off and for the first time smiled wryly; the scars on their face and neck twisted their lips into an ominous display. The king’s eyes went wide for a second before he stepped back and said with causality,

“May I offer you a drink?” Clara shook her head, she was not about to taste anything made in this forsaken place. “Sit then, I beg of you. Gavin will have your payment in a moment. In the meantime I would like to hear the exact details of the operation for which I have hired you. How was it you managed to kill the beast?” Clara made no motion to sit,

“You didn’t pay me to discuss with you. You paid me to kill.” The king snorted, taking the seat for himself and offering another attendant to bring him wine.

“You aren’t one for conversation I see.” Clara starred at him through dark brown eyes,

“Why bother to talk when one can simply act.” The king laughed again, taking a goblet of mead. “Where was it you said you were from again?” he asked, drinking from his goblet. They shifted her weight, feet stiff in their leather boots.

“The south.” He nodded before a noise broke the silence. The servant returned once more struggling to carry a great chest. Clara turned, judging it on the spot, seems large enough.

Walking briskly to it, without warning the assassin kicked the chest with a heavy force so much that the servant still handing it was knocked backward and the lid flung open. Gems of gold, silver, jade and ruby poured out. Several necklaces and a dagger among the endless coins glinted even in the dark chamber.

“This will do.” Clara said and picked it up with ease. The king smiled,

“I told you I would give you your payment.” They said nothing but stared at him hard and nodded, walking out down the long dining hall.

“The south is a long way from here, you are welcome to stay the night if you wish. I would be most entertained to talk with you over dinner. You can tell me all about your technique.”

“No.” They said simply and turned on her heel once more.

“Clara,” They heard the king stand from his chair, “you are of course the best assassin in this realm. I believe, if you cared to stay the night that you would find it worth your while.” She turned slowly, human filth. The king continued: “That is to say, I have something to show you. Something I think only a woman of your…reputation would appreciate.” He motioned for them to follow and, hoisting the chest on her hip they walked in line behind him. As they exited, Clara flicked a coin from the chest to the ground. The servant crawled tentatively towards it, eyeing them with fear. They only nodded to him and followed the king.

Six

She told herself it was a mercy kill. It was not, one was not supposed to take pleasure in a mercy kill. Marin gladly jumped for any chance to rip her beak through a humans flesh. The fighting was almost done now, it hadn’t lasted long. They had attacked the horde at dawn and took them by surprise. The Gorandu tribal people were known for their skill with arrows and horses but still they proved no match for Marin and her warriors. She killed the man quickly, cutting him down the middle with her talon. He streamed and thrashed but it was useless and hissing at him she continued onward to inspect what was left of the human’s camp leaving him to his death. Many of the skinned tents now lay in ruins, feathers and blood lay among the sand with bowls and tools. Several of the warriors were torturing a poor man past his prime, taking turns stabbing him through with their beaks and battering them with their mighty wings. Marin ignored them, better to get the blood lust out of them now then to have to deal with it all the way back to where the clan made its permanent grounds.

“We have found their leader, as you requested my liege,” Temone said in a husked tone. He was one of the better warriors and his scars proved it. He was older than the rest of the warriors, she included and had been serving as a warrior even before she herself arrived and took over. Should peril ever befall her, she planned to make Temone her successor. He was sharp as well as swift. She nodded firmly,

“Bring him to me,” the large griffin with gray black plumage nodded curtly and walked off in the direction of an especially large tent that had been wrecked. A moment later, Temone dragged a large struggling man to Marin’s talons. He too had seen his fair share of battles as his scars and muscle shown and the war lord eyed him with a critical eye. He looked at her without fear, spitting something in a strange sounding language. Yellow paint was across his eyes and down his nose, his dark eyes were filled with hate but Marin knew too much about hate to know that his fate was one that was undeserving. Again he thrashed, trying to cut her with a poorly made dagger sending sand flying in every direction. Temone held the fallen chief by his waist, bleeding out.

“You and your men have killed many of our warriors, something that is not easily done, you should congratulate yourself,” sarcasm dripped like the blood that ran from her paws and talons. The man thrashed again, attempting to stab at Temone who only needed to crush his beak with more pressure around the man’s severing torso. He cried something in his tongue and drooped, dropping his dagger. “Unfortunately, you will not be attending any celebration held by your people for your deeds, of course most of your people are dead already. You should know that it was easy and that you will not be the last ones to die under our wings. You will be forgotten.” The man looked at her, his eyes no longer held their deep hatred but rather held a hope for relief. He struggled to speak though Marin could tell from his strangled tones and gestures that he was begging, she looked to Temone nodding. Without a thought he fully clamped his beak down, the man fell apart his gaze wide and agonizing. Temone bent his beak to his left wing licking it and blinking unpleasantly.

“Humans taste disgusting.” Marin only nodded, their chief would not be dead for some hours but none who could heal him had survived. With green eyes she surveyed the last of the damage. Several had grown bored and had taken to the air, flying in circles and swooping down shrieking to torment the dying. Marin called them to land, and gathered the others to her.

“Kill the survivors. We fly at once,” they bowed and smiled pleased at their orders and filed out, flicking their tails with glee. “Temone are there any deaths or injuries to report?”

“Not from my observation,” she nodded. “Very good, join the others. Notify me when they are done.”

“Humbly my liege,” Marin watched him go before walking around the desolated village once more. It could hardly be considered a village, more like a series of tents trying to carve out some resemblance of civilization in the endless burning dunes. They would return to the rocks, she decided as the sun beat down hot upon her feathers. A day should be enough to let them rest before they continued across the desert from east to west, north to south. The Gurando Hordes had killed too many, it was time they were killed off. That will be my task, I will cleanse the desert of these filth and then once all is said and done, then I will fly across the Sea of Sunar. Marin smiled to herself privately, the breeze of the ocean running through her wings; the endless abyss of blue stretched out before her and then, the adventure beyond. A young griffin padded up to her meekly, bowing.

“My liege, we have found a human woman. She appears to be pregnant.” Marin stared and looked up to where four griffins leered down at a small human woman, noticeably along in her pregnancy who coward beneath some ruined fabrics. Only her brown eyes shown as she shook. Jarkin would have killed her on the spot, or done something worse such as torture. Marin folded her wings and looked around, so much destruction had already been done and there was no other Gorandu camp around for many miles.

“Leave her.” She finally decided, a death in the desert stranded and alone was far more merciful then leaving the woman at the mercy of the griffin warriors. For a brief moment, Marin caught the woman’s eyes. They were deep and brown and terrified for her unborn child. Something in her protested, she should at least dig for some water for her. She shook her head quickly, perhaps if it was another age Marin would do some kindness; take her to the next encampment or leave her with water and food but it was no longer an age of tolerance. She knew in the sands that things were changing fast. Humans had been killing all along the Mountains of Karah, pushing further and further into the Wild Wood and the Aoirian Plains. The Phoenix tail, which separated the Griffin Desert from the costal lands, was also filled with human villages and kingdoms. If she let this woman go on more merciful terms, what prevented her from seeking out more bands and rallying to battle? Marin nodded to the warrior who was still prostrated before her:

“Leave her, she will die eventually.” The youngling nodded and slunk away to tell his fellows. Temone had come to her side as she contemplated her decision and now met her eyes with respect and courage.

“Are you sure that is wise?” Marin looked at him sharply, being his superior he had no right to speak up to her orders. But she had appointed him her second when she had been promoted by the Great Jarkin to serve as his War Lord and leader in his stead.

“You question my orders?” she asked contemptuously. The dark griffin shook his head and flicked his lion’s tail.

“No my liege, only the indirect result of them, what if this woman should live and find some shelter, making her way to other camps? This is an encampment of the hordes.” Marin considered, looking at the woman once more who still coward though she had poked her head from the fabrics. Long black hair matted her face which was smeared with sand and blood. Her lips trembled as tears ran down her high cheeks. The war lord of the griffins said nothing to the human and only regarded Temone.

“There is no water or food around for many lengths, we have destroyed the well. Let her go and roam the dunes, she will not last long.” Her second said nothing only nodded and she knew by his eyes that he had half the wit to protest. For it she reared and struck with her beak, biting him hard on the shoulder. He made no noise or outcry but only walked away. Marin signaled and before she could look at the human woman again, they took to the air. It did not take long before the standing stones of the Fifth Clan’s nesting grounds came into view. From the sky, Marin could see the elders watching them from their perches atop the largest of the rocks.

Now they will see what my success has brought them. With the slaughter of the Gorandu hordes those plump chickens may finally respect me. The circle of the five elders had been harder to win over then even the demi-god himself. Though they tolerated her, Marin regarded them with cool hatred and annoyance that she should have to seek their approval. They made all of her decisions more difficult and tedious and none of them so much as respected any of her deeds. Not even when they had formally presided over the ceremony in which she had been made their leaders second in command. With a glare cast down she landed thick upon the hot sand.

“See to your mates and hatchlings if you have any and be sure to eat well. We leave to rid our desert of this human filth a day after the next.” She dismissed her soldiers at that as they thankfully bowed and took flight. Squawks and cries filled the air at once of happy chicks and feathered wings embracing one another, Marin watched them as she stood alone. There was no one to come for her. Heaving a sigh after the others had reunited with their mates and offspring, the ever feared war lord finally bent her head to drink a little ways off from where the rocks stood out. The spring had been dug before she arrived and had somehow kept full throughout the days and nights where thirsty griffins drank continuously. It was one of the reasons The Great Jarkin had picked this place for the Fifth Clan. It was rumored that the mother of griffins, Grendal herself had taken pity on the griffins when they were banished from their homeland and had dropped one of her feathers down and from that feather jumped the spring which never emptied. To Marin’s relief, the others were busy in recounting battle stories and the spring was deserted. The water was cool, almost too cool upon her fragile beak. She drank slow, cherishing every drop and ruffled her feathers. The liquid refreshed her mind as she sat and wiped sand from her eyes with a forepaw. Gods know the next time we will come upon a spring again. Other than the one that the Fifth Clan guarded, there was only two other resources of water known and it lay south east.

“What is this about going on an escapade to wipe out the Gorandu Hordes?” Marin’s feathers rose and her beak clenched, Sobek. Out of all of the elders, Sobek forever was a burden and a thorn in Marin’s paw. It had been he who questioned Jarkin’s promotion of her and he ever tried to dismiss her of her rank. He was not the oldest or the youngest of the five, but sat somewhere in the middle with little distinguishing qualities except for his over bearing and poisonous words that dripped with selfish conservative notions.

“It is long time we take what is rightfully ours,” Marin hissed turning to face him. He was not especially large or small. In his youth he had been of a light shade like the rising sun, but his plumage had turned long ago to white and many feathers were missing from his wings. The feathers about his head stuck out awkwardly and his eyes had sunken with years of gazing at the negatively morbid aspects of life. “This desert belongs to us. To The Great Jarkin and we have let the hordes rule over it for too long. There is another spring in the east and an ocean to the west if only we could breach it. We could leave this forsaken desert, back to our homeland.”

“That was tried before your time and it failed. The dragons of the north tore us apart when they came from the Helm of the Eternal Flame and spread across the world. We tried to take back our lands in the west, but the dragons held it. Then the dragons died off and the humans took it.” He spoke slowly as if bored. Marin hissed at him, furious with his lack of compassion.

“So you are content to wither here while we slowly die? There was a time when our magic was impossible to surpass. A time when we ruled the coast of the sea, our magic was taken from us and we were driven out to this desert!”

“I am content to live. Jarkin has filled your head with stories as well as lies it seems,” Sobek mused. Marin stared at him, fighting all impulses within her to attack. He was weak and could easily be killed. The elder saw her fury and laughed at it.

“Well I am not and I will not be content until we are back to the sea. I was not appointed by The Great Jarkin for nothing. This is my purpose. Yours is to council, I suggest you leave me to my business and I shall leave you to yours.” Sobek smiled, his particularly long beak twisting into a disturbing smirk.

“I hate to blemish your perfect vision of patriotism, but there are many obstacles before the sea.” Marin rolled her bright eyes, the heat of the sun was now nothing compared to the heat in her chest.

“I know about the Phoniex Tail!” She spat dubiously, the elder only broadened his smile.

“There is much more in the way besides the Phoniex Tail. There is a city; and in that city a weapon.”

“What weapon?” Marin snorted; the Great Jarkin had never mentioned a weapon when he spoke of the state of their homeland.

“They call it the Seventh Sword.” Marin’s eyes widened, and then she hissed. “Then I will destroy the sword and the city that keeps it. I will take back our home and our magic.” Sobek laughed; a shrill, trilling laugh that caused the stones to creek and Marin to curse him.

“And how are you going to do that?” the successor of Sobek’s demigod smiled, her green eyes gleaming in the setting sun.

“I’m going to summon The Great Jarkin.”

Seven

If Len had to stop one more time, he was sure he would go mad, leaving his father and the others to the mess of the Wild Wood. It was taking too long; they should have been in Quvoa two days ago. Human villages had forced them to detour more than once, taking a long and winding route rather than a straight shot. Already five of their small band had lagged too far behind and had been killed, what was worse three of the five had been small colts.

We will be lucky of any of us reach Quvoa. If I were king I’d say we charge straight to the elven city, humans or not. Our warriors could flank those unable to fight and we would make it to relative safety sooner than dragging out our luck and letting the humans pick us off one by one. A chill breeze calmed the fire in his chest, if only for a moment. At least the days were getting shorter, they could be thankful of that. Len jumped as someone pushed him forward with their shoulder, a young mare. She murmured an apology but kept walking; several others eyed him with dreary hope and fear. He felt their emotions like rocks in his stomach, this fear had been festering in them because his father refused to fight back and was content to remain neutral, because his father, their king was a coward.

“Len,” Glabell’s voice nearly made the prince rear up in fear that his father had heard his thoughts. “I want you to stay at the back and keep those falling behind from getting lost. We cannot risk more murders.” Len eyed him with a scowl that could be perceived as immature.

“You should go to the back,” he dared, “why should I have to stay behind? I’ve made the journey to Quvoa not long ago and you haven’t been there in ages. I know these woods better then you.” Glabell glared silently at his son. Len smirked with pride; his father would not risk disciplining him in front of the herd. It would reflect badly on both of them.

“You will do as I say,” the king hissed viciously. Len opened his mouth to protest but Glabell’s fierce demeanor was not to be tested. “You have much to learn Len. You are rash, bold and perhaps too brave. You are just like,” here he stopped nosing Len’s shoulder to push him towards the back of the ever trotting heard. Len shoved backward against him snorting.

“Just like my mother?” He snarled and reared in anger, turning away to urge the weaker ones forward. He did not gaze back at the king.

Coward, how dare he. He is only jealous because I am not afraid, I will not be made a silent horse by those humans. Len fumed but eventually his steps in the soft earth and the chill breeze of the wind calmed him. Far ahead through the branches he could see his father, looking forward and then glancing back to the herd who plodded along. Ieba seemed to be the only one un-tired. Curious, for she was older than any other in the herd, all the more reason to be wary of her.

Len never felt at ease with the old nag. There was something different about her, something he didn’t know. But then again, Len knew hardly anything of his mother either. Glabell never spoke of her. All he had was a name, Demetter. Other than the fact that he had been told repeatedly that he resembled her in his eyes. They were uncommonly light brown, considered peculiar. The herd did not trust Ieba fully either, though no one would ever admit it . Ashamed as he was, Len would have to agree with them. She had not been around when he was born, rather she had shown up one day long ago, out of the woods going to Glabell and speaking with him. All he knew was that she was his mother’s mother and had come from the west. Just days ago she had revealed something else too, she had lived with humans. Guilt tugged inside of Len’s breast for he knew that he should treasure any connection to his mother, not fear or suspect it.

“You are restless princeling” Len jumped, catching his hoof on a root and stumbled, Ieba walked beside him: her milky eyes stirring.

Did she? Len pushed the possibility behind his logical mind as fast has he regained his footing and instead continued on, answering modestly,

“We should have been to Quvoa by now.” The old nag nodded, keeping perfectly in step with him despite the many rocks and roots that lay before them.

“Patience is a virtue young lord.” Len held back a snort, only remaining silent. “We will be there soon enough. We get there when we get there.”

“Will we get there before the rest of our herd is picked off?” The prince snarled, unable to contain himself. A black colored mare, walking just ahead of them turned and blinked at the outburst. Len looked at her until her dark eyes looked away and she continued on. Ieba examined him critically making the hair on his withers raise. It was whispered that those who spent time with humans gained some of their hideous abilities. Perhaps reading minds and thoughts was one of them.

What is she truly looking at, my skin or my…mind? The old mare snorted and walked along,

“You must trust your father young one. He has seen many battles and knows the ways of war.” The use of the word war set Len’s step quicker, with fear or excitement he did not know. It was growing light once more unfortunately, all the more reason to go faster.

“You mentioned days ago, that you had lived with the humans. That you spent time in a human city?” Len inquired, hopping to gain something more than sore hooves by the end of the day. He would not let his grand-dam remain a secret like his mother. Ieba smiled, laughing eerily with a whistling sound.

“I did, a long time ago.” Len cocked his head,

“Where among the humans?” He expected the old one to reprimand him or refuse to answer but she said pleasantly,

“In a city on the coast of the Sea of Sunar, a great fortress of a place they call Malavalon.”

“I have never heard of it before,” was all that Len could say. Ieba nodded, plodding along,

“Perhaps it is better that way young prince.” The prince did not press more; although he did not admit it to himself; he was frightened of the old nag. It took two more days to finally reach the city of Quvoa, two more short days and three long nights. Winter was coming, and fast. Len had always gone west in the winter months, the herd moving from the plains into the wood. Though in all his life, (aside from a few days ago) had he been so deep into its winding depths. Winter on the Aiorian Plaines was not a forgiving one, the winds were unyielding and ever present and there was no shelter for any wild creatures to be had. The Wild Wood provided some covering and food, even if it was scarce. Yet even as they annually migrated into the woods for the winter months, the unicorns never strayed too far into the land. Quvoa was situated in the middle of the forest and elves would brave and amount of snow or ice for the promise of a horn or hoof. Though he had succeeded in his journey to the city of the elves, Len was not about to feel at ease. His father had taken a different route and they traveled with those who were vulnerable. Finally, the lights of the lanterns were seen through the thick branches. Len whinnied loudly, causing a stir as he charged fourth from his position in the back of the herd. Wildly the others looked around, padding at the ground, rearing and stamping in confusion.

“Len!” The young unicorn’s pride and excitement spiraled as his father approached him, brushing up against his shoulder and chiding him to be still.

“We are not particularly welcome in this city; see that you do not cause a commotion. We would not want to do anything rash.” Len rolled his eyes but steadied, content to do anything if it would at least bring them closer to progress. They walked forward, Len on one side of his father and Ieba on the other. Branches gave way to even taller trees and amid them, thousands of lanterns of every color lit the dark wood. Small structures set up in the canopy and trunks of the trees stood out everywhere. The herd moved slowly, eyes gazing up in wonder and in fear. Len, though anxious made sure not to show any emotion other than that of courage. He had been so scared when his father sent him to the elves, they were mysterious, violent creatures, silent and deadly. He had been held together by sheer force of will alone while he talked with them inside his heart, the heart of a colt he had been on the edge of fleeing the entire time. It was with that same will now that he fought to compose himself.

"Glabell, King of The Unicorns, welcome to Quova." Len nearly jumped from his skin as he beheld t the elven king. Okenmard, he was as splendid as he was intimidating. Brown of hair that matched the forest floor, his robes made from dragonfly wings and flower petals. A vined headdress mixed and mangled with his long hair, sat upon his head. His skin the color of pine tree needles shimmered with gloss. But it was his eyes that made Len shiver and his tail flick. They were large, insect like and pupils unusually small, the iris was as yellow as the sun and blinked with a double lid fast and involuntary. Both Okenmard’s ears and fingers were long and pointed. He nodded to Glabell, studying the unicorn as a butcher may a hog. Glabell matched his gaze with equal dignity and glory.

“I believe we have not had the pleasure in meeting, Glabell.” Len shivered but was determined to fix his eyes to the king. When Len had come here to speak with the elves, he had been spared the misfortune of meeting with their king in person. Now however, he wished that he had met him, so that he could be better prepared. The prince eyed his father with anticipation, but the unicorn king did not bow. Len’s heart hammered with fear until it was Ieba who spoke. She bowed, lowering her front hooves and dipping her head.

“We are most grateful to you for receiving us at such a late and untimely manner. We have traveled long and many of us need rest. A king such high reputation such as yourself, with such greatness and such duties to his name would surely not deny hospitality to those who have come such a long way to seek your council.” The king of the elves examined her, his eyes blinking and critical. Len huffed a breath and shifted his hooves, ready to spring if the elf decided to attack. His heart pounded as he readied his strength. Magic would be needed if he was to fight the king.

“Indeed,” came the steely reply. His father dipped his head, but only slight and Len too was forced to do the same. He kept his ears sharp to hear his father’s words.

“Let us not speak halfhearted words King Okenmard. You know well as I that we are not allies. You have killed a fair number of my kind as have we. A stallion of ours died some days ago and spoke of elves, a hunting party of five being killed. We come to talk, not of peace between our races but some agreement to deal with those who are responsible for both races dead, humans.”

“Your son came to my city not three moons ago speaking much the same words,” at this the King turned to Len who met his eyes with contempt. Despite the cold and the flakes of snow which had begun to fall, the unicorn prince felt heat rise in his limbs and sweat drip down his neck. The weight of the elven king barred down on him until at last he was forced resentfully to withdraw his gaze.

“Len is it? Prince Len, tell me young one: does your father speak the truth? Does the great Glabell come to seek my council? I should be flattered. Not since the Great Jarkin has such a ruler been able to destroy my people so. You must be proud.” Len breathed deeply and spoke slowly, holding his tongue to make sure his voice did not shake.

“Your elves have killed three times as many of our people as we have yours. My father comes with reason to discuss what is to be done against a greater evil. One greater than you if it can be fathomed.” The king’s eyes widened even more so, Len smirked considering himself accomplished.

“I see your father may be a noble ruler. He lacks however in the discipline of his successor, but then again, that is to be expected of plains renegades.” Len hissed and lowered his horn, the king had gone too far. Okenmard laughed as Glabell stepped between them.

“My apologies for the rash actions of my son. He is young and knows not to whom he speaks.”

“I know to whom I speak father.” Len hissed and tried parrying to the side once more. The king of the unicorns was faster; turning briefly their eyes met under which Len’s furry melted some. He had embarrassed his father in front of their greatest enemies and he would pay for it once they were out of sight.

“You are fortunate Glabell, that you are not the only one who has come in these recent days. Your herd may stay and graze in what little clearing the forest provides. The Plains of Aior is far from here, and your herd looks less than strong. You may stay, so long as you do not wonder within my city unless invited. Let your people rest, tomorrow evening we may speak formally.” With that the elven king bowed curtly, Glabell nodded and Len watched with rage and fear as the tall king walked away. Two more elves approached, each held staffs of wood in their hands and were colored in dark robes made of dried leaves. They led the herd silently through the trees, away from the lanterns of the city into a clearing no larger than the size of a pond. Len moved, though he was not accustomed to being treated like some dumb animal. The clearing was not deserted, a bad of centaurs had already made themselves at home. Len regarded them with suspicion, keeping his eyes trained on them. Suddenly Ieba reared up, crying out a name in joy and disbelief:

“Nierief!” She galloped forward like a filly again towards a centaur who had been sharpening an arrow. Len looked to Glabell, who took no heed towards it. If anything the unicorn king managed a small smile and led his herd to the far corner of the clearing. Len kept his eyes on his grand dam who spoke to the centaur with excitement and laughter as they embraced.

Just another mystery, he thought bitterly. Just fae keeping secrets from me, I am even more in the dark then I thought. Len hissed, his anger rising though he bent down to eat and forced himself to keep face. He may be kept in the dark, but not for long.

Clara through open the heavy oak doors with ease, beholding a grand room the King had provided for their lodgings. By human standards it was luxuriously built. Dark mahogany pillars and floors set the tone with ornate gold and blue carpeting lain over. There was a grand marble fire place and ceiling to floor windows aligned the entire room, looking out over the Sea of Sunar. A scullery maid tucked goose down sheets into the bed and looked up suddenly as Clara strode in looking around briskly. Spotting a bowl of fresh fruit upon a hard wood table in a silver dish, the assassin raised a brow plucking up an apple and bit into it.

“My lady?” The maid who had been working on the bed crossed over to her humbly. Clara took another bite and looked the servant up and down,

“I am no lady…but what?” The maid’s eyes widened and she stuttered before spitting out,

“My name is Isabel my lady. Do you find your accommodations suitable?” Clara looked around once more; their home was the uninhabitable southern tip of the Mountains of Karah on the boarder of mountain and desert. They thought their hut was more fine then anything carved by human hands. It was after all, a prison confined and built by sacred trees from the Wild Wood no doubt. Clara distained structure of any kind, even that which was architectural; chaos was their food, they fed off of it like bread.

“I’ve seen better, but it will do. Carry on.” Isabell frowned, clearly hurt but Clara took no notice and instead held out the half eaten fruit, juice running down her tattooed arm. “Apple?”

“N...no thank you my lady,” Isabel stammered. Clara shrugged,

Stupid human, what are you gawking about now? The servant stood frozen as the assassin walked around the room inspecting it before making her way to the window. The sea was calm today; a breeze blew in thought the large window, stirring the curtains and Clara’s braids. Momentarily, they closed their eyes. At least some part of the earth was free from human control. They opened their eyes once more, regarding the servant coolly:

“Can I help you?” The woman stood still and bowed her head after a moment.

“Forgive me my lady, if you need anything please do not hesitate to call for me.” Isabel bowed, her plain yellow dress rippling. With a curt nod Clara sent her away and turned back to the ocean.

I could change now, into a gull and fly away. I could make it look like I climbed out the window. Clara contemplated it; after all They were considered the swiftest shape shifter of them all; if all meant all left. But there were no shape shifters left. They had either been killed by humans long ago, or they had shifted into humans permanently in order to protect themselves. The hippogryph feather twisted in the wind, tangling her hair even more.

No, better stay. It is not every day that the king of Interius himself offers to host a fae. Better to stay and see if he has anything of value. Shape shifter, assassin, thief, dragon slayer, Killer of Kings, Wildling, savage, witch, Clara had been called many things, none of which pleasant. They shrugged once more, looking out over the water and finished her apple, tossing it to the streets below and watching it fall.

Falling, just like magic, just like the fae. I wonder how long it will take this time. Kingdoms have risen and fallen in the end, mountains have crumbled and oceans turned to deserts. How long until magic becomes a fable, how long before the rest of the fae fall? The shape shifter turned from the window and threw themselves down on the bed, staring up at the wooden carvings, laughing at the lousy work of whatever carving master had etched the wood. Clearly the king had never seen the craftsmanship of fauns or dryads. Though they hated to admit it, the bed was soft. Much softer than anything else they had slept on; the assassin was used to the sleepless nights of the wild mountains and endless forests. Perhaps, a small part of them was great full. As the sun set on the horizon and the warmth of the sun streamed through the window, Clara felt themselves slowly succumbing to sleep.

No! They thought with a panic, standing up and kicking the bed post. Must not sleep, musn’t let my guard down. That is what they would want. They crossed the room, sitting at the small table which had been arranged with a brush and a mirror. Clara sneered into it, finding their reflection as ferocious and foreign as their own thoughts. Their human form as tasteful enough, they had modified it over the years since they were forced to be concealed in it more and more; for safety. Their hair was bright orange, or at least it was supposed to be. Days of crawling around in the wilderness made it matted with sticks and leaves. It was more of a rusty red than anything else, wound in two large braids that fell down to their hips. Scars matted their strong featured face; scars marred their arms, legs and torso even more so. It was the tattoos that they were most proud of. They adorned their body in various designs, words and symbols. They were painted along their arms and across their neck, shoulders, back and stomach. Furs and leather covered the rest of their body, sandals and pants underneath a split skirt. Clara fingered the hypogryph feather once more, twirling it around their index finger.

Maybe I shall become a hypogryph and attack? The thought made her laugh and she pictured it. It wouldn’t be the first time they had taken on many attackers at once. A knock tore them from their thoughts,

“What?” They snarled, Isabell’s quiet voice sounded from outside:

“My lady, I have something for you.” Clara rolled their eyes, getting up from the stool and crossing over the doors.

“Stop calling me lady,” they jerked the door open a crack and did not move as the women slid awkwardly into the room.

“What happened to your eye?” Clara asked, Isabel’s left eye was dark and swollen.

“My own fault my lady, I dropped a pot.” The shape shifter rolled her eyes, they knew a black eye when they saw one.

“What is that?" Clara nodded to the garment which Isabel held in her arms.

“The king requests your presence at dinner my lady,” the maid shrieked as Clara’s dagger nearly missed her head, embedding itself in the door.

“The next time you call me a lady, I won’t miss.” The shifter snarled and pulled their dagger free with ease.

“The, the king requests also that you wear this dress.” Clara examined it as Isabel held it up. It was a monstrous piece of cloth, lilac purple with many ruffles and a tight corseted top.

“I’ll wear no such thing.” The maid went wide eyed once more,

“Please my, please, the king has never been denied a request before.”

“There is a first time for everything.” Clara shrugged, walking once more to the bed and slipping off their left boot. They made an effort to slam it against the rug, sending muck everywhere. Isabel looked as though she was going to cry or scream.

“Call me when dinner is ready and not before.” They demanded before the maid could object. They did not have to look twice as Isabel scurried from the room.

Clara’s stomach rumbled restlessly before Isabel called for them later that evening. The sun had set long ago on the ocean and in the autumn breeze, the wind quickly turned from heat to frigidness. But Clara didn’t mind the cold, they preferred it.

The world is cold, might as well get used to it. They smirked, sitting on the railing of the window when the maid called gently,

“My- Miss Clara, dinner is ready in the grand hall. The king awaits your presence.” Rolling their eyes the shape shifter walked over to the door and flung it open immediately noticing Isabel’s red dress was stained with water and a reddish color that could only be blood.

“I am assuming that is red wine on your dress and not blood?” The maid trembled, Clara walked passed her, down the stone cold corridor. “The king do that to you?” Isabel did not answer, the shape shifter turned sharply on their heel, nearly sending the maid flying backward. Reaching through their vest, they gripped another of their many daggers this one short and less precious but sharp, slipping it to the terrified maid. “Next time he beats you,” Isabel took it shaking, her eyes wide with fear.

“No…I couldn’t possibly.”

“I’m not telling you to do anything with it; I’m simply giving you a means. It’s up to you whether or not you chose to defend yourself.” Without waiting for a reply Clara turned once more, their boots heavy against the stone. The feast looked edible enough by the shape shifters estimate. It was not the first time they had dined with royalty and they were sure that it would not be the last. The king stood as they entered, looking her up and down with fright.

“Isabel must not have brought you the dress I sent, that stupid girl.” Clara strode over to the table, tearing off a large goat leg and bit into it with more savagery than necessary,

“Oh she brought it to me, I simply chose not to wear it.” The king looked bewildered for a moment, then quickly concealed it,

“I am not accustomed to being denied when I request something.” Clara shrugged, picking up an apple from a platter of fruit, tossing it a few times in the air before eating it in four large bites.

“You had better start, times are changing.”

“Please, sit.” The king’s smile could not have been more fake as he gestured to the seat at the far end of the table. Clara turned her back on him as she walked, facing the morbid tapestry once more, another example of human sadism. They threw themselves in the chair, grabbing for a goblet of wine and drowning it down in gulps.

“You certainly didn’t pick up any manners in the south I see.” They shrugged and reached for the grapes, swinging their legs around so that they dangled over the arm of the chair.

“What good are manners, food is food.” The king eyed them, sipping his wine gently. Clara held the goblet in their hand, examining it for its texture was not that of metal or wood but something harder and more expensive.

Unicorn hoof. They knew by the color and the smoothness, oh yes Unicorn. They always pay a pretty price for them. Always save the hooves if you can they tell me. Bring me back the horn. HA! If only they knew the true power of those creatures. Easy enough to find a unicorn, harder to kill one, that’s for sure. Damn beasts.

“Unicorn hoof from the foreign plains to the east.” The king said, Clara shrugged:

“You sound proud of yourself. Unicorn parts are plentiful in the east, tribes trade them like stones they do.” They smirked at the huff of the king’s breath, obviously put down. Clara had seen enough of humans throughout the world to know their resources by region. Those who made their homes in the Wild Wood and the Aiorian Plains hunted unicorns by the dozen. They had killed and hunted unicorns for the plainsmen and the woodsmen alike, a nasty and rather risky business which they did not engage in lightly. They ate silently for a time, Clara stealing glances at the pompous human ruler.

“These are fairy wings upon the table, for decoration. Don’t they shimmer in the candle light?” The shape shifter looked at them, raising a brow.

“Fairy wings shimmer best under the gleam of the moon when still attached to their wearers.” The king tore bread with his yellow teeth, nearly snarling in frustration yet somehow desperately trying to keep decorum. Clara nearly laughed with amusement.

“Does nothing I present impress you?” They shrugged once more.

“I am a traveler of many worlds dear king; it is hard to impress me. Try not to take it too personally.” At this he rose, walking over to them. Under their napkin they folded a knife, no use wasting one of their own daggers. He leaned close, breath reeking of drink:

“Perhaps if you follow me, I will show you something that would make you change your mind.” The shape shifter stood, brushing passed him easily.

“You’ve kept me here far longer than I normally would allow. Let us hope for your sake, it is worth it.” His cheeks reddened, yet he retorted with nothing. Human fear, such an easy thing to sense, human authority, now that is purely funny.

The king walked ahead of them, leading them away from the candlelight of the banquet hall down a dark and otherwise obscure corridor. Doors lined either side, what Clara wouldn’t give to peek within each of them. They held riches inside no doubt. Each door was ignored until they came to the last.

They stepped off of the stair; Clara glanced up but saw nothing. Only blackness, one of the drawbacks to a human form was comparatively dull vision. They turned their gaze to the large door before them, iron. A lesser fae would have at least stepped backward involuntarily, but Clara had more control than most.

“Iron,” the king stated proudly as he turned from them, digging among his robes. They leaned slightly, trying to see in the dark what he was fishing for. “Poisonous to those mongrel fae and their lot. This much iron could fell even the most powerful dragon, for it is not just any iron; but iron imbued with the magic of highest order of sorcerers and sorceresses and between its sheets of iron, dragon’s blood.”

It cannot be, Clara thought suddenly. But it was not the fear of the fortifications that astounded her; it was the possibility of what lay beyond. They nearly erupted in laughter, Simple human. You are leading me directly to what I have been searching for all these years. The thing all fae have searched for since the sealing of the realms. Something in their mind thought it a distant wish, an impossible dream but the power of youth still lived in the ancient shape shifter and for the first time since they could remember, they were excited.

A guard stood, straightening as the king entered dressed from head to toe in metal and carrying a strange looking staff.

A mage, Clara knew by the scale shaped top of the staff, silver with a red ruby between the two razors of the lobster shaped prongs. The mage’s eyes widened, mages had after all, the irritating ability to recognize most fae. As the king made the orders, they lifted a finger to their lips. Unfortunately shifters could only change their bodies, not their minds and could not speak into the minds of others, but Clara possessed a much simpler talent; one that could be just as effective, eye contact.

You reveal me; I’ll kill you and your king before you can conjure a spark. You know who I am. Don’t think I won’t. Besides, whatever lies beyond that door may be valuable enough for me to take and if I do take whatever it is, I would be in a place to thank you. The mage said nothing, stepping aside. They nodded to him curtly before following the king down the stairs. He turned suddenly to them, extending a hand. They rolled their eyes and continued past him on the stairs, leaping lightly for the stairs were narrow and below only lay darkness.

“I wouldn’t do that my lady,” the king said patronizing. “What I am about to show you is something I do not lightly guard. This time the shape shifter stopped short,

“What is it that you are planning on showing me?” The king laughed, grabbing a single torch that stuck out from the stone, the only source of light in the cold dark abyss which consumed them as they walked down the spiraling stair.

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you now would it?” They laughed,

“How do I know you’re not planning on strangling me down here?” The king leaned close to them, Clara met his gaze head on, unblinking.

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already.” He snarled they only smiled.

“Right, you hired me after all, the best assassin in the entire realm and you think you could kill me?” The cold bit at them:

“You are lucky that I am a merciful man. What I am about to show you is something that my father, and my father before him take with great pride. I think you will find it most amusing, perhaps then after you have seen my power, you won’t think yourself so cunning.” With that, he opened the door. The room was small, tiny in fact and dark. All around them Clara could sense the magic of several different fae, dragon, elf, unicorn, a dozen more. It was past that spark to which Clara looked, at the far end of the room upon a raised dias, was a sword.

Yes! This is it, this is it. The Seventh Sword, The Spark of Creation.

The Sparks of Creation was a thing of legend in all the realms. When the gods made the world, a two sparks of that creation had escaped their claws. No one knew where either was though it was told that somehow a human had gotten a hold of it and from that spark made a weapon. The Seventh Sword, the last of the Great Weapons of the Great Children of humankind. They stepped forward, unable to take her eyes off of it.

So long, voices long pushed to the far side of her mind whispered; so long you searched for this. All of those killings, all of the death and the lies, the betrayal, all worth it now if only you get the sword. If only you could open the realms once more. Take it, he is slower then you and no power within the realms could match your skill. For the slightest moment, she considered it. But lessons learned on battle fields and in the dark, quiet, frightening forgotten places of the earth are not forgotten easily. The shape shifter was a war veteran and an outsider, used to seeing their desires before their very eyes, used to longing and waiting. They would wait again if they had to. For now, they only looked to the king, unable to meet the swords gaze for it pulled at them with immense power as if wanting to be taken. Perhaps it longed to be in their hand, as much as they longed to wield it.

The king stepped forward, his own eyes swelled with desire and awe as he cautiously stepped forward, the corridor stretching out for eons. One step forward, three steps back, cold and unforgiving like the rest of the world. Clara followed, forcing their arms to cross over their chest and their eyes to glance at the walls. The Seventh Sword was not the only thing of power here. The mage had let down the guarded magic when they entered but the shadow of it remained, along with the rest of the magic. They shivered their head pounding. The shape shifter, thousands of years old had magic of their own, powerful magic. But what lay in this room, what lay inside the sword was a magic they had seldom felt and it made them want to run. They approached the sword, stepping up onto the dias. It was held by two hooks, obscured in the dark so that it appeared to be floating. The structure of the blade itself was simple: double edged with a hilt made of jade and ebony, a dragon’s eye carved into the pommel. Script in an ancient language of man was etched onto the hilt. The sword glowed green, showering the shape shifter assassin and the human king in an ominous glow. The king reached out a hand, Clara started, reaching for their dagger; he stopped short, laughing.

“Even I am forbidden to touch this blade. The magic here is deep, ancient and sensitive assassin. So I am warning you, if you try anything, it will turn on again.” Clara rolled their eyes, but the information he gave them was valuable:

“Magic cannot be lit and extinguished like a candle,” he looked up to them and for a moment they wondered if he was seeing through their guise, if he knew what they were. He did not, he only asked roughly:

“And how would you know of magic?” They rolled their eyes once more trying to ignore the power which reached out to them from the sword, like a lost child looking for a home.

“When you live in the wilds as I do, you must know the ways of the beasts that reside there. You must learn their magic. What good of an assassin would I be if I could not use the power of the fae against them?”

“Magic is not learned, it is inherited and, with the right wizards it can be manipulated to turn off and on just as you say.” Again they rolled their eyes but inside they snarled, tightening their grip on their own forearm, wizards, how I’d love to slaughter them looking back at the sword with envy and delight.

“Are you impressed now, to see The Seventh Sword? The very spark of creation is said to be within it you know?” They only nodded, restraining herself from snapping the man’s neck. They could see it now in their mind, it would be so easy to do. But the magic, the magic was what stopped her. No doubt it this chamber had been constructed by wizards, exploiters of magic. But the magic itself was powerful enough that they did not know what it would do should the mage outside activate it once more to its full potential.

“Well King, I must say you have impressed me. The Seventh Sword that is quite a weapon.” He only smiled, lingering over it, leering as if it were some pray to be mangled and tormented.

“Come,” he said; his eyes unmoving, “we should not linger, the magic has been down for too long already and it will automatically start again in a few moments. You would not want to be here when it does.”

“Right,” they said and without giving the sword a second glance she turned away, the king trailing after them like a child who had not been allowed to take a sweetie. They walked from the door, the shape shifter stealing a glance over their shoulder at the emerald sword in the dark. It looked lonely and daring, challenging them. Clara was not one to back down from a challenge,

“I’ll be back,” they whispered venomously at it as the great door closed. The mage’s eyes caught their own in a concerned gaze as they walked back to the stairs; they nodded at him and followed the king. Back in the grand hall, the banquet had been cleared much to Clara’s dismay. The magic in the room, the magic of the Seventh Sword drained them and for the first time in a long time the old shape shifter felt hungry.

“Will you be staying the rest of the night?” The king inquired, they shook their head.

“I have dwindled too long dear king. Thank you for your hospitality, it is most generous but I have other business to see to.” They turned to leave, not so much as nodding to him.

“Oh Clara?” the shape shifter turned, “if you breathe a word of what you were seen. I will find you, and you will pay. It’s not like you could tell anyone anyway, that magic will sink in after some time and you will forget what you have seen.” They mused,

“Pity,” with that they walked out, passing Isabel on the way. The maid bowed, “I left a few coins in the sheets of the bed upstairs, get yourself out of here.” The maid stared at them and bowed once more,

“Thank you my-Clara.” The assassin nodded and walked out, yearning to shift. They had been in this form for too long now and their body ached to become something else. The city was dark, screaming and moaning was heard as well as many other sounds which could not be good. Clara ignored the beggars and the inebriated, the prostitutes and the murders. None threatened them, they knew better. Once passed the city walls, the fresh early winter air refreshed their skin with vitality and courage. Their heart beat slowed for the first time since they entered, free from the constraints of humankind. They walked further until the sounds and lights of the high city walls were miles behind them. Only then did they scout the area and crouch behind a large rock in the grass.

Oroenore, he will know what to do. Their heart mulled with frustration and anger at the thought of the dragon’s name. He was not as fool as the earth dragon she had just slain for the king. Oroenore was a dragon of fire, and a dangerous one at that. But he would know what to do. If there was any fae who could penetrate magic that powerful or get her any weapon this priceless it would be him. He had used her in the past. Now it was time to return the favor. Holding onto the chest of riches they had earned, they shifted shape. Over the skies of the outskirts of Malavalon, a red tailed hawk shrieked and flew south with a chest in its talons.

Nine

“Speak plainly Ieba,” Nierief laughed, the cold against his skin meant nothing next to the warmth of her voice. She spoke rushed and hushed, like the mare he had known so many years ago. He smiled gazing at her, but pity stirred beneath.

She has aged long and hard. Stars shine upon her.

“Speak plainly Ieba, there are no humans here.” The old unicorn shook her head and lowered voice, deep and sad like the pine branches weighed down with snow.

“Not immanently nearby anyways, but even you cannot be sure of that. There is much to speak of my friend. The years have been too long.” She stood before him, her horn less sharp then it had been before, but still capable of great damage. In all his years of fighting Nierief had learned the ferocity of unicorns, even old nags were not to be underestimated. Ieba’s eyes shifted around the trees then found him once more. They were filmy with years of hiding from the world. “I thought you were dead,” she admitted suddenly; “and now we see each other again. Why is it that whenever we meet there is death or destruction on our backs?” Nierief smiled, remembering the last time he has seen Ieba, a flash of hoof and horn against the very elves they were now staying with. It had been the death of an age then, when the dragons killed their own and the rest of the fae picked off the scrapes of the dying. He tried not to think of it, he tried not to remember the many times she had saved his life, for he was somehow never able to return the favor.

“I do not know. Perhaps the stars enjoy making a game of our lives?” The unicorn nodded, looking over her shoulder to where the rest of her herd grazed uneasily. Len was being disciplined once again by his father. Nierief followed her gaze; he guessed that the larger unicorn was the well-known Glabell. “Who is that there, with your king?” Ieba did not answer right away, he waited.

“That is Len, prince of the unicorns. Green as grass and battle hungry he is, but he knows nothing of this world yet. I suppose he will soon enough if the signs are correct.” Nierief frowned, he had learned many things about unicorns, among them the fact that they were accurate in their predictions.

“The world is changing again my friend,” her voice was far away. “And not for the better, it has been changing for a long time now. Ever since the Dragon Wars, I fear we are not long for this realm.” He could only nod but was in no mood to discuss prophecy or the future of the fae.

“Len the prince what do you think of his leadership? Has he been able to master his horn yet?” The old nag smiled, the cold moon lighting her eyes for a moment:

“He is my daughter’s child. I love him as I would a son.” Nierief started, taken aback.

“I knew you had a daughter, I did not realize she became the king’s mate. Demetter is her name correct? She was only a filly when last we saw each other.” Something died in the old unicorn’s eyes. Nierief flicked his tail and hoisted his satchel of arrows that lay across his back. He had not felt at ease enough to leave them lying unattended in the forest. Patiently he waited for her answer.

“Was,” she said softly, looking away. “Demetter had been the king’s mate and was Len’s mother yes. She is gone now, to the eternal fields.” Nierief nodded slowly, it is unfair great stars above. He thought, not usually one to pity or sympathies. But he and Ieba had known each other for an age and a half, he knew her burdens; they were many and great. Even more so than his own, he thought, suddenly ashamed.

“I did not realize my friend, I am sorry.” Her retort was passive as she looked once more behind her to the herd.

“Do not be sorry for such things. It was long ago and you had nothing to do with it.” She paused for a moment, as though trying to form some unseen words. Tentatively he laid a hand on her shoulder, her coat was thin with age, there was little warmth from beneath it. The centaur furrowed his brow.

Flesh will not last long this winter without fur for protection. Her fur has grown spindly along with everything else. Oh my friend, I should not have left you. Guilt pierced him like an arrow. Every night since they had last interacted he had relived the memory, the two of them fighting the elves that fought the dragons that fought each other. There had been so much death then, they had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. They had witnessed the death of a great dragon of the sky and had tried to save it.

Nierief nearly winced at the memory but Ieba did not notice, she kept her gaze down at her hoofs but leaned into his firm hand. He was glad at it, to offer some support. He had tried to yell at her to retreat as they fought but she had not heard. He had been cut down then by an elf whose scar he still bore across his left flank. Ieba had tried to assist him but they were driven apart in the fray. He had been carried away by his fellow men then, before Ieba had come back to look for him. He tried to find her many times again, but never had he succeeded, finally he assumed her dead.

“I searched for you,” he said gingerly.

“And I for you.” The old nag met his gaze once more, this time smiling as she nodded her head to him. The centaur smiled back but words seemed lost, she was his greatest friend and his only true confidant. For a moment something hung between them like the early flakes of snow but it was lost, melted into the earth. “It does not matter now,” Ieba said simply. “I am glad to find you alive and in one piece, that brings me more joy then you will ever know. If we are to make war with these humans, let it be merciful and quick. There are some of us elders here who know the true horrors of war and would not like them repeated.” Nierief nodded, absentmindedly stroking her fur as the unicorn spoke. It gave him reassurance, as sense of place and time for only but a moment.

“I hope we may have years yet Ieba. If the stars are so merciful, I would like very much to return to who I was; to live out the rest of my days in the Wild Wood and listen to the trees once more and have no quarrel with anyone. I should like to learn from the groves and the grasses, perhaps travel northward and see what lays there.”

“I should like to join you, gods be good.” They nodded simultaneously; Nierief looked north towards the coming winter though he feared something far more sinister on the horizon. Okenmard had not invited him and his band here to talk of magic or pleasant things. Okenmard had summoned him here for one purpose and one alone, to declare war. If the centaur had his way, he would refuse it. But he learned long ago that free will is at the mercy of others when you are a leader, even a reluctantly poor one. There would very likely be a war and it would likely be his last, he knew deep in his bones and by it all he knew he should tell this to Ieba, for she of all would understand but he could not. The night was too quiet; their reunion too happy he could not spoil it now for either of their sakes. Together they watched the snow fall through the darkness and no amount of magic could add to its beauty or its splendor.

“Ibea,” The voice of the unicorn king cut through their company. The old one looked over her shoulder at the unicorn king and then back to Nierief.

“I must speak with you later.” She whispered in a hush tone, the starlight catching her eyes even through the leaves. They were bright but dark with some unknown secret. Nierief knew this tone and he nodded.

“Tomorrow evening then?” The old unicorn nodded,

“Goodnight Nierief, sleep well” She bowed to him briefly. He returned the gesture,

“Goodnight my friend.” With that she took off at a canter towards her king where the centaur watched her bow and walk lonely to the far end of the clearing to sleep.

Nierief gave up any attempt to consult with Glabell, at least this evening. He would have plenty of that tomorrow at Okenmard’s council and he had the feeling it would not bare the most pleasant of outcomes. Centaurs had no quarrel with unicorns and anyone that Ieba respected, he too felt they were worthy. With a sigh the old veteran turned back to his band, most of them had finally fallen asleep. Anu stood with his arms folded muttering something to his brother. Nierief gave them a look, Sagitar looked away but Anu came forwards to him.

“I did not know you knew unicorns.” He said, disapprovingly.

“We have no quarrel with them. She is an old friend of mine” He said harshly; things were volatile between all races as it was and he would not let the opinions of one war-mongering brute bring even more hostility. Anu only huffed and turned away with resentment but Nierief knew better than to worry over his loyalties; Anu would stay, he had nowhere else to go lest he risk himself getting killed by Harvain and the rest of their original tribe. Sagitar approached him then, the young centaur’s red coat nearly making him invisible, but Nierief could see that his head was bowed in shame.

“My brother doesn’t trust unicorns, he doesn’t trust anyone actually not even me…or you.” The last part of his words were soft and faded so much that Nierief could only just make them out and he was not surprised by them either.

“Agreeing to escape Havain’s reign with me and brand himself a traitor with me is trust enough.” The old one said simply, “goodnight Sagitar.” The red centaur nodded, though his eyes remained filled with fright.

“Goodnight, my lord.” Nierief acknowledged him and walked away to lean against a tree and perhaps sleep if he could but he thought of Sagitar’s words and smiled with bittersweet knowledge:

Tonight is not good, the stars are not out and even if they were, there will be no good nights I fear for a long time. The child in him grew sad then, and wished to cry out for some help, but he refused for he was no child. He was a leader, he told himself. A leader, even if it was unofficial, even if he was on the run with his band from their rightful leader. He was a veteran as Ieba had said and he would speak sense to the king of the elves tomorrow at the council, he was the only one who could. Of that he was sure. After all, Nierief had seen a world without sense before so many years ago when the dragon’s killed each other at the death of an age and the beginning of a new. He had seen the chaos and the pain, the fury and the toil. He had seen and done, many things which he would have preferred not to. In fact, deep within him, he knew he would far prefer the peace and solitude of his lonesome upbringing in the Wild Wood, sleeping to long hours and listening to the trees talk. He would prefer anything, he told himself, anything other than what he knew was coming.

Ten

“Very well,” with that he took off towards some unknown place and though she longed to follow him, Marin knew it was not to be. Instead she watched him go; hardly believing he had ever been there at all. Her heart still pounded with the pace of a falling stone as it always did when she spoke to him. The Great Jarkin was not a being of this realm, she was sure of it. The night was hot, though winter was beginning to claim the surrounding lands of the mountains to the north and plains to the east. Marin stood where she was amid the dunes for a long time after The Great Jarkin had left, their conversation had been a brief one, but it was full of promises she dared not forget.

“You do this, Marinal, and I will escort you beyond the great sea.” His words stirred a slumbering fire in her. “If you take back our land; you will be as great as I am.” The thought of that filled her with a vain and fearful pride. She was honored of course, and what was more; she would be happy to report back to Sobek of her success. The Great Jarkin had approved her mission and he had not just approved it, but he had encouraged it; though not in the way she had expected. Marin was not to lead their band west as she thought, but northeast into the Wild Wood and she was to seek out the elf king, Okenmard. The Great Jarkin had spoken to the god Garmoth, Father of the Griffins and he had seen a great war ahead. A war between humans and all fae, brewing amid the ancient trees that would eventually lead her west to the place of their rightful home; it would be there where she would avenge the magic that was stolen from the griffins and there she would succeed. Then she would be deemed a goddess herself and The Great Jarkin himself would escort her across the sea. The griffin shook her head, closing her eyes as if forcing back the promises and hopes. Their success would not happen overnight and she knew she could not get herself excited yet.

The Great Jarkin’s words had been clear, she must achieve her ends by means of working with the elves and whatever else fae were with them. She must first, guide them to her secret cause, using the war with the humans as leverage. She would consult with King Okenmard and make him start a war with humans, she would be sure to be at his side and work closely with him to make sure all went according to the Great Jarkin’s plan. Marin smiled to herself, she would allow her warriors a day’s rest as promised, but they would leave at dawn the following day, making their trek to the city of Quvoa and she would send a courier to Okenmard to inform him of their comings. Griffin’s and elves shared distaste for dragons and they had shared blood during the Dragon Wars. Okenmard would remember her if he knew what was good for him. Marin stayed up into the evening on a large dune and watched the sunrise over it. She enjoyed this part of the day, sunrise. It was her favorite time of all, a time of renewal and of hope and a time when she felt close to the great glowing sun shining, warming her feathers. Sunrise was a time when she did not feel so alone. Temone came to her side well after the sun was up and the rest of the clan awake and feeding. The two convened on a distant dune, far from the rocks.

“Change of plans,” Marin informed him as she continued to look east. “I have been in contact with The Great Jarkin and it is his desire that we seek out the elves and aid them in their war against the humans. I will give my warriors their rest but we will head out at first light tomorrow.” From the corner of her eye, she could see the dark griffin nod.

“Very well my liege, shall I inform them of this news?” Marin nodded and Temone acknowledged.

“Not yet,” she said halfheartedly, “they will know soon enough. Let them have time with their mates and young, I suspect more than half of them will never see them again after tomorrow.” Temone nodded and said no more. For a moment the two of them stood there and for a moment Marin was grateful for it, she enjoyed being alone most of the time but it was also good to have someone beside you. The pleasantness crumbled after a few moments when Temone asked,

“Is that all?” Knowing it was pointless she nodded and he bowed, taking his leave of her. Marin sighed, alone again. But it was better to be alone, no one could hurt you and you could not hurt others. After sometime she left her post and returned to the rocks of the Fifth Clan. All was well as she passed the mundane activities of leisurely life. Griffins were a warring race and when they were not directly in war or going to war they did not know how to handle themselves. They slept most of the day. Occasionally hunted or drank from the spring, young hatchlings wrestled each other as their parents lay about waiting for some fight or bloodshed.

How dreadful it would be, Marin thought as she walked past a female griffin licking a very young chick clean, to be a mate and mother; never going anywhere or seeing anything. Her own people gave her a wide birth as she strode past, none of them dare met her eyes. Even if she were to choose a mate and raise chicks she would be feared. No matter how many good, honest or compassionate deeds she did, she would remain an ominous presence in their eyes. It was pointless to try and gain their good will; she had decided that a long time ago.

I am not Marin, not in their eyes. I am only a war lord, the wings and beak of the Great Jarkin whom they fear and respect. I am not one of them, I am the thing that they dread and fear. I am what the females hate when they must see their mates fly off, never to return. There is nothing for me here. The only consultation that she had was the words and the promises of their demi-god, again she repeated his words in her mind. He would take her across the ocean, she would leave a legacy behind here, whether that legacy was good or evil, she could not care less. She would leave behind a great impression and then she would fly across the sea and be rid of this toil. Buzzards the lot of them, they live their lives by the elders and not by their own will. Ever since our magic was taken, they are no more than birds going to market, but that will end when I reclaim our land and our power. Then they will open their eyes and see how they have been so blind. They will kill these elders whom they call wise and the griffins will raise again. That will be my greatest deed. They will thank me and they will be sorry they did not think better of me all along. The world is changing in more ways than one. The griffins will rise again in the west. She carried this thought with her all day as she took turns drinking and flying, exercising and simply sitting about. She did not have a rock as the others did, she sat a ways off on her dune, mulling the sand in her talons and preening her feathers when Sobek flitted over to her.

“What do you want?” She snarled, the old griffin cocked his head:

“You should give more respect to your elders,” he squawked.

“I give respect where respect is due. Now what do you want?”

“Did you summon his greatness Jarkin?” Marin rolled her eyes.

“Of course I did you imbecil.” Sobek hissed and made a more attempt to lash out at her but she easily avoided it with a maneuver of her neck and he instead fell forward in the sand and struggled to rise. When he finally did, he took a few breaths and flicked his tail,

“Aren’t you going to tell me what he said?” Marin mused for a time before answering,

“I am taking the warriors north east to the elven city of Quova. There is a war brewing there and the Great Jarkin wants us to participate as a means to get back our land.” Sobek laughed a raspy sound which made Marin’s fur stand on edge.

“And you are prepared to lead this escapade?”

“I am prepared to do the bidding of his greatness.” Sobek preened his feathers smugly.

“I am sure you are. You will be prepared to defend this action against the council I assume? We will meet at sunlight tomorrow, or this evening if you are prepared.” Marin’s eyes widened, though she tried to surprise her surprise.

“You are surprised?” Sobek asked curtly.

“Not in the least. Alright elder, put me before the Council of Five tonight. I am not afraid of any of you!” She shrilled her last words at him and bit off a snarl, turning her back upon him.

“Sunset then and I would make sure you are on your best behavior.” He flew away without further comment or notion. Marin cursed after him but did not argue: she had no fear of the five elders. All of them but Sobek would rally to her cause because she had one thing they did not; the trust and the word of Jarkin himself. She held that fact within her for the rest of the day as she preened herself, sharpened her talons and hunted. Just before sunset, she found Temone. He had been asleep on a large rock, his head resting on his front talons and she made sure to approach quietly.

Sleep while you can Temone. You deserve it, you out of everyone. You are older than the rest of them. Older than myself even; perhaps it is cruel of me to ask you to accompany me on this journey and lead you into yet another war. But you see, it is not my will. It is the will of the Great Jarkin….I have no will of my own. Not really. Without thinking further she nudged him roughly and pecked at one long furred ear. The dark griffin opened his eyes as he violently twisted away, ready to attack.

“Forgive me my liege,” he said once he realized who she was. He managed a bow which she returned.

“I regret to wake you Temone but I have a favor I must ask you.” He nodded, waiting for her to continue. “Sobek has insisted that I present our intentions to the council of five.”

“You want me to accompany you as your second commander.”

I want you to accompany me as my friend.

“Yes.” He nodded once more and looked at her, his dark eyes stirring with something she could not totally read:

“What you are doing, going to fight with the elves and aid them in a war against humans, it is not something that is done so easily. I have lived many years my liege, and I know what becomes of those who chose sides. We are on our own side. This world is changing.”

“I am not attempting to stop the world from changing if that is the will of the gods,” Marin said. “I want to help it change, and change in our favor. We could go home Temone, we could reclaim the magic that was taken from us.” Temone nodded,

“I told you once, I will tell you again: my life and wings belong to the Great Jarkin. Take me where he wills it and I will follow you.” Marin shook her head and nodded.

“Very good, come it is almost time.” The two of them flew the small distance to where the council of five, along with the others of the clan, assembled. Five stone rocks, vertically stuck out from the sand creating a large circle. It was here in this circle where the council assembled for ceremony, trials and more. Five horizontal stones had been moved with great pains to line up in a semicircle, each stone serving as a standing place for each of the elders. Marin and Temone made their way into the center of the circle, bowing their heads as they passed the great stones. The fellow members of the clan were then permitted to come inside the circle of stones and watch the procession, provided that they remain silent. Marin stole a deep breath as she turned her head over her shoulder, watching the last light of the sun fade behind the dunes.

“Marinal,” her head snapped around to behold the elders. They came from the shadows beyond the tall rocks and now slowly took their perches upon the rocks. Sobek was second to the left and he eyed her amusement. There was no sound permitted until the eldest of them all spoke. His name was Shetoo, it was rumored that he was alive before the coming of Jarkin.

“Yes my lords?” The air was heavy with anticipation as she lowered her head to the sand, privately cursing the need to bow before these ignorant chickens; but it was the way, and she was consoled that even Temone too lowered his head.

“Rise,” commanded Shetoo. When Marin lifted her head, his eyes were already locked on her, dark and consuming. He would not let her go on this mission, not without doing anything in his power to stop it that was. The elders were like the sand, impossible to get beyond, always there, always in the way, yet always respected and thought of. “Marinal, you have been called before this council to seek permission in order to go north east to the land of the elves and fight the humans of the west, is this correct?” Marin took a breath, her eyes scanning over all of the elders in equally.

“That is correct my lords. I have been in converse with the Great Jarkin himself, he has approved my decision and endorses it.” Mumbling was heard throughout the crowed, the divine one did not show himself so often around these parts, not even around his own people. Karvae, one of the elders to Shetoo’s right hushed them promptly. Marin nodded in the elders direction, Karvea was the least annoying of them all and the youngest in the circle of elders. She had been disgruntled as all the rest when the Great Jarkin appointed her, but at least Karvea had then wished Marin luck and was not so outwardly opposed to her but rather remained neutral. Shetoo continued,

“We are concerned that this small venture to the east may get out of hand. Elder Sobek says you should wish to go west and take back the land that has become the city of Malavalon, the city of the humans.” Marin puffed out her chest in unspeakable rage, glaring at the scraggily gray creature whose eyes danced with glee.

“These orders do not come from Marinal but from the Great Jarkin. Tell me, oh wise elders, would you forsake your god because you are anxious about his plans? Isn’t it you whom we look to for guidance, and in guidance don’t you tell us to look to Jarkin, his greatness? Marinal has been as faithful as yourselves acting on Jarkin’s wishes. This is just another of his requests and she is daring to take it on.” Temone spoke soothingly and with an air of confidence that Marin half envied and half felt grateful for.

“You speak out of turn, Temone Missing Claw. Marinal, what say you?” The ambassador flashed her companion a momentary look of thanks, hopping it was enough before she addressed the elders.

“Temone speaks true. My only desire is to do that which Jarkin commands for his power is only equal to that of the gods. Let me take our finest warriors to the city of Quvoa and from there we shall deal with the elves. Jarkin sees it fit that we are taken home, for you elders must remember when the griffins ruled the western coast. The time before the dragons drew us out and took our magic. I have spoken with Jarkin and it is his wish and his will that we reclaim our power. I will not fail you, of that I swear.” It was all she could do not to continue onwards in her speech. If she had her own will and wishes, she would chide them all for their cowardly ways and destructive dogma, but she did not and resigned, praying to Jarkin that it was enough.

“Any last words before the conference Marinal, War Lord?” Marin shook her head and the elders turned their backs. Her heart beat like the rocks for several long moments while the elders discussed. The rest of their flock whispered among themselves but she silenced them with a look.

“Marinal War Lord, the elders have made their decision.” Cautiously she turned and looked to them; she would not let them see fear in her eyes. Another elder, this one by the name of Raon spoke in a voice that could only compare to oil on water.

“Marinal, War Lord, Ambassador to His Highness, Jarkin, the council has decided that you shall be granted permission to seek out the elves and do whatever is necessary to reclaim our land and our magic.” Marin smirked, a mischievous light in her eyes,

That’s what I thought oh’ dim witted ones.

“There are conditions however,” Raon continued. “Elder Sobek will accompany you’re on your escapade to insure that you are keeping by our laws.” Marin opened her beak to protest, but the elder rambled on. “Secondly, and more importantly, if you should in anyway fail, you will give up all title and esteem and you will not return here to our sands.”

This was too much, without warning the griffin flared her wings, rearing up and squawked:

“You have no authority on this manor!” Sobek spoke, his tone dripping with amusement.

“We have every authority. Succeed and you may be as revered as Jarkin himself, fail and you are no more one of us.”

I never was one of you; I would never want to be one of you. I never will be. Jarkin has promised me something better. With this in mind, Marin nodded,

“Very well then, accept your terms.” With that, Shetoo struck his beak upon the flat rock and the council disbanded. Elders flew, or hobbled off; the rest of the clan departed at their leisure. Only Sobek remained, he put a wing in Marin’s way as she and Temone attempted to walk away.

“Best prepare well for your journey, I suggest you take a route where I can stop and feed if necessary. I do not enjoy traveling and I expect this to be a more luxurious tour.” Marin snapped at him as close as she dared, meeting him with her sharp green eyes.

“Understand this Sobek, the council ordered me to take you along on this journey and that I will do. They did not however, specify my treatment of you while you are under my wing. If I fail, then I am banished, if I succeed I will be little less than a goddess, I have nothing to lose. You will be treated no better or worse than any of my wingmen. I suggest you get your rest, we leave at dawn.” Satisfied with the fear in the elder griffin’s eyes Marin turned to Temone. “Send a currier to Okenmard tonight, inform him the griffins are coming, and we are coming for war.” Even Temone looked away from her gaze for her eyes were pinned on blood and she lusted for battle, the animal had been unleashed from its cage. The black griffin nodded and took off. Marin beamed happily, spreading her wings and launched herself into the night.

The night was dark and biting, late autumn was turning fast to early winter and Clara thanked the gods for it. Five days and three nights she had spent flying south toward the Phoenix Tail, a small stretch of mountains much shorter than the Mountains of Karah which separated the western coast from the Griffin Desert. Clara remained crouched, clumsy fingers gripping the dark solid earth. She had just changed back to her human form for the first time since the city. She had been many things, a hawk, a deer, and a centaur. Being a human set her on edge in a way no other form did and her body, whatever it was, itched to be something else. Clara pushed herself, now lightened of her burden of treasure. She had buried it deep far from any human village and would come back to it when she found the time. If it were recovered by some passing fae it was just as well, fae needed all the help they could get. Her legs shook as she stood and she steadied herself cursing her faulty human eyes for their dull senses in the dark. In the distance, lit by a dying flame read the faded wooden painted sign,

“The White Unicorn,” Clara smirked reading it and loosened her hold on her dagger. The White Unicorn was home to those made their lives on the edges of the kingdom of Availion. No one was at the tavern unless they had to be. She had come here many times before on her way to and from the capitol city. Malavalon held no tolerance for those who wished to live a somewhat rebellious life. Clara opened the wood door with ease, yellow candlelight spilled out over her from the crowded tavern. The smell of sweat and alcohol filled her nose but she had smelled the stench of rotting on an everyday bases. She ignored the men making gestures and comments as she strode to the bar and threw herself down.

“Shot of whiskey,” Clara demanded. A grunt and a nod was the only acknowledgement she received. She nodded back, and looked around, folding her arms on the faded counter.

Mongrel filth, it’s a wonder these beasts have spread so fast and gained such power. She was almost amused by it in fact, and after all Clara always voted for the underdog. The whiskey took too long, but when it did she snatched it from the man’s hand and threw down her coin. Faster than an arrow she tipped it back and demanded another. The bar tender smirked behind his beard. He was a large man, with more fingers than teeth, his clothes moth eaten long ago and his temperament short.

“I’d slow down if I were you,” he remarked gruffly after Clara had taken three more rounds of whiskey. “You wouldn’t want to lose your wits to some mad man.” Clara glanced around, there were at least a dozen human’s all of them without their right minds, many of whom were coupling on the tables, benches or the floor, all of whom looked mad.

“Men like you?” She smirked and ordered another,

Damn pity I can’t go a little softly mad once and awhile myself. Damn fae can’t get drunk like humans can. What I wouldn’t do for a bit of it, just enough to make me stop feeling for a little while. The shape shifter took three more shots of whiskey before getting a pint of lager. By the time she was halfway through it several of the couples had either stumbled out the door into the night or had somehow dragged themselves upstairs to the rooms. She laughed watching them: they were pathetic. She finished her ale and sighed for a moment, the place had grown quiet, and the wax of the candles was melting fast yet the smell of the evening lingered. Every so often a belch was admitted from one of those passed out on the floor. A particularly sound one made Clara glance downward at a large man who was still holding his flask. He belched twice more before falling into a loud fit of snoring. She shook her head,

I almost envy them. As her gaze fell back to the bar, it caught something. A man sat solitary at a far table, his bright red hair catching in the fading light of the nearest candle. His eyes locked upon her, golden and intrigued. Clara stood,

“What, no more?” Asked the bar tender, she ignored him, crossing over several inebriated souls in the process. The strange man’s eyes held her own as she approached and she crossed her arms looking down at him, shaking her head in amazement.

By the gods it can’t be!

“Lord Oroenore, it is mighty good to see you again. I hoped to take you by surprise but I see you beat me to it.”

“Don’t I always?” The dragon asked, she could only guess that he smirked behind the black mask which obscured his nose and mouth. “Buy you a drink?” The shape shifter smiled,

“You owe me that at least.” The dragon stood. He was tall, dressed in black robes but for a brown sash belt and scabbard. His skin was pale and his pupils remained slit. They held more substance and secrets than any other creature, human or fae. His bright red hair wound its way into a long braid which fell to the small of his back. Bangs fell in front of his eyes, his handsomely strong features and high cheek bones lifted in a mischievous grin behind his mask: he had not aged a day. Clara watched him stride to the counter as she sat herself down, snuffing out the dwindling candle with her fingertips and putting her feet on the table. The dragon returned with two pints of lager and they held a wordless toast. Clara drank, noticing that Oroenore only took but a small sip. She topped off the pint in a single gulp and sat it down. She did another sweep of the tavern before leaning closer to him and whispering viciously. “Mind yourself Oro, changing on the road and going into a tavern, you’re going to get yourself killed!” The dragon laughed,

“I’m not the only one who has changed here Clar…” The creature kicked him hard.

“Don’t use that name here! It is Glady I go by when not working for humans!”

“You’re always working for someone,” he said smoothly, “who is it now?” Glady rolled her eyes.

“I work, and don’t work for and with whoever I please. Now; let’s get down to business dragon. Why are you here, the last time you and I were together you got me in quite a bit of trouble.”

"If you are recalling the incident with the Dragon Wars Glady, it was you who was in trouble; I merely lent you a wing." The shifter rolled her eyes.

"Why are you here dragon?" Oro took another sip of ale before answering; he did not even glance around the room at the mention of his true being.

"There is trouble with the humans, the elven king, Okenmard is meeting with the unicorns and centaurs to make war. I suspect the griffin’s will be on their way soon enough too."

"Good!" Glady said cursing as it spitting onto the floor, "sooner those humans get killed the better!"

"They do not know what they fight.”

“Listen,” Glady interrupted taking a deep breath, it was now or never. “There are unknown dangers which lie ahead for all of the fae if Okenmard chooses to fight this war. It is no simple human kingdom they fight There is a greater kingdom which lies in the West on the coast of the sea. It is called Availion and its capitol city is called Malavalon, I have just returned from there on a job killing one of your kin, well at least one of the earth. It is larger than then all of the settlements combined and within its halls of dragon heads and stolen fairy magic it houses The Seventh Sword. I need you to come with me to-" Oro held up a hand,

“I know about the Seventh Sword and I will help you take it. But first I need your help, come with me to the elves…”

"I am not going to Okenmard or...that elven city, Quvoa, is nothing but the piss pile of the Wild Woods. Poor trees they hallow out!" Glady snarled.

"Not to Quvoa; not yet." Oro was silent for a long time, turning his golden gaze to look into the fire. Glady sighed and took her feet off the table, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"What is it Oro?" She asked gently, the dragon in human guise replayed,

"It is the beginning of the end Glady. The Books of Becor have it written. I am going to gather the dragons in attempt to end this war before it starts. It may already be too late, but I will not give up at that. I need your help Glady." He met its eyes and the creature that he called Glady looked back at him, ever so slowly, she nodded.

"You dragons are too stubborn for yah own good, that is why I’ve got to stab you so many times before you, dead, and then kill you again just to make sure!" Oro smiled with a dragon like growl coming from below his mask.

"How can I say no to threaten a few dragons? I'll accompany you Oro, but you will hold up your end of the bargain too. Whether or not we go to war isn’t my concern. I want the sword destroyed and I want your help to do it. And if you don’t there will be consequences." Its tone was brash and it shot the dragon a look of high expectations.

"Have I ever not repaid my debts to you?" He asked, sipping his lager, the shifter laughed her mood eased by his presence. It was reassuring that there was at least one dragon left in the world, and the sword could wait. It was heavily guarded and she needed time to devise a plan.

“We'll leave tomorrow." Glady smiled, thinking of her various concealed and hideous weaponry she would be able to use. There was a particularly painful double edged dagger which injected poison from the tip of the blade that she had bought off a Wild Wood tribesmen that she was excited about.

"We are going to persuade the dragons Glady not kill them," Oro said, his tone coated with ice. The shifter took a small dagger from her belt, twisting the point of the blade between two sharp teeth.

“Aye you said we were going to per sway them, you never specified how.” She laughed with giddy; the dragon only shook his head and finished his lager.

Twelve

Shimmering sun shocked Glabell’s eyes as he awoke. Snow had fallen during the night, so heavy that even on the forest floor; it came nearly to his knees. He shook his head and looked around; breath escaped his nostrils in clouds of silver disintegrating into the thin cold air. He had dreamed the dream again this night. It was the dream that kept him from sleeping, the dream he begged every night not to have. Sometimes his pleas worked, other times they did not. The dream was no different from the times before, the same city walls ran with blood, the same fae fell dead, the same humans screamed. She had charged at the forefront as dragons roared in the skies, Demetter in all of her former glory had huffed, horn lowered and ran for the knight clad in black armor. He had stood there, watching and unable to act. She met his eyes and nodded before the met the man and sword. Glabell had tried to move, had struggled against the paralytics of the dream to aid his mate in her fight, but again it did not work and he was forced to watch as the emerald sword was driven through her side. Her eyes went white with pain and anger and she fell many times, yet each time she rose up, ready to charge once more. The human knight, his fearsome sword in hand, pierced her several times before she fell and could not rise. Glabell whinnied in frenzy for it was this part of the dream which haunted him most. It was the part in which the knight’s metal boot came down upon her side and he stepped upon her like a hunter over a won buck. He looked at Glabell for the first time throughout the dream and laughed.

“You are valiant oh lord of the horned horses, your magic is of good heart and place, but those things are dying now. There is no room for magic that does not kill. It is a pity your mate here should have to die in order for you to see that. I will have her head mounted somewhere nice, somewhere where you shall be able to see it from your cage.” Before the unicorn king could move, the sword came down, glowing with its own power and presence. In the blink of an eye his mate’s head was severed and blood erupted from her neck, her body twitching in the aftershock for a few moments before laying still.

He checked the rest of the herd, including Len who had lazily fallen over in his slumber and now was lying on the ground like a fool waiting to be shot. Glabell shook her head and moved on, it was better to let him sleep while he could. All members accounted for; the king stepped off to the boundaries of the clearing which Lord Okenmard had assigned them. He managed to find a small bit of green grass below the frosted snow and ate it slowly. What puzzled him more than anything else was the fact that the dream ended the same place every time, and that the ending was inaccurate to the actual circumstances of that dreadful day. In the dream he was then captured and carted off to the courtyard in the grand palace of Malavalon where the human commoners came to gawk and torment him for days on end when he was put in the city square once a week. It had been during the Dragon Wars then, when humans were weak and fae were things to be feared. It was not every day a human could see a unicorn. The dream ended with a small child, a young girl who came to the square and looked at him with nothing but pity and respect in her eyes. She would always approach his cage fearful at first and then at last she would slip her small hand between the iron bars and touch his mane. Her gray eyes would look at his then and she would nod to him. That was not what actually happened. The desperate humans of Malavalon and the then small insignificant kingdom of Availion had indeed tried to capture him after his mate what beheaded, but the dragons fought and raged against each other above and it had been a fire dragon named Oroenore who had saved him. Glabell smiled at the thought, bittersweet; for after the wars he and the dragon had parted ways. The king had not heard of him since, but had of course heard word of dragons for he knew how their wars ended in their destruction and ruin. What was more, he knew that Okenmard and his elves had a handle on it, as well as the griffins of the south. Now here he was, seeking their refuge desperate for any council that could be had so far as it provided a safe haven for his people, if only for a little while.

It was inevitable that the rest of the herd would soon awake, Glabell signed and ceased his morning grass, shaking himself again and walking over to where Len lay in the snow. The young stallion’s dark mane had partially frozen into the snow during the night and Glabell could not help a smile as his son snorted out puffs of cloudy air in his sleep.

Your mother and I wished a better life for you; he thought sadly and bent to nose at Len’s neck. We thought that fighting in the dragon wars would bring you peace in your life. You were so young then, barely a yearling and frightened. Your mother and I went west to the city of her birth in order to aid the dragons in their fight to keep their power. They promised us protection in turn, and we were desperate for any reassurance in those days.

Only one dragon held up the promise of his kind. I hope you are able to meet him one day, if he is still in this world. Len, if only your mother would see you now. She would agree with you, calling me old and scared of the ways of battle. She would probably scold me for not letting you march into the borders of Availion itself. She would be so proud of you, as proud as I am. I do not know we made the right choice when we left you on the plains to fight in the west. Only time can tell, if we were ignorant…I pray you can forgive me. Len only snorted once more and tossed in his sleep, Glabell let himself smile at the thought of it; his son had always been rather ungraceful, even in sleep. He could not dwindle on the past for long, and it hurt his heart to walk away from the vision of his son, still yet tender in years sleeping in the cold snow, safe and sound. Finally however, with the waking of the centaurs across the clearing, the unicorn king sighed and looked to Quvoa. It would be a day of compromise and contending with Okenmard. If he were lucky, his herd would not be forced out of the woods by the end of the day.

“Your majesty,” Glabell turned at the deep voice that sounded like gravel upon the earth. It belonged to a centaur. “You must forgive me, I am Nierief and I am sorry I did not introduce myself sooner.” The unicorn nodded in acknowledgement to the old beast, he was the fellow that Ieba had been talking with the previous night. “I pray we are well met,” he continued. “At least the stars say we are.” Nierief smiled, keeping his eyes gentle. Glabell sniffed and nodded back, as was only polite.

“Well met,” he said flatly. “How is it that you know our Ieba?” The old centaur laughed, holding the leather strap across his torso that held his arrows.

“That is a long story my kind. A story I fear we don’t have time for. I meant no offense by talking to your councilor last evening.” Glabell looked sidelong at him for a moment.

“There was none taken master centaur. The hour was late at hand and we have business to attend to. Okenmard is not patient.” Nierief laughed again.

“Indeed he is not, Ieba was right; you are a wise one.” Glabell nodded in thanks. There was no quarrel between his folk and the centaurs, none too serious at least. But they had done no small amount of evil during the dragon wars. Their king, Zarkov had been known to be of a gentle heart and sharp of mind. His son, Havain on the other hand had been one born under a dark moon and had stayed dark ever since. Glabell had never met him, but in the west he once fought with a centaur of his mighty band and he had heard tales of gruesome deeds on Havain’s orders. The wrongdoings of one often reflected badly upon all their kind among whatever fae you were. It was why the griffins were feared, it was why the elves were hated and the centaurs suspicious. It did not matter what smaller band you hailed from, Havain led them all in one way or another Glabell supposed. Yet this Nierief seemed different, Ieba knew him as it seemed and she was not one to befriend others so easily.

“Tell me Glabell white horn, do you think there is a war a coming?” He flicked his tail and looked at Nierief hard.

“I will not risk the lives of my herd for the games of elves, centaurs and humans. I come to talk and only to talk if I can help it.” Nierief nodded and smiled,

“Smart you are.” By this point Len had come over, looking quizzically at Nierief.

“Who are you?” He demanded, Glabell glared at him curtly.

“Mind your tongue when speaking to an elder. My apologies, this is my son, Len prince of the unicorns. Len this is Nierief.” Len looked at him a moment before bowing slowly, keeping his eyes locked.

“My lords,” the three were interrupted by a she-elf. Her eyes large and almond on her pale face, her nails long and hair longer the color if autumn leaves. “My Lord Okenmard calls thee to the city of Quvoa, a message has been sent which he believes you should hear.” Len snorted,

“What message?” Nierief stepped towards the she-elf inclining her head in respect. She nodded and turned on her heal leading them. To Len Nierief said,

“We shall see young princeling, wait.” Len huffed but followed his father back through the labyrinth of trees and lights which shown even in the early winter sun. In the space between two great trees with lights and homes adorned, shifted a rather uncomfortable looking griffin. It’s head was bent into a large basin of water, drinking plentifully. King Okenmard stood before the large bird and by the looks of it, Glabell did not judge him to be in a good mood, neither seemed his kinsmen. Len nearly let out a whinny of surprise and shock, he had never seen a griffin, Glabell hoped he would never have to but alas many things were happening that Glabell wished would not. Even the unicorn king himself had to look for but a few moments. Griffins were, after all impressive creatures though this one was skinnier then the ones he had seen so many years ago in battle. Its beak was marked with scars and several of its feathers were missing. An arrow was lodged in its hind flank. Finally it finished quenching his thirst.

“Thank you,” it remarked in a strangely polite fashion. It shook itself out, glancing at the arrow before it spoke more formally. “Fae of the north, I come on behalf of Marinal of the Fifth Clan. The war lord of the Griffin Desert and the consort of The Great Jarkin, for he has spoken to her. There is war coming to the world of Somniis, the likes of which has never been seen.” The words were old in Glabell’s ears. He had heard many speeches such as these before the dragon wars. “Marin of the griffins is on her way here as I speak, she comes on behalf of Jarkin himself who has spoken of war. She comes to the elves to lend the wings of her finest warriors.” There were several moments of silence before the griffin continued; it was clearly out of breath already. “She will be here in seven days and six nights and she expects to be received well. Is she correct?” The currier looked over the elves, most of whom were eyeing it back suspiciously. Okenmard smiled wryly,

“She is indeed. I do not forget those I have fought with.” It was with those words that propelled something inside Glabell to awake from its slumber. He could not name it but it churned within him as he looked at the king of the elves in all of his vainglory. Steadily he shifted his weight and huffed before looking at the griffin. It was young, barely mature.

“What is your name messenger?” The griffin took one look at the unicorn and inclined its head, spreading its wings to the ground, its ears pointed back and laying out a talon as a gesture of respect, bowing.

“I am called Yegdrisll my lord.” Glabell nodded.

“You are wounded.” The griffin looked at the arrow in his flank and then down at the dusting of snow on the forest floor. He was silent for a few minutes fighting his pride before nodding.

“Humans my lord; I did not stop in my travels and became tired. I must have flown too low and they spotted me.”

“Where was this?” Okenmard cut in, he did not look as though he were going to offer Yegdrisll any relief of his injury.

“Two days south my lord, in village with high walls and blue banners.” It was Nierief that spoke from his band this time.

“Aye, blue banners, villages bare them who live outside the lands and law of Avalion. They are tribesmen and more savage then the armies of Malavalon.” Murmurs arose from the crowd of elves, unicorns and centaurs. It was Okenmard who hushed them before approaching the young griffin, Glabell could see the gears turning behind his falsely sympathetic eyes.

“Never fear Yegdrisll, we will avenge your honorable wound. I welcome the griffins to Quvoa, stay and be our honored guest.” His smile was devious, the storm which had been awoken inside Glabell pushed against his composure. “If Marin and her warriors are to be here within seven days then we must prepare for their coming.” Glabell stepped abreast of the elf king as he turned from Yegdrisll. The unicorn’s eyes were narrow and sharp, his horn low so that if he miss stepped upon a root or stone, it would be enough to skewer the elf.

“You mean prepare for battle do you not?” Okenmard smiled at him with the glee of a murderer.

“Precisely.” Glabell glared at him, and that which brooded inside his breast would not rest. Not now, nor ever more. The rest of the frigid day was spent in toil. Okenmard locked himself away with his council of ten other elven captains and war leaders. Fool, the unicorn king fumed as he made his way through the trees. Heavy snow was falling as the sun rose to high noon. Even with golden rays glistening off the white, his heart felt cold. You cannot just blindly attack a human’s camp. But Glabell knew the elf king better than that. He would fight claw and spear, if only for sport. Needless killing was always an elf’s greatest pleasure. For a race that rarely experiences death themselves they have grown to poke fun at it. They court with death and befriend it to their amusement. Glabell shook his mane out, tiny flakes of snow falling down in a small dance.

“Pardon my lord,” the unicorn looked up. Yegdrisll was sitting between two large oak trees, his brown feathered wings folded to his sides, his tail flicked back and forth as he looked at the unicorn king with large unblinking eyes. “Have you seen Lord Okenmard?”

“I have not.” Glabell did his best to answer with polite courtesy though he was in no mood to make friends with griffins, even one as mannerly as Yegdrisll. The young messenger sighed and laid his head down once more upon his large talons. “What do you need of him?” Glabell finally asked with effort. The griffin piped up,

“The arrow my lord, it is still, well it is still in my side and hurts awfully. I would be most grateful if you could send for someone to help me with it as I cannot reach.” Glabell thought for a moment and before smiling to himself.

“Wait a moment Yegdrisll, I know someone who may help.”

Thirteen

Oro took longer to shift then Glady would have liked. She of course, had already completed her transformation and was untangling one of her horns from a low hanging branch. She did not enjoy being a faun, the form was too unbalanced and she had never gotten the hang of cloven hooves. But fauns were a common race, and easily went unnoticed by most humans. They were solitary creatures who preferred to make small magic and instruments, playing with the common animals rather than engaging in conflicts with fae or humans.

“There you are, I was beginning to worry you had flown off on me.” She smirked as the large red dragon came through the trees. His scales were the color of red wine, the membrane of his wings bore a golden shimmer that matched his underbelly. Several tendrils adorned the back of his shaking head.

“Fly off? Come now Glady you must know me better than that.” The shifter only smirked. Something about the dragon always put her off. She could not decide if it was his eyes or the golden scales. It ain’t right. No one but the Golden One should have golden scales. Only the Golden Dragon, the lord of all drakes and king of fire had ever possessed golden scales. But the Golden One was long dead and another had yet to hatch who bore the telltale color of being the successor. Oro however, had golden scales since Glady first met him, and that was back when the Golden One was still living. It simply was not right. Next thing I know the gods will decide that the sun should show at night and the moon in the day. “Shall we?” He asked in good humor. Glady hissed and started off, making it a point to walk in front of him. Damn his charm and grace, sniveling fire spitter.

“Must you always be so hot to trot?” The shifter demanded. Oro laughed a sound that made the trees shake and the water in the nearby puddles ripple.

“I prefer get moving as quickly as possible. We’ll be lucky if we make it to the river by tomorrow morning.”

“The River Acheron?” Glady demanded, stopping in her tracks and facing him. “That is due north from here! The Phoenix Tail is closer; what is it you hope to find in that sludge other than kelpies and mer-folk anyways?” Oro stepped over a fallen tree, expertly gliding his sinuous length in and out of the trees, his wings pulled tight against his sides.

“There is much more on the banks of the river besides mer-folk. You should know that.”

“Of course I know that,” Glady snarled at him, “I killed a troll there not too long ago.” Oro mused:

“I have seen dragons of the air flying that way for some time now. The river will guide us into the mountains and then eventually to Quvoa. We will pick up as many dragons as we can between here and there.” Glady rolled her eyes, and nearly tripped on a large stone. Oro laughed at her to which she only cursed.

“Right,” she sneered through gritted teeth as she struggled to recover her footing for a moment. “What makes you think any other dragons are going to listen to you? Your no one special, just a firedrake from the south and a lone male at that.” Oro smiled, only making Glady more annoyed.

“I didn’t come from the south. I came from the north.”

“What were you doing up there, building houses for homeless fairies? You truly are a do gooder Karah bless you!” This time the dragon did not laugh.

“I came from the Libraries of Becor, to have a look through their books.” The Libraries of Becor, what is there but cobwebs and miserable old fae hiding from the world in the past? Ha! I’d like to storm in there myself and through their scrolls form their desks. Staying cooped up your whole life in a cell because you are too afraid of reality, cowards. Glady laughed to herself at the thought. There was little use for books in this world. It was a luxury to be able to study and contemplate the world instead of actually trying to survive and live in it.

“What were you looking for?” Oro’s golden eyes searched her as though he was trying to figure out if she truly cared.

“I was looking for the Books of Becor,” Glady laughed, losing her footing again on the rocks and tripping. This time she only stood and laughed more.

“The Books of Becor? Why there are so many of them! How could you possibly miss them?”

“Not the books, the Books. The ones complied during the…”

“Yes alright I know,” she fumed. After a few moments of walking she finally spoke again:

“Did you find them?”

“Yes,” Oro’s tone was flat and his eyes lay on the trees ahead, determined and unfazed. The sun was beginning to rise once more; painting the sky in an array of pale pinks and purples.

“Then what did they say?” He looked at her, clearly annoyed.

“It said that it was the end.” Glady shook her head, and yet something inside her gut twisted in mutual agreement. Instead she only laughed at him, holding a branch out of his way as he ducked his head.

“Its always the end of something I guess.” Oro only nodded but did not seem to be pleased. She shrugged and contented herself with the fact that he was only brooding. Damn lizards always brooding over something, some lost age or another. Aye they may have every reason to; but what is the point in groveling when you might be able to do something about it? That had always been her philosophy, ever since the gates between the realms were sealed and even before then. Always keep moving, action led to more action. There was no sense contemplating and thinking when you could be actually moving towards something larger. Unfortunately she knew from experience that not many fae shared this philosophy, except for griffins. But not many fae were alive either. She touched the feather tied into her hair; even in the form of a faun she had made special care to make sure the feather stayed intact. This was done by laying it on the ground and removing it from her hair before she changed and then carrying it with her whatever way she was able to.

“You still wear that?” Oro asked. It was more of a statement then a question. Glady crouched balancing on a large rock and carefully stepped over it before answering.

“Of course I do. Keeps him close; reminds me that there is something worth fighting for, if not for survival.” Oro nodded, the sympathy in his eyes was enough to make her gut the next creature in sight. “I don’t need your pity.” The dragon recoiled, sidestepping to avoid another large rock and batted his wings twice to stretch them before folding them down again.

“I wasn’t offering any.”

“Aye yah were I saw you. You might be a good one Oro but you’re not better than me.” The dragon only smiled and suddenly Glady screamed as she pitched forward; her hands slamming into the cold frozen earth. Oro laughed and his tail flicked back and forth taunting her. Glady cursed and raised herself, her faun legs trembling ever so slightly. “Damn you, if you hadn’t saved me all those years ago I’d kill you here and now!” The dragon only laughed and walked ahead of her, through the rocky landscape as the trees thinned out. There would be little left of them again before they reached the river. “Why aren’t we flying?” The shape shifter demanded some hours later when she had fallen one too many times.

“It isn’t safe,” Oro said bluntly. Glady scoffed,

“Maybe not for you; I could turn into a hawk or a common bird.” Oro only rolled his eyes. They pressed onward through the night, grateful that human settlements were scarce and small.

“Let us have a go at them,” Glady suggested deviously. “I’ve slayed enough fae, it’s time for revenge.” Oro finished preening himself before answering.

“That time might come sooner than later, but I would rather not spill blood tonight.” Glady huffed throwing herself down on the solid ground. They had stopped for the night to rest and hunt but no fire had been made. She had changed into a centaur already, her head and torso the same as her human guise, (it was unfortunately one of the many catches to being a shifter.) Now she drew her legs up, sitting on her side and poked at a stick, doodling as best as she could in the frosted soil.

“You never want bloodshed. How do you expect to wage war if you never want to kill?”

“I am not waging war,” the dragon said lowly; his head resting on his front claws.

“Aye you are, you just don’t like to call it that.” She smiled to herself. “Trying to rally the dragons to assist the other fae, that is waging war, and not only with humans.”

“What are you saying?” Oro asked slowly, Glady only shook her head, drawing the stick deeper into the ground in order to make her pattern.

“What I’m saying is you are waging war, you just don’t know who it will be against. Dragon War’s didn’t end all that long ago; the rest of fae don’t look so kindly on dragons. So what makes you think they will accept your help? You could arrive with all the dragons in the realm and Okenmard could murder you in a fortnight. All I’m saying is that you could very well be going to war with the rest of the fae before humans are ever mentioned.” Oro was silent for a long time, eventually he only nodded.

“We shall see.” Glady shook her head: ignorant fool. The fae don’t want your help. The reputation of dragons has been soil upon during the last war and you have no one to blame for that but yourselves, and maybe that god Jarkin from the griffins. You’re a fool, brining help to those who don’t even ask for it. You’ll be fighting two battles at once and the humans will be the easy fight. No matter, none of my concern. I always figure a way out Oro, that’s my magic. I always slip away, I always change; always shift.

Glady didn’t sleep that night, someone needed to keep watch and though Oro had offered; she had reassured him of it and soon he gave in, drifting off to sleep. She watched him, admiring a live dragon for once instead of a dead one. He was a spectacular specimen and she wondered for the up tenth time how much he would be worth. Considering it for a moment, she shook her head and looked up at the stars.

Snow fell for the next three days, forcing them to walk more then fly; though Glady had finally persuaded Oro into it on the second day. They were about to land for the evening once again when the distant roar of a dragon made Oro stop and turn. Glady had taken the form of a hawk once more and flitted, trying to hover as best as she could, scanning the cloudy sky. Another cry caught her attention. A dragon of the earth, or so it looked; it was sagging in the air as vaults of arrows hit against its scales. Oro hovered in his place watching but he made no move to aid it. Glady shook her head; it was well known that dragons were not the most compassionate of creatures to those who were not their mates or hatchlings. Even hatchlings had but a few precious months of care before their mother kicked them out. Oro would not go to this dragon’s aid, however dire it roared. The thing let out a horrendous scream and Oro winced as a large arrow, larger than most was shot through the air lodging itself below the dragon’s left wing joint; it was enough. Still clawing, it plummeted to the ground. Glady stole a look at Oro, who did nothing but turned himself around and continued to fly onward. She fluttered in the air for a moment, watching him angle himself upward pounding his wings in order to gain a higher altitude.

Oh damn it all, she thought as she pulled her wings in and dived for where the dragon had slipped under the trees. Finding a perch she looked from afar but it was enough. The dragon was not dead yet, but it was not strong enough to fight for its life either. The thing, (now reviled to be a male,) was flailing as best as he could. He was young, not yet twelve feet in length. Nor had the horns on his head finished growing, a mark that would normally signal maturity; this was an earth dragon not five months out of the shell. Glady watched as the men butchered him alive. There were humans alright, and they had not traveled far from their settlement for the kill. They carried nothing but weapons with them and did not look so dirty as days of crawling through the rocky landscape would make them seem. The earth dragon toiled, flailing in its own blood, roaring for aid but none would come. The shape shifter sighed, death was nothing to grieve over, it was life that needed to be mourned, especially a young life like this. A large man, the head of their party laughed, holding a short sword and plunged it into the top of the young dragon’s jaw as he screamed.

If you’re going to kill the damn thing just kill it already. A horrible realm it is where death is the one who is the most merciful, Glady thought to herself as she watched. Finally the young dragon was dead. Its blood stained the snow and covered the tribesmen head to toe. They began cutting it up imminently. Glady knew how the progression would go: she had done it many times herself. First the claws, teeth and spikes, followed by the tongue, eyes, scales and end of the tail. Next you would remove all of the internal organs and bone working from the inside out until finally the only things that was left was the heart. The heart was the most precious part of a dragon; it contained their inner fire and heartstrings of course. Heart strings were used in swords and in book bindings, reserved only for the most sacred texts and most potent blades. Dragons of old would donate such pieces of themselves before they died, but a dragon whose heart or body had been robbed without its permission was said to carry horrible curses. Glady only laughed at that superstition. The Seventh Sword would never have been forged if that were true. The great blade worked, she had felt it. No curse lay there, other than the power and corruption which came from it being wielded. The only curse that the sword would have would not be upon the humans who forged it up upon the fae who revered it. The thought of this made her shiver and she decided, after watching the slayers terrible job of gutting the dragon organs first; that it was time to catch up with Oro. She nodded her head to the barely recognizable carcass.

Whatever goddesses and gods may be, may you find better fortune with them then you did in this world. With that she leapt from the trees, letting out a screeching cry. It did not take long to find the fire dragon, the skies were deserted otherwise but apart from the two of them. He flew as determined as ever, father north towards where the River Acheron met the Mountains of Karah. When Glady found him, his gaze was far away and sharp.

“They butchered our friend in the most novice and careless way!” She laughed, “at least they won’t get a high price from him eh? Those organs will be useless left out in the open for so long.” Oro said nothing for a long time. The dragon was far too sensitive for his own good she thought. Finally when he spoke his tone was dark.

“How old was it?”

“Not five months out of the shell.” Oro nodded and beat his wings faster to Glady’s irritation. They were already too high for her liking; the body of the hawk was strained. Oro glanced at her but said nothing for the rest of the night. On the third day they saw the River, snaking its way into the foreboding mountains ahead. Human villages could already be seen on either side of the banks, small and suffering but Glady was glad of it. Most thought that the dangerous things in the Somniis lurked in the northern mountains or in across Wyvern’s Way or even in the desert but they knew not that the most realistic dangers were right in front of them in the slowly moving waters of Acheron. Oro touched down at a great length from the last human made dock they had seen a few miles back. Glady would have put down sooner, but Oro was larger and even if he were to makeup his human guise he would be suspicious.

“Now what do we do, sit here and wait for humans to slit our throats in the night while you wait for some precious kin you once saw flying in this general direction?” She hissed irritated. She had kept the same hawk form for too long and changing had been slower and more difficult than she would have liked. She reemerged from the bushes as a faun once more, now that the ground was at least a little less rocky.

“Shh,” Oro hissed, lifting a claw to his mouth.

What?!” Glady demanded, than stopped. Not ten lengths from them stood a male earth dragon in what looked to behis prime. He was on the larger side for a male but bore the usual gray-green sales that blended inwith the trees. His golden eyes shimmered as he bent to drink from the river."Oh good, an earth dragon.” Glady whispered, sarcasm dripping from her tone.

“There's nothing wrong with earth dragons.” Oro said,the tension at withwhich he held his wings however, said differently. The shifter rolled her eyes at him before taking another long look. The trees provided shelter enough and rocks covered most of Oro’s large bulk but they would be spotted quickly if they did not move fast.

“Unmated you think?” The dragon of firenodded. “Then I doubt it is a good idea for you to approach Oro; mating season did not end that long ago and you’re still a bachelor yourself. This one will want to do away with you before a female comes through.” The fire dragon nudged her, knocking her down. She cursed and pulled herself up; about to jab at his wings with her horns, but Oro was already emerging from their hiding place. “Oro, I’m warning you! Don’t…he’ll kill you and Iwon’t get no credit for it! Get back here you great reptile! Oroenore!” Too late, the fire dragon stood before the other, his gaze shinning in the pale snow. Glady grumbled and stayed where she was, crouching low. She was a dragon slayer, and the first rule of dragon slaying was to never approach a dragon head on lest it caught on to your intentions. She had already broken that rule however, and so with a sigh the shape shifter pulled herself up following Oro to where he stood.

"I am Oroenore, fire dragon, of Moarae and Illishar," he said approaching slowly. The other dragon's head snapped up from the river bank. It cocked its head, scanning over the fire dragon with critical eyes. Glady noted the distaste in in its snorting when it beheld the golden scales.

"What is your business here?" The earth dragon asked, clearly annoyed. Its tail flicked with suspicion. Oro smiled, revealing his fangs. Glady suspected this was intentional and debated changing right there to a form that would be better suited for breaking up dragon fights. It was known that dragons of fire and earth were at odds all the same as elements which defined them.

"My friend and I are passing through, on way to Quvoa." The dragon of the earth looked at Glady with equal animosity. "What is your business?" The earth dragon's gaze slid back to Oro, it flicked its tongue and flapped its wings in a warning.

"Oro..." Glady warned. The gray green dragon settled and was silent for some time before answering.

"I am flying to the Griffin Desert. My reasons for doing so are my own." Oro nodded and took a trying step forward. The earth dragon stiffened but made no move to attack, yet.

He's been traveling long.Glady thought. At least three moons by the thinness in his skin and flying hard by the dried sweat against his scales. He's running to something, or from something. Still, his head would get me a find price,even if it is a little thick.

"What is your name and lineage?" Oro asked carefully. The earth dragon looked at him, eyes narrowing. It seemed to be calculating and decided not to answer.

"C'mon Oro, lets go." Glady groaned, quite board with the whole situation. There were no dragons of the air around here. It was best to keep moving. Oro ignored her, still daring the fellow dragon to respond. At last he did:

"You may call me Nimrick."

Fourteen

Nierief was not there when Marin and her warriors came, nor was he speaking with Ieba who had been uncharacteristically avoiding him for the past few days. The old centaur was pondering to himself in the woods alone, a dangerous past time he knew; but it was necessary at times. Furthermore, it was times like these when Nierief wished that he could speak to the stars themselves, it would make things so much easier but no; only one of his race had ever possessed that ability: his own ancestor, a centress named Metis. She had been born with the strange ability to speak with the beings in the sky and had been one of the twelve sorceresses and sorcerers to seal the gates of the realms. The goddess of winter in her icy chill now held dominance over the land. Fresh snow had fallen during the night and through the canopy of trees, Nierief could make out an overcast sky that promised more snow to come.

“Nierief,” a curt voice sent him turning. It was Anu, grim faced and smelling of gore.

“What is it? Where is that smell coming from?” The dark centaur laughed before answering, making Nierief’s face flicker with annoyance rather than anger.

“I killed a bear.” Momentary relief filled the elder. “I divided it among the others.” He nodded.

“How generous of you,” Anu only shrugged.

“The griffins are here.” Nierief had started then, making to join the ceremony. Anu stepped in front of him, his eyes sharp.

“Before you go, I thought you should hear what I have in mind.” Nierief could not suppress an inpatient huff.

“And what is that?” Anu smiled, evidently proud of himself.

“Okenmard is holding a banquet tonight in which he will propose that we declare war upon human settlements. He will want you to join him. I say we strike a deal: we will aid him, if only he then aid us in return. Have him swear that he will help you kill Harvain.” For a brief moment, Nierif considered. The youth within him rising to agree and take charge but age was a more powerful force in the end.

“I am in no business to be making assassination deals.” He stepped aside beyond Anu.

“You have no business being alive Nierief,” the centaur turned. “There is a price out for your head.”

“I know it well,” he said with more edge to his voice then he meant then paused, turning to the black centaur. “My apologies, the hour is late. The griffins are here you say?” Anu nodded, turning back towards the city. Nierief followed, the sentiments in the young one’s words were as unexpected as they were touching. Anu was violent no doubt, the way he abused his brother and went against orders; but perhaps he was only like the chestnut that was rough all around but lacked the spikes in its true form. Night was dawning; lanterns of leaves were being lit in the trees as Nierief and Anu strode into the city. Elf women stood and crouched in the trees, their gazes either curious with wonder or suspicious. To the commoner their large eyes would be unnerving but to Nierief who had seen the eyes of many, they were only poor souls in this large world who knew not the coming storm. It would be their blood that was spilled if their ruler declared war.

“Nierief,” Ieba’s harsh voice cut through the dark snowy wood.

“What is it?” Anu raised his arm to his bow, looking at her with a dubious gleam. Nierief only stepped in front of him, he did not retaliate. The old unicorn’s eyes shifted slowly from the young warrior to her old friend.

“You are late, Okenmard is displeased. The others have already gathered; come.” Nierief nodded, motioning for Anu to follow. The tree they entered had been hollowed out years ago to accommodate the large spiral steps carved into the heart of the trunk. With tentative hooves he stepped, unaccustomed to leaving the earthen ground. Lights above in the gleaming canopy were his only guidance, Ieba walked in front far more sure footed then he. Anu followed behind, his keen eyes watching the branches of the trees, though he had some cause to feel paranoid, Nierief did his best not to think on it. Ieba stopped at a grand door which had been carved into a thick branch. Designs swirled elaborately about it, made from vines. Shouldering the door, she pushed it open with her weight. Nierief nodded, managing a smile before stepping inside.

The room was large and airy, through the many twisting branches the remainder of Quvoa could be seen. Nightfall had descended and lanterns lit the early winter night. Fires hung from lanterns suspended all around, enveloping him in warmth. It was not the warmth that a child feels when coming into their home after a long day of playing in the snow. This was the warmth of tension, the warmth of a building fire soon to smolder and rage. A large fungus which had grown out from this part of the tree served as a long table. It was decorated with candles, and platters of food. Okenmard stood at the head, surrounded by his other robbed consorts, all of them clicking their small teeth and leering with large eyes as the centaur stepped into the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Ieba who gave him a glance before taking her place with Glabell and Len. The two of them situated on Okenmard’s right. They stood, the table coming up to their knees for it was low growing and meant to be crouched around rather then sat with chairs.

Nierief swallowed; calm and collectively making his way to an empty place beside where Ieba stood a few lengths away, Anu joined him. As the centaur situated himself slowly and comfortably, he looked once or twice at the griffins that were on Okenmard’s left. There were two of them, one bore light brown plumage around its neck and body with slightly darker wings and striking green eyes, the other was the color of a bored black. The later was larger in size but it was the brown that he could tell bore the authority.

So that is Marinal of the Great Jarkin. She lives up to her reputation.

Nierief had fought more griffins then he cared to remember during the dragon wars, but this one stood out on her own. She was large in comparison to other females of her species, the scars and missing feathers did not make her seem ragged or unseemly but added to her air of ferocity. Her beak was somehow unscathed, her tufted ears twitching. She lay like a lion, her two front talons folded, her tail twitching with anticipation. In the blink of an eye, her eyes found his. The smile she delivered to him was curt and unruly. Had he been of a younger age, it would have frightened him. But Nierief had seen too much to be frightened by a griffin, even one as demanding of fear as Marin. All sat in silence around the table, or relative silence. From where Nierief sat he could hear the back and forth of Len and Glabell. The two horned horses were at least making an effort to speak in hushed tones. There would be trouble no doubt if Marin were to overhear that one under her command should be healed without her orders. It was a legend that among the Fifth Clan, a griffin healed after a battle by some other fae other than its own kind, would be murdered by their commander on the spot. As would the healer themselves.

“You succeeded, didn’t you?” Glabell asked firmly.

“Yes, but not without hurting him and nearly breaking my horn! Can’t I go back to the clearing, I am sure there is some foal there that needs my supervision.”

“You should be proud of yourself nonetheless. You healed Yegdrisll’s wound.” Len snorted with contempt, Nierief smiled to himself.

Oh to be young again.

“I took the spear out sure but was unable to fully close the wound! He almost bled out.”

“But he didn’t,” Glabell mused. There was a slight twinkle to his eye the kind which Nierief remembered Zarkov had. It tinged his breast with a bittersweet feeling.

“My lords and lieges,” the old centaurs gut writhed hearing Lord Okenmard’s voice address them all at last. “I bid you welcome to our humble home and pray that you feel safe here. Not since the Dragon Wars has the city of Quvoa had the privilege of hosting such honorable guests. But honor is a frugal thing these days isn’t it?” Nierief resisted the urge to roll his eyes, as he knew what Okenmard was about to indulge himself in. Beside him, Anu let out an audible breath of irritation.

“Honor is something with which we pay homage to the gods. Our Great Mother gave us life, and we thank her, as well as all the gods by upholding and preserving our honor, thereby preserving ourselves as well. An un-honorable able fae is worth no more than a human and humans lack all sense of honor.” There were nods and squawks of agreement all around. Anu himself raised his fist in support. Nierief shot him a look, which the dark centaur acknowledged and ignored. Okenamrd continued his speech for much longer than Nierief felt necessary. It was all war and drudgery, talk of the indecency of humans and their filth. Through it all the centaur stole a look at Ieba. Her eyes were down cast, her tail unmoving. A fit of sympathy stirred within him.

You have a choice my friend. You know the humans better than the rest of us. If you believe they are just, speak now. Or it will be war. Nierief looked at her, hoping somehow that his thoughts would be heard by her. Through their years of friendship, he wouldn’t be surprised if it worked.

“…and so, I will go the human tribe lands on the morrow and wreak havoc upon them whilst they sleep. I advise each of your troops follow me. We will show them who is superior in this world. We will restore the natural balance. Who is with me?” Marin immediately unfurled her wings in an extravagant display. Just one of those feathered limbs would be enough to knock the wind out of a moderately sized troll or giant Nierief thought.

“I commend you Lord Okenmard for your enthusiasm and thank you for your hospitality. We have flown far and fast and we are thankful for your feast. I come on behalf of the Great Jarkin who sends his thanks as well. It is his words I speak and his will I carry out. It is in that spirit that I must speak to you a word of caution.” Her voice was as deep as her loyalty and though Nierief knew song and tell of the Great griffin lord, his name still sent a shiver through his spine. Marin’s bright eyes fixated on the elf king, holding him in an intense grip. For a moment Nierief swore it must have been some magic, but he knew that the griffins had lost those abilities years ago.

“Why not go straight to the strongest human stronghold of all. There is a city to the west of here, Interitus. If you were wise, dear king, which I know you are; you should go there first and attack. It makes this war short, simple and hardly a war at all.” The room was silent, her words hanging in the room like the slowly falling snow outside. Nierief’s eyes flicked to Ieba. She remained passive.

She is playing him. Okenmard smiled, leaning towards her.

“I am surprised Lordess Marinal. I thought you would enjoy a play by play in this game. Going straight to Interitus would make this war short and nothing more than a simple skirmish but I was sure you would enjoy a little more fun.” Marin smiled dangerously.

“I love fun and I love to win. But what fun is winning against a small band of men? Why not play against a fellow army?” Nierief caught a flash of fear in the elven king’s large eyes. It vanished momentarily.

“We shall see,” he hissed. Marin matched him, her eyes still locked onto his.

“We shall indeed.” The two leaders eased back to their seats in the aura of unspoken tension and excitement. Evenutally Lord Okenmard spoke again, this time addressing them all:

“Good, then with that over, let us eat; we will discuss the logistics later.” Glabell opened his mouth to speak yet was hushed by the rapid scraping and snarling for food. Nierief shot a look over to Ieba, this time she met his gaze with an apologetic smile.

What has happened to you? You were never afraid to speak your mind. He thought, a little accusingly. Nierief knew he was a coward, he knew that he did not have what it took to speak up before such rulers as these, not even against Glabell. The rest of these lords had something he did not possess: a people who supported them, admiration and a place among their kind, authority unquestioned and respected but not him. With a sigh Nierief ran a hand over his face, doing his best to savor those precious moments of invisibility.

Zarkov help me, I know not what I have done. Coming here was a mistake. It was a safe mistake, for Harvain would not risk quarrel with the elves but it was ultimately selfish. Anu grunted throwing large leg of lamb down on a stone plate before Nierief,

“Here, eat.” Nierief eyed him suspiciously. The customs of how and when to eat ran deep among his people, it was normally taboo to eat as a guest unless your host invited you to do so specifically. Watching his younger subject eat should have put Nierief to shame but instead it only stirred the hunger within him. Discretely he picked up the lamp and bit down. It was warm, well-seasoned and fresh; the aroma of it was enough to bring him back to his lonesome days in the wood as a youth. Privately grateful, he finished the leg and moved on to help himself to wine, fruit and bread. Elves, for all of their faults at least knew how to serve a good meal. Yet still anxiety bit at him.

They have done it within the span of moments. They have declared war on the human race. Funny, I used to things those sort of things took time. Almost amusing it is, the way that the fate of an entire kind can be sealed by the words of a few in a single room in a matter of moments. With that in mind, the old centaur ceased eating and remained ever quiet throughout. Instead he looked through the lattice like branches, up at the stars shimmering in the night sky. They were not as bright as they had once been before.

Fifteen

The boar was especially delicious, or so she guessed as much from the way Temone tore into it with a ravenous hunger. Marin watched, but could not bring herself to try any. Okenmard was watching her; she could see the gears turning in his little self-indulgent head. She huffed, ruffling her wings and stood up to preen herself, her tail flicking with agitation. Something grew in her stomach: anger and worry. This is going to be harder than I thought. She glowered and settled herself back down. It was growing late and Okenmard would drag this feast out for as long as he could but she knew better. Seeing him in conversation with whom she assumed the unicorn king, the griffin rolled her eyes with bemusement.

“You should eat my liege,” Temone interrupted through a beak full of fish. She looked down at him, and shook her head but could not help a small smile.

“I am well. You eat.” He gave her a flat look like a mother would give to a picky chick but shrugged after a few moments and tore into the white flesh once more. Marin did her best to avoid conversation, but she should have known from the moment the centaur sat down across from her that it would be impossible.

“You are Marin of the Fifth Clan?” The elder asked. He was battle worn and old but not weak in the least. Perhaps a little soft in the mind but Marin could tell one of strength when she saw it and the centaur before her certainly held his own. She nodded curtly. “Is that far?” He pressed.

“Seven days,” she made sure to keep her answers brief in the attempts that he would get the hint.

“I have never been to the griffin desert,” evidently he did not. Marin did not answer,

It is a useless dry place where horse riding hordes lay waste to all and even the water tastes like sand in your beak.

“Is it true that Jarkin’s left talon fell out in the Battle of the Little Wood and some humans took it to make one the Seven Great Weapons?” Marin nodded,

“It is.” The centaur looked at her thoughtfully before shrugging his shoulders.

“You are young to be leading an entire troupe of infamous warriors.”

“You can never be too young for battle. Forgive me centaur but I have given you my name, now I would like to know yours.” The old one nodded a smile coming across his face.

“Forgive me my lady. I am Nierief of the Wild Wood.” Marin nodded, his name was wholly unknown to her, his name and his deeds therefore must be things of little significance. “Who is your companion?” Marin gave Temone a nudge. The gray griffin looked up from where he was feasting, entrails of fish in whatever ridiculous white sauce dripped from his beak.

“This is Temone, second in command of the warriors of the Fifth Clan and He Who Lived Before The Fall. Temone Long Lived, or Missing Claw he is called among our clan.” Nierief’s eyes flickered from her to her companion. Temone squawked and nodded to Nierief, as was customary, flicking his ears down ward to show that they met with no conflict and he did not intend to fight. Marin privately felt this as being a bit too heart felt, she had never lowered her ears for anyone, even in a polite introduction.

“Well met Temone Long-Lived.”

“Well met,” Temone replied. His accent in the common Fae tongue was heavy despite his years of worldly travel. Marin left the talking between the two of them; instead she thanked Jarkin for the fact that she had managed to restrain Sobek from attending the meeting. On the flight to the city she had asked Temone what exactly the punishment was for killing an elder or what excuses could be made for his absence when they returned. She had left the sniveling doubter in the clearing with rest of the others. The elders may have ordered his attendance with her but they did not specify how he was to be treated or how he needed to incorporate himself. Marin would make sure he did not raise so much as a feather. Nierief and Temone continued to talk throughout the banquet, where Marin lacked in social graces her second made up for it. Temone was sociable when he had to be, and was inspiringly able to fake polite conversation and interest. No griffin was one for politics or assembly but if it was needed, Temone was the one for the job. Sometime later, Okenmard stood, bidding his guests farewell before he and his accomplices crawled away up the wooden branches into whatever homes could be had in the remainder of the giant tree. Without excusing herself Marin stood, leaving the room. She could feel all eyes upon her as she did so but chose to ignore them. She ignored the stares she received as she awkwardly descended the winding stairs, only when she was alone in the cold evening did she allow herself to breathe.

Keep calm, there is still time. You have not failed. Okenmard will only need more forceful persuasion. She smiled at the thought but put it to the back of her mind while she pecked around the snow, letting it melt to water. It was cold, refreshing and for a breath relaxing. It was these moments that she cherished. Being alone, with no expectations or obligations, no promises, no need to lead or speak or fight. They were precious moments, few and far between but when they came Marin was grateful for them. She sucked in a breath of nighttime air, letting it fill her with darkness and reassurance that tomorrow would bring her better luck. Once again, she thought of a land beyond the Sea of Sunar. In her mind she had already imagined the place, green and lush with brooks full of fish, water everywhere to drink and bathe in, fresh mountain air, no elders, no humans.

A shuffling sound broke her imagination. Stretching her wings and pushing off the soft snow she took off toward the noise. When she found its source she stopped,

“Yegdrisll,” she hissed. The youngster bowed his head to the ground.

“You did not report to me when I arrived,”

“I am sorry my liege I,” She looked him over then noticed the mark where something must have shot him.

“You are wounded,” she stated. Yegrisll nodded sheepishly.

“A human arrow my liege,” he mumbled.

“I see. You appeared to have healed it.” The young flier shifted uncomfortably.

“I didn’t heal it my liege, a unicorn did. The young unicorn prince, Len is his name. He healed me, with his magic, or tried to…” his voice rose in panic as he fumbled over words. “Please forgive me!” Marin answered him with a hiss, hot blood spraying over her claws as she re-opened his wound. Yegdrisll let out a shrill of surprise and pain, shying away.

“When you accept help from others you make yourself look weak and vulnerable. Are you weak and vulnerable? Are our forms of healing not good enough for you, or was the pain so great that you succumbed to the aid of a horned horse?” She tested him. Yegdrisll looked away,

“No,” he whispered. Marin nodded,

“The next time you accept healing from anyone other than one from our clan; it will not be your wound I reopen but your neck. Understood?”

“Yes my liege.”

“Good. Now these humans who attacked you, where were they?” Yegdrisll shook and preened himself. Marin flicked her tail impatiently.

“It was two days south of here, the village bore blue banners.” Marin nodded,

“How many were there?” The youngster paused thinking for a minute before answering tentatively.

“Could not be more than three hundred I think.”

“You think, or you know?” Marin snapped, Yegdrisll shuddered.

“Three hundred total my liege, I flew fast. They were shooting at me.” She nodded and dismissed him with a wave of her wing. Yegdrisll bowed and took off awkwardly favoring one side of his body where his reopen wound now lay.

Sobek was right where Marin had left him, only he was laying down one feathered wing draped over his face. Three guards stood around him, she didn’t have to say a word as they parted for her way.

“Are you comfortable?” Marin asked begrudgingly. The elder snorted and raised his wing, pricking his ears up and looking at her sharply.

“No, I am not. This wood is cold and it is nearly daylight once more. I have not been fed and these birds refuse to bring me anything.” She rolled her green eyes,

“Oh did I order them to do that? Silly me.” Sobek thrilled,

“My feathers are going to fall out and I will freeze to death by the solstice.” The whining in his tone was enough to make Marin shriek.

“What a shame that would be,” she said flatly. Sobek stood, the surrounding griffins made to block him but a look from their commander stopped them. The elder snapped his beak, inches from her own.

“You should learn to treat your leaders with more respect Marinal.” Marin smiled wryly,

“Indeed, but you are no leader here. We are far from the Griffin Desert, a place you have never left. We are at war now, and that is my area of leadership. Do you see these fine specimen’s here around you?” She flicked a wing in the direction of the other griffins. “They follow me, not you and if I ordered it: they would kill you.”

“You wouldn’t dare! The elders will hear about this!” He shrilled. Marin smirked,

“Do you want to fly back yourself? I didn’t think so. I could easily make it look as though some elf had gotten too blood thirsty and decided to shoot you. Now threaten me again, if you wish.” Sobek retained her gaze for a pathetic try before dropping it. He muttered something under his breath and sank back down.

Good, know your place. She thought and smiled at the image of him cowering before her. Taking her eyes off of him and turned to behold Temone, fresh from the feast. He had yet to dip his beak in the waters to clean himself.

“You enjoyed yourself it seems?” The griffin nodded and began to pick at his talons scrapping off the remaining bits of meat.

“Did you speak with Okenmard?” He asked.

“Okenmard is going to need a bit more persuasion then I anticipated,” Marin said placidly.

“Yegdrisll spoke of a human settlement two days south, I recon you can make it there in one.” Temone stopped picking at his talons and looked at her.

“Take a group of five to the village with blue banners and make a…demonstration. Let the warriors kill with claws not talons and I do not want a single feather on the ground. It is the elves who are attacking them, not us.” Slowly the gray-black griffin nodded,

“I will go at once.” Marin nodded; Temone bowed and made to gather his soldiers.

“…and Temone?” He turned back, “When I say demonstration, I mean it in the most forceful of ways. Kill them all but for the men with weapons.”

“Pardon my liege?” Marin looked at him, eyes gleaming in the dark.

“Kill some of the women, children and elderly but leave the soldiers and those who would want to seek revenge.” Temone cocked his head for a moment. Slowly comprehension came into his face, a scar down his neck where some feathers had never regrown twitched but he bowed once more and departed.

If you want a war Okenmard, it will be my war and I who throws the dice.

Sixteen

It had stopped snowing later the next morning when Glabell awoke. The banquet Okenmard had held lasted late into the night and he had indulged himself more than he had meant to. He shook his head, not enough progress had been made. Okenmard made it clear that he would be going to war against the neighboring tribes of humans, the griffins were not content with even this: their leader had pronounced that they march straight to the capitol of Availion.

If only the centaur, Nierief had spoken up. Why is it that those who need speak the most have the softest voices? How is it that ignorance can so often out speak wisdom? Making his way around the clearing, Glabell forced himself to smile at the few members of his heard who met his eyes. Many of them grazed pleasantly, poking through the layer of powdery snow with hoof, horn or muzzle. It was cold, but it was better than a true storm. Glabell shook himself and made his way onward, casting a wiry glance at the group of centaurs who shared their clearing. The elder of their band, Nierief was nowhere to be seen but the others sat sharpening their makeshift weapons. A large black coated fellow was brawling with a smaller chestnut colored one. Again the king shook his head.

If there is to be a war, I will not stay. He had said this to himself repeatedly yet he could not ignore another fire in his heart, one that promised vengeance and action.

You miss the wars don’t you? You long to pierce your horn through flesh once more. Why don’t you? Why not pierce the flesh that killed Demmeter?

“Because it is wrong,” he whispered aloud. With a stamp of his hoof the unicorn king made his way to Ieba. She was grazing peacefully though she was thinner than the rest of them. Before he could speak, she turned to him.

“Good morning my lord,” Glabell nodded to her in return.

“Did you sleep well?” Ieba smiled, one cloudy eye looking at him with bemusement.

“I did, though it seems you have not.” Glabell bent his head to graze. “Where is Len?” The old nag shrugged.

“Whoever knows where that colt goes? He is probably off in the woods somewhere trying to think of new ways to embarrass you. Especially after his failed attempt at healing that griffin,” The king snorted,

“He has to try Ieba, a horn is hardly a weapon. It is something to be used for healing, not harm. Not unless necessary. Len fights well yes but he knows nothing of our magic.” The nag shook her head, bending down to graze some more. “Yegdrisll, the griffin, he had to be healed. It was a gruesome wound. I know the ways of griffins, they would have let him die.” Ieba was silent once more. Glabell heaved a sigh, why was he explaining himself to this nag? He snored, walking off towards the woods.

“My lord,” Ieba’s forceful voice stopped him. There was something in her tone that made him shiver. Though he had no obligation to acknowledge her, he always had and it had always been for the better. “May I speak with you, alone?” Glabell looked at her, weighing the answer. He had always tried to keep words within the entirety of the herd. It was his attempt to build a bond of trust within a constantly changing population. Kasaar, his father before him; had taught him many things about ruling, one of them being the importance of communication.

Being King of the Unicorns is different from all other rulers. Where other leaders have loyal subjects and a kingdom to uphold, the way of our people is different. Aior gave us freedom and the love to wander. You’re herd will never be the same on any given moon. Lone stallions will temporarily become part of the group, wishing to mate or challenge you for leadership. Mares will join the herd to seek a mate or raise their foals. The stallions will leave in time if you beat them in combat. The mares will wonder elsewhere once their young are grown. You will remain and you must be the one source of unity among a solitary people. In order to do this, you must have trust between all members of your herd at all times. Do not speak in secret, do not make false judgments, and do not forbid anyone from coming or going. Whatever unity you can grasp you must hold dear.

But Kassar had died when a stallion from the south came to challenge him. Glabell was young, younger than Len when it happened and in order to take up his birthright he fought the stallion and killed him. There were nights when he continued to dream about it. He had killed many times after that, but it was that first bloodshed which haunted him the deepest.

“Please my lord,” Ieba urged again. Glabell cast an eye around his herd, and then nodded; taking care to step into the wood out of eyesight. Ieba followed him with speed he would not have thought her capable of. “You realize that you must tell him the truth my king,” she said fiercely. Glabell reared up with this sudden outburst.

“Tell what truth to whom Ieba?” She snorted.

“Len; you must tell Len the truth about his mother. Now that war is inevitable, he must know.”

“War is not-“

“It is!” She whinnied, rearing herself up with incredible strength. “War is the time and you know it. How do you expect him to lead if he doesn’t know what brought about her downfall? You worry; I see it in your eyes. You are worried he will make the same mistake she did, and you should be.”

“I know,” he said levelly and snorted. But whatever words she spoke were not enough to overcome his fears. After the Dragon Wars, after his mat’s death; he had played it safe staying on the plains away from other fae, away from humans. It had worked for hundreds of years and some part of him still believed it would continue to work. Glabell had lost his father, his mate, his herd during the Dragon Wars, he would not lose his only son to another blood feud.

“I will tell him,” he reassured Ieba. “I will tell him when I deem it right.”

“And when will that be?” His mate’s dam questioned. The king turned on her, shoving her lightly in the shoulder, enough to send her backpedaling a few paces and shake her head.

“When I deem it right,” he repeated and bucked up wildly, trotting into the woods. The sun provided little warmth through the chilling breeze that stirred the thin branches. Alone at last, the unicorn king sighed, hanging his head. Solitude just as comforting as it was unsettling. The winter solstice was coming fast now, the longest night of the year usually marked by celebration, festivities and joy but Glabell hardly felt any of that seasonal glee. Nostalgia settled in his chest like a great weight, the gnawing restlessness within him had ceased for the moment. Like hunger, it came and went in waves of intensity; always there but receding backward for periods of time only to rise again. At this moment however, it was lost to the peacefulness of the winter morning. Glabell closed his eyes, concentrating only on the air that rushed in and out of his lungs. If there was to be war, he knew he must do something. No longer could he remain neutral, the memories that played themselves out behind his eyes proved that, and then there was the dream.

The girl with the gray eyes who had touched him and nodded to him as though he were about to do something great, or terrible, or stupid. The dream had never ended that way before; he was carted off to the city of Interitus, mocked and ridiculed but there had never been a human who touched him. Unicorns were not seers, nor clairvoyants or sorcerers; they were not suited for vivid dreams. Ethereal things of that nature belonged recorded in the great Libraries of Becor. Glabell tossed his mane, shaking flakes of snow off of his coat. The golden chain around his neck felt cold against his chest. Feeling the wind through the trees once more, Glabell thanked Aior for the wind and the serenity of lonesomeness before going back to his herd. Len had come back thankfully. The young stallion eyed his father dubiously; Glabell whinnied approaching his son with authority.

“Where were you?” he demanded, perhaps a bit more harsh then he intended. The prince nickered, stamping his hoof into the snow.

“I went back to the griffin, to try and heal him again. To mend his wound better since it healed rather…sloppy on the first try.” Well, that’s a surprise. The king thought to himself.

“Did it work?” Len’s eyes darted to the side looking away before sighing.

“There was a light that came from the tip of my horn. I felt strange, like a stream made from fire was erupting from me, flowing out through my veins.” Glabell nodded; at least he had managed to manifest the energy required for such magic. It took much strength of body and mind, especially for a young one like Len who was inexperienced in the healing magic. “I stopped the bleeding,” Len continued. “The flesh started to mend itself but that’s when I…I was excited that it was working so I must have sent too much power into the force so it sort of…exploded.”

Glabell’s eyes widened in shock but he forced himself to keep calm,

“You didn’t…”

“No! I didn’t’ kill him I just sort of reopened the wound a bit more. He insisted it was alright! He even thanked me!” The stallion spoke frantically trying to reassure his father. Glabell nodded, such things happened to every youngster who was still trying to master their magic.

“You should be thankful to him! Any other griffin would have had you’re neck in its beak before you could speak.” Len rolled his eyes, snorting again. Glabell nudged him gently. “That was a good start you will try again next time if I get hurt.”

“What makes you think you’ll be hurt soon?” Len asked, Glabell wasn’t sure if he imagined the tiny flicker of concern in his sons eyes or if it was real. The unicorn king smiled,

“You are right. There is to be a war and we will not stand by while humans kill our own.” This brought a sly smile to the young prince’s face. He nodded, bowing to his father and trotted off this time promising to stay in close proximity.

The day passed uneventful to say the least. Okenmard did not summon him neither did the centaur bother them. There was no sign of the griffins, none of usual squabbling and fighting. Glabell assumed they were reserving their strength. Several members of the herd expressed a desire to leave and go back home closer to the plains, a request which Glabell denied them, though he gave them the freedom to leave if they so choose. They did not, it was better to stay discontent but alive, then to risk wandering off into a forest infected with humans. Soon enough the stallions, mares, and foals alike fell asleep as the moon rose into the sky. Even Ieba bent her head to rest with the others and Len as well fell into a slumber when he came back after nightfall. He appeared to be unscathed. Only Glabell remained awake, at last able to return to that blissful solitary calm. The shadows in the snow from the branches above formed intricate patterns that the unicorn king admired before he felt himself growing tired; it was no good to resist the temptation of rest. The old warrior learned long ago that it was better to sleep when one could, then to stay up for sake of appearing tough, only to damage yourself farther latter on. He received no dreams that night, all was quiet until Glabell felt someone shaking him hard, pricking his flank.

“My lord, get up! They are attacking!” Ieba’s frantic voice jolted his sleepy haze.

“Who is attacking?” He demanded, waking to hear the sounds of running and steel against wood cracking like wildfire.

“The humans!” Ieba said, continuing to shove him. At once awake, the unicorn king reared up looking wildly around to see blue banners in the moonlight.

Seventeen

Nierief was not prepared for a fight, even though he had been fighting for most of his adult life. It was one of many paradoxes’ which ruled his existence. Blue banners blinded him as he reached for his bow. Anu was already fighting; he held his axe with ease though it weighed close to a ton, formed of dwarven iron. The men charged through the trees, screaming in their own strange tongue, already cries could be heard from those who had fallen. Two elves were cut down a few feet away. The old centaur grimaced running forward and drawing his bow, aimed at a sturdy man in leather, his back turned. The arrow volleyed through the air with deadly accuracy. It landed just above his rib. The soilder turned grunting in pain, he was a large man; it would take more than one arrow to put him down.

Common tribesman by the leather, Nierief thought to himself. There was no way the gluttonous king of Malavalon would spend his money on arms and armor for wild tribesmen. It almost makes me pity them. The centaur thought as he rushed towards the center of Quvoa. The men were already making their way there, having already rushed passed.

“Anu, to me!” He called, raising his arm up in signal for them to follow. From the corner of his eye, Nierief could see Sagitar in the shadows, looking dumbfounded. The young one did not move an inch, his wide eyed gaze stuck to where the tribesmen were fighting their way into the center of the elven kingdom, through the forested corridor. Luckily Dreag, a bay colored centaur with green eyes and black thoughts rushed up behind Sagitar whacking him with the broad side of his sword across the back. The red centaur was flung into the midst of hooves as they went forward, spears, and bows ready. It was only a matter of time before Nierief realized that the young one was unarmed. It was too late; already the men of the blue banners had made it to the large central tree where Okenmard held council just nights prior. Elves were scurrying about in any way they could, using their elongated limbs in advantage as they clung to the branches of the trees above, firing arrows down on the men.

Fools, don’t you know humans can climb trees nearly as well as you? Innovation is only beneficial to those who harness it first. With their own tools humans could fashion rigging to support themselves in the trees, already several tribesmen had used their knives and spears to scale the large trunks.

“Nierief!” The speckled centaur turned, beholding a bloody unicorn with a golden chain around his neck. “Take the left flank; I will lead to the right. The griffins will not be of much help with these branches.” Glabell spoke with surprising clarity over the sound of battle.

So you are a commander, Nierief thought with amusement. The old unicorn had been playing the passive overseer but now the centaur recognized the command with which he spoke. It was a voice achieved only through years of hardened fighting.

He nodded, signaling to his men to gallop around the left side of the clearing, forcing the humans to the right where Glabell and his warriors would meet them with their horns and hooves. There was a sudden whoosh, instinctively Nierief duct just in time to avoid a sword to the side of his head. Squinting he could just make out the grizzled man who had attacked him. He was short in stature like his fellow men but bore no banner. Nierief whinnied furiously and reared upwards in warning but the man held his ground. The centaur reached for an arrow, shooting it at such close range would be useless but an arrow did not always need a bow. One could risk it, if they needed. The brittle shaft would easily break if used like a dagger but it was worth the try and it would not be the first time Nierief used it as such. The man evaded his first few attempts at stabbing; thrusting other men in between him and the fae in an attempt to get away but the centaur was quicker. He knocked down any unfortunate soul who tried to get in his way. Banking to the left, Nierief forced the man into the fray towards Glabell and his warriors. He reared once more, and brought his front hooves down upon the man. He could vaguely feel something in his right hoof, the man’s knife? Pain was muted against the overall oblivion of the fight. Acting quickly the centaur drove the arrowhead into the man’s neck; blood spurted across his face, hot and metallic. Somewhere a griffin shrieked as an arrow pierced its chest. Men and fae alike scrambled to flee before it fell but three men were not fast enough. Nierief heard the all too familiar sound of bones crushing beneath the weight of the bird. He turned, surveying the rest of the fight. Lights of white were cast to the right, the unicorns using their magic.

Thank the stars, Ieba is not among them. He thought to himself. This was no battle, this was a skirmish and the old nag was far above skirmishes.

“Nierief!” Another man made a leap at him, this time with a mace, heavily barbed. The old centaur smiled wickedly, how foolish of them. Easily he swung to the side, the man who wielded it tried once more heaving with all of his might. He aimed for Nierief’s side thereby exposing his chest when he swung. The battle hardened fae shot him easily, arrow between his eyes.

“Nierief!” Someone was calling his name. Something liquid and warm flecked across his chest, a dark green substance: elf blood. Indeed before him lay a dead elf with its stomach wrenched in two. Unfazed the centaur stepped over it and whirled around, arrow slung to his bow when he felt something on his shoulder. It was Sagitar: he was bleeding and favoring his right foreleg.

There is nothing to be done you sulking squeamish foal! Those wound are merely scratches.

Nierief thought as he spared a moment to give the young centaur a scowl, he didn’t have long. In that moment something slammed into him heavy and slick. As he tumbled, Nierief reached for the dagger in his belt. If the man got atop of him like a horse, there would be little chance. He grunted in effort as the human landed punches against his hide. In a furry of hooves Nierief threw him off. Dirt and snow bit at his skin as he tumbled, struggling to regain his footing. Another sharp pain stabbed him in the shoulder. He turned, seeing an arrow protruding from his right side. With a curse he reared once more, scanning the small woodland clearing which was now swarming with fae and human alike. In a flash he launched another few arrows. All of them hit their mark upon their target but only two killed their victim. The man whom he had been wrestling came to his feet just as the old centaur fell back on all fours once more. He yelled something strange in the human tongue which Nierief could not understand.

The man charged at him once more, a small glinting knife in hand. The centaur spun, aiming to dodge but lost his footing on a root of all things. He fell to the ground with a crash once more, feeling the ground slick with blood. The tribesman smiled in a toothy grin and pounced; Nierief threw his weight to the side, it was better have his hide be hit then his skin. But the blow never came. There was a furious winnie and the slam of two bodies colliding. The veteran centaur craned his neck and smiled. Ieba had come from nowhere, running the man through with her horn.

“What in the name of Aior do you think you’re doing?” She snarled at him whilst bending her head down to him. The centaur only snickered, gripping her horn with one arm and reading another arrow from his back with another. She pulled him to his feet.

“That was a close one,” he managed, heaving for breath. She shrugged, her blind eye looking over him. Somehow he knew its gaze was critical even though it was blank.

“Add it to the list,” she suggested and leapt with unthinkable agility out of the way of a griffin who was trying to fend off at least five men. The had been brought down by the men who now scaled the branches with axes but it remained undead, twisting and thrashing, beating its wings madly.

“Glabell, if he sees you,” Nierief ventured, shooting another man in the back as he attempted to scale a tree beside them.

“To the winds with him,” Ieba scoffed youthfully. She nickered and bent her head once more taking aim at several human men who were rounding on another tree to climb. Her cracked and broken horn glowed a brilliant white, from its tip came a spiral of light. It traveled in a single continuous stream towards the target hitting perfectly. Men screamed and fell where they stood and the energy dispersed around them.

“It is good to fight with you again.” Nierief breathed, looking around for a moment at the scene before them. The numbers of human men were dwindling slowly but surely. In the trees elves fought with their long nails and swords, leaping from branch to branch. Many homes within the network of bridges and canopy had been ransacked already. All around them an orchestra of screams and moans penetrated their ears. Even still, it was the long lasting sounds of the Dragon Wars which would remain forever in the veteran centaur’s ears.

“Exactly, fighting, not talking you fool!” Ieba hissed. A smaller sized tribesman in furs leapt upon her from the left side out of the crowd of limbs and weapons. Nierief reached out to grab him bodily by the hair but Ieba had already reared, twisting and managed to throw him off. As the man regained his balance, refusing to be brought down the old nag reared once more her fore hooves cracking his skull with a horrendous sound. Before the centaur could respond Ieba had taken off into the fray.

Watch yourself my friend; we are not as strong as we once were. It was nostalgia and reminiscing not arrows nor swords which caused the old veteran the most pain. But there was no time for that at the moment.

Nierief reared once more, trying to see where his warriors were. They were supposed to be pushing the men into the center of the city and to the left, forcing them to where Glabell and his warriors were. Anu stood out luckily among the chaos of toil. He stared down this latest victim who had been bashed in the head with an axe that Anu had taken off another dead man. Nierief could see some others: Urile, Oka, Epriernon pushing the men to the left front. But their arrows would run out sooner or later if they were not careful. Nierief himself only possessed four more. He had not kept all of his arrows in his quiver, a tactic learned early on in his training. It did well in the long run, but could cost one dearly in battle. Griffins swooped down, picking men in their talons and dropping them from on high but it was few and far between for forests were no place for a winged creature to fight.

If the dragon wars had been fought on the Aiorian Plains, the world would look differently today. Nierief thought as he pushed his way forward to his warriors. The chaos was impenetrable as he fought his way through, rearing, kicking, bucking at any man who dared attack him. Then there was a screech from somewhere in the distance. Fae and humans alike turned desperately from where they fought to see. In the canopy above, one of the branches had been hacked from the trunk of an Eternal Oak. The great solid mass fell through the bramble of branches in slow motion. Nierief could not make out who had felled branch, but several griffins could be seen now hovering above the newly made window to the sky.

“Run!” He roared to his warriors over the crowed who now scrambled for any shelter to be had. He could see Anu darting out of the way, and Sagitar standing frozen looking at the colossal branch.

Stars give me sense, the old centaur whispered as he lunged for his fellow. He ungracefully through an arm around Sagitar’s waist and propelled him from the shadow of the falling branch. They fell to the ground in a mess of hooves as the splitting sound of wood shattered the forest floor. The red colored centaur breathed heavily, his gaze still upon the branch of the tree. Not everyone had been spared from its impact. Three elves, or rather parts of them could be seen sticking out from the wood, their arms reaching desperately, their legs frozen in position to get away. Four men were also scattered among them, including one, whose head now leaked fluid and blood into the frozen ground, trickling its way to Nierief’s hooves. Sagitar swallowed and then wretched, vomiting onto the snowy ground beside them. There was no time for comfort or ceremony as Nierief got to his feet. The momentary pause in the bloodshed was now over once more and a team of men now charged at him, their blue banners tipped with points much like arrow heads to him through. Carefully he dodged each, letting the men over run and come to a halt in order to turn around. Grunting the old centaur let them come back around and met them with fists and hooves. An elf, one of Okenmard’s personal garbs by the green yellow red leafed garb lent a hand, leaping atop of one and biting the side of his face.

Nierief nodded in brief thanks before spying Glabell who stayed with his fighters. They were doing well, felling any man with the magic from their horns at long range before they could approach too closely. Pushing up beside him Nierief met the eyes of the unicorn king whose own irises were filled with an unyielding bloodlust.

Such a sudden change, I was beginning to worry that you were not worthy of ruler ship. Any doubts that Nierief had about Glabell’s willingness to fight were quickly smothered as the unicorn king impaled a man though the stomach and with great strength of body lifted him into the air, only to slam him into the tough wood of the fallen branch. The golden chain around his neck was tainted with dark red blood but he himself bore not a scratch to indicate a wound. Nierief was torn from his thoughts as another man rounded on him, this one armed with a menacing looking ball and chain. It was an odd demonstration the old centaur thought; humans had long since done battle with imperfect arrows and swords, knives and axes but they were nothing compared to fae weapons of equal material and value. Where was it that they got fire and forge for such things? Only the dwarves in their fabled mountains could truly harness the art of crafting weapons and surely they had made no pacts with humans. While Nierief agreed with Glabell that the advances of the rising humans had to be dealt with, he did not for a moment believe them to be of true threat, and these were lowly woodmen, a tribal band.

The men had now begun to stand atop the tall oaken branch that fell, and shot arrows from the higher platform it provided. Nierief gritted his teeth; no fae would dare climb and stand above the fallen branch of an Eternal Oak. To do so would earn one either an eternity in the abyssal plains or at the very least, an unfulfilling after life; depending on which gods you followed. Regardless, it was simply not done.

…and they think we are animals. He thought, darkly amused. There was no doctrine that permitted shooting at one who stood atop an Eternal Oak branch, and besides, Nierief reconciled: I face a doomed afterlife anyway. With that in mind, he reached for his quiver and picked a single arrow, slinging to his bow and took aim at the largest man above. He seemed to be the leader of the tribesman by his paint and grab which was more plentiful then that of the others. As the centaur took aim, he breathed out, slowly visualizing the arrow hitting the man but the strange calmness of the moment was broken. An iron hammer connected with his extended arm, Nierief grunted and twisted away, the arrow falling to the forest floor. To search for it would be a death sentence. Swiftly the old veteran turned on the man whose attempts to attack him were sloppy and out of control. The weight of the hammer making his swings uncontrollable, he waited for the man to swing again and ducked, driving his fist into the man’s gut. Luckily they wore no armor but layers of furs. He spun, this time bucking and smiled as his hind hooves hit the man in the stomach. Once more he turned, seeing the woodsman on the ground, moaning. With a sick sort of exhilaration Nierief tore the man’s hammer from his grasp and wielded it over his head, powerful muscles unburdened by its weight and brought it down across the man’s skull.

One arrow down, three more to go, He reminded himself as he took aim once more at the commanding man atop the branch. With a spring and a whisper the arrow drove through the man’s left eye. He wailed, suddenly crumpling, his fellows immediately trying to go to his aid. Before he could be carried off, Nierief shot another arrow, this one making its home in the man’s chest. There was another shout in the human tongue which he could not understand, but the blue banners began fading off, darting between the trees away from the city. More cries were heard as another hut in the trees fell down, crashing and splintering, taking several lives with it. Nierief looked around, they’re retreating, at last. He did not know how long the skirmish had been but sunlight was now reaching through the tops of the snow covered trees. As the thick blanket of fighting thinned, he gazed upon what lay beneath: the wounded, dying and dead. Mostly elves, one unicorn and two of his own centaurs though they were not dead. One griffin, a pale yellow color was struggling to untangle itself from a net, blood matted its feathers and talons. Nierief sighed, shaking his head. His breath still came in adrenaline fueled gasps but he could not tarry long. It would be time to regroup his band. He only prayed to the stars that word of this fight did not carry, if so, Harvain would surely know where to find him. Nierief could handle humans; he could handle war mongering elves and bloodthirsty griffins. What he could not handle was the loss of faith in his band, in his kind, in himself. Harvain could take all of that.

Eighteen

“You know that the cutting of any part of an Eternal Oak is forbidden; even among our own,” Temone warned. The two griffins perched in the highest limbs of the grand tree, sheltered just enough by the remaining branches. The fight was thinning out; Marin would need to make her appearance soon. Two of their warriors had been wounded, minor cuts and scrapes. Another by the name of Famour had broken his left talon.

“Do you honestly believe that Grendal and Garmoth care about a single branch from a tree?” She sneered, her emerald eyes piercing as she looked down at the fray. The gray black griffin was silent for a time, when he answered it was subdued.

“You know best my liege.” Her head snapped upwards facing him in the blink of an eye.

“Don’t I?” He nodded,

“You do. After all it was the off spring of Grendal and Garmoth who made you his commander and messenger here in the physical realm. You are always right. It was sung.”

Marin sighed and looked away from him. If it was sung, then it was certain. How she envied him, Temone, He Who Lived Before the Fall. Back when their people flew on the high winds of the Sea of Sunar. Back when the elders sang their magic and it became so. Back when all respected them, not out of fear but out of awe and respect. There was no singing now, no griffin sang. Their song, their magic was taken by the dragons when the Golden One slayed Garmoth, casting him from the sky. But Marin had hope, she would bring them back to their homeland and the great songs of the griffins would echo throughout Intiritus once more.

“You should join them my liege, it will look suspicious if you do not.” Temone broke her thoughts in his usual borough voice. Without answering Marin dived to the littered ground, he followed her in suit matching her speed with ease. She landed crushing four tribesmen who were attempting to flee, their crunching bones brought a smile to her. Several of her companions trilled out their greeting to her, waiting patiently for her orders.

“Let them run,” she instructed using only her griffin form of speech. Let the other fae fight in chaos. “They will crawl back in their homes and tell stories to their children of our wrath.

They will remember this day and will not dare to cross us again.” Only Temone remained silent at her words. He knew her motive was the exact opposite. Marin did not know if that brought her comfort or concern. She always dreaded the aftermath of battle, when the frenzy and excitement was over and the nervousness of numbers set in, when it came time to count the dead and wounded. Temone had advised her to take their warriors out of Quova entirely, lest they lose any fighters but she had known better. It would looks suspicious if they did not suffer at least some wounded. Each fae kept to themselves as they muddled through the fallen. Marin uncovered three seriously wounded griffin’s of her own and several others who had suffered minor injuries, the result of axes or arrows most likely.

“Shut you’re beak,” she snapped at one youngling who has been shot in the chest. She and two others held him down while Temone tried his best to yank the shaft out with his beak. “Are you not a warrior of Jarkin? Silence yourself or I will silence you myself.” That shut him up for a few moments before Temone released a grunt and the arrow was torn free from the warriors chest. Blood seeped to the surface, metallic and steaming in the cold air.

If we had our magic, we could sing it closed. Gently, gracefully like Grendal once did when Garmoth was wounded, when his blood created the Sea of Sunar. Marin thought to herself as Temone turned, pressing his right forepaw down upon the warriors chest in a crude attempt at apply pressure. Before The Fall, there were those among them who specialized in the healing arts, able to manipulate flesh and tissue with their songs, closing wounds, expelling disease but those gifted healers had been slaughtered with the rest when the great worms came from the east and took their homeland.

The gods abandoned us that day, a voice whispered to Marin every time she thought of it. But she knew that Jarkin would disagree, that all of the elders disagreed, even Temone. Their elders taught them that Garmoth and Grendal had been away when the dragons came and took their magic. They had been in the Realm of the Spirits and had returned to this realm too late to save their children. Stories were told of how they had given their only hatchling, Jarkin to the Realm of the Living in hope that he would avenge them. And he would, through her. Through Marin and together they would rise the griffins to glory once more. Marin knew this in her mind and in her heart of hearts, but her soul whispered something different. It whispered that Garmoth and Grendal had abandoned them long ago.

“Thank you my liege,” the wounded soldier’s voice stole her thoughts from her. Temone had succeeded in stopping the bleeding and had packed it with snow and leaves. Others had gathered around to watch as he rose up. Marin nodded in acknowledgement, her head snapping around to the wailing cries of the elves. They had already collected their dead and placing them atop the branch of the Eternal Oak. In a procession they were kneeling, creating a circle around it, screaming. The pale brown griffin rolled her eyes as she helped another one of her warriors to stand.

“Pathetic are they not?” She remarked, shaking her head. Temone nodded absentmindedly.

“Indeed my liege. It is only a stupid tree.” The soldier she had been helping was a yellow colored youth though his name had totally escaped her mind. Was it Uthica, Riarin? It didn’t matter.

Okenmard made his first appearance since the battle, though Marin had spotted him throughout . Gthe fight. He watched his people crowd around the branch with a somber frown. Unfortunately he appeared unscathed. Marin instructed Temone to gather their wounded and take them back to their clearing before she approached the Elven King.

“I told you this would happen,” she spat not bothering to bow to him. It was a few moments before he turned his black gaze to her. “I told you we should have made straight for Malavalon! I tried to warn you of this and now look what has happened!”

“Warlord Marinal,” Okenmard bean in a thin voice, she cut him off, rearing and digging her talons into the snow.

“One of your Eternal Oaks has been maimed by them! Is that not enough, you have suffered casualties, too many and the hands of whom: a few wild men, humans!”

Okenmard’s monotone expression was enough to make her want to kill him. His bug like eyes only regarded her blankly, his multi-faceted lids blinking.

“We need to move now!” She snarled at him.

“Pardon,” a strangely leveled voice cut in. Marin turned to see Glabell trotting up to them. Blood stained his pale coat, gore clung to his horn. “I do not think moving in the winter would be wise.” He said gently, but there was chaos in his eyes, off putting and mad. Marin leaned away from him.

Jarkin he is touched with insanity behind that calm façade.

“This does not concern you Glabell of the horned horses,” Marin said coolly. The King of the Unicorns went on to object to this, but his words flew in and out of her mind. Okenmard remained silent through it all, only to patronize the unicorn at the end of his speech.

“Just because you are too afraid to brave the forest in winter does not mean that the rest of us are not. We will stage an attack on their village now that we knew where they have come from and then we shall see where our objective lies.” Marin squawked all too fed up with the both of them.

“You are fools, the lot of you!” She snarled before taking off into the air. The wind was stagnant and chill, making her feathers tremble with the cold. She would not show her discomfort in the weather nor her unease pertaining to her plan. As she descended once more to the ground where the rest of her warriors waited, she prepared herself for Sobek’s assault.

“You are not as impervious as you have led them to believe back home,” he taunted her. “Iop, Wratchel and Lar were wounded grievously. Is this your idea of victorious war?” Marin tuned him out as she found a large tree, lifting her right wing and brushed herself against it, scratching.

You think this is victorious war. You are blind you old chicken. War has not even begun yet. Marin finished scratching herself against the tree and then made her way to see the others. Temone was speaking with one of the other warriors, an unscathed older griffin with a speckled plume of deep brown and black. It was Racha if she remembered correctly. He had been in her company for a few years, and was mate to that shady, spindly bird named Okara. He had a nest of hatchlings before they left the desert. Seven of them originally, before one of the males’ fist to hatch killed his brothers, leaving the usual single male and four remaining females. Marin’s own hatching had been unique with only one other clutch sib.

Temone and Racha went quiet as she approached; both of them lowered their ears and bowed to her.

“We will be attacking that human village soon. Prepare yourselves and the others.” She ordered, Racha nodded.

“My liege, do you know when we will be attacking them?”

“No, I do not. You will know when I know. Now go and see to the others. I want them mended as soon as possible. Go and hunt afterwards, get enough meat for any who cannot fly.”

It was later, after she had seen her troops fed and cared for that Marin took off alone in the woods. She flew slowly her senses keen in case any humans were lurking about. Finally she spotted a ledge of rock, looking out over the rest of the Wild Wood. Despite the disappointment of the day and her relative pessimistic outlook, she had to admit the sight was beautiful. The waning moon illuminated a silver light over the snow covered trees. She landed heavily on the rock, watching several tiny pebbles drop from the rock into the trees below. Out of her solitude the urge to summon the Great Jarkin came to her once more, the urge to go back and wake Temone from his slumber and bring him hear.

He deserves to see something beautiful in his life. After all, the only thing I have showed him is death and destruction. The only thing I’ve shown anyone was death and destruction. But I am capable of more than that aren’t I? Jarkin help me. She shook her head and blinked the snow from her eyes, sitting herself down on the cold rock folding her wings and preening herself. Praying to Jarkin for beauty was not done. He was death, he was justice and battle. He was not beauty or love or peace. None of their gods were. Marin looked out over the serenity of the dark winter worn woods. Smoke from the fire of an unknown human camp rose up in the distance but it was too small and contained to be a fire of destruction. Maybe it was the village of the tribesmen with the blue banners, maybe not. She could go and attack it, have some fun of her own. After all she hadn’t gotten the chance to actually fight today. She had been too busy watching and trying to cut that damn Eternal Oak. It was hard to do; she had to give them that. But it had been done and thankfully no one suspected her of it. She admired the darkness all around her, cold but calm. Finally Marin stood once more and beat her wings, fanning them out to stretch. Sooner or later she would have to go back to Quvoa and tend to her warriors. This was not the outcome she had in mind when she had sent her troops to attack in the first place. She had suspected Okenmard to take off towards Malavalon at once. But it would be alright she told herself, at least no dragons had showed up.

Nineteen

“You slay dragons?”

“Obviously,”

“You’re proud of yourself?”

“Of course I am! Wouldn’t you be?”

“No. I find the murder of any drake an unspeakable act of evil.”

“Well Nimrod, I’m afraid that’s where you and I differ!” Glady laughed hysterically, nearly falling off the log on which they sat. They were in the form of an elf presently since they were in elf territory. The earth dragon looked at them with malice in his bright golden eyes, his tail flicked back and forth like an irritated cat.

“Oro, tell Nimrod about the time I killed that dragon of the water, you remember that time don’t you? The female with the brown scales, she looked more like an earth worm then a dragon.”

Nimrick actually snarled and bared his fangs, starting forward to lunge at them. Glady laughed, vaulting up onto a branch above and crouched.

“I’m not saying worm as an insult Nimrod, I’m making an analogy.”

“You are despicable.” He snarled, settling himself back down.

“Thank you!” Glady said cheekily. Oro only shook his head and rolled his eyes. Considering for a moment the shifter jumped down from their perch and snatched two sticks up from the snowy ground. They set the wood together, pulling a string from a pocket on their belt and began to rub them together vigorously.

“Do you need help?” Oro ventured, watching skeptically. Glady shook their head and only rubbed the stick between their palms with more intensity.

“No, I don’t need help. I can make a fire all on my own thank you very much.” The dragon of fire said nothing but curled around himself and rested his head on his claws. The shifter continued creating as much friction as possible.

“I think I see a spark,” Nimrick pointed out. Glady cursed, laughing.

“Shut up Nimrod.” The dragon of earth shrugged. There was silence between them for a long while, before smoke did actually appear. Glady continued their work until a flame was made, then they began to throw kindling upon it. Once a mediocre fire they stepped back triumphantly.

“See? I told you I could make a fire; I don’t need your help fire drake!”

Oro only opened one sleepy eye but closed it again at the shifter’s boasting. Glady shook their head and set themselves down; the awkwardly long limbs of an elf were adapted for life in trees and were not as versatile as the form of other fae. Still, if they were caught, Glady would make sure they were not skinned alive. They sat and sharpened one of their many knives, this one they had taken off of a victim traveling along the wyvern’s way. It hadn’t been a hit; the poor elf was trying to make it back to the Wild Wood from the plains and had gone too far south. The wyvern’s had gotten to him already when Glady had smelled the carcass. The shape shifter had a fondness for this knife, it was longer than their others, but had a balanced blade, without elegant detail it made up for its plainness with remarkable precision. Flames glinted off its silver blade as the shifter ran a stone down its length, smiling at the sound of metal against rock.

“Where is it we are going exactly?” Nimrick asked, rather irritated.

“Were going on an adventure Nimrod, gods, expand your horizons.” Glady mocked, not removing their gaze from the knife they sharpened.

“Indeed and what sort of adventures will we be having Glady?” The shifter shrugged, examining the knife and deciding it was well sharpened for now. They belted it reached into another pouch, pulling out an apple they had stolen.

“Ask Oro, I’m just here for the fun of it.” The earth dragon hissed, obviously it was not the answer he wanted but Glady thought answers were over rated. They bit into the apple and crunched it rather louds, the spoke without closing their mouth.

“You know what your problem is Nimrod?” The earth dragon leveled them with a dubious glare. In the fire light, his eyes shown with resilience, for a moment the shifter stopped, considering. They had not seen determination like that in a drake since before the Dragon Wars. There was no telling what exactly this determination was leading to, but it was there and Nimrick easily gave into its whim.

He is a slave to desires he does not know.

“You are my problem at the moment shifter.” The dragon spoke through clenched jaws. “My reasons for traveling with this dragon of fire are my own but I will not be taunted by you.” Glady frowned.

“You don’t have any fun and you’re angry all the time.” They finished as though they had not heard his words. To his credit, Nimrick did not prevoke them further. Instead the dragon of the earth only rolled his eyes and heaved his massive body from the snow, turning away from the fire to collapse once more, draping his left wing over his face.

“What you’re not going to say goodnight?” Glady asked with mock hurt.

“Goodnight shifter.” The dragon snarled. But he did not fall asleep, Glady knew that much, he would not sleep while they or Oro were near. Right from the start, they could tell what kind of dragon he was, one of intellect, a master at controlling outward expressions of emotions, or at least trying to become a master of it. Snow began to fall gently, Glady had long since learned to desensitize themselves from the chills. They elf form that they took provided as much clothing as their human form, which while modest, was not adequate against nights in the forest and it was not even solstice yet.

“You don’t like me very much do you?” The shifter laughed, crouching on the log near the fire. Nimrick did not answer for a while, but finally when he did, his voice was unseemly quiet.

“Give me one good reason why I should, you slay dragons.” Glady cocked their head, frowning as they examined him through the glow of the flames. His scales shone brightly green. The first thing they thought of was how pretty they would look strung up at a market stall, that sharp earthen green would catch a lot of eyes, a lot of buyers. They purged the image from their mind and tried to answer as sympathetically as they could.

“I survive Nimrod. You got fire, tooth and claw; I have spears, daggers and shifting. It all comes out equal in the end.”

“That is where you are wrong,” the earth dragon snarled, he turned deadly fast, tongue hissing, flicking between his jaws. “Tell that to the unicorns who are being slaughtered on the plains, tell that to the dragons of the water, the ones of air.”

Glady raised a brow, they supposed he was right. The Dragon Wars were not kind to those drakes whose elements were water and air. Granted there were still an abundance of them, but not compared to those who once dominated the skies and oceans.

“Did in you fight in the Dragon Wars?” They asked, trying to pack as much sincerity into their voice as they could muster.

“That is a complex question.” Glady leaned closer to the flames; Nimrick’s eyes had gone softer. He too regarded the fire with a longing they themselves could relate to. A longing was reflected in the flames that equaled the longing within your own heart.

“I fought in the Dragon Wars yes. But I never killed.” The shape shifter nodded, sparing a look at the second dragon who remained fast asleep.

“I fought in the Wars too, but I ain’t as righteous as you. I killed plenty.” Nimrick nodded; for once he had no comment to rebuke. “You will see your kin again, sort of. If things go according to Oro’s plan.” They said gently. Lonesomeness was something they could sympathize with it, and they saw plenty of it in the dragon’s golden eyes. Deserving? Maybe. His own, fault? Most likely, but loneliness nonetheless.

“…and what is Oroenore’s plan?” Nimrick asked after a few minutes. Glady sighed, their glaze tracing the intricacies on the fire dragon’s bright red scales. He thrived in the firelight, but shivered in the snow.

“He has this crazy scheme to rally the dragons to battle with fae.” Nimrick smirked, wryly.

“That’s already been done,” Glady couldn’t help smiling.

“Yes, but this time against a common enemy.” This got the earth dragon’s attention. He cocked his head, much like a young hatchling. The shape shifter smirked.

“How much do you know about humans’ earth dragon?” Nimrick considered their question for a moment and then shrugged.

“They are creations of the gods much like you and I. Lesser creature’s maybe but children of the gods regardless. They are an annoyance.”

For such an intellectual front you sure are an ignorant son of a wyvern aren’t you? Ha! If only you knew the half of it. Psh, dragons.

“They are becoming a bit more than an annoyance.” Glady hissed. Nimrick’s eyes narrowed but he leaned into the fire closer to them. His tail now ceased its dubious flicking and settled, wrapping around him.

“What is it? What have they done.” The shifter shook their head and laughed.

“Oh Nimrod, it’s not so much what they’ve done. It’s what we have done.” This response was met with a snarl from the dragon. He was retreating back into the safety of anger and toil.

“We? Dragons have been ostracized, hunted and killed by fae for thousands of years! We have not done anything.”

“Aye and it’s no fault of your own is it? It was your kind who dominated the realm of the living for millions of years, your kind who went to war with one another. Your kind who was responsible for your own fall, the fae had every right to rise against you as you squabbled among yourselves. Your kind brought this upon all of us!” Nimrick snarled, his eyes dancing with rage. He was on all fours in a moment and swiveled across the fire to them, baring down them.

“Hold your tongue shifter; you know not of what you speak. What would you know of the affairs of dragons and fae? We were born from the gods, that is more than I can say for your kind. But you don’t have a kind anymore do you? You are the last shifter there is: Glady.”

The shape shifter narrowed their own eyes, their elf form going rigid with tension. They could feel their blood pulsing through their veins furiously, fueled by anger and a deeper anxiety which they refused to acknowledge.

“You may be true Nimrod but I know more about dragons and fae then you will ever know. I have been across the eight realms countless times, I have taken others with me, and back and forth a thousand fold before you’re mother brought your egg to nest.” Nimrick said nothing, he only hissed, hot breath steaming amid the clear sharp winter air. Snowflakes fell heavily from the branches above like peacekeepers attempting to distract the two with their beauty. The waxing moon cast silver shadows across the wide elvish face of the shifter and the scaled hardened face of the dragon.

“Oro’s plan that you are so curious about heralds the coming of a second war: one between humans and fae that will destroy and remake this realm as we know it. If you are with us, then be with us and be content.”

“You aren’t with anyone. I can see through your glamour shifter.” Nimrick leered.

“That might be true, but for the moment I am with Oro, and with the dragons. Are you?” The dragon of the earth rolled his large eyes.

“I would not abandon my own kin to die like mice in their burrows.”

“So that’s a yes?” They asked, smirking. Their large elf eyes blinked with curiosity and amusement. Nimrick’s eyes remained cold. A large flake of snow fell on his nose, quickly melting into water and trickling through the tiny crevasses of his scales.

“You said you have crossed the realms?” The shifter nodded, but they would be damned if they told him anymore than that. “If there is going to be war then why don’t you flee?” Glady shook their head, laughing to the point of wretching.

“You think you’re so intellectually superior: ‘look at me, I’m Nimrick the great scholarly earth dragon! Look at me with my long tail and massive ego!” Nearby Oro stirred in his sleep. Both Glady and Nimrick broke from their intense gaze and looked at the red dragon’s form. He shuffled his wings, let out a heavy sigh and remained silent. After a few suspended moments, the two turned back to each other and their feud.

“You mean to tell me you do not know the realms are sealed? There is no traveling between them, there hasn’t been since the First Age! I am trapped here, we are all trapped here Nimrod. Oro’s idealistic quest has nothing to do with the realms. It has to do with the here and now. You are a part of this world, I suggest you come with us and maybe have some say in its course.”

Something changed in the expression of the earth dragon at that moment which Glady did not quite understand. He seemed to be fighting within himself, oceans of fire crashing within his eyes. He was considering, calculating and yearning. Finally a sigh escaped his nostrils, mist swirling up into the sky but he said nothing.

“It will be a long flight tomorrow, sleep well earth dragon.” Nimrick said nothing but turned away once more. Where they had anticipated anger, there was only nostalgia now. Glady sighed, and contented themselves with curling up by the fire, soon sleep found them.

“I do not know what you hope to find Oroenore, but in case you have forgotten, the drakes of fire and earth have not been kind to those of air and water. You are a fool.” Nimrick growled the following morning as they flew through the sky. It was cloudy, gray fading the vibrant colors of the dragons. It would be a good day for flying, humans could not see them through the clouds. Glady themselves had taken on the form of a falcon once more. Oro spoke of seeing a pair of air dragons near the Acheron River north of them, closer to the city of Quova. But that was a four days flight and dragons of the air were as elusive as they came.

“Even if we catch up with them, what makes you think they not attack at first sight?” Nimrick ask skeptically. Oro continued to fly, his wings beating in steady strokes, golden membranes cutting through the gray clouds. Glady darted about the red and gold dragon’s face, inwardly smirking at his expression.

“You did not attack us on first sight.” The gray-green dragon shrugged, he too pumped his wings through the cold crisp air. His bulk was more massive than Oro’s; dragons of the earth were not meant to fly for so long, nor at such high altitudes. Glady could tell he was struggling to keep up: the way he heaved his powerful shoulders up and down, three times for ever one of Oro’s movements.

“I should have,” was his response. The two dragon’s spoke no more, neither did Glady. It was better to wait and observe. From Oro’s estimate the dragons of the air, most likely a mated pair, would be going towards the Aiorain Plains across the Wild Wood during the winter months where little other creatures dared to go. Glady had only slayed a handful of that particular species, they were rare, even as far as other dragons were concerned, finding them would be hard enough, never mind talking to them. This was all assuming that the male did not attack the other two invading dragons first.

He is a fool. Glady thought to themselves for the umpteenth time as they continued to fly through the wispy air. As gray turned to a darker shade of silver and silver into the violet twilight, the dragons pace slowed down, below them the Acheron River snaked its way through the skeleton forest. Through the strings of clouds, Glady could make out human villages. Scattered like spots on an animal the forest clearings held small thatched huts. Smoke rose from the holes in the roofs, twirling up to meet the chilled atmosphere.

“Stop.” Oro’s clear voice called out in the darkened sky. Glady had been so fixated on trying to make out the settlements below that they nearly dropped out of the sky in shock.

“What is it?” Nimrick demanded hotly. Oro hovered in his position, his wings beating faster as he dangled, they strained to keep him aloft. His noble head cocked to one side, his eyes sharp.

Glady stilled, they too listened for any sign of wing beats or arrows.

Nimrick’s own sea green wings were trembling with the effort to hover.

“Quiet Nimrod!” Glady snapped, they had picked up on something; a movement in the air made from neither dragon. Their eyes trained on a patch of silvery cloud just above Oro’s right wing. Slowly pulling apart by the wind, Glady saw.

“Oro!” It was too late, before they could do anything a massive coiling shape struck the dragon of fire like a snake strikes a mouse. The red gold dragon plummeted under the weight of the massive lanky beast whose hissing snarl sounded like thunder. Glady watched in shock and excitement as the two of them fell.

“Oroenore!” Nimrick called out, though the concern in his voice sounded minimal. The earth dragon looked up at the noise of another thundering roar. A second creature, coiling and sleek had come into view through the departing clouds.

Twenty

This had better end quickly, Glabell thought before he could stop his own mind. Len was already holding back a nicker of amusement. It was evening, a dim twilight which reflected the mood of the elves settled upon the Wild Wood. The Elder Oak branch lay where it had fallen, the blood had been cleansed, instead of gore, hundreds of elven hands caressed the ancient wood, lamenting its loss. In an act of solidarity the unicorn king had ordered his herd to attend the rite. It was unlike anything he had witnessed before, and he had seen many rituals of grief during the Dragon Wars. Wyverns ate their dead, griffins left them, dragons burned them. His own kind would cover the body in grass and flowers and stay within the vicinity for a few days, depending on the stature of the individual.

When his own father died the herd had stayed within ten dragon lengths of it at all times. As if on cue, nasty bile rose in his gut. He swallowed and butted Len with his head when the youngling began to prance at the ground. Glabell scanned his eyes over his fellows, Yao and Kerek seemed to be genuinely interested in the detached human foot which lay buried in dirt and maroon crusted blood. The only one appeared at all attentive, or even sympathetic was Ieba; her somber eyes looking at the large branch as though it were one of their own. The centaurs too, looked more empathetic. Nierief stood at the front, the deep lines of his hominid face drawn, though Glabell noticed a flicker of paranoia behind the old ones eyes. Something was off about that one, he knew it. Glabell’s ears flicked upward and he looked to where the elves were once more when he heard Okenmard’s voice echoing through the dark wood. He spoke elvish of course; a strange fluid tongue that the unicorn king could never quite understand. He could only imagine that the elven king was telling the story of the tree. There were records of such biographies in the Libraries of Becor; stories of trees that had been growing since the dragons decent from the Realm of Above.

“Each tree has its own tale to tell,” Ieba whispered to him in their own speech. “Espechilly Elder Trees that have been alive since the first age. King Okenmard, like all the elvish nobles is required to know these stories of ever tree within his domain. He tells its story now…”

“It’s not the tree which has fallen! It’s just the branch, gods how long is this going to take?” Len interrupted. The half blind nag snorted and attempted to swat the young prince with her horn, he evaded just in time but was not fast enough to miss Glabell’s own kick.

“You will keep your bold tongue behind your teeth and listen to your elder.” The nostrils of the young prince flared but he spoke no more. There was silence as the Elven King took a break from his ballad. Several elves approached the fallen branch to touch it and lay wreaths down against it. These were intricately fashioned with berries and leaves, several flowers which had been saved from the summer were tied in with sinew and vine. They were detailed and held a docile beauty to them which Glabell appreciated.

“After he tells the story of the this tree, he will speak of the branch itself and how it was vital to the tree itself. They will mourn it three days and then leave it to be reclaimed by the earth so that it may sink into the ground and foster growth for new trees.” Ieba finished briskly. She eyed Len carefully, who made no move to speak this time. The elven king resumed his speech as the night grew darker, and Glabell found himself struggling to stay awake. He was not keen to sleep and dream again. The nightmare had returned, more detailed then the last time. He saw Demetter rush for the knight upon the black horse. But instead of killing her out right as he had always done, the knight had looked at Glabell and the unicorn king had stood there, frozen. The words that the man spoke were not of the Fae nor of the unicorns, they were strange sounds, but forboding and dangerous and the unicorn could do nothing but stare. In his dream, a presence sourrounded him, with the likeness of the misty breath you breath in winter, when you feel but a small amount of heat and energy leave your body, drifting out into the air. Dwindling for a moment then dissipating into the beyond leaving you just a tad colder then you were before. The dream had ended the same way it had before, with him in a cage, his mate dead. Glabell had fought against it when he had awoken, trying to shake the image from his mind. It was not only the image which plagued him more than the feeling it left behind.

“When will this end?” Len pestered once more. Glabell huffed,

“They will mourn the tree for days, who knows how long the speech will go?” This brought a groan from the young prince. Glabell only shook his head, hiding a small smile.

“Someday it will be your job to sit through long ceremonies such as this and you will keep your face so that the others in the herd remain vigilant.”

“Someday there won’t be any humans to cut down trees so we won’t have to sit through every stupid speech.” The prince retorted. Glabell looked at his son, his words sinking in.

Aior keep him, he is full of displaced rage. Isn’t he too young for such things? The elves continued their ceremony throughout the evening, they began to sing once their king was finished talking and walked around the fallen branch, their heads bowed. With every circle around the tree Glabell’s eyes drooped lower. The Black Knight waiting for him with every stagger and attempt to sleep.

“Demetter,” he whispered as he saw his mate charge. “Don’t! You cannot fight him! He is not of the realm of the living!”

“My lord,” Ieba’s voice broke through the shadowy wall of his consciousness. Glabell shook himself, the golden chain around his neck jingling.

“What?” He asked sleepily. The old nag had her weight pressed against him, though slight of build, she was far more stable then he was and he knew it.

“You drifted off to sleep my lord.” The unicorn king nodded,

“Is it over? The rite?” Ieba huffed, miniature clouds escaping her nostrils and drifting into the skeleton like canopy above.

“No, but Okenmard has dismissed us to leave. He wants his people to have their privacy.” Glabell snorted and spoke before he could catch himself.

“That might be the most selfless idea he’s ever had. Okenmard, thinking of something other then himself: what a day to be alive.” Ieba shook her head but smiled.

“You sound like Len. Come, he has already lead the others away. The heard sleep soundly knowing you are here keeping watch over the other fae who dare harm us.”

“They don’t think that,” he countered in a rare show of uncertainty. The nag shrugged,

“It does not matter what they think, so long as they follow you.”

“It does matter.” The unicorn king said, taking once last look at where the population of Quvoa was walking in erie unison around their fallen branch. He sighed and walked with Ieba back to their own clearing.

“You said it was not of this realm,” the old nag said suddenly through the silence. Luckily the rest of the herd was asleep; besided Persipina who was licking her foal clean. Its horn had not yet emerged from its brow, and the mare could only groom her offspring when it was asleep for it would not stay still otherwise. She had paid no heed to Ieba’s words. Like rest of the herd, she assumed the half blind nag to be mad. Glabell sighed in the cold and shivered. The rest of the trees of the forest continued to stand strong despite their wounded comrade. Their own dense branched obscuring the vast expanse of wilderness; there were no fires to be seen.

“I don’t remember what I said Ieba, it was a dream. A bad one now let us both rest.”

“How can you rest at a time like this?” She challenged, rearing up and pounding at the ground. “Thiswas much more then a skirmish today and you know it. Do you not think it was odd that the griffin, Marin wanted to go straight to Interitus, was denied and then humans attack one of the largest elven cities in Somniis?” Glabell rolled his eyes, though deep within him, that hunger which longed for bloodshed and vengeance awoke. Its curiosity met and imminently agreeing with the conspiratorial proposal with enthusiasm. Glabell suppressed it with all of his might.

“Are you saying she told the humans to attack? What purpose would that serve?”

“Anger the elves, push Okenmard to launch a full scale war.” The unicorn king snorted, but his shadow self, was already beginning to grope his heart and mind.

“You said it was not of this realm. It was that dream again wasn’t it my lord? The one in which my daughter is killed.”

“Ieba…” Glabell began. Demetter was always a diffiuclt subject nevermind when it came to recalling the details of her gruesome fate with her very dam.

“Do not take that tone with me Glabell. I know better than anyone when dreams are important. Aior grant’s them to us to give us messages, to guide us on our path. The dream with the Black Knight, you have had it before.”

There is no point in arguing with her. The unicorn king reasoned.

“Yes. I have. It terrifies me. Typically he kills Demetter but this time he looked directly at me it….it was strange. I did nothing, I did not blink nor charge. His gaze…it…it..penetrated not my soul but something else. No creature of this realm has that power.” The old nag lisened patiently and nodded as he fumbled to explain the Black Knight. It was unexplainable; he found himself shaking as he recalled it. Sorrow for Demetter weighed down upon him like a heavy pack, but a greater force met it. Anger.

“There is much more to this universe besides the realm of the living,” Ieba chastised. Glabell could only nod.

“The day itself was such a blur; I have tried hard to forget it. I do not wish to remember the day my mate was murdered. I do not recal the feel of his power at the time. I was….indifferent.”

Glabell’s voice broke at the end, admitting the most shameful thing of all. He had done nothing when she had attacked. He sould have stopped her, he should have fought harder, for her, for their people, for Len. But he had not; he had let her die and now he paid the price. Ieba offered no words of comfort but only looked up to the pitch sky.

“But I do recall his weapon,” the unicorn king remembered now. It emerged from his consciousness like a reed from a mudded lake. “It was unlike any other sword ever forged. Beyond the skill of even the dwarves.”

Ieba cocked her head; she glanced around the clearing once more before speaking. Persipina had now fallen asleep with her foal, curled around it protectively. There was no snow but the darkness was enough to chill the bones of even the jolliest gnome in her hovel.

“You have heard of the Seventh Sword have you not?” She inquired quickly. The word made his breath catch.

“The Seventh Sword, the blade with the Spark of Creation within it.” Glabell’s voice trembled, a blade like that could do unimaginable damage, inflict an indescribable amount of pain. Pain that Demetter must have felt when she was killed; his knees shook, threatening to betray his stance. Ieba nodded, even in her milky eye, the unicorn could see her dread.

“No one of the Realm of the Living, fae or human could possibly have the power to wield such a thing,” she tried to rationalize. Glabell shook his head, knowing the truth. During the Dragon Wars he had discussed legends such as these with Oroenore.

“There are other realms besides that of the living,” he quoted the elder’s words back to her. She took it with grace and nodded.

“Then from where, the Realm of the Dead, or of Spirit, of Magic?” The unicorn king listened, but shook his head. He thought silently, trying to recall that day, to recall the dream to him. The image of the Black Knight, a simple term for a complex being as things often seemed to be. Especially things which are feared.

“Not the Realm of Magic, Between,” he stated, sure of it this time. “You are right; no one living could possibly wield that blade, one would need to be dead;

“But if the spark of creation would need something living nonetheless,” Ieba finished for him. Glabell nodded.

“The Necroviv Medienium in the common language,” Ieaba recited. The words evaporated in the dark with her breath. The unicorn king nodded once more and a silence of anticipation descended upon them. Glabell half expected the Black Knight to come upon him right then. Part of him hoped that he would for in that moment the insanity building within him seemed the most rational advantage.

“It is nearly solstice,” Ieba finally announced. “Perhaps we can send a troupe to the city with the blue banners from which those men came and explain what we think happened. There does not need to be more bloodshed.”

“There’s always blood shed Ieba. Some fairie right now is being impaled by a thorn, a mermaid or merman is being strangled by seaweed. Death occurs every day, war and death are close friends and if there is to be a war, let it come.”

Let it come. Let it come to me, to us. I will not be taken aback again. I have learned from my negligence Aior knows I have. This Black Knight from another realm beyond this one is my redemption. He is still out there, this war with these humans will bring me to him. Thank you Aior.

The unicorn’s heart whispered to his mind.

“Let us get rest Ieba, It is too cold for humans to attack tonight and their resources are limited as it is. As long as the fights do not catch the eye of the wealthy cities in the west, there is a chance that a peace maybe kept, if you wish it.”

“If I wish it, of course I wish it! Would you wish any less?” She asked, the alarm in her voice brought a grin to his face. He did not answer. Ieba whinnied, though as a statement or an expression of the cold Glabell did not know, nor did he care. Len slept placid.

What are you dreaming about? The unicorn king wondered of his son. He hopped his dreams resembled some pleasantness.

“You fought well today,” he whispered aloud and gently touched his nose against Len’s drooped neck. His son’s eyes remained closed, he did not flinch. “You healed that griffin as well. You are right to challenge my authority that is the role of a successor. You will make a great king one day.” If Len heard any of this rare emotion, Glabell did not notice it. But he did not need to.

If not anything else, the unicorn king told himself madness in the name of love is better than madness for the sake of madness.