Chapter 4

Midnight approaches in the High Forest, but beneath the bare Oak branches and pine trees, moonlight struggles to peek through. Less than half the Whispering Wood adventurers huddle in a knot. Their fifth gags on her own blood, whimpering in the last moments of her life. Her grip tightens on Yaevis' hand with her last gasp, shuddering, before she stills.

"Seldarine, Mielikki, and Silvanus hear my prayers. Knit these wounds, and heal these injuries." Yaevis pleads desperately, her voice hoarse from her prayers. The last few hours were desperate moments of hiding, praying, and fighting.

Nothing happens, her wounded comrade still, and her prayers unanswered. Blood seeps from her temple, streaks trickling down her cheek. Yaevis tips her head and scrubs it with her shoulder, only smearing blood across her face. The first splash of blood startled her; now it soaks her clothing. She doesn't know how much is hers or others.

"Seldarine, Mielikki, and Silvanus hear my prayers. Return your servant, and let her serve you!" Yaevis cries.

"She's gone, Yaevis," Maeddas utters. He gently turns her away from their companion. Yaevis cannot stop staring at the blood staining her skin and caked under her nails. "Let her go. We must move on."

Tears trickle down her cheeks, Yaevis shudders, and she stifles her sobs. Maeddas whispers, "You need to focus. We must complete our quest."

"Our quest? We've barely traveled a dozen leagues. The Orcs are everywhere, and these are the lands of our village. When did we lose control of the forest?"

Vathel Lightstep calls, "Listen to me, all of you."

His voice helps them shake off their fatigue and grief. Recalcitrant by nature, quiet as all Wild Elves, they know Vathel only speaks when necessary. He nudges a little closer, and they lean in to hear him. The Wild Elf continues, "If we get separated. Travel north beyond Jalanthar, through the Moon Pass, to Sundabar."

Yaevis counters. "That will add days, and we've barely survived one."

"Sundabar betrayed us!" Maeddas hisses. "They ignored our pleas before; why would they help us now?"

"No, they didn't." Vathel winces, looking at the ground. "Sundabar fell to Orcs. The Elders feared a panic, a flight from the village, weakening it."

"They lied to us?" Yaevis gasps.

"Yes," Vathel nods solemnly. "They lied, and so did I."

"We were their allies," her mind races. Her thoughts jumble into a pile until she recalls. "If it fell, they must have been besieged. Why didn't we help them?"

Vathel winces again, shamefully dropping his gaze to the ground.

Before he can answer, Maeddas demands. "Why would you tell us to go there?"

"Bradden Ashhelm, a friend and lord. He will help if you tell him I sent you," Vathel admits slowly. He purses his lips before he continues, "It was no accident the Orcs found us-"

"The Elders didn't want it known," Maeddas interrupts.

"They're wrong, and the Elders are not here," Vathel counters, turning to Yaevis and their last archer. "The Orcs have taken most of the forest around the Ancient. Our scouts and hunters cannot leave the village without evading or fighting them. Always, they know."

"It sounds like they're worse off than us," Yaevis states. "Why there-"

A growl interrupts, freezing their blood. Yaevis grabs her bow from the tall grass. Up until this point, it laid discarded next to the deceased Elf. Silently, they raise their weapons before seeking its origin. Not twenty paces away, leashed wolves pull a fat Orc. The beasts sniff the ground, following their scent. Simultaneously, they drag his waddling body in their wake. When he steps into the clearing, the lead wolf howls, and Orcs pour in from every direction.

An enormous bird races into the clearing, bearing a Half-Orc female. The bird's wings are tiny for its bulk, but every other part of it is huge. It stands on long spindly legs and runs with lightning speed. An Orc doesn't move fast enough, and the flightless bird disembowels it with long, curved claws. The other Orcs laugh and steal from the dying Orc as it moans.

The female Half-Orc snaps and snarls at them, cursing and screaming, driving them on.

"An axe beak," Vathel whispers. "She's their leader. We must slip away."

A hundred questions whirl inside of Yaevis, curiosity and confusion battle within her. Then another howl reveals a new band of wolves, and her fear extinguishes everything else. Orcs emerge from the trees to the west before a third pack arrives from the North. These beasts are painted in bright garish colors or marked with mud. Even more, Orcs appear with each passing second, drawn in by the female's voice.

Near instantly, the wolves catch their scent, howling with excitement. Suddenly, their masters release them. The beasts sprint across the distance, straight at the Elves.

Vathel releases an arrow into the alpha wolf, crippling it. He shouts, "Run!"

"To what do I owe this honor?"

Ordain smiles, "I need a reason to visit my friend?"

The Thultanthar Ambassador, a Shadovar or shade, is an attractive woman even though shadows embrace her. Dusky hair waterfalls to her bare shoulders, accenting her narrow oval face. Her high cheekbones are as severe as her expression. Her black top rises just below her chin, concealing her neck, but leaving her toned arms free.

She leans back in her tall-backed chair. Her eyes narrow skeptically, "I haven't seen or spoken to you in months."

"Which is why I felt it necessary to come and visit you now," Ordain replies affably. "It's been too long since we sat and spoke together."

The ambassador and Ordain share her office with her three guards, utterly still, pale and dark-haired. The shades protect their tower well. Even after the surface fell to Orcs, the monsters fear approaching it. In truth, the darkness infests the area. It creates a perpetual dimness, hints of darkness—shadows around the tower cling. After night falls, even Dwarves have difficulty piercing the darkness. Most Orcs refuse to approach it.

The same inky black clings to the Shades, creating depthless shadows around them, even in direct sunlight. Most civilized people find the Netherese unsettling, even among the stalwart Dwarves. Their ominous presence and their worship of Shar does nothing to ease it, nor does the potent magic they surround themselves with. Added up, it creates an impression of wickedness. The Shadover do not dispute it either. The Shades are ruthless and deadly, dangerous in the extreme, and overtly intend to conquer and rule.

"You've been busy," the ambassador says evenly.

"You've been watching me? I'm honored."

Ordain grins. The ambassador runs out of patience, "What do you want, Ordain? We heard the bells and have seen your preparations. You've entrenched Helm's Temple, and grim signs plague my divinations. From my experience with you, I'd guess you want us to join your battle. Why should I risk myself or my men?"

Ordain did not know specifics, but word raced through the North. At the end of a devastating battle, the flying city Thultanthar crashed on the Elven city Myth Drannor, destroying both.

Ordain knows first-hand Shadovar can jump through shadows. Although they lost their city, he can't imagine they remained idle and died along with it. The enemies of the Shadovar don't like hearing that opinion.

"Sundabar has little to offer, and I even less," Ordain admits with a smile. He's telling the truth, and it's a dagger in his heart behind his pained smile. But when news of Thultanthar's demise reached the North, Shade ambassadors were dismissed, banished, and occasionally killed. Their deeds were neither forgotten nor forgiven. Their powerful magic protected them, but they'd made powerful enemies. "If you join us, it is of your own accord. But I would never turn down your assistance if you wish to offer it. After all, Orcs are of little threat to you."

Ordain hops off the chair, the tall Netherese may sit comfortably, but his Dwarven legs dangled. It made him feel childish. He turns away, moving towards the exit with one of the guards following him. He stops, hand reaching for the handle, and looks over his shoulder.

"It is a shame," Ordain meets the ambassador's gaze, looking directly into her eyes. "Lady Vuhkry."

"What is?" She demands, rising to her feet and leaning on her desk. Her guards stiffen, recognize the anger in her tone. Many believe the Netherese are finished, a few scattered leaders and warbands running loose. Ordain assumes it's possible, but the Shadover are as opaque as the shadows clinging to them. More importantly, no one is following their victory over Thultanthar into the Anauroch desert. After such devastation, Ordain reasons. Would it not be wise to assure they never rise again? Regardless, the Netherese appear weak, their posture defensive. The shade repeats herself, voice deepening with anger, "What is a shame Duke Illforged?"

Ordain genuinely smiles at her, unlike his earlier grin. He holds his hands apart and open as if to embrace her. "You, lingering in this tower, during a battle."

"You admit a battle is coming?"

"Perhaps," Ordain shrugs. "I already owe you an outstanding debt, my lady. In all likelihood, I may never have a chance to repay you. Regardless, I have witnessed Netherse skill and power. You are a work of art in motion. Remaining idle here, it's as criminal as those beautiful swords wasting away in their scabbards."

He bows deeply, "My lady, gentlemen, may you enjoy your evening."

He exits the room with his minder in his wake, swiftly moving towards the entrance. He offers a nod to his escort before leaving.

A pair of Watchful await him; two cutthroats Ordain doesn't immediately recognize. He nods silently to them, and they return it, wordlessly motioning for him to follow in-between them. Half-crouched and with daggers drawn, they creep from shadow to shadow on their way to Helm's temple.

In the depth of night, the city is naturally dark, the towering building blocking even the moon's light. Most Dwarves would not be pleased. Ordain knows the value of stealth though, he appreciates the darkness and the protection it can provide. He survived it, learned it, and uses it.

Suddenly the guide raises a hand, halting their advance and freezing them. Ahead two Orcs emerge from one of the numerous side-streets—the guide glances at Ordain. The duke nods, then sneak to a nearby cubby made of rubble. He keeps watch behind them.

In the distance, Orcs howl and roar. Sundabar never quiets, the daytime is noisy with the Dwarves at work, and the night is interrupted by Orcish interlopers. They scream, bellow, and cry into the night. Rarely, their slaves interrupt with lamentation. It's rarer now, but when it happens, an icy hand seizes Ordain's heart.

His failure is unbearable.

The Watchful return seconds later, daggers dripping blood, and the trio continues. They pass the Orcs corpses; throats slit, their brutish hands clawing at their throats. Ordain cannot find any sympathy for the beasts. Quite the opposite, he celebrates their deaths.

They weave their way through the city. The guide occasionally pauses to knock on a wall here or a tiny square window there. In return, silence or the sensation someone watches their progress. The hairs on the back of his Ordain's neck stand straight, and the feeling stays with him. Eventually, they reach what was once the opening around Helm's Temple.

The cobblestone streets around the temple were torn up years ago, creating a weaving line of trenches. Palisades, lines of stakes block the path to the temple. Expertly his guide navigates them, deftly avoiding traps and wires until they stand before the entrance wall. So embattled, the Dwarves didn't bother with a door. A ladder descends from the other side.

General Stoutbarrel and Ashhelm meet him on the low wall, pulling the ladder up behind them. Wordlessly the two Watchful melt into the darkness.

A pair of Shieldsar take the ladder and swiftly return it to Helm's Temple. These Dwarves stood out, even in their unmemorable attire. More of them stand silently, unmoving as statues, and would remain there as long as necessary until ordered otherwise. The Shieldsar are professional soldiers. Their skill with ax, shield, and unit tactics is as ironclad as their discipline. Ordain knew they'd die before dishonor, and they'd proven it without fail.

"It's disgraceful, begging the Shades for help," Stoutbarrel grumbles.

"I never begged," Ordain growls. Then he centers himself before he continues. "If it would help, if it would bring them out, I would. I would have begged and pleaded on my knees. The Netherese don't respect weakness or respond kindly to it."

"What did you offer?" Ashhelm inquires quietly.

"Nothing, we have little to offer them. I played coy to knock Lady Valkry off-balance and then stroked their egos."

"Of course," Ashhelm's voice lightens with pride. "Use their vanity against them."

"Then before leaving, I taunted their inactivity."

Stoutbarrel's inquires, "Why? They stood with us, but they're no kin. They must know; they'd be blind not to. Then ye build them up before poking them."

"To keep them off-balance, general. They feel no kinship for us, true. The Shades are powerful and prickly at the best of times. I can't beg them; they despise weakness. So I acted peculiarly and followed it up with an unexpected compliment. I expressed my disappointment and left before they could respond. Hopefully, their pride or boredom gets the better of them."

"Bloody hell," General Stoutbarrel grumbles. "It 'urts me 'ead keeping it straight. Why can't t'ey demand coin or steel? Why all the dancing?"

"That's not their way," Ordain answers immediately.

Bradden adds, "Power seems significant to them, but not in the same singleminded or selfish fashion we see in Drow or Human wizards."

"There is a…not a community but realization they're stronger together," Ordain reflects. "We need them more than us…and we lack coin to offer. Plus, we already owe them."

"Bah!" Stoutbarrel shakes his head. "They help, aye, but did they change the battle?"

"Yes," both Ordain and Bradden reply instantly. Bradden motions for Ordain to continue. "Yes, in the dark, when the wall fell. When waves of Kobolds poured into the Undercity, they were one of the only reasons we still hold it. The clan and house guards locked down and hid. The Shieldsar were busy on the surface or the opposite side of the city."

"The breach and Kobolds cut off the Vigilant immediately," Bradden adds, eyes distant and haunted by the memories. "Bloody hell, we still don't know what happened to them. The Stoneshields, Moradin protect them, did they're best."

Ordain says sadly. "You've heard this."

"Aye, I 'ave," Stoutbarrel laments. "Stoneshields were good and noble, but they're no soldiers. Moradin choose their fate, and they honored 'im."

Grief settles on Ordain with a wave of lethargy. He exhales slowly and admits, "I am exhausted. Can you two manage while I get an hour's rest?"

"Aye," General Stoutbarrel nods.

Ordain enters the fortress-cathedral with a silent prayer. Helm, the god of guardians and sentinels, is known as the ever-watchful. His servants protect without complaint or comment. His churches and monasteries are as protective and steadfast as his congregation. There is no flair, nothing elegant or stylish. Helm's temples are spartan. If it is not necessary, Helm's faithful see no need to waste space for it. Above the entrance is a single gauntlet, an eye at the very center of the hand, Helm's symbol. On the opposite end of the room, a single priestess kneels in prayer.

Ordain yawns unintentionally, shaking off the wave of exhaustion before he walks up the stairs to the barracks. Immediately, he collapses into the closest bed, not even bothering to undress.

Sleep remains elusive for him. After tossing and turning, something digs into Ordain's hip. Shaking his fists with soundless frustration, battling on whether to rolls over again, he pulls the offensive pouch around. Within the bag rests a large bottle. Wrapped around it is a thick braid of white-gold hair.

His heart sinking, he runs his hand over the silky braid.

"Even after a century," Ordain whispers. "You haunt me, taunt me, and remain with me."

A knock at the door startles him. Ordain stuffs the bottle and braid back into his pouch. A Shieldsar enters before Ordain gets to his feet.

"There's a fire in the city!"