Clans of Irradan Read online

  Clans of Irradan

  Legends of Gilia, Volume 5

  RG Long

  Published by Retrovert Books, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  CLANS OF IRRADAN

  First edition. April 25, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 RG Long.

  Written by RG Long.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Maps and More!

  1: Friends and Ashes

  2: Combined Might

  3: Prisoners of War

  4: Unity by Strength

  5: Grim Prospects

  6: Girl, Bear and Wolf

  7: The City of Free Elves

  8: Stumbling Along

  9: Apprentice

  10: Palace Pampering

  11: The Races that Swim

  12: The Different Tribe

  13: South by Wrents

  14: The Men Who Saw a Map

  15: Entryways

  16: Trackers

  17: Washed Up

  18: Stars, Stairs, Slaves

  19: Horritoft

  20: Further Down than In

  21: Fight, Flee, Fire

  22: Forest Foes

  23: The Empire's March

  24: Unification

  25: A Time to Overthrow

  26: Covert Operations

  27: The Sister Struggle

  28: Plans and Preparations

  29: Fire and Wood

  30: Bad Dreams

  31: The Pursuers and the Pursued

  32: Homes

  33: First Blood

  34: Repairs

  35: Resources

  36: Pumpkin and Prison

  37: The Proclamation

  38: To Kill a Snake

  39: Forest Fortifications

  40: The War of the Ancients

  41: The Masked One

  42: The Battle Outside the Wall

  43: Facts

  44: Fire

  45: Boats

  46: Loyalty or Life

  The Story Continues

  Maps and More!

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  1: Friends and Ashes

  She ran through the dust and the smoke as quickly as her feet could carry her. With every footfall, she heard a sickening crunch. She could no longer distinguish between broken tree limbs, charred earth, and damaged bodies. The forest had all three in seemingly endless quantities.

  Her sides ached with exertion. She longed for a breath of air that wasn't half smoke and half foul odor of death.

  But she couldn't stop. She wouldn't stop. She had to find him.

  Her dress caught on a tree branch that still clung to its trunk that had once stood tall and proud. She twisted around and fell with a crunch onto the ground. It was still hot from the all-consuming fire that had swept through the area.

  Her breath was instantly knocked out of her and she gagged on the smoke-filled gasps as she tried to pick herself back up. She reached down with one hand to push off the ground, only to feel something soft instead of hard ground.

  Her eyes only had a moment to look at the damaged and disfigured face of what once was a proud elf warrior, for which side she couldn't tell, before she shut her lids tight against the horrible vision.

  Turning the other way, she retched onto the ground.

  It was wrong.

  It had all gone so wrong.

  She had wanted to save others, not lead them to their deaths. She wanted to help people, not watch them die. This was not what she had planned to happen. It wasn’t what she had intended with her actions.

  Hot tears rolled down her cheeks as she wiped away the sick from the corners of her mouth with her torn and ragged sleeve.

  Refusing to look back at the lifeless body, she raised herself to her feet and stumbled away. She didn't care what direction she ran. Everything looked the same no matter where she turned.

  Where was everyone? Had it only been a few short hours since she had last seen them, whole and well?

  How many of her friends resembled the fallen warrior she had just fled from?

  No, she thought. She refused to believe they had fallen. Not all of them. Some had to be alive. Some of them. Any of them. But especially him.

  She couldn't be the only one left. Guilt from even thinking such a thought welled up inside of her and caused her to let loose a scream. There were no words that made sense. Only a deep guttural pain that had to be voiced.

  This was her fault.

  He had saved her. It was he who had rescued her, despite all of her best efforts to save him. She had lost count of the number of times he had saved her life. If he was gone now, how could she ever thank him?

  Hadn't he told her to run? Hadn’t he tried to take her with him?

  And how had she repaid him?

  By running full tilt into danger, with him at her heels trying to save her life.

  Had he succeeded in saving her life while sacrificing his own?

  She refused to believe it. It was his face she wanted to see above all others.

  She finally lost control of her legs and sank to the ground in a fit of sobs. The ground here was hotter. The fire had burned most recently in this place. A gentle breeze blew the smoke from the battlefield away, bringing into view the horrible scene.

  Thousands of elves lay dead. Maybe tens of thousands. Trees that had stood for centuries were burned to cinders. Distant howls told her that her troubles were not yet over, even though the world appeared to be crashing down around her. She didn't care who heard her shouts. She didn't care who would come for her and finish her off. Then maybe she would be like all the rest of her friends.

  Through ragged sobs, Blume Dearcrest shouted his name above the ruined landscape.

  "Ealrin!"

  A sound behind her told her she was not alone. Heavy footfalls of two, maybe three were heading her way.

  She didn't care. She clutched her face and sobbed uncontrollably.

  And then, looking down through her hands, trying to block the view of the terrible surroundings, she saw it.

  A sword covered in blood and blackened by fire.

  Ealrin's sword.

  With the owner's hand still grasping the handle.

  2: Combined Might

  Some of the banners that flew over the army bore the Leviathan, Bear, and Condor of Darrion. These were the three Noble houses that made up the kingdom’s ruling parties. Each had an impressive contingent of soldiers marching under their own colors.

  Ahead of all of them was the heroic sailing vessel standard that represented their pride in the history of the country. The nation's state symbol. Important generals and advisers rode on horses underneath this large flag at the head of the human ranks.

  Beside the ranks of the uniformed soldiers, volunteer fighters trudged in ragged lines. Try as they might, the captains who had been relegated to serve as leaders of these contingents could not get the ranks of potters, merchants, and fishermen into neat lines.

  Despite the emptying of the large capital of its soldiers and volunteer militias, larger and more impressive than any column made of men were the rows of glistening armor worn by the elves of Enoth.

  Though the human army marched, arrayed in all its splendor, ahead of the elven host, i
t was plainly evident that for every human soldier that left lone Peak, no less than five elves marched behind him.

  Purple banners bearing the nine golden stars encircling a red crown. This was the banner of war.

  Dilinor had seen it in his studies at the noble elves' school at Pahyrst, but never before flown in front of Enoth's troops. The young elf observed the processional with a casual manner. There was nothing in his life that had ever required him to move quickly or act impulsively. Every action he performed was well thought out and planned.

  Except, of course, the one time he had let his guard down. He had not expected to be so out of sorts. But, then again, he had never before encountered anyone who talked as much.

  Dilinor shook his head clear and continued to watch his surroundings. Men of Darrion were marching out towards River Grove, the very first settlement along the long and winding road that led to the forest.

  Though an advanced guard had already sailed south to repel the woodland invaders, they were to serve as the backup force that would relieve the first wave after a few weeks of the campaign. This was the plan that had been explained to the combined might of both Darrion and Enoth. It would take weeks to march such a large force south.

  This fact made Dilinor curious. Though the journey was to take the better part of a month, the supply caravans that ran behind them only carried enough for a much shorter trip. By his calculations, they would run out of food in exactly two days. He had seen no carts returning to Lone Peak to fuel their journey, either. There was good reason for that. The city's food had been nearly all bought up by the Enothians.

  "Dilinor!" came a call from the ranks of the elves.

  It was the voice of someone Dilinor knew well, but had seen very little of on this expedition until the armies marched out. The young elf turned to the older who came riding on horseback.

  "I've been looking for you," stated Finore, the newly appointed general and commander of the elves in Darrion. He wore the deep purple coat of a general, with its nine stars encircling a crown and a sword sewn into the right breast pocket. This symbol of Enoth's military might went with its highest military commander only.

  "You were supposed to be with the other army cadets in formation," Finore said with a scowl.

  His brown hair was kept well-groomed and his light skin was quite clean for marching along such dusty roads in the beginning of summer.

  Dilinor bowed low.

  "My apologies," he said. "I was observing the human army and our food situation."

  Finore let out a huff.

  "Our food is taken care of. Don't let your wandering take you far away from the cadets again," he said with disdain. "And don't speak with the humans, or observe them too closely."

  Dilinor did not often ask questions, but this last statement made him change the look on his face. He knew Finore could see that he was thinking.

  Finore looked left and right, observing that many of the commanders of the army of Enoth had ridden their own horses on. They had responsibilities to see to.

  "It is unsafe," Finore said under his breath. "Especially..."

  A loud chorus of howls split the morning air and Dilinor grabbed for the small blade sheathed at his side. Finore shook his head.

  "You won't need it," he said simply, pointing in the direction he was facing. "They're up towards the front."

  Dilinor turned to see what Finore had just pointed out. To the front of the human formations were a few hundred Wrents. The short, foxlike creatures were running on all fours, directly into the first line of human soldiers.

  "Enoth!" Finore shouted. "Defensive maneuvers! Forward!”

  Echoes of the command came from captains and commanders from all over the elven line, though it seemed to Dilinor that the echo of elven shouts began just before Finore had spoken.

  "See?" Finore said, talking normally and looking back down at Dilinor. "It's dangerous with the humans. I want you back with the cadets, now."

  Dilinor bowed again and replied just before Finore rode off in the direction of the attack.

  "Yes, father," he said before beginning his stroll towards the other young elves who had accompanied the army on its Darrion expedition.

  SPILLING OUT FROM THE cracks in the rock cliff faces and pouring over the hills that dotted the countryside, the Wrents came in waves, crashing against the side of the combined armies. The lines of Enoth responded to the onslaught like a solid rock wall rebuffing leaves blown by the wind. The foxes collided against what seemed to be an impenetrable wall of shield and armor.

  The human lines did not react so instinctively.

  Dilinor was still in a position to observe the battle from the far side of the attack. Wrents tore in the lines of men easily. Small pockets of resistance were being put up by the trained soldiers of Darrion, but the Wrents were not attacking there. Those who had volunteered to march with the more seasoned veterans were the hardest hit. The monsters drove deep into Darrion's army before being encircled by soldiers from both the elven and human hosts.

  A blue hue began to glow over the soldiers of Enoth, signaling the coming wrath of their army's full might. The hair on Dilinor's neck stood up straight as magical energy swirled around him. He had heard of the strength of his nation's weapons. He had yet to see them in their full terrifying might.

  “Hold!” came the shout of his father, magically amplified over the battlefield.

  With that one command, the blue hue dissipated and was gone. Dilinor let out a deep sigh. The terror had passed.

  Systematically, the Wrents were picked off by spear and sword until the battle was over and the howls of Wrents were overtaken by the sounds of dying men floating over the field of battle. Dilinor had never seen a true battle before. He was caught between being repulsed by the sloppiness of the whole affair and his desire to study the attack.

  Had the Wrents perceived the weakest part of the marching soldiers and attacked there? Dilinor had heard the foxes held deep seated grudges against the elves. Why not attack their hated enemy instead of humans, with whom the foxes held no ancient hatred?

  These thoughts swirled in his mind as he strolled back to the cadets of Enoth. There was an excited chatter there as many of the recruits discussed the battle that had just occurred and their thoughts of the outcome.

  “Dilinor!” came the shout of a familiar and disapproving captain of Enoth. The young elf was in trouble, he knew full well. It wasn't a matter that he would allow to consume his thoughts for now. He made many other things taking up his mind at the time.

  3: Prisoners of War

  Far away from the mountains of Darrion and across the great Middle Sea of Irradan, a different line of soldiers was marching south. While the northern ranks of elves from Enoth wore purple and gold, these warriors held banners of orange and black. Silver breastplates covered orange robes and hoods were pulled on top of sleek armored helmets. Few spears were carried here. The preferred weapon of the elves who worshiped the Comet was the mace.

  Also in contrast to the elves of the north, the lands this army was marching through were not covered and cliffs and tall mountains. This was the realm of the Wood Walkers. Ancient trees as wide as houses and as tall as the highest elven tower grew plentiful here.

  An ancient road of stone split through the forest like a scar. Long forgotten were the workers who had laid these stones, though the nation they had helped to build was finding use for the road on this day. The woods was not taking this act of smearing its surface lightly. Some smaller trees had attempted to reclaim the ground for their own and upset the rock, uprooting the work of ancient hands. These small acts of defiance by the forest were undone, however, by heavy foot falls of the armored elves.

  Scores of the orange robed soldiers of Enoth marched southwards. Behind them and over the horizon rose the signs of fires: long tendrils of smoke weaved their way into the morning sky, speaking of a long night's work. Fires were burning to the north. Ones these elves cared little to stop.

>   No human soldier marched with this army willingly. There were no delusions of alliances here. The only three in the company that did not share a common lineage with the ancient folk of Irradan were two humans and a halfling. All three were chained and forced into cruel carts meant for only one purpose: the transport of prisoners.

  Pulled by two strong horses and driven by another elf in orange, the cart was the most ragged looking part of the entire marching party. Four sides were made of metal bars, while the top and bottom were roughly formed plates of a darker metal that was rough to the touch. The three sat on a small bench that lined one side of the cart, their feet shackled to the floor and their hands chained in front of them. The chains that connected their hands were also secured to the roof of the cart. Escape from this predicament would not be easy.

  But, it was the topic of their conversation anyway. In tones that were drowned out by the clanking of their own chains and the armor of the elves outside, they discussed their current state.

  “You sure that piece of Rimstone fell out of your sleeve, Jurgon?” an older man asked the little halfling. His eyes spoke of many past adventures lived through and tales untold. Dark hair speckled with gray covered his head and nearly to his eyebrows. He was tall and of a modest build, but muscular. Holve Bravestead was a consummate warrior, despite his age.

  “Yup,” the prisoner in-between the two men replied in his typical pointed fashion. He looked up at the older man with a forlorn expression.

  Jurgon of Bigtree was not one for many words. Though he was a gifted Speaker, one who could use Rimstone to change the elements of the world around them through magic, he never spared more than a few words in reply to any question. And without his small piece of Rimstone, the magical rock that gave a Speaker their power, he was unable to assist the trio with his gift.

  The last prisoner was not looking at his chains, nor at the small Jurgon that sat between he and his mentor, nor at the old man as he examined his own shackles, studying them for weaknesses.