Tales of Dorethigon (Chapter 1 excerpt)

The war-torn landscape stretched far beyond the horizon, strewn with the bodies of many races. Smells of acrid smoke and fresh blood filled the air while a gentle breeze scattered the falling rain across the battlefield. Dwarves marched forward in a great phalanx, 20,000 strong, as their bronzed armor glittered like gold in the last light of the setting sun. The bows of men sung as volleys of arrows leapt into the dark and stormy sky. Giant beasts raised large shields of carven yew as feathered shafts fell like the heavy rain around them. As many of the projectiles found their mark, the chilling screams of Orcs and Ogres alike filled the air. Hearing their brethren’s pain, the force began to charge at ever increasing speed. The stone beneath their feet trembled as the ogre’s monstrous bodies gained momentum and sent their thick legs hammering to the ground. Howls and yips broke out as they closed the gap with their enemies. Undeterred, the dwarves continued their march, readying gilded axes and spears encrusted with beautiful gems of red and green. Archers nocked their bows, readying to loose another volley. Moments before the two forces collided a blinding flash of blue light erupted between the front lines. Accompanying the light was a “crack” of incredible volume that momentarily deafened those nearby and caused the two forces to come to a halt where they stood. As the warriors regained their senses, they found that a single man was standing where the blast had occurred. He was tall and slender with long silver hair draped over the shoulders of the crimson robes that covered his body. Delicate features and high, prominent cheekbones adorned his face yet his eyes burned with a fire similar to starlight. They commanded respect from all that could see them even thought the warriors didn’t quite understand why. After a moment of silence, the man began to speak in a voice so loud that it seemed as if the thunder itself was forming words, “My name is Valendor. I have come forth to make a simple demand on behalf of my people. Stop what you are doing here, return to your lands, and live in peace.” After a brief pause for thought, several of the combatants began to laugh at this request and a short orc standing nearby raised his guttural voice, “Why would we listen to a milksop like you? We will cut you down just li-“ The green-skinned orc dropped to the ground, dead as stone. The man had never stirred. The laughter quickly changed to unnerving silence. As the troops took a minute to study this person closer, they realized this was no man at all. The being standing before them was an elf.

            While elves were not uncommon in this land, they tended to keep to themselves. They had never seemed interested in the conflicts of others and no sane individual dared to bring conflict to them.  While normally peaceful folk, they were fierce when forced to fight. Their swordsmanship was unrivaled - flowing like water, smoothly and without effort but striking with the force of the waves during a storm. This, however, is not why they were feared in combat. They were the only humanoid beings to be naturally gifted with magic. With enough practice and skill, other races could learn to channel and manipulate the magic that permeated the world but they could only draw on the energy around them which quickly depleted. This limit applied to all creatures except the elves. Being created as one with the world, they were infused with the same magic as the universe itself. This inherent trait gifted them with near perfect control over the energy that flowed through them. Due to this, even an elven child could be infinitely more powerful than any human magician or orcish warlock could ever hope to be, as long as the child understood how to control their gift. Knowing this, the few spellcasters present in the ranks stood vigilant but took no further action.

            “I will repeat myself once more. Stop this childish quarreling, return to your lands, and live in peace.” Said Valendor once again. “I ask this not just for my own kind, but for all. Take a look around and see the ruin that you have brought on this land. The path of war has no end, if you continue down this road you will see all things in this world turn to ash before you.” Most began to scan the desolate landscape to their left and right, taking in the destruction from the battle that occurred earlier that day. Some could see the faces of those they had called friends laying cold on the ground, soiled with blood and dirt. Muscles that had been holding weapons high and shields ready began to relax. Faces turned from battle hardened scowls to those of loss and sadness. All was quiet for a long moment until a stout dwarf, who seemed to be a bit larger than the rest, stepped through the front rank so he was standing before his people. He was clad in bronzed armor like the others behind him, however it was clearly of superior craftsmanship. No helm rested upon his head which allowed his dark, unkempt hair to lay heavy on his decorated pauldrons, wet with rain. Once he emerged from the frontline he stopped and said, “Well-spoken Valendor. I myself detest the destruction that battle leaves in its wake, but what if we should choose to ignore your demands and slay these creatures that have killed so many of our kin? Are you going to stand against us all?” Moving for the first time since his arrival, Valendor turned to face the dwarf. “I do not desire to fight, but if my hand is forced, I shall. Though I will not be alone. As I said before, this is a demand on behalf of my people.” He raised his hand and gestured to an area behind the dwarven army. “We are finished standing by and watching you destroy the lands we call home.” Panicked shouts and the sound of clanging metal rang out as the soldiers in the rear looked behind them and were met with the sight of a vast elven force, at least 30,000 strong, standing not even 50 meters away. All were clad in silvered chainmail with crimson cloaks that rippled slightly in the cool breeze. Curved swords hung at their waists, all still in their scabbards as a show of peace. While this unarmed stance was meant to seem cordial, it did not make the army any less intimidating. As the dwarven leader turned back to Valendor the scene faded out. Thus, our tale begins as many great stories do, in the dreams of a youth.

            Mayrik, an elven boy in his late teens, woke as the morning sun pierced the window and landed upon his face. His sheening copper hair caught the light and reflected warm hues of orange and red upon his face, beset with stronger and more defined features than most of his kind yet still quite fair. Large eyes of emerald green crept open under heavy brows and revealed a look of excitement and anticipation. As he sat up, he took a moment to reflect on his dream of the Great Wars. He thought about how that day of bloodshed had culminated in the ongoing peace between the races that had lasted for over 400 years. “Valendor, being able to end that long of a war with nothing but skillful words.” He thought. “And to think he is now our king! We couldn’t ask for a better leader.” With a smile on his face Mayrik swung out of his bed, a shelf of wood that had grown unnaturally flat and smooth. Toned muscles rippled under the skin of his long legs as he stood up, casting his arms skyward past his pointed ears. After a short stretch he began preparing in a hurried manner, for it was not just any normal day, but the day he was scheduled to begin learning the intricacies of spell craft from none other than the king himself.

Now those of you unfamiliar with elves may be wondering how Valendor could still be alive over 400 years after he brokered the treaty between the races. Well, the simple answer, magic. The intimate relationship between elves and magic does much more than just allow them to be powerful spellcasters. They live very long lives, essentially immortal from the perspective of you and I, aging at nearly the same rate as humans until they reach adulthood and then their aging process nearly comes to a halt. Unless very well acquainted with the elves, you could never tell the difference between one that had seen 25 summers and another that had seen well over 200. Due to this, they go through life and love much slower than all other living creatures, save maybe dragons. This makes elven children a rarity and each one is cherished and nurtured by the entire community, being taught and trained only by those most knowledgeable in each skill.

The same energy that flows through the world also flows through all elves. This means that their very beings are deeply intertwined with nature. In a sense, they are nature. Deep spiritual bonds develop between elves and their surroundings. Many of them consider the flora and fauna to be their kin just as much as their parents or siblings. Through these bonds they can communicate, not in a verbal manner, but feelings, thoughts, and images can be shared. From communication blossoms understanding, cooperation, and mutualistic relationships. The elves share their innate magic with their environment allowing plants and creatures to live much longer and healthier lives than normal. When near an elven settlement it is not uncommon to see trees over 20 paces in diameter with deer the size of stallions grazing in the vegetation around their sprawling, gnarled roots. In exchange for their energy and protection, the environment does what it can to help the elves. Trees and plants alter their growth to the wishes of their guardians. Ancient junipers and willows intertwine their innumerable branches to form high atrium ceilings above open walkways and plazas lined with ever-blooming honeysuckle, jasmine and lavender. Great oak trees open their trunks to form cozy domiciles complete with furnishings made out of the still-living wood. Fireflies cluster together on low hanging branches each night, their pulsing lights casting a soft, warm glow on the ground below, carpeted in thick, flowing beds of bluish-green grass. The animals act as ever-present sentinels, forming an intricately laced network for warnings and messages to traverse. Nothing but the wind crosses the boarders of these elven settlements without being noticed. The armies foolish enough to have ever assaulted these natural fortresses of wood and underbrush have found themselves assailed by all manner of beasts. Many of the survivors claim that even the plants seemed to be trying to impede their progress, from briars and vines seeming to move along the ground, entrapping their legs to giant spotted mushrooms releasing shimmering clouds of toxic spores as they walked past. Through this unified strength of nature and the elves, none have ever captured one of these enchanted forests.

At the heart of every kingdom there exists a capitol. This is no different when it comes to the elves. During years long ago, the greatest citadel of these folk could be found near the center of Hynatold Forest, or as the other races had come to call it, The Sleeping Grove. It loomed high above the ground, supported solely by a single colossal sycamore tree, known as Excumbratis. The elves regarded it with the utmost respect, as it was the eldest entity in existence. For as long as history had been kept through song or story, Excumbratis had towered above the rest of the land, like a silent protector watching over the expansive forest below. It’s thick boughs now held the city of Goedricht, the magnum opus of all elves.

Jutting outward from the main trunk were hundreds of tremendous branches. Even the smallest of these had ample room for 10 men to walk abreast down its length. Countless structures that had been grown over the millennia speckled the canopy, reminiscent of the numerous stars piercing the black night sky. The skin of the tree was rough and jagged from age but the tops of most branches had been worn smooth by the traffic of the elves. Lively auburn shades showed through where there were cracks in the scaly grey bark. Large veined leaves hung over openings in the wood, acting as makeshift doors for the rooms and passages the tree had created in exchange for the elves’ generous gifts of energy. At the center of it all stood the trunk, over half a league across and brushing the clouds as they drifted by. It dwarfed all other objects that stood. Even the white capped peaks of the Carregor Mountains paled in comparison. At the base, the monstrous roots parted on the Northern side, forming a grand entryway that opened up into a vast network of chambers that ascended inside of the trunk. The chambers ranged from small reading rooms and living quarters to lavish food halls so large that an adult dragon could have stood with outstretched wings. The true marvel of this wonderous kingdom, however, sits much higher up.

Near the top of Excumbratis, where the tree is only 30 paces wide, hangs the most cherished gem of the elves. During the reign of King Osian some 4000 years ago, the forest had given its own blood to form the ultimate gift to thank the elves for their unwavering friendship. Suspended by a silver chain of unparalleled craftsmanship in the King’s Chamber, a resplendent multifaceted gem of crystalized amber hung. While just larger than a man’s torso, its beauty was astonishing. When the light of the evening sun struck it through the window, spectacular golden lights were sent dancing around the room in great contrast to the dark wooden walls and lacquered floor. Runes embossed on the many faces detailed the rich history of the elves and their intimate relationship with nature. This gem had been given many luxurious and fitting names by different rulers over the years, yet the one that always endured was wordy, yet simple- The Heart of the Forest.

Mayrik stood quietly in the King’s Chamber, carefully observing the perfect symmetry of The Heart. Hearing the sound of soft soled shoes on the polished floor, he shifted his attention from the gem to the hallway leading to the royal living quarters. His back stiffened as he saw movement in the hallway and assumed it was Valendor, his new instructor as well as his king. The confidence he had been building up all morning faltered and his mind began to race. “What should I say? Should I speak first or wait to be spoken to? Do I bow? Kneel?” While he knew the answers to all these questions the nervous feeling that had overtaken him was clouding his judgement. Much to Mayrik’s relief, as the person stepped out of the dark hallway and into the chamber illuminated by rays of sunlight filtering through the large oval window, he observed that it was only a female servant of the royal family. Catching his glance and noticing his current disposition, she broke the silence and began to speak. “Ahh, Mayrik. I heard you were going to begin your training with Lord Valendor today. A touch nervous, are we?” A cheeky smile ran across her slender face. “Is it really that obvious?” Asked Mayrik. “I have met the king several times before, and conversed with him twice, but this feels much more personal.” The she-elf quickly replied, “And it is. You will be receiving one on one lessons and will be expected to learn quickly. But if it would help to ease your mind you should remember, regardless of his titles and accomplishments, he is still just an elf like you and I.” Relaxing his posture slightly, Mayrik released a short sigh, “I suppose you are right. I appreciate your reassuring words…” After a brief pause, he continued, “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name.” The cheeky smile returned to her face but this time it continued to grow into a playful giggle. “Actually, I am quite sure you know my name, for you may call me Valendor.” With a slight wave of the hand her appearance began to blur, stretching and compressing, like trying to look at an object on the other side of a blazing fire. Not yet understanding what was happening, Mayrik brought his fist to his eyes and began to rub them, thinking it might help to clear his vision. When he removed his hands and refocused his eyes, he suppressed a yelp of astonishment and quickly jerked back. Before him, clothed in exquisite crimson and white raiment fit only for a king, stood none other than Lord Valendor, still sporting that same mischievous smile and now laughing in his deep, rich tone.