The trolls stood no chance; Fredric saw it shortly after the battle began. He’d had his doubts, even though he knew Alvacor was incredibly strong. Dozens and possibly over a hundred trolls was a serious matter. Pelton, the other man sent with them by the king, shared the concern, so much so that he admitted to saying goodbye to his family before leaving. He was convinced the king wanted the three of them dead.
“I don’t know what you and I did to displease His Majesty,” Pelton had said, “but this is nothing short of an execution. I suppose we should be grateful for the opportunity to die in battle instead of being beheaded.”
“Don’t underestimate Alvacor,” Fredric replied, mostly to cheer the man up. “You haven’t seen him fight.”
Pelton only shook his head in response.
All the way to Morgana Fredric watched Alvacor and tried to initiate a conversation about the mission, but the elf was not in the mood to talk. He looked calm, focused, and a bit detached. Not a good sign, Fredric decided when he finally asked the question upfront—having made sure they were out of Pelton’s earshot.
“Alvacor… you are not hoping to die in this battle, are you?”
The elf’s lips formed a half-smile. “Not this time.”
Fredric waited for him to say more, and Alvacor did, after a pause.
“That would mean having you killed with me. While we are not close friends, I respect you and value your life. I wouldn’t have done this to you, Sir Fredric.”
Once again, Fredric felt embarrassed. He always seemed to say the wrong thing to the elf. Oh well. He had to ask.
“Not close, perhaps, but we are friends, aren’t we?” the knight said. “At least I consider you as such. I want you to know it.”
Alvacor looked at him, his eyes changing from brown to blue. This was a combination Fredric had not yet witnessed.
“Thank you. It sounded like parting words, though. Are you worried about the mission? There’s no reason. In a way, trolls are my specialty. I was made into what I am to fight mountain trolls.”
Fredric wanted to hear more about it, but Alvacor wouldn’t elaborate, and in about two hours he proved his point. They arrived at the caves. Four trolls were sitting at the entrance, large and mean-looking with their massive heads and thick, burly arms.
“Stay here.” Alvacor drew his sword.
Fredric held him back. “Wait. Let us know if you need help, will you?”
The elf gave a reluctant nod. “I’ll holler. Unless I do, though, stay back. Do not risk your lives.”
“Do you still have Keliana’s amulet?”
“No. I gave it to Lenora Torren. Why?”
Fredric was surprised by the answer, but there was no time to go into it. “I thought you might want me to use it while you fight.”
“I doubt Arian would answer a prayer to help me, even reinforced by Keliana.”
The trolls saw them and rose, grabbing their clubs, fangs bare. Fredric watched the group, trying to determine whether they were on guard or had just happened to sit there. Usually trolls were not well organized, but these seemed to have some level of subordination and structure, according to reports.
Three trolls sat back down, apparently figuring that one of them could handle the approaching elf. Their mistake. Before the troll could even raise the club, Alvacor hurled his sword at him and struck him right in the heart. The giant dropped dead.
“Wow!” Pelton had fought trolls before and had to know that killing one like this was not possible for a human warrior. “Impressive, but he’s lost his blade! What is he thinking?”
“I’m sure he knows what he is doing,” Fredric replied.
Three remaining trolls roared and threw themselves at the elf, swinging their clubs. One shrieked as his club burst into flames; another stopped in his tracks as his weapon splintered. Meanwhile, Alvacor reached out his right arm, and in the next moment his sword was back in his hand, pulled out of the dead body and drawn as if by a magnet. The fourth troll took a second to gape; that second cost him his life.
Pelton was gaping as well. “Magic! Who or what is he?”
Fredric still didn’t have a definite answer to that. “I’m not sure I can explain.”
The two disarmed trolls were not going to give up. One lifted a huge boulder and raised it high, aiming for Alvacor. He was about to hurl it when the boulder broke in two; the pieces crashed onto the troll’s head, instantly killing him. The remaining troll had a similar idea, but, seeing the fate of his buddy, he dropped the boulder he’d just picked up and began throwing smaller rocks. None of them reached the target, disintegrating into sand in midair.
The troll let out a deafening roar that was cut off by Alvacor’s blade in his throat. Fredric knew this roar, he had heard it before: it was a call for help. Others inside the caves heard it. Footsteps thundered, and more trolls came running out, brandishing clubs, hammers, and blades.
“Eight, ten, eleven…” Pelton counted. “Fifteen… twenty… too many! Wizard or not, he is dead now.”
“I think he’s just warming up,” Fredric said. “They haven’t even angered him yet.”
He turned out to be right. Alvacor continued the fight in a smooth, almost casual manner. Even without his special abilities, he was deadly—too fast for the trolls, and his physical strength well matched theirs. When too many enemies crowded him, he’d use a trick or two to stave them off, and then return to relying mostly on the sword. He seemed to be trying to make it as close to a fair fight as he could instead of a slaughter.
That changed the moment draccans showed up. Fredric felt his jaw drop as he saw ten trolls ride out of the cave on the terrible beasts. He had never witnessed a draccan tamed enough to be ridden by any creature, let alone such a dim-witted one as a troll, and he would never have thought it possible. Yet here they were, wearing crude rope bridles and some sort of coverings to protect the riders from the sharp scales and spikes on their backs—not that a troll’s famously thick hide would need much protection.
“Holy Arian,” Pelton whispered, backing away.
Alvacor saw the beasts and dropped all the rules. One after another, their riders fell off, howling and writhing in pain. Fredric could only guess what happened to each one. Judging by how some of them were twisted, he figured their backs were broken; others seemed to have burns, although there were no visible flames; still others were rolling on the ground, wheezing and tearing at their throats, obviously suffocating.
The elf no longer bothered to fight the trolls, he went after the draccans, intent on killing each one with his own hand. The first beast he had reached lost its front paws in a single slash; leaving it to bleed to death, Alvacor struck another with the hilt of his sword. As the disoriented monster swayed, the elf grabbed it by the neck and ripped off its head. The sight and smell of blood drove the rest of the beasts into a frenzy. They swarmed all over Alvacor, snarling, snapping, lashing out at him with their hideous claws which could tear through light armor. For a moment or two, Fredric thought the elf had lost. He was completely hidden from view by the black scaly bodies of the draccans; but then a burst of light flashed in the midst of them, so bright that Fredric turned away, shielding his eyes. The draccans fell back, hissing and shaking their heads. Alvacor emerged, covered in black draccan blood mixed with streaks of red—his own. Paying no attention to injuries, he went right back to the task, methodically taking out beast after beast, slashing, piercing, maiming, wringing necks, ripping off heads.
Trolls fled back to the caves shortly before the last draccan fell.
“I’m going after them!” Alvacor shouted, turning to Fredric and Pelton, his voice hoarse, eyes blazing red. “Stay where you are!”
They were not eager to follow.
“What… what was it we have just witnessed?” Pelton asked, eyeing the carnage.
“He seems to have some history with draccans,” Fredric replied. “I don’t know what it is, but he hates them.”
“I’d say. I’ve never seen a head ripped off of one like that. Have you?”
“No.”
They stood and waited, listening to the sounds coming from the caves: roars and howls, thuds, stones crashing, an occasional clink of metal, and the rarest sound of all—trolls screaming in fear. Eventually, all noises stopped.
“Do you think we can go in now?” Pelton asked.
Fredric shook his head. “He said stay here. I’d trust him on that.”
They sat down and waited for about a half hour. At last Alvacor walked out; not only was he all cleaned up, with not even a smear of blood left, but he was remarkably calm and composed. Even his eye color was back to normal.
“All done,” he said, approaching. “I have let two escape, so that they can run back to wherever they had come from and tell the tale. That would prevent other trolls from trying to occupy the caves.” He looked at Pelton. “I suppose you’ll want to go in and count the bodies?”
Both men rose. Pelton nodded. “Uh, yes. I need to report to the king.”
“Go ahead. It’s safe now.”
“Let me tend your wounds,” Fredric offered.
The elf waved it off. “They’re almost all healed.”
He remained outside as Fredric and Pelton went into the caves. They counted one hundred and sixty five dead trolls. What they saw inside was just as gruesome; Alvacor’s rage had fought its way through blindly.
“I would have felt a bit sorry for the trolls had I not seen what they do to their victims,” Pelton said.
He went on to re-check everything and take notes. Fredric left the caves and sat down with Alvacor. He didn’t know what to say. The elf had accomplished the mission, and excellently so, but Fredric had a feeling he wouldn’t want to be complimented for it.
“I can burn the bodies to prevent stench,” Alvacor said.
“Yes, that would be good. As soon as Pelton’s done surveying.”
Fredric thought once again of his last audience with the king, the one during which he’d volunteered to come here with the elf. The king was mad at him. Alvacor had revealed himself, and Gelleran couldn’t see past the fact that his trusted knight was obviously in league with the Dark Elf of Syron. Fredric had tried to explain, but Gelleran wouldn’t listen. He probably hadn’t had him arrested for one reason alone: fear of Alvacor. If the king ever found a way to get rid of the elf, Fredric knew he would be next.
Well, this was as good a time as any to address the issue.
“Alvacor… I won’t be the king’s best friend for telling you this, but I must. He doesn’t trust you. Not even after you’ve saved his life. I don’t think it will change after you’ve passed this test assignment, either.”
“Yes, I’ve gotten that impression.”
“Please do not take it lightly. You realize what it means, don’t you?”
The elf shrugged. “He can’t harm me.”
“Only because he doesn’t know how—yet. He will search for ways to subdue or destroy you.”
“Let him have fun with it.”
“Are you saying it can’t be done?”
Once again, Alvacor shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not a god. But Gelleran will be hard pressed to overpower me.”
“He won’t give up until he does, he fears you too much. If he has to use those you care for, I believe he will.” Fredric paused, watching the elf’s eyes darken. “I would advise you to leave Sormaria. Disappear. Go back to elven lands. He won’t pursue you.”
“If I leave, he will harm those I care for just because he can.”
“We can warn Captain Torren, give him time to take his family and flee. Not the best perspective, but he knows what the king’s wrath is like, he will use this chance and be grateful for it.”
The elf looked into Fredric’s eyes. “And what about you? You will not flee, will you?”
Fredric was surprised at how well the elf had gotten to know him. “I can’t. I am a knight of Sormaria, I haven’t done anything wrong, and even if I did, I would rather face the consequences. But don’t you risk everything because of me. The king still needs my service. Perhaps he won’t be harsh.”
“Well, that settles it. I won’t leave someone who calls me a friend to the slim chance that the king won’t be harsh. Besides, elves won’t accept me. They fear and abhor what I have become. Thanks for the warning and the advice, Sir Fredric, but I am staying.”
***
Gelleran pulled down the hood of his brown cloak, the simplest he’d ever worn, and knocked on the door of the rundown old house the way he was instructed: four quick knocks first, pause, then two more. He still couldn’t believe he was doing this. Coming to this part of the city, late at night, with only two bodyguards? He had no choice, though. There was no way he could receive someone from the Order of Onyx at his palace, and he couldn’t risk rumors about him dealing with them.
The door creaked open; a large man with a shaven head looked him over.
“Name?”
“Lord Tribbs.”
Not that Gelleran hoped to trick anyone. They knew who he was. Even if they did believe his ‘Lord Tribbs, the king’s first advisor’ story, the ruse wouldn’t last long. His portraits were everywhere.
The shaven man nodded and stepped aside, inviting him in. “Khormyr is expecting you.”
The king entered, his bodyguards followed and stood at the door. The man led Gelleran to the adjoining room. Another man, dressed in black, like the first, stood there waiting. He was rather unimpressive: short, scrawny, with a plain, pale face; definitely not what Gelleran would expect someone sent to negotiate with the king to look like.
“Good evening, Your Lordship. I am Khormyr. You might have heard me mentioned under the name of Baltazar Siberius.”
Baltazar Siberius, Lord Gordon’s estranged brother—or perhaps not as estranged as Gordon had always tried to portray. Well, at least he was of noble blood, from a well-known clan. It was less demeaning than dealing with some lowborn rubbish.
“I don’t have much time,” Gelleran said. “Let’s get to business. The Order of Onyx claims they have a means to control or defeat the Dark Elf of Syron. Tell me what it is.”
“Have you brought the money?” Baltazar asked.
“I have brought a third of the sum. You will receive the rest if, and when, the promised solution works.”
“Very smart; you can’t trust anyone these days. However, we wouldn’t dream to deceive the king of Sormaria. The solution is here.” The wizard reached into his pocket and produced a vial of clear liquid. “I have several of these. One is enough to diminish the creature’s abilities to the point of making it vulnerable; two will make it helpless.”
Gelleran stepped closer and took the vial from the man’s hand. “What is this potion?”
“It is water-based, but of course it isn’t just water. I can’t reveal the ingredients.”
“You’ll have to tell me more. How do you know it’s going to work?”
“We have done thorough research and established what the so-called dark elf is. He is a bekshar—a creation of black arts, rare and sophisticated. The details wouldn’t make any sense to you. In layman’s terms, his powers are based on fire. That’s why he hates liquids of any kind. Being around water makes him uneasy; drinking even a little would weaken him. Drinking a glass would probably extinguish his inner flames for a considerable time. Well. We have come up with a substance that combines all the elements hostile to his nature. It’s so toxic to him that even being around it will make him meek as a lamb.”
The king listened, turning the vial in his fingers. “So I don’t even have to make him drink it?”
“Goodness, no! Unless you want to instantly kill him, of course. Is that the intention?”
“No. We have plans regarding this creature. For now, the plans include keeping him safely locked up and possibly transporting him to a different location. Will your potion ensure that?”
Baltazar nodded. “It will. All you need to do is keep three vials around him, and he will behave. I would give him a taste of it first. Use one or two, depending on how weak you want him; pour or splash the substance onto him.”
“Will he be weakened permanently?”
“No, his strength and abilities will be later restored, but he won’t be able to use them while the vials are near.”
Gelleran took some time to think it all over. This was good. No, it was excellent! Just what he needed—if the thing worked, of course. He could shackle the elf and sell him to Welmar. The sum the Welmarian king had offered was twenty times more than what Gelleran would pay for the potion. He’d give the Welmarians three vials and use the rest to keep the other dark elf in check. That would ensure that the alliance with Treol would last, and Kerbia would keep its respectful distance.
“How many of these do you have?” the king asked, holding the vial up.
“Six. That will be more than enough.”
“I want a dozen... in case some happen to break over time.”
The wizard considered it. “All right. It will take a couple of days, and twenty more golden talents.”
“That’s fine.” Gelleran pulled out the purse. “Here’s the money you’re getting today. And one more thing: I want you to use the potion to subdue him.”
Baltazar smiled. “You wish to be certain it works. Understandable. Very well, I can do it here and now, if you’d like. Is there a way you can bring him here?”
Perfect, Gelleran thought. No need to invent excuses why I don’t want you at the palace.
The elf was back from the Morgana mission, yet he still hadn’t come to report about it. There was no reason it couldn’t be done here.
“Yes, I can summon him. I’ll send a man.”
He called in one of his bodyguards and sent him to the Dragon Claw Inn.
“Would you like to sit down and have a glass of wine while we’re waiting?” Baltazar offered, gesturing to the small table where a jar and several goblets sat.
Gelleran took the chair but declined the drink. “No, thank you.” He didn’t think they would poison him, but he still wouldn’t risk eating or drinking anything here.
“With your permission, I will. Right after I have everything prepared for our visitor.”
The wizard took out more vials and hid four of them in the four corners of the room. Then he opened the remaining two and poured out their content into a goblet. Having set that goblet aside, he picked up another one and poured himself some wine.
“Are you sure you don’t care for any?” he asked. “This is most excellent wine, the king’s favorite, from what I understand.”
Gelleran wondered whether they truly knew which one he favored. Still, he wasn’t that curious to find out. “Thank you, but no.”
They waited in silence for about a half hour. Gelleran tried not to show his apprehension. They were about to tackle a creature that had slaughtered one hundred and sixty five trolls, plus ten draccans, according to Pelton’s report. A creature that could knock you out without even touching you. What if he suspected something and used his tricks before he even entered the room? Baltazar wouldn’t have a chance to use his potion…
He watched the wizard; Baltazar didn’t look the least bit concerned. He seemed absolutely confident in the success of the undertaking. Well, that was a good sign. Perhaps Gelleran could relax a bit. In just a few more minutes this whole Dark Elf mess would be over.
They heard the familiar knock, the creak of the door, footsteps. Baltazar quickly put down his goblet and picked up the other, with the potion.
Alvacor entered; his face was dark, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Did he sense something?
Without wasting a second, Baltazar splashed the contents of the goblet all over the elf. Alvacor staggered back, looking shocked; his eyes flared up red.
“What is this?” he demanded, staring at the king.
Gelleran held his breath, expecting a blaze of fire or something worse. Nothing happened. The elf just stood there, the potion dripping from his face. His shoulders sagged, and he leaned against the doorpost. It had worked! His strength was gone. He couldn’t do a thing.
“This is what you deserve,” Baltazar replied, his lips curved in contempt.
“Long overdue, too,” the king added, rising. “Did you honestly think that I would negotiate with the likes of you? That I would forget all your crimes and let you walk around free?”
“A nice reward for my faithful service,” the elf growled.
“Faithful service? From you? I’d be a fool to believe your promises.”
“I have kept them so far!”
“That’s exactly right—so far, on your terms, for your own dubious reasons. Did you think yourself so invincible that you could dictate to the king? Obviously, you were wrong, and you’ll pay for it.” Gelleran turned to the wizard. “Get him out of here. Tell my men to tie him up well and hold him while we conclude our business.”
Baltazar called in the shaven man. For some reason he told him to tie the elf instead of heeding Gelleran’s order. Gelleran didn’t mind; he actually enjoyed watching the elf being restrained without showing resistance.
“Thank you, Yort. Now, take this thing down to the basement and kill it,” Baltazar said.
“Wait, I said—” Gelleran gasped as a sharp pain pierced his back. Instantly losing the use of his legs, he fell onto the chair.
Baltazar stepped back, holding a bloodied dagger in his hand.
“What… what have you done?” the king managed to ask.
“Avenged my father,” the wizard replied.
“Your father!” Gelleran fought back the pain; the room was swaying before his eyes. “He was involved in the conspiracy, and all he got was two years of exile! Dare you say it was harsh?”
“He was falsely accused. You didn’t care to do another investigation. It was humiliating, for him and for the whole clan. He could never get over the shame. It’s about time you answered for it.”
“You will be hanged for this.”
Baltazar gave a wicked smile, shaking his head. “I will not. Nobody knows you’re here. Your guards are dead. When your body is found, there will be no traces to me or the Order of Onyx.”
“You won’t get the rest of the money.”
“I don’t care for it. What I’ve received from you will cover the expenses, that’s good enough. I have accomplished my purpose. I wanted to kill the bekshar; getting to kill you as well is icing on the cake.”
Gelleran watched the blood pooling around him. The pain turned into a dull throbbing; he couldn’t feel his lower body, and his arms were going numb as well.
Baltazar took his goblet, sipped from it and placed it back on the table.
“Let’s get it over with, shall we?” he said, stepping closer. “By the way, you should be grateful to me for such an easy death, King Gelleran. Had any other Siberius gotten their hands on you, they’d make you suffer more.”
He raised the dagger. Gelleran wouldn’t give him the pleasure of begging for his life. He felt he was dying, anyway.
Someone’s hand grabbed Baltazar’s wrist. The wizard cried out in pain.
“Don’t you kill my enemies,” Alvacor said, turning the wizard around to face him.
Baltazar’s eyes widened as he stared at the huge elf towering over him. “What? Yort, come here!”
Having easily taken away the dagger, Alvacor pushed the man hard across the room. Baltazar hit the opposite wall with his back and slid down to the floor, wincing.
“Yort is dead. I have killed him by boiling his blood.”
“You’re bluffing.” The wizard struggled to his feet, holding his back. “You might have retained your physical strength, but your bekshar abilities are no longer working.”
Alvacor’s eyes narrowed. “You think?”
“I heard no screams.”
“That’s because I took his voice away. I’ll do the same to you, and do you know why? For Lenora and Martin Torren. Whoever touches them will pay dearly.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Yes, you do. Yort kidnapped the boy to make Lenora talk, by your order. That’s why you think I’m a bekshar. And that’s where you’re wrong. You see, Lenora gave him false information. I had instructed her to tell anyone who asked that I don’t like liquids.”
As he spoke, the dagger in his hands became red-hot, then white-hot, and then the blade started dripping onto the floor, melting, proving his point. He still had his powers.
Baltazar turned white as paper. “They were not harmed!” he cried out. “Yort was ordered to not actually harm the lad, I swear!”
“Ah, so now you do remember the incident. The last part isn’t true, though: he was authorized to torture Martin if he thought it necessary.”
“Listen—”
The wizard’s voice broke off. What happened next made Gelleran’s hair rise. The man fell and thrashed on the floor, his face twisted, mouth wide open in a soundless scream. His skin reddened and blistered, hot steam started to rise from his body. Then it was over.
Alvacor turned to the king. “It looks like you have misplaced your trust, Your Majesty. I wondered whether it was just me they were after; turns out I was right to suspect a bigger plot.”
“Please, don’t do that to me,” Gelleran whispered, his heart pounding. “Anything but that.”
“I see you are duly impressed; good. No need to demonstrate my skills on you, then.” The elf threw the half-melted dagger aside. “I hereby withdraw my offer of service. My condition, however, remains. With one addition: Captain Torren and his family and Sir Fredric must be unharmed. I will be around, never too far to bring vengeance. If anything happens to them… you have seen what I can do.”
Gelleran let out a shaky breath. “Why are you saying this to me? I am dying.”
“You are paralyzed only because I am keeping you so. The wound and the damage it did are healed. When I leave, you will regain the ability to move. I just hope you can find your way back to the palace.”
The king didn’t dare believe it. It couldn’t be true, there had to be some trick.
“Why?” he asked.
“Sometimes sparing an enemy who has learned their lesson is more beneficial than killing them. I hope this will be the case. If not, I’ll be back to correct my mistake.”
The elf left. Gelleran stayed where he was, listening to his body, which he’d thought was broken beyond repair. In a few moments he felt a warm sensation in his arms and legs; his limbs were coming alive. In a couple minutes he felt perfectly normal; there was no pain. Slowly, carefully, he tried to stand up. He was able to do so. The elf hadn’t lied.
End of Book 3