The Alkhoren Mirror
left his chambers. Few dared enter, for fear of rebuke. His callousness toward any intruder, though they came in the spirit of service, was venomous. Rumors circulated among the castle staff that the young king was turning more creature than man, wallowing away in the darkened room, hunched over various scrolls and parchments.
The only welcomed visitors were those who brought him more scrolls from Whitestone’s library. The records he requested didn’t seem to be connected in any way the couriers could make out. Plus, the young king asked for a new courier each day, making it impossible to follow his thoughts.
When Melkis arrived at the chamber doors, two plates of food slowly decayed on the floor, having been set in the hall early that morning. Melkis banged on the door with his bony hand. Two aides, concern etching their faces, shifted carefully to adjust the considerable weight of the wrapped mirror they had hauled from the Grand Corral. Melkis rapped on the door again. After no response, the old man tried to open the chamber doors, which, of course, were locked.
Melkis sighed. He smoothly removed Wintertide, his curved sword, from its scabbard. The metal rang with a twinge of energy as it came loose. The old guardian motioned for the aides to step back while he worked on the door. He whispered something to the beautiful silver sword and thrust the tip of the long blade into the keyhole on the door. Ice crystallized around the mechanism, weakening the door’s internal integrity. Melkis leaned into the action, spurring the sword onward. Eventually, a click-clunk sounded inside the door, and it swung open.
The two aides hoisted the massive mirror they had set down, not expecting the old guardian to have managed the door so quickly. Melkis relished proving them wrong. He may be old, but he wasn’t dead. He could still surprise some people. Sometimes, even himself.
He led the way into the chamber, kicking parchments on the floor as he went. The place was a disaster. The stench was pungent. Wax candles burned all over the chamber. Many more had finished their wicks and been hastily pushed aside to make space for new ones, the wax spilling in wild angles and hardening to form eerie statuettes.
Melkis kicked more scrolls aside as he waded to the window and cast open the curtains, allowing light to pour into the room. King Garron recoiled as though the light burned him but continued reading the scroll in front of him.
“Start cleaning this place up,” Melkis said to the aides, who promptly began to collect random items from the floor.
“No!” Garron yelled hoarsely. He jumped to his feet to halt them but tripped over the rather large pile of articles surrounding his seat.
Melkis stepped forward to help his king up, signaling the aides to keep cleaning. “My King, please. What has you so distressed? You’ve been in here for days.”
The disheveled king breathed heavily and said, “My house is fallen, Melkis,” Garron cried, finding his way to a kneeling position.
Melkis also knelt, leveling his wise eyes with those of the king. The old man saw that tears had streaked the king’s face, driving hard lines. “Perhaps it has tripped, but it has not fallen. You’ve been lost in the wildlands ...” Melkis glanced around at the mess. “When you trip, you get back up. Stand with me, as I stand with you.”
Garron weakly took the outstretched arm, and by no strength of his own, returned to his feet. Melkis guided him to another set of curtains that he threw aside, revealing a balcony beyond. They stopped at the railing; the breeze breathed new life into Garron as he took in the fresh air.
“I’ll be right back,” the old master assured.
Melkis slipped back through the portal into the chamber. One of the aides was gathering scrolls into one place, so he might organize them. The other had gathered some of the strange wax forms and was attempting to remove hardened wax from one of the furs that had fallen on the floor. Melkis paid them no mind, on his way to the door.
The lock mechanism inside the door had completely cracked by the expansion of the ice, which was melting and dripping into a small puddle on the chamber floor. The old man crouched and prodded at the food on the plates, determining which was fresher. He picked one of them up, sniffed it, squeezed the bread, and decided it was still edible.
As he stood, High Commander Danner Kane and Commander Jolan rounded the corner and stopped, each glancing between Melkis and the disheveled chamber beyond him. Melkis answered their unasked questions with a heavy sigh, a raised brow, and an unknowing shrug before he whirled back into the chamber and toward the waiting king.
The two commanders paused, baffled. Commander Jolan didn’t hesitate long. The mountain of a man walked to the table and hunched over it to see what he could glean from the parchments. Danner Kane chose the pile on the king’s bed.
“Eat,” Melkis said, forcing the bread into Garron’s hand.
Garron took it slowly. When its scent caught his nose, he realized how famished he was. He took a bigger bite than intended and chewed awkwardly, while the breeze cooled his streaked face.
“You look unwell.”
He mocks you ... the whisper on the wind said.
“What do you know of it?” Garron growled in the old man’s face, bits of bread spraying from his mouth.
Melkis was shocked by the sudden shift in the young king’s demeanor. In his rage, the king looked more rabid than pitiful. And it was in that moment Melkis realized his hand had instinctively latched onto the hilt of Wintertide. He did not want to use the sword on his king, of course, but his instincts had rarely been wrong all these years—one of the reasons he had lived so long.
“Beware an old man in a profession where men die young,” he’d say to the young guardians who sparred with him. Instinct and training are a deadly combination.
“Garron,” his voice was gentle. “What do I not know?”
“My house is fallen!” Garron threw the remainder of the bread off the balcony, and tears streamed down his face once again.
“But it hasn’t,” Melkis assured him. “You still stand. I know the loss of your brothers was hard. And your father and mother. But Garron, you are not alone. I have always thought of you and your brothers and your cousins as the sons I never had.”
Lies ... You have seen the fall for yourself. I have shown you.
“No ... No! I am the only one left. I must save my house and Whitestone. Nothing else matters!”
Melkis didn’t know what to say as he watched the king mumble to himself, caught in some sort of unseen calculations. The sight reverted to pitiful, and Melkis’s heart had a hard time bearing the king’s pain.
Movement in the room behind them reminded Melkis of the reason they had come to the king’s chamber in the first place: the mirror. Garron had been adamant about retrieving the mirror for its magical powers, which supposedly would be a positive agent for the coming war.
“Whitestone has not fallen yet. And to my last breath, I will defend it. If you believe the mirror to be the key to our future—”
The mirror is here ...
“The mirror! Where is it?” Garron’s eyes widened hungrily.
“Pernden and the Talon Squadron retrieved it from the Gant Sea Narrows. We have brought it here to your—”
Garron didn’t wait for Melkis to finish. He spun on one foot and darted through the opening, into the chamber. It was the hunger in the young king’s eyes that gave Melkis pause. He had always known Garron to be determined and strong, but he also understood how much the young king had lost and how loss can change a man. He wondered, however, who was the mage who had given him the location of the mirror? How long had the king been exposed to the mage? And with what, exactly, had he filled the young king’s mind?
Clawstone was a well-kept secret of the Talon Squadron, a place of the elite group’s own from which to run covert missions that required utmost secrecy. The place was aptly named for the four jutting white stones that broke the tree canopy in a strange formation rather like talons. It had been used as a secret training space and occasional base of operations for the elite members of the Talon Squadron since its inception.
Its location was kept sacred by the indomitable loyalty the elite guardians had to their brotherhood. Generations of Talon members held it close to their hearts. It had become a place of tradition, honor, celebration, and remembrance. To some, it even felt more like home than Whitestone.
Griffins perched in ancient pines surrounding the area. Whitestone Forest had grown at odd angles around the area, as the massive jagged stones broke earth and sky. No one ever came near. The northern road between Loralith and Whitestone swung around the edge of the peppered forest. The southern route veered farther east of the location, having been trampled on an easier path long ago. Clawstone was quite isolated, and to many of Talon Squadron, it was one of the few places they found solace.
Nera swept her loose hairs back into the singular braid that sloped off the back of her head, rather like the mane of a beautiful mare. With a flick of her foot, she launched the leaning spear into the air, spun, and caught it so smoothly, it appeared as though she had done it thousands of times; which, in fact, she had. Not with that spear, of course, but with many others before.
Santoralier, Lightning Rider as the sorcerers had labeled it, was a spear set apart. As she twirled it in a well-rehearsed routine, Nera marveled at how it appeared lighter and lighter in her hands. With each swing, the weapon hummed in delight as though it had been waiting for such a skilled warrior to use it again. The golden metal was hardened by magic that imbued the spear with powers yet unknown to the guardian.
Nera’s movements were swift and calculated, every action setting up the next. She swirled and twirled, appearing to others in some sort of war dance. The spear bristled with energy, and she felt its tingling within her body. Arcs of electrical power jumped in random chorus, joining her movements. And finally, out of pure instinct, she feigned a parry left, a parry right, a spin jump to the rear, and let the spear loose toward a target sitting near one of the massive white stones.
It was as though the spear became pure electric energy and flew as a lightning bolt directly from her hand, exploding into the target. The force of the bolt sent arcs of energy splattering around where the target had been, leaving jagged scorch marks all over the ground nearby, even lighting a patch of grass on fire. Not only had the spear blasted its intended target, but it had ridden the lightning back into Nera’s hand, as though she had never thrown it.
“Wow,” Pernden said, putting his hands together for a few astonished claps. “‘Santoralier,’ you called it?”
“Yes. Or at least the keepers of the wisdom tower at the Gant Sea Narrows had marked it so. ‘Lightning Rider.’”
“A weapon of similar stature to Master Melkis’s Wintertide, I’d say.” He laughed to himself. “Though many of us have tasted the playful sting of Wintertide—and many orcs, the more deadly sting—I don’t know that I would want to taste any sting from this spear. Playful or otherwise.”
Nera agreed. She traced her fingers along the mysterious scrollwork spanning the spear’s length and halted in the middle. The yellow stone brimmed with energy. She did not understand why the destructive force of Santoralier did not bite her, but she knew this was a special weapon, indeed.
“Nera ... Whoa!” Pernden recoiled his hand.
When Nera had gotten lost in thought, he had touched her to get her attention and received a painful shock.
Nera gazed at the small arcs of golden electricity jumping in bold contrast between her dark fingers. She looked up at Pernden with a huge grin. He feigned hurt, but his countenance shifted to surprise.
“Your eyes are gold ...” he said, staring.
She looked back to Santoralier, still humming slightly in her hand.
A special weapon, indeed.
Garron kicked at scrolls and parchments that impeded his progress toward the table. He grabbed a dagger and waved it wildly as he stomped over to the mirror. Melkis reentered the chamber from the balcony as the king hesitated.
Do it. It’s time! With this power, you’ll be able to save your legacy!
Suddenly, Garron raised the dagger high and slashed down at the coverings. Fabric ripped under the heavy-handed blade as everyone in the room watched with anticipation. Even the aides stopped what they were doing to watch curiously. As the shreds of fabric fell or were ripped free by the king, the Alkhoren Mirror shone in the early evening sun.
Garron stumbled back in awe, the large mirror framing him from Commander Jolan’s perspective.
“What is this mirror?” Jolan’s words sounded far away.
The mirror emitted a low hum as ribbons of light bounced off the runes marking its edges. The magical energy swirled, forming a singular stream that ran around the frame. Melkis moved past the mountain of a guardian—for Jolan was stunned—and grabbed Garron by the shoulder, trying to move him back.
Don’t let him interfere!
“No!” Garron barked at Melkis, sloughing off the old man’s protective hand.
“Garron please! You must back away! Do you even know what this mirror can do?”
The hum of the mirror reverberated around the chamber, and the corners of the room bent in weird directions.
Danner Kane grabbed the two aides and shoved them toward the door and safety. “Go!” He shouted to them over the thrumming.
He ran to join Jolan and squared up defensively, not knowing what to expect but ready to fight the only way he knew how. Jolan watched, mesmerized.
“Garron, please!” Melkis yelled again. “You don’t know what magics this mirror might contain!”
A flash of sinister smoke rose inside the mirror, and darkness gathered within. Melkis stopped grabbing at the young king, enraptured by what the mirror was revealing. A face in the smoke flashed and flashed again, as if someone were on the other side of the glass. And then, briefly, the picture flickered clear—the grin of a shrouded orc.
Melkis unsheathed Wintertide, leveling it straight at the mirror as he stepped between his king and the unknown threat.
Don’t let him interfere! The old man would steal your future! He would steal your very life!
Garron cried out and lunged at Melkis with the dagger in his hand, bringing it down hard into the old man’s back.
Melkis hollered in pain, lowering his sword to his side out of shock.
Garron pulled the knife back savagely and stabbed again as the old man turned to the young king with a confused look on his face. This jab was true and landed deep into his old mentor’s chest.
For the two commanders, time stopped as they witnessed the king’s violent outburst toward the beloved master.
Suddenly, a burst of magical force erupted from the mirror, sending all in the room flying in its blast. Parchments and scrolls fluttered through the air, and all became silent. The mystical energy continued to move around the frame, but the mirror was no longer a reflection. Rather, a wall of smoke existed within the borders of the runes.
Sobs rolled from the king, as he beat at Melkis’s chest where they lay on the ground.
“I told you! My house is fallen! This is the only way! The only way ... The only way to save Whitestone. The war is already lost! Don’t you see that?”
Garron slammed heavy fists onto the old man’s chest, but his tears dropped heavier.
Melkis’s glassy eyes looked to the young man he had helped raise. He was confused by the attack, but he had been a faithful man and knew death would come eventually. Tears of his own flowed out the crease of his eyes, running down the side of his face into his ears.
“Garron ...” He coughed. “I do not know what voice has twisted you against me ...” He took in a struggled breath. Knowing it might be his last, he told the king the only thing he thought worth saying in his final moment. “I have loved you ... like a son ...”
The words stunned Garron, and he stared at the old man.
Melkis’s spirit departed.
Sudden realization rolled over the young king. “No! No, no, no ...” He cried to himself. “You don’t understand. It’s the only way ... it’s the only way! Why didn’t you listen to me?”
He shook the limp form of his former master and whimpered.
In the blast, Commander Jolan had been thrown to one side of the room, and Danner Kane was sprawled out near the balcony. Jolan had already risen, hand on the pommel of his still-sheathed sword. He watched his king, a wretched sight, and knew how the king felt. Jolan had lost his world as well—his own son—in this war that hadn’t really even begun. His empathy stayed his hand.
Danner Kane kicked something hard as he came to a seated position. Wintertide glinted in the evening sunlight near his foot. He grabbed the old master’s sword and sheathed his own as he stood.
He glanced at the king, hunched over the old master. When he locked eyes with Jolan, they sensed a turning point. Both made an instinctual decision, not based on reason, but rather on years of experience in battle, loss and regret, and pure unbridled emotion. In that moment, they realized they stood on opposite sides of the decision.
“No!” Jolan roared.
The massive man bolted to intercept a sprinting Danner Kane with Wintertide poised to strike down the unwary king. Before they collided, a black orb, rather like the darkest of nights, blasted into the High Commander, sending him reeling back past the king’s bed, toward the balcony.
It was then that they saw him. A tall orc sorcerer stepped through the smoke in the Alkhoren Mirror, his movements serpent-like. The shroud of a dark aura surrounded him, and smoke slithered behind him. He held out a tall staff that shone in a strange hue. The small tusks of the orc parted his lips, which upturned into a wicked smile.
The orc turned to Jolan, who stood nearby. “A new age has dawned man-kin. Your king has saved you,” whispered echoes chased his words.
A singular tear rolled down the commander’s cheek, weaving its way through his stubble to the bottom of his chin. He stood perfectly still, a vision of stoicism.
While the orc looked the commander up and down, Danner Kane pulled a small whistle from a pocket under one of the many plates in his layered armor. He blew it, and no sound came out—at least no sound audible to men.
Orcs, however, hear that pitch perfectly well, and the whistle alerted the sorcerer to the guardian crouched behind the king’s bed. “Come out man-kin. I will give you a choice.”
Danner Kane cursed the whistle’s betrayal. He stood and faced the orc, Wintertide in his hand. After a good look at the intruder, Kane realized this was no ordinary orc. One of the sorcerer’s arms appeared to be made of stone, and smoky tendrils wisped from the bottom of his long cloak.
When their eyes met, both knew Kane would not choose what the sorcerer offered. An annoyed look replaced the orc’s wicked grin. He lobbed another pitch-black orb toward the man.
Danner Kane dove and rolled to the side, closer to the balcony. He popped up quickly, muttered a prayer under his breath, and launched himself off the high castle balcony into the evening sky. Wind rushed past his face as he fell. The ground came fast, but not as fast as the High Commander’s griffin. The creature swooped in, catching the commander with its talons and carrying him off into the distance.
The sorcerer stood on the balcony, observing Kane’s escape. He did not show displeasure, though he certainly felt it. He merely turned to Commander Jolan, who also watched. The orc’s eyes blazed with an obsidian fire. Jolan visibly winced under the sorcerer’s direct gaze. The guardian couldn’t move. He stole a quick glance at the king who knelt absently next to Master Melkis’s body.
Jolan felt pressure on his heart and his mind, as though they were being squeezed inside of him. It took every ounce of willpower he had left to meet the sorcerer’s eyes again. When he did, dread crackled through the air around him.
The sorcerer’s wicked smile returned, and he said, “Find him. And prepare for war.”