Riddler's Fire

Chapter Three

“Hah!” Coran hooted in triumph. A smile stretched his rusty beard across his very round and very red face. “I win!” He stretched his greedy hands forward, eager to collect his winnings.

The other three players grumbled, each of their faces distorted as if they had bitten into a lemon.

“By the nine gods, Coran, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say that this game was staged,” said the man seated directly across from Coran. He sat back heavily in his chair, his eyes half-closed with laziness and a small smile on his face.

Coran continued organizing the many coins into piles and, without looking up, responded lightly, “And if we were not such old friends, Magistrate Brichtor, I would think that you were accusing me of cheating.”

“Me? I would not dare to do such a thing, old friend.” Brichtor said. “Even if you are a cantankerous old windbag.”

The man to Coran’s right stifled a growl. He was a large man with sun-tanned and leathery skin and eyes which were constantly squinted. Large pieces of mysterious substances stuck in his thick, wiry, black beard which matched the mop of hair atop his head. He mumbled something under his breath of which the only discernible words were “cheat” and “liar”. However, since he did not have the courage to direct these remarks to Coran, he was simply ignored.

He begrudged Coran’s constant winning for many reasons; the main reason was that Coran was a dwarf.

It was uncommon for dwarves to visit men, rarer still for them to leave their kinfolk behind and live with them. In fact, Coran was the only dwarf in living memory who had done so.

Many began rumors that guessed at the reason he had left his homeland behind. Some said he was cursed by the Dwarf-God, Grimmun. Others said he was banished by his King Fonai for some unspeakable crime. Still others said he had lost his only love and chose to leave any memory of her behind, for it was too sorrowful.

Whatever the reason, Coran remained in Leiteragh.

The second reason he was begrudged was that, as all dwarves, he intimately loved gambling and by some strange luck he seemed to always win. Whether they bet on cards, dice, or horses, Coran possessed an innate sense of the outcome. There were many rumors as to this “ability”, most directed to the dishonesty of Coran and were therefore never spoken of directly.

However, the people of Arantir tolerated Coran for as many, if not more, reasons as they despised him. He was an excellent merchant; his gambling sense was put to use on the most dangerous gamble of all: the sea. His ships almost always fared well, far more than the others, and his goods were always the finest.

Indeed, Coran was renown both in the Lands of Men and Elves for his unsurpassable wares.

For this reason, Coran should have been richer than he was, but he possessed one character trait which many considered a fatal flaw: generosity. There was not a week that passed that Coran did not host a party that even kings were known to attend. There was always plenty of food and wine and musicians were employed from every land for every taste. Many came from far to taste of his famous (and, in some places, “infamous”) hospitality.

Such a festivity was underway, with many of the less fortunate in the city eating to their hearts content. For in Coran’s house, all were equals, from the lowest beggar to the richest king. Magistrate Brichtor had ensnared Coran and the other two players into a quick game of chance, in hopes that he would be able to learn Coran’s secrets. They sat in a room set off from the main room in which the party was beginning to die down. Long ago, all of the guests of honor had left, leaving behind only those who continuously took advantage of Coran’s hospitality.

Only the player to Coran’s right remained calm. He was a man of ebony skin who was obviously a soldier for his hard face was scarred from battle. He perched on the edge of his seat, his back ramrod straight. He spoke simply, “I must leave, for I can’t afford to wager my bread and lodging.” He slowly stood to his feet and, paying his respects to the Magistrate and Coran, walked out of the room.

A hooded figure sat in the corner of the quiet room smoking a pipe, the red glow eerily both revealing and masking his face. He appeared to be watching the game, as he had been for several hours. A pitcher of ale remained untouched in front of his gloved hands. He remained mostly unnoticed, save for the servant who was in charge of the beverages, who occasionally tossed wary glances at the stranger.

Meanwhile, Coran’s opponents were quickly becoming increasingly agitated at Coran’s constant winnings.

“You’re a no-good, dirty cheat of a midget,” slurred the large, hawk-nosed seaman.

Coran’s hands froze on the table. His expression was calm and his gaze steady.

“Perhaps you should only gamble when you can afford to lose, friend Terin.”

“Well, not all are as rich as you, Coran,” he replied angrily.

“It is true, I am rich. I did not hear you complain when you ate of my food and drank of my wine. Here, take the money you came with and leave.”

“I don’t want your money, you stinkin’ mole.”

Magistrate Brichtor audibly gasped at the Terin’s audacity.

The figure in the corner sat up straighter, his eyes riveted on the confrontation.

Brichtor regained his composure. “Now, look here, Terin, why don’t you simply go up to your room and sleep it off?” He gently grabbed Terin’s elbow, as if to lead him away.

Terin jerked his arm out of the magistrate’s grasp and threw his arm backwards. His elbow caught the poor man unawares. He was knocked backwards several feet and blood began to gush out of his nose.

Terin grabbed the table and threw it aside, removing the barrier between him and Coran. He stood there, a huge gorilla of a man, seething.

Coran stood up slowly, a sad look on his face.

“My friend, I have given you every chance. I do not wish us to part like this.”

Terin threw himself forward and spat in Coran’s face. “Face me like a man, mole-rat.”

“You wish to fight me?”

He nodded. “Man-to-man…well, man-to-dwarf. You scared?”

Coran thought for a moment, then said, “If this is what you wish, I will not withhold it from you. We will fight.”

An evil smile slid across Terin’s face as he began to move in a slow circle. Coran did not move from his spot, merely stood there with his arms crossed.

As Terin was about to leap on the dwarf, the stranger quickly stepped between them.

His hood was pulled back, revealing a silver face framed with short, raven-black hair. Green eyes blazed with an intensity and desire for battle. He put up a hand against Terin’s chest.

“I would not advise this,” he said. “I have seen this dwarf fight and he is unsurpassed by either dwarf or man. He almost beat me once. To fight him is to forfeit your life. Think carefully, Captain.”

“And who the bloody hell are you?” asked Terin impatiently.

“One who does not wish to see innocent blood shed for a simple matter of cards. They call me Swiftblade.”

This news quickly froze Terin. For while he was foreign, his name was not. He was renown throughout all lands as a mighty warrior, the First of the Three Elves, guardians of the Elvin queen. His abilities were legendary and, though he was young for an Elf (over two hundred years old), many tales were told of his prowess both in battle and peace.

At the mention of his name, Terin paled. Coran had nearly beaten Swiftblade? He slowly backed away from the pair. He hit the wall behind him and then ran for the door.

Once he was gone, Swiftblade and Coran glanced at each other. A moment of silence passed, and then they burst into laughter. Coran extended his wiry forearm in greeting and Swiftblade clasped it, and then clapped him on the shoulder.

“It is good to see you, my friend,” said Swiftblade as the crowd dispersed, though all eyes were focused on him.

“And you. Come. Let us talk in private. Do you have a room here in Leiteragh?”

“Aye. Though I daresay it would be—”

“I will send for your things. I will not permit One of the Three to sleep in a lowly tavern when my house has so many extra beds.”

He called for a servant and made the necessary arrangements.

They walked quickly upstairs into a private room. Elegant tapestries of red with complex gold designs embroidered covered the two windows. A beautifully carved mahogany table sat in the middle of the room with two matching chairs of equal craftsmanship; it was laden with food and wine.

Coran gestured hospitably to the chair and food, encouraging Swiftblade to indulge in both pleasures.

As he took a seat himself he questioned his noble guest, “Do not mistake my eagerness for discomfort, my lord, but why have you come?”

Swiftblade paused, the cup from which he had been drinking frozen at his lips. He sat it down softly and leaned forward in his seat. He whispered, “Sparl’enthir has left the island.”

A gasp escaped Coran. “What does this mean?”

“Mean?” Swiftblade scoffed. “It means that the Chosen One has come!”

Coran sat in silence for a moment. “Tell me everything, my friend.”

Swiftblade situated himself more comfortably in his chair and began.

“As you know, my people have been at war for many centuries. The Warlocks, though they are infidels, are a very strong and resilient people. The war has not been extremely difficult for us to fight, though the enemy’s numbers have been greater than ours.

“Lately, however, the Warlocks have begun to fight with a ferocity and intelligence which they have never shown before. My people have become worried as of late. We have lost as many battles as we have won. We are uncertain what has changed the tide.

“Our priests and astrologists have claimed that the Chosen One’s arrival is on the horizon and will forever give us peace. As you know, his arrival is to be preceded by Sparl’enthir’s departure. This—”

“Forgive me, my friend,” Coran interrupted, “but what does Sparl’enthir’s exodus from the Island have to do with the Chosen One?”

“What does it have to do with it? It has everything to do with it!

“Sparl’enthir is the greatest of the Gods! He is the Father of the Nine! Only something as tremendous as the peace of the world would prompt his departure! The prophesy states that one day a child will come who will be blessed by Sparl’enthir Himself and forever bless our world!”

He ran his hands through his silver hair, for the moment speechless at the implications.

Coran was shocked. In the fifty years he had known Swiftblade, never had he seen him so animated. As a rule, Elves were more docile beings, rarely—if ever—becoming excited. And here was one of the lords of the Elves, practically dancing in front of him like a schoolchild.

“And what does this have to do with me?”

A shadow passed over Swiftblade’s face. “Unfortunately, while we have soldiers scouring the land for any sign of the Chosen One, we do not know when he will appear. We must make other plans.

“We have need of allies. Already ambassadors have been sent to both kingdoms of men, Rìosrad and Fiorheod. There is but one kingdom left whom we ask to join us.”

Coran shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Do I understand you?”

“We wish you to be an ambassador to the Dwarven kingdom, Ahlixährin. None other than a dwarf may enter their halls and live. Long has it been since Elf, Warlock or Man has set foot in the halls of Äjla.”

“No!” Coran jumped off of his chair and began to pace the room, stroking his thick beard. “I cannot return, Swiftblade, without forfeiting my life!”

“Forgive my audacity, old friend, but to restrain yourself from Ahlixährin is to forfeit the live of all in Glisaraël.”

“Why do you say such things? The elves are the strongest army. They have never been defeated, not by Man, Warlock, Dwarf or Dragon! Surely the Warlock’s are not as strong as you say. You are mistaken!”

“No, my friend. We are at risk of losing the war. If we fall now, alone, all hope is gone. None will be able to withstand the might of the Warlocks.”

Swiftblade sighed heavily. He walked over to where Coran had stopped pacing, rested a hand on Coran’s shoulder and looked down at his friend.

“If we do not find the Chosen One in time—if we are alone—all will be lost. Unless we unite, all will fall into darkness.”



 











Chapter Four

After several hours of traveling and asking questions—which for some reason, Zephyre would not answer—Ryker had eventually decided to simply enjoy his surroundings. Zephyre’s silence was aggravating, yet during his brief stint in the army, Ryker had learned that knowing everything was not always best. And so he resolved to merely enjoy this ride. For something told him that, soon, he would not have the time to enjoy many things.

Finally, they reached the edge of the wood.

“If you don’t mind, my young friend, it would be most shameful if someone were to find me carrying you.”

Ryker mumbled an apology, embarrassed, slid off of Zephyre’s back and together they walked out of the forest.

As they stepped out of the darkness of Frithd’armad, both Ryker and Zephyre squinted against the sun’s harsh rays. Zephyre paused for a moment, letting their eyes adjust to the brilliant light.

“Welcome, young one, to Fryskon, my home.”

Ryker looked around in awe. Never before had he seen such a beautiful place. They were standing in a large clearing in the middle of Frithd’armad. The grass was a healthy, beautiful green. Ryker felt as if he would drown in the tall grass, for it nearly reached his waist, whereas it barely touched Zephyre’s belly.

Several rustic houses stood in a circle in the middle of the meadow, where the grass was considerably shorter. There were a few patches of rich, tilled-up earth with several varieties of crops growing.

At first Ryker thought that this must be a village of Centaurs, but he quickly realized his mistake. While there were many centaurs, both young and old, there were also humans moving about in Fryskon. Ryker spotted several human children and centaur foals playing together, along with what appeared to be horses.

They continued to walk, Ryker taking in this unusual sight.

As they marched forward, Ryker had reason for pause once more. What he had thought were horses were…well…not.

They were unicorns.

Beautiful creatures, they were very similar to horses, with the exception of a beautiful horn on their foreheads. Other than their horns, there was another slight difference between unicorns and horses. Unicorns, at least these unicorns, were extremely graceful. They never stumbled or tripped, even in a quick game of tag.

When the group of children noticed Zephyre, they ran and surrounded him. They bombarded Ryker with questions.

“Who are you?”

“How come you’re dressed so funny?”

“Where did you come from?”

“What’s your name?”

“Can I hold your sword?”

Ryker, feeling overwhelmed with the many questions and the growing number of children, looked to Zephyre for assistance. Zephyre, noting the helpless look on Ryker’s face, attempted to hide his smile, although rather unsuccessfully, and laughed, “Okay, children, let us leave my guest alone. He has come a long way and is very tired.”

He turned to one of the centaur children, and said, “Doros, would you inform the elders that I will be in to see them shortly? We have much to discuss.”

Nodding, Doros immediately galloped off in the direction of the town.

In obedience to Zephyre’s commands, the many children that surrounded him and Ryker now refrained from asking the many questions that they so desperately wanted to ask. They may not have been asking Ryker questions, but that did not mean that they were quiet. They shouted and played all around Ryker and Zephyre. They constantly surrounded the two companions although they were heading towards Fryskon.

Ryker glanced around uncomfortably as he walked with Zephyre to the village. The many children wouldn’t stop staring at him. Zephyre had been the first intelligent creature other than humans he had ever seen. Now here he was surrounded by several dozen centaurs and unicorns.

The unicorns were the strangest to be around. While they may have been graceful and beautiful, when they looked at him, Ryker felt as if they knew even his deepest and darkest secrets. Their gaze pierced him to the core of his being. While that was disconcerting enough, their constant half-smile was just as much—if not more so—uncomfortable.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of chaos to Ryker, they reached the village. Adults now shooed their children away, however they pressed in themselves, with even more questions than the children.

Ryker, now feeling completely overwhelmed, and unable to see anything past the large bodies of adult centaurs, humans, and unicorns, began to panic.

The world began to spin and whirl before his eyes. He fell to the ground and, for the second time that day, passed out.



Once again, Ryker awoke unaware of his surroundings. He lay still with his eyes closed, trying to remember what had happened. The events of the day soon flooded his mind.

He groaned. He hoped desperately that this was a dream, or at least a nightmare of sorts.

“I do hope that this will not become a habit with you, friend Roshk’al. It seems that you have fainted twice today, once alone and again with several people around.”

Ryker chuckled painfully and sat up. “Zephyre, where am I this time? The last time I fainted, I found myself in Frith-something-or-other—”

“—Frithd’armad—”

“—right, and now, I’m…where, exactly am I?”

He opened his eyes and looked up at Zephyre. He was even more imposing than normal from Ryker’s perspective as he sat on the ground.

“Fryskon.”

“Zephyre—” Ryker paused.

“Yes, Roshk’al?”

“I know what city I’m in. I just have no idea where the city itself is. I’m not a fool. You know why I’m here and how I got here.

“I want to know.”

Zephyre winced, seeming uncomfortable with the topic, and sighed.

“Tell me.” Ryker asked again.

“What do you know of the Elves and the Warlocks?”

Ryker burst out laughing. “Come on, man. I do not concern myself with legends and myths.”

“Like centaurs and unicorns?” Zephyre said with a half-smile.

Ryker opened his mouth to respond, then closed it in thoughtfulness.

“The kingdoms of men have shut themselves off from the rest of Glisaraël. The Nine Races, which once lived in harmony, have drifted apart, and the old alliances are forfeit. Even Fiorheod and Rìosrad, the two kingdoms of men, do not coexist peaceably. Much that was fact has become legend.”

“Wait. So you’re telling me that there are really nine races? Like in the fairy tales?”

“Indeed.”

“But…that means that—”

“Yes. All of the nine are real. Humans, Centaurs, Unicorns, Dwarves, and Elves. Along with the Forgotten: Vampires, Jinn, Warlocks, and Dragons.”

“But…that’s impossible.”

“Glisaraël is a large place, Roshk’al. It is not impossible that the Forgotten exist, simply because they have not been visible.”

“Even if this were true, what does it have to do with me?”

“Frithd’armad is located in the lands between the Elves and Warlocks.”

“So, those people, back in the clearing, they were real elves?”

“But of course, young one. What else would they be?”

“I don’t know. I—” Ryker got no further.

The young centaur that had carried Zephyre’s message—Doros—clambered into the room.

“Is he awake, uncle? Is he? Has he said anything? Is it true that he single-handedly faced the entire Warlock army without a weapon?”

He probably would have continued in this manner without pausing for a breath had Zephyre not stopped him.

“Doros, enough!” Zephyre laughed. “Let him breathe. He has had quite a stressful day.”

He turned to Ryker and said, “Perhaps you would like to rest for a while, young one?”

Ryker nodded, grateful for the suggestion.

“Very well. As you may have noticed, we have transferred you into rather more comfortable clothes. As we speak, your armor and weapons are being cleaned and sharpened, respectively.”

Ryker glanced down at his clothes, noticing the clothes he wore for the first time. Gone were his black armor and brown robe. In their place was a white linen robe.

“Why were my weapons taken from me?”

With a small smile, Zephyre steered Doros out of the room without another word and Ryker was left alone.

“Zephyre?” He said. “Zephyre!”

He looked around at the room he was in.

A collection of books that would have excited any reader stretched across the entire eastern wall on oak shelves. Several were rather new to the collection, however most appeared older than time itself. A book rested on a pedestal near the bookcases. Never before had Ryker seen such beauty. To say that the writer had written a book, would be understating it—he had painted it. The letters were inscribed with such perfection and care that it was a piece of art instead of a literary work. It was impossible to read the words, for the eyes simply appreciated the beauty of the masterpiece. Ryker tentatively reached out a hand but halted. As desperately as he wished to caress the letters, he was afraid that the mere touch of a hand would desecrate the perfect pages.

On the western wall, weapons of master craftsmen hung as decorations. His swords were dull and insignificant when compared to these marvelous works of art. Someone had tastefully arranged the many swords and shields, the light dancing brilliantly off the spotless surfaces. Each of the swords' blades was slightly different in hue and matched a shield of the same color. They were all different shades of the rainbow—red, blue, green, yellow, purple, black, white, silver, orange, brown, and all the shades between. Ryker was suddenly seized by a strange desire to hold these works of art, yet he feared to mar the perfect surfaces.

In the southern wall, there were two doors of the same height as the entrance. Out of the door on the left emerged a female centaur.

Her brown hair hung over one shoulder in a long braid which matched the hue of the thin layer of hair on her body. Her skin was much darker than that of her father’s, yet she possessed a rough beauty about her.  She wore a leather buckskin jacket a few shades lighter than her hair.

Her face was hard, grief lines already beginning to crease her young face. She appeared frail and delicate, but she emitted a confident—possibly even hostile—attitude.

She simply stood there with her arms crossed and a look of disdain on her face.

“You’re not much to look at.” She said, after her examination was complete.

“Sorry to disappoint.” He said.

She didn’t reply and an awkward silence ensued.

He tried to start a conversation. “I’m Ryker. Um, Zephyre brought me here.”

“I know who you are,” she said. Her eyes shot daggers at him as she took a few steps forward. “Believe me. I know everything about you and don’t you believe for a second that you’re fooling me. I’ve seen what you become. I’ve seen what you’ve done. Everyone thinks you’re the savior of Glisaraël, but you will destroy us all.”

“Wait!” He held up his hands to stop her. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about. I’m not here to save or destroy anyone. In fact, I have no idea why I’m even here!”

“You don’t need to know everything at once, human. All will be revealed when you are ready to receive it.

“Come, you must present yourself before the council.”

She exited the building and Ryker hurried to keep up.

Torches lit up the now-dark streets. As soon as he left the building, Ryker felt the unease of eyes watching his every move. He walked quickly to stay close to his escort.

Wooden buildings with thatched roofs lined the cobblestone streets. Blacksmiths, bakeries and other places of business were suspiciously vacant. Even the tavern was quiet save for a lone instrument jangling out a raucous tune.

They walked for several minutes until they came into a circular courtyard with a large marble statue of some warrior Ryker didn’t recognize sitting in the middle. A large crowd had gathered there, possibly the entire town.

On one side of the courtyard was a small platform with a heavy u-shaped wooden table hosting a rather interesting assortment of individuals.

On the right were three humans, all very dirty with faces set in stone. On the left were two centaurs and one unicorn with faces impossible to read.

The elevated chair in the middle was empty.

The crowd buzzed softly with hundreds of whispered conversations.

One of the humans on the council, a large mostly-bald man drummed his fingers impatiently. The other two, a large overweight brunette woman and a thin black-haired man with pale skin had bowed heads and were engaged in deep conversation.

Finally, after several awkward moments of waiting, a wizened elderly man teetered to the chair. Several times he nearly tripped over his long gray beard that stretched to the ground.

He eventually made it to the chair and sat down with a heavy sigh. He then raised a hand for silence and began in a surprisingly strong voice, “Attention. The fifth council of Fryskon in Frithd’armad has begun.

“Brother Ploin will now read the charges against the accused.”

The thin dark-haired man stood slowly to his feet and spoke to the crowd.

“Citizens of Fryskon, a grave situation has presented itself to our colony. Our most sacred law has been violated purposely and intentionally by one of our respected leaders, Zephyre.”

With these words, Ploin turned an accusing finger on Zephyre, who Ryker now noticed was standing to the right of the platform with bound hands and a guard on either arm.

Ryker heard scattered gasps of surprise from the crowd. Most of the people, however, were not alarmed but were angry and cast harsh glances at Zephyre.

“The law that has defined our society ever since Fryskon was founded four hundred years ago has been violated. Zephyre has brought an outsider to the heart of our city.”

Several more gasps rang out through the audience.

“Do not take my word for it. Let the accused speak for himself.” He turned a blazing glare to the prisoner and asked, “Zephyre! How do you answer these charges?”

Zephyre walked to the platform and began.

“Citizens. Friends. Four hundred years ago, a young man was released from prison. He had been isolated from all social contact after being falsely accused of a crime. He attempted for some time to reintegrate himself into society but was largely unsuccessful. This was due to the fact that, regardless of their crime, every prisoner was permanently separated from their Symbiotes. It was impossible to conceal this handicap from civilization. He was constantly ridiculed and shunned.

“Seeking shelter, he traveled as far as he could into Frithd’armad and founded Fryskon.

“This young man was Agrias, the First Councilman. When he established Fryskon as a shelter for ex-convicts who wished to start a new life with family and friends and who wished to leave behind their criminal past, he also established four rules.

“The fourth rule was that any criminal who committed a crime in Fryskon was for his family to be put to death in front of him and then put to death himself.

“The third was that any family who wished to become a member of Fryskon must establish a trade to contribute to the overall betterment of the city.

“The second was that any children who wished to leave Fryskon must be given full encouragement by their families and the city, but must have no further contact with Fryskon.

“The first rule that has both been named the most important and the most controversial, and is the rule in question her today, states that no member without a Symbiote shall have any contact with any person who lives outside the perimeters of this city.”

Councilman Ploin spoke up, “As engaging and wonderful this history lesson has been, this is common knowledge. Every member of this city knows the four rules and the history behind them. What bearing does this have on our current situation?”

“Please indulge me, councilman Ploin.”

Ploin looked at the other members of the council and nodded impatiently.