Chapter 12: Mysterious Clues

         “Where is she? What happened to her?” Prescott asked.

         “We asked around and everything led us into this tavern. We were about to the entrance when we heard a scream from inside. People scattered through the door and about knocked me over. We ran inside and there was this woman standing there. She had snow white hair and pitch black skin,” Grom said between huffs as they ran toward the busy center of town.

         “A dark elf,” Isac huffed.

         “Where was Cloey?” Prescott asked.

         “I wondered the same thing. The woman looked up at us and grinned. It was the coldest expression I have ever seen. She knelt down and lifted a small crystal. I only caught a glimpse of it, but I swear I saw someone pounding against the side of it from within, fighting to get free,” Grom said.

         “Cloey!” Isac yelled.

         “She took Miss Cloey!” Shenk cried, “We gotta get her back!”

         “What happened then?” Prescott asked. Despite his companion’s worry, he managed to maintain his usual focused countenance.

         “I reached for my axe, but as soon as I pulled it out she vanished. It was like she wasn’t even there to begin with,” Grom explained.

         “So we don’t even know where we’re going! Why the hell are we running?” Isac shouted, a sliver of worry hidden somewhere in his voice.

         “Grom found somethin’!” Shenk said.

         “When she disappeared, she left something behind in her haste. I found a scrap of paper left behind where she stood. Scrawled on it in black ink were the words ‘Anon,’ ‘halfling,’ and ‘Amulet of Passage.’ There were some other markings, but they were in a language I could not read,” Grom said.

         “Let me see the paper, Grom,” Prescott said, coming to a stop and grabbing Grom by the arm. Grom slowed and nearly pulled the lighter half-elf onto the ground. He looked up at Prescott for a moment before kneeling down and reaching inside of his boot. Standing again, he handed Prescott a small piece of parchment folded several times. Prescott took the paper and opened it with the flick of his wrist. His eyes scanned the lines, and he folded it back up with noticeably shaky hands.

         “Can you read what it says?” Shenk asked.

         “This message is written in the dark elf language; however, even though the writing is similar to the elven script, I am unable to read what it says,” Prescott said, handing the paper back to Grom, who knelt down and tucked it back in his boot.

         “Are we never gonna see Miss Cloey again?” Shenk asked. The muscles on his face quivered and fought back tears, and his big brown eyes widened with concern.

         “I say good riddance!” Isac interjected, “She never did anything good for us anyway! She only complained, ate all our food, and slowed us down.”

         “You would honestly abandon her and that amulet to the dark elves freely without even the slightest bit of regret haunting your conscience? I thought we were all in this together,” Grom said, spitting a thick gob of snot on the ground at Isac’s feet.

         “Grom?” Shenk said, clapping a giant hand on his shoulder, “What about that other thing. The knife that I found.”

         “What knife?” Prescott asked.

         Shenk reached down to his own boot and pulled out a dagger with a sharp black blade. Scarlet etchings that resembled the writing on the scrap of paper ran down the flat edges of the weapon. He took hold of the blade and offered it to Grom. Grom wrapped his fingers around the handle, but he jerked his hand back suddenly.

         “There’s something on the handle and blade of this knife,” Grom said.

         “Wait,” Prescott said, stepping forward and seizing the knife from Shenk, “Isn’t that the dagger that the dark elf used to kill Anne’s kidnapper? What was it doing in the tavern?”

         “Cloey must have taken it when we fled the ruins with Princess Anne and traveled back to Oneria,” Grom said.

         “See what I mean? She’s a no good thief,” Isac grumbled, stepping away from the other three.

         “On the contrary, brother,” Prescott said, running a finger along the handle of the dagger. He closed his eyes and whispered soft, arcane words. The tips of his fingers sparkled with a faint green light that spread over the blade and filled the carvings like water flowing through a valley. Prescott held the dagger by the blade and presented the handle forth for all to see. “Cloey’s curiosity might just help us find where this dark elf has taken her.”

         Grom and Shenk both looked on in amazement at the glowing beacon in front of them. Isac turned his head to the glow and squinted at the intricate design. The green glow illuminated a clawed hand with some sort of viscus fluid oozing between the fingers and off the tips of each claw. The liquid seemed to fall into dancing green flames that fed off of the mysterious fuel.

         “Mortillus!” Isac shouted. He thrust his finger at the blazing symbol as if he were accusing it. The others watched Isac stumble backwards, his fear-filled eyes apprehended by a trembling fear.

         “What are you talking about? Do you know what the insignia means?” Grom asked. He looked concerned, for he had never seen Isac react this frightened.

         “During my studies, I came across numerous maps from ancient days. These maps were similar to ones created by cartographers today, but they gave a much more detailed view of the entirety of Creation. I recall one particular map that differed from all the rest. To the south of this continent was scrawled a tiny island. After doing some research, I discovered a legend that spoke of this once-forgotten land. A long time ago, a great evil attempted to take over the free nations of Feldos. I couldn’t uncover the source of this evil, but their endeavors at domination were nearly successful. The Six Great Dragon Gods intervened and banished these villainous forces to this island, putting in place a spell that would keep them bound there for all eternity. That insignia belongs to those that reside in Mortillus, The Forbidden Isle.”

         Isac swallowed as if he were choking. He stopped and took in a labored breath, exhaling very slowly.

         “How is it that you know all of this?” Grom asked.

         Isac lowered his head to avoid Grom’s probing stare.

         “My brother knows more than he likes to admit,” Prescott began, “Isac trained under the watchful eye of our father, who was the man you saw today at The Temple of Helena. He set out to train my brother and hone his abilities as a sorcerer.”

         “Then why did I find you drowning your sorrows with those other drunkards?” Grom asked. He honestly didn’t mean to sound as rude as his statement came out. For the short time Grom had gotten to know Isac, he enjoyed his company and found him to be a companion and friend. However, his antics and attitude throughout their journey did not lend Isac to being an accomplished spell caster.

         “That’s none of your business!” Isac hollered back, his voice transformed into a sudden raspy hiss. Isac’s nostrils flared like an angry bull ready to charge, and Shenk found himself backing away from his strange response.

         “I meant no disrespect, lad!” Grom said, lifting both hands in a gesture of apology, “I was only asking. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

         “How about we focus on what’s laid out before us?” Prescott interrupted, trying to pull them back on topic, “This dagger came from Mortillus, which means that the dark elf we encountered came from there as well. You said that The Dragon Gods put some sort of spell over the island in order to keep the evil there, right?”

         “That’s how the legend was told and written,” Isac said, his face softening a bit.

         “If that’s the case, then how did the dark elf escape the confines of the spell? There’s no way anyone could break a spell put in place by The Dragon Gods,” Prescott said. He wrapped his fist around the handle of the dagger, and the green energies lifted up through his fingers like a fine mist, dissipating in the air.

         “The dark elf led a group of orcs around in search of the amulet. There’s something special about that talisman that has driven them this far. The key to this mystery is understanding the importance of that piece of junk,” Isac concluded.

         “We saw what happened to the orcs,” Shenk found the courage to pipe into the conversation, “They got beat up real bad.”

         “There’s just so much that doesn’t make any sense,” Grom said with a sigh. He rubbed the side of his face and stood there thinking to himself. The rest of the group fell into silence as well, unsure of what to say or what action to take.

         “What about the island?” Shenk broke the silence.

         “What about it?” Grom asked.

         “Well,” Shenk said, pausing a moment to formulate his thoughts into words, “The dark elves left that evil island place. If they can leave it, can we go there to save Miss Cloey?”

         “Even if we could unearth some old map that holds the exact location of the island, the journey would take us months. By the time we ever arrived there, there’s no guarantee that Cloey would even be alive,” Isac said bluntly.

         The faces of the group dropped at the thought. Images of failure and a roaming plague of death and destruction drifted into the minds of all but Prescott. He nodded his head, appearing to decide upon a course of action.

         “We have to try all we can to rescue Cloey. I say we return to the temple and ask the aid of our father and the other four elders. They may have some valuable information that will offer some more clues,” Prescott said. He turned and paced back to The Temple of Helena ahead of the rest of his companions.

         “He has always been a hopeful fool,” Isac uttered.

         “All we have at this point is hope,” Grom said, patting Isac’s arm.

         The three hurried behind Prescott, moving away from the busy scene of the city and back toward the temple’s vast garden. Prescott did not stop to enjoy the scent of the flora this time around; his mind was focused on getting the information that they needed. They all came upon the doors of the temple, which were open wide as if someone within knew they planned to return. As they entered, they soon realized that all five elders stood waiting for them in the vast hall. They each wore the identical garb of flowing white robes, but that was where the similarities stopped. Standing before the other four was Ivalice, the eldest of the group that had come down to question the argument between Vander and his sons. He stepped forward and bowed his head to the four adventurers.

         “Vander said that you would return once you cleared your young minds. I overheard you say that a girl was taken as well as an amulet. Perhaps you would like to rest a moment and tell us all that is troubling you,” Ivalice said. The sound of his voice was like a warm running stream of water flowing over their troubled thoughts. His eyes shined with a message of welcome and possible hope–a hope that they all needed now more than ever.

         “I am afraid we do not have much time for rest. We have suffered encounters with dark elves, which has left us with a puzzling problem,” Prescott said.

         “Dark elves?” said one of the other elders, who took a step forward. He stood shortest of the five, and his robe stretched tight around his round stomach. Were it not for his sharp facial features, he could have almost been mistaken for a dwarf. His face turned to skepticism at what he had just heard. “There have been no dark elves here for hundreds of years. I find it hard to believe that you have encountered their kind.”

         “You better believe it, because it’s the truth,” Grom interjected, growling at the ignorance of the elf.

         “Watch your tone, dwarf,” threatened another of the elders. He remained beside Vander and towered a head-length taller than the Izula brothers’ father. His ebony eyes surveyed the group, leaving Shenk with a sickening feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.

         “There’s no need for harsh words on either side,” Ivalice said, turning his gaze to his fellow elders for a moment and then back toward Grom. “I do not disbelieve what you four have told us, but I do find it strange that you have had problems with the dark elves. The tainted elves were expelled from this land many years ago. Their return here should not be at all possible.”

         “You would think that to be the case, but so far they’ve managed to make our lives a living hell,” Grom let out in a seething growl. His eyes fixed on the elder standing beside Vander. He did not like the dark depth of his eyes or the menacing tones of his voice. Unlike most of his kin, he bore no direct hatred or distrust toward the elves, but he would make an exception if necessary.

         “Much like you are doing to us now,” the elf with the ebony eyes shot back. Grom beared his teeth and inched his hand toward the axe hanging at his back, but Shenk clasped his wrist and held it in place.

         “Please calm yourself, Daven,” Ivalice said, maintaining his dulcet tone. Seeing Grom squirming to control his anger, Daven did his best to conceal his smile; his thin lips curled up ever so slightly at the corners of his mouth.

         “Allow me to explain what happened,” Isac said, stepping up beside his brother. He looked over to his father, whose face was solid as rock. He shifted his uneasy eyes back toward Ivalice before beginning. “We have had a few choice meetings with a certain dark elf. He and a band of orcs have been scouring the land for an amulet, which we obtained through the aid of one of our companions. It was said that the dark elf acquired the amulet from Anon. We came here to show you the amulet, but that is when this all happened. A dark elf captured our friend, taking the amulet as well.”

         “Preposterous!” Daven shouted, taking a step forward, “The treasures of Anon are guarded at all times. There has been no attack upon the city, and nothing has been stolen from the temple’s storerooms.”

         “We speak the truth, and we have proof of the dark elves’ existence,” Prescott said.

         The collective group of elders looked a little unsettled, but still suspicious of this sudden news. Prescott held the dark elf’s dagger out toward Ivalice, startling him with the sudden drawing of the weapon. Ivalice reached forward with a bit of reluctance and took the weapon in both hands.

         “Engraved on the handle is the insignia of Mortillus. It belonged to one of the dark elves,” Isac said.

         The quietest of the five stepped up beside Ivalice and held out his hand. Ivalice passed the blade to him, and he lifted it up to get a clearer look at the carvings. After a close inspection, the elf’s shimmering blue eyes widened, and he handed the knife back with a quick double nod.

         “This is indeed the symbol of The Forbidden Isle,” Ivalice said, offering the blade back to Prescott, who took it and placed it through a loop in his leather belt.

         “We found this,” Grom said, kneeling and producing the scrap of paper. He stepped forward and handed it to Ivalice. “It’s written in dark elvish, but none of us were able to read it. Can you decipher what it says?”

         Ivalice pulled the folds down and examined the page of writing. After a few moments of silence, he folded the scrap of paper in half and nodded his head. “We will need some time, but I do believe we can make sense of this. However, I am concerned with what I can make out. Martis, I want you to take a handful of soldiers and search the vaults. If you find anything else missing, report back at once.”

         The quiet, round-bellied elf bowed his head to Ivalice and then to the rest in attendance. He waddled through the front doors and out of sight.

         “It will be late soon. If you would like to remain in Anon for the night, we should have some sort of answer in the morning,” Ivalice said, turning back to Grom and his companions. Concern crept into his voice.

         “I believe that would be for the best,” Prescott agreed.

         “Good, then I shall see to it that you each get a room at one of our inns. Return to the temple in the morning, and we shall speak again,” Ivalice said. He bowed his head out of respect to the four and turned away, robes flowing behind him as he climbed the stairs. Daven’s stare never left Grom, and the same could be said for Grom’s surveillance of the elder. It took a nudge from Vander to bring Daven around and off toward the stairs. Vander stopped at the bottom of the staircase and gave Isac one last look before climbing the steps and leaving them under the direction of the guards.

*                    *                    *

         That night the four were shown to the small but cozy rooms in a boisterous tavern named The Gryphon’s Roost. Exhaustion swept over Shenk and the Izula brothers, who found sleep in their single-person beds with fresh cloth sheets, though Shenk spent most of the night with his knees pulled up toward his chest. While his companions slept, Grom lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling, unable to find the same peace of mind. The sounds of shouting and music drifted through the cracks in the wooden floorboards, further preventing him from getting any slumber. On top of the commotion from below, Grom fought to silence the noise coming from within his own mind. Somehow he felt responsible for what happened to Cloey. She wasn’t just a rotten little thief in his eyes; he had the chance to see her in a different light. She saved his life from the orcs, and for that he swore to himself that he would do everything in his power to return the favor. So he laid there upon the thin sheets with his eyes open, pale moonlight falling through the window and covering his body.

         As his thoughts drifted in circles, a shadow fell over him for half a moment and then was gone. Grom sat up in his bed and looked about the room. There was nothing to be seen, only the dull-colored walls and the thin curtains blowing in front of the breezy window. He was about to fall back onto the mattress again, but the sound of something scratching at the wooden floor roused his attention.

         “Who’s there?” Grom asked as his eyes darted around the room. He caught something out of the corner of his eye, something scurrying across the floor and under his bed. Grom leaned over the edge and peered underneath. A rat stood on its back legs, gnawing on what looked like a small bit of stale bread. Grom felt his heart begin to return to its normal pace, and he laughed out loud to himself. “I really am jumpy. I just need to get some rest.”

         Closing his eyes, Grom collapsed back on the bed and let out a long sigh. The sounds of scratching under his bed continued, and he did his best to try and ignore them. Although those tiny little claws digging into the ground beneath his head drowned out his worry-stricken thoughts, they weren’t helping his inability to fall asleep at all. When he could no longer stand the annoying rodent, he sat up and opened his eyes with the intention of scaring the thing off. However, something else grasped onto his attention. At the end of his bed floated a small figure wrapped in a ragged gray cloak. Before Grom could react, the creature lifted a pair of blue scaled hands with clawed fingers and pulled back the hood of the cloak to reveal the long snout of a kobold. Like its hands, blue scales covered its entire face.

         “Oh, excuse me,” the kobold said in the most curious of voice. The statement came out as if the end of his long nose was pinched, and there was a certain shakiness to it that made Grom’s skin crawl. Grom’s jaw fell open, and he let out an exasperated breath, not knowing what to say to this strange little creature. The kobold’s cloak drifted through the air as he floated down to the side of the bed. He knelt down and reached his hand underneath, grabbing up the rat with a quick swipe of his hand. The rat let out an ear-piercing cry as the kobold pulled himself to his feet, holding the little creature by its tail and letting it dangle in the air. The kobold pulled a white pouch with “Fuzzy” scrawled on it in black from his cloak and dropped the rodent inside, tugging the string closed and tucking it away inside of his cloak. As soon as the bag was out of sight, the sounds of the rat’s cries ceased. With a strange smile, the kobold floated back through the air and made his way to the open window.

         “Wait a minute!” Grom called to him before he could disappear into the night. The kobold stopped and turned around, beady black eyes staring at him from across the room. Grom scratched his beard, wondering if he was in fact dreaming at this point. He paused a moment to consider what should be said next. Not knowing anything else to ask, he finally spoke up. “Who are you?”

         “I’m so sorry! How very rude of me,” the kobold said and floated over to the end of the bed at eye level with the befuddled Grom. The kobold threw his arm up over his head and bowed. “My name is Edwin, great kobold sorcerer at your service.”

         “Edwin,” Grom repeated. The name lingered in the air alongside the curious kobold. He taxed his brain, trying to recall where he had heard the name before. Then it dawned on him. That wretch Kravitz said something about an Edwin, a prominent sorcerer who protected his tribe from anyone that tried to harm them. This was the Edwin that Kravitz said disappeared and caused the kobolds to scatter from an orc attack.

         “You must be Grom,” Edwin said suddenly.

         “How did you know my name?” Grom asked, raising his eyebrow. He didn’t intend to sound so shocked, but Edwin’s statement, much like the kobold himself, materialized out of thin air.

         “I know many things,” Edwin answered, reaching into the sleeve of his robe for something. He pulled out a yellowed parchment rolled up and tied closed by a blue ribbon. He held it out to Grom, who with some hesitation took hold of it.

         “What is this?” Grom asked, turning the paper over in his hands and running his fingers along the cracked and crinkled edges.

         “It’s a scroll,” Edwin said with a snicker. Grom looked up to see Edwin floating around him from side to side, his head cocked oddly and staring at him with that strange grin. “You really are a strange dwarf. Consider this a little gift from me to you. I hope you like it.”

         Grom gave the ribbon a light tug to loosen the knot. The paper began to uncoil, and Grom pulled the crisp page down in front of him. A map of the continent of Feldos covered the parchment, decorated in lavish colors and details. A red dotted line ran from the city of Anon south along a range of mountains. The line ended in a red circle at the base of the mountains at the southernmost point. Grom studied the map with narrowed eyes for a few moments before lowering the scroll. He was about to ask Edwin where the map led, but the strange blue kobold had vanished.

         “Where did he go?” Grom whispered to himself. He looked back down at the map and traced his finger along the dotted line. “Into the mountains.”

         Grom rolled the map back up and retied the blue ribbon around it. Setting the map on the night stand by his bed, he laid back down and closed his eyes. Focusing on the soft sounds of the blowing wind outside, he drifted off to an uneasy sleep filled with nightmares of the darker days that lie ahead.

ID: 933050   (Rated: 13+) Chapter 13: Mountain Path  The heroes follow the clues in hopes of finding Cloey. However, what they do find... by The Lemon