A village of tears

Erin a Nen,  Arda a gon

Naur lunlule,  Pegolodh





Wood and water, earth and stone

Fire, shadow, a tale unknown

Seven forsaken, three forsworn

A darkness forgotten, A hero’s bones

Sword upon sword, craft of the land

A light piercing darkness







Prologue

The Fates of Time




Silhouetted against the crimson sky Vrashnar, the Seeker, raised his head to the heavens, but the incredible beauty of the sunset was lost to him. Beneath his feet a small cricket began chirping its evening song. Shifting his armored boot slightly, he crushed it into a soft mass of exoskeleton and insides. His eyes gleamed with cruel pleasure as the night regained its deadly silence.

Looking down on the village below him, he bared his teeth in disgust. Humans, he hated them, with every bone in his body he hated them. Had he not had other business here, he would have tortured and killed every one of them. Oh well, they would be dealt with soon enough. He looked on in interest, but the only visible movement was smoke coming up through the thatched roofs. Bored, he turned back to the mountain path he was traveling. His ears picked up faint sounds of footsteps. Sniffing the air, he frowned. Someone was approaching, and quickly. Slipping behind a tree, he loosened his sword in its sheath and waited.

Stumbling through the undergrowth, a warrior goblin clad in black armor made his way down the mountainside to where the seeker was waiting. As he reached the end of the trees, he halted and glanced about at his surroundings.

Releasing his grip on his sword, Vrashnar stepped out from behind the tree. Surprise and fear registered on the goblin’s face for a split second, and then it relaxed.

“Master,” it hissed, showing its sharp teeth, “my warriors are all in place.”

“Good” the Seeker replied in a soft voice. His trap set; he would now wait and see if his quarry would show itself. Signaling for the warrior goblin to follow him, he started up the winding path.
The sun disappeared over the horizon and its last rays faded swiftly. Stars began to appear overhead, dimly at first, but then brighter as the sun faded into memory. The moon rose and cast its luminous beams down into the forest. The air was still and the wood was enveloped in a deathly silence. Suddenly an icy wind blasted through the trees, nearly knocking the Seeker and his companion to the ground. It howled through the forest with the very voice of sorrow itself. Saplings bent backward and even great oaks swayed back and forth in its fury. As its last breath passed, Vrashnar felt a cold chill rush through his body. Magic! The demon hunter was here! The very thought of it sent a shiver down his spine. Twelve years he had searched for the demon hunter, but in vain. In spite of his best efforts, his quarry had always managed to remain one step ahead of him. Now, tonight, he would pay for eluding him so long. Renewing his march, Vrashnar narrowed his eyes and strode forward with new resolution. Blood would flow this night!

The moon was high in the sky before the Seeker signaled for his companion to halt. They were at the edge of a small clearing. Here light shone down unhindered by trees and branches. The narrow path they had been following led past the entrance of a cave almost covered up with vines and moss. Shadows danced at the edge of the trees, defying the moonlight. Nothing could be heard except the harsh breathing of the goblin and Seeker. And yet . . . something else was there, something unnatural. Vrashnar could feel it now, a deep throbbing sensation; it seemed to come from the cave. The entire clearing pulsed with it. The air around the cave entrance shimmered and danced, as if boiling from extreme heat. Vrashnar narrowed his eyes suspiciously and sniffed the air again.

His entire body stiffened at the unfamiliar smell. Hissing urgently for his captain to follow, he quickly moved back down the path. The air in the clearing was full of some powerful magic, and it was old, very old. Signaling for the warrior goblin to follow him as silently as possible, he began circling the clearing to approach from a different direction.

Suddenly his companion let out a loud gasp. Furious at the disturbance, the Seeker spun around, intending to kill the goblin for his carelessness. There at his feet lay the goblin, a knife imbedded in the back of his skull.

The demon hunter! Vrashnar was sure of it; no one else could have killed the captain without his knowing. As he stooped to examine the corpse, he heard the silent whisper of a knife flying through the air. He threw himself to the side with inhuman speed, but he wasn’t quick enough. He felt a soft thud and howled as a knife imbedded itself in his shoulder. Reaching back, he ripped the blade from his flesh and spun to face his assassin.

There, not ten paces away, was the demon hunter. His shaggy hair shone silver in the moonlight and a huge sword was strapped to his back.

“Greetings…old friend,” he said in a voice so cold it made the Seeker shudder. He threw back his hood. His pale blue eyes held the only emotion that greeted the seeker.

With blinding speed Vrashnar flung the still bloody knife at his enemy.  Unperturbed, the warrior casually stepped to the side and plucked the blade out of mid air. Returning it to his belt he gave a smile that held no amusement.
 
“Vrael,” Vrashnar hissed his voice full of menace, “you won’t escape this time.” He drew his blade. It rang slightly as it left the scabbard, the black metal almost invisible against the darkness. With the swiftness of a panther the demon hunter unsheathed his sword and leapt toward the Seeker, his sword sweeping down like a silver thunderbolt.

The shock of the first blow nearly knocked both to the ground. Each was a master swordsman and many times stronger than mortal man. Steel clashed upon steel as the two blades met. Vrashnar parried, thrust, and disengaged with a flourish. The demon hunter grinned, “You have gained much strength since we last met.”

Vrashnar whipped his sword up at his opponent’s head and reversed, sweeping around for his legs. The blade whistled through thin air. “More strength than you!” he screamed as he launched another attack. The demon hunter’s smile faded onto a grimace of exertion as he took this new onslaught. Vrashnar moved forward like a snake, his blade flicking out like a forked tongue, but it was met by an impenetrable guard of steel. Frustration showed on his face as again and again these lightning swift attacks were met and turned aside. Slowly, however, Vrael was forced down. One pace he fell back, then two. Yet not once did the seeker’s blade touch him, so skilled was his retreat. Suddenly, the demon hunter’s blade found new life. He began to press forward, attacking. Each sweep of his massive sword flowed directly into the next. The seeker now found it was all he could do to keep up with the furry of blows.

“No!” he howled as he was forced to take a step back, “This is my victory!” If only he could find a way to call his soldiers, then they could save him, but how to reach them? He was jolted from these thoughts as the demon hunter, though never slowing his blade, lashed out with his foot and struck him in the ribs, cracking his steel armor. The force of the blow knocked Vrashnar to the entrance the cave.

Within inches of the cavern, the seeker could feel the magical barrier guarding its entrance, even stronger than before. It was ancient magic from before the world was overturned in the great wars. He could not escape that way. Strength born of desperation surged inside him as the demon hunter charged in for the finishing blow. With a sudden burst of energy, he leapt clear over his assailant’s head sending him straight into the cave entrance. The demon hunter, although unable to stop, altered his stroke so that as he flew past, his blade bit deeply into the Seeker’s thigh.  As he breached the entrance, a blinding flash lit the entire clearing as if it were high noon. The shockwave that followed knocked the Seeker to the ground. There, in the entrance of the cave, lay the demon hunter, unmoving, still clutching his sword.








        Chapter 1

          Tindrock




The hot summer sun beamed down on Haleth as he guided his plow forward, digging twin furrows into the earth. Terk, the old gelding, plodded forward steadily, unaffected by the heat.

Winter had lasted too long this year. The ground had been frozen solid through May, far longer than anyone remembered by at least two months. The weather had changed faster than imaginable. Within two weeks of the last snow, temperature had risen to almost an unbearable high. The villages had wasted no time in beginning to plant their crops however. The general hope was that the summer would be a long one to make up for the winter. It seemed that the season was doing its best to live up to this expiation, but there was one key ingredient missing that was the life and soul of all farmers. Rain.

Shaking sweat from his eyes, Haleth glanced upward for some sign of rain. The cloudless sky gave no indication that any moisture was held in its immeasurably depths. He sighed, wishing that something would go right this year, without rain they would be hard put to survive the winter, especially if the last winter was anything to go on.

Realizing that the plow was drifting too far to the left, he quickly jerked it back on track. The teeth, not made for sharp turns, dug deeply into the earth. The leather straps, already cracked with old age, couldn’t handle the extra strain. With a loud pop, they snapped. Terk, disturbed by commotion behind him, halted and began a confused circle.

“Whoa,” Haleth cried as he began unhitching the old plow horse. He examined the broken straps carefully; they were beyond repair. He would have to go down into Tindrock to purchase replacements.

Tindrock; Haleth had lived there all of his life with his father Kizer. It was a small village on the edge of the western mountains. The villagers were mostly farmers, clearing the land of trees and stumps to make it suitable to plow. Haleth and Kizer’s home was a small cabin about half a league from the town square. Haleth had never known his mother, and whenever he got on the subject Kizer would go strangely deaf. All the information he had gotten was that she had died during childbirth. None of the villagers knew either, or they weren’t telling if they did.

Life with the old man wasn’t easy, but it was home. Kizer seemed to never run out of chores for Haleth to do, even during the winter when they were snowed in. It was then that Kizer had decided that he needed to learn how to read and write. He had drilled him relentlessly for weeks on end, not stopping until Haleth could read almost any book in the common tongue and could pass for a scribe when it came to writing. This was a rare talent among the villagers nowadays, and even rarer among the children. Haleth didn’t see the point, but Kizer assured him it would come in handy one day.

Haleth strode away from the field, and soon the barn came into view. As he led Terk into his stall, he noticed he had a slight limp on his left front leg. He stooped and examined the hoof closely. The old gelding had thrown a shoe, yet another ting to be purchased in town on limiter funds. Kizer wouldn’t be too happy about his not finishing the field either. He pushed open the door to the farmhouse and went inside. His eyes, still used to the mid afternoon sun, took a moment to adjust. Kizer was sitting at the table, studying a small piece of parchment.

“You’re back early,” he said without looking up.

“The two quarter straps on the plow broke, so I couldn’t finish.” Kizer raise an eyebrow.

“You sure do know how to go through a man’s farm equipment.”

“Oh,” Haleth grinned, “Terk through a shoe today too.” Kizer looked at him hard for a second before he rose and got the money jar from its hiding place behind the dresser. He handed Haleth a few coins.

“That should be enough,” he mumbled, almost to himself. Haleth started out the door, but he was stopped by the old man’s voice. “Oh, and Haleth… don’t spend it all in one place.” Another coin came flying across the room. Haleth grinned, going to the village was an adventure in itself, but now that he had money… He was grateful for Kizer’s good mood. The old man was kind even if he did have a quick temper.

                   


Haleth loved to go down into Tindrock every time he got the chance to. He set off down the worn path with a light heart and a pocket full of coins. As he walked he thought about Kizer. He had been a scholar in his younger days, or so he told Haleth. He was always pouring over old parchments or recording things himself. His collection of scrolls surpassed the village libraries. He was strangely quiet about his past however. Every time Haleth got on the subject he changed the subject or simply refused to talk. “I will tell you when you are ready,” were his exact words.  Haleth sighed, and one of Kizer’s proverbs came to his mind, “Do not dwell on that over which you have no control, for it is useless speculation.”

On that subject something else came to mind. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it seemed something was making Kizer uneasy for the past few days. He also had been studying a lot longer. One time Haleth had woken in the middle of the night, and Kizer was still up, writing by the light of a single candle.

Suddenly Haleth felt a tingling sensation in the back of his neck. Something came crashing down on him and everything went black momentarily.








Haleth’s eyes fluttered open. He was face down in the dirt and something heavy was pressing down on his back. He guessed it was a man. With a sudden burst of energy spun out from under the oppressive weight and whipped his leg around towards where he guessed their jaw was located. His vision was clearing now, it was defiantly a man, and wrapped in a dark cloak. His assailant saw the attack and ducked his head just in time. Without pausing Haleth leaped on the figure. They grappled for a few moments until Haleth had pinned his attacker. Panting with exertion he whipped off his assailant’s hood.  The face that greeted him was a surprise indeed.

“Thomas!?” Haleth exclaimed. A muffled groan came from the still figure beneath him.

“Hi Haleth.” It was indeed Thomas. He grinned as Haleth let him up, smiling at how well his prank had worked. Haleth, who was scowling because he had been fooled, stared at him accusingly, but Thomas’ smug look was too much for him. He burst out laughing, and helped his friend up. Thomas was laughing now too.

“I tricked you pretty good didn’t I,” he said as he brushed himself off.

“Yea, but you didn’t have to be so rough about it,” Haleth said ruefully, rubbing his sore head.

“As I recall you recall you weren’t to gentle the last time you ambushed me,” came the reply. He was right. The two had been playing this game ever since last summer. The incident to which Thomas was referring was when he had leapt from the roof of the tavern onto Thomas. Thomas had sprained his ankle and had a limp for two weeks after.

Haleth grinned, “You wanna call a truce?”

Thomas though about it a moment, if they kept it up, someone would get hurt bad, as the pranks were becoming more and more violent.

“Sure,” he said, reaching out his hand. Haleth took it and they shook. Haleth thought Thomas was gripping his hand a little to tight, so he strengthened his grip. Thomas  did the same. Soon they were in an all out battle to crush each other’s fingers. Haleth looked up with a twinkle in his eye and they both burst out laughing again. Releasing hands, which by this time were both sore from being squashed, they started back down the path toward the village.

As they walked Haleth described what had happened that day and why he was on his way to the village.


 






          Chapter 2

          A Village of
          Tears



The seeker gazed around at the carnage that greeted him. A gentle breeze blew ashes through the village in tiny funnels. Standing alone, the scorched frame of the town house was the only building left standing. Vrashnar smiled humorlessly, it reminded him of him of himself. His gaze shifted to the center of the village where a huge pile of bodies had been raised. Smoke rose from their charred forms as a blatant testimony to all who apposed the dark lord.

There’s an unnecessary amount of dead goblins mixed in with the villagers, he thought. He wouldn’t have expected to see such a small village put up such a fight. Oh well, he sighed… they were no loss to society anyways. Still wondering at the unusual amount of casualties, he glanced down at the injured Amarion captain who lay before him. Vrashnar could sense that he was afraid of him. Good, it gave him pleasure to be revered in this way, fear is power.

“I’ll ask you once more,” he said in a pleasant tone, “Where is the ring?”

“I told you,” the Amarion replied fearfully, “My men scavenged the whole village. Every body was searched and then burned. We found nothing.”

Vrashnar cursed his ill luck, “Are you sure no one escaped?”

The captain hesitated; the seeker could see that he was deciding whether or not to tell the truth.

“There was one,” he said slowly, “As swordsman; he gave us a bit of trouble. I don’t recall seeing his body among the slain.”

Cold fury surged through the seeker at the news of this failure. Seeing the red light in his eyes, the captain tried to scramble backwards. Vrashnar stooped down and hissed in the Amarion’s face, “The dark lord does not accept failure, nether do I.”

“Please master, give me another chance,” the captain gasped as the seeker closed a clawed fist around his neck and lifted him off the ground.

“You’ve had one,” he snarled, baring his teeth. He looked on in pleasure at the Amarion struggling feebly in his grasp. Slowly he felt the strength leave the man’s body. Throwing the limp body down in disgust, he stormed off towards his shelter. The few goblins and men lingering about in the streets quickly made themselves scarce. They did not want to be around while their master was in the mood for making examples.

By the time Vrashnar reached his tent, his temper had cooled somewhat. Sitting down, he began unwrapping the crude bandage around his leg. He carefully slid his fingers down along his thigh. The wound that Vrael had given him was nearly healed, thanks to his extended concentration. He was not skilled at healing powers. Vrael probably could have healed himself in half that time. Mentally he berated himself. He must work on developing this skill.

Oh well, he had plenty of time now. He had caught Vrael, so now the hardest part of his job was over. Again, he let the emotional pleasure wash over him. At last he had caught the demon hunter, after seventeen years of searching. Seventeen years, it had been that long since Vrael, the former leader of the Forsaken, had gone rouge and turned on them. Two seekers had discovered him leaving and tried to stop him. He slew them and disappeared, leaving no trace. Upon his leaving, Vrashnar had taken charge and devoted his life to finding this traitorous seeker.

Over the years, Vrael has slain two more seekers, thus acquiring the name, The Demon Hunter. Now there were only three left, Máruvan, Taúr, and himself. The Forsaken… Vrashnar let his mind drift back to when they had first been formed. Originally, they had been members of each of the races of Ancalagon, Dwarves, Elves, Humans, and so on. The dark lord had taken them and mutated them, transforming them into the Forsaken, seven beings of great power made solely for the purpose of finding Archaon, the Crimson Blade.

The Crimson Blade was a sword of immeasurable power. It had been created by the elves, and used against him. But the dark lord had put much of his life force into it, transforming it from the shining blade it once was, to a dark sword of evil, the ultimate weapon. The elves, discovering this, retreated and hid the sword. The dark lord had been obsessed with finding it ever since. Now however, hundreds of years later, he doubted its existence, or if it was even in this world. But the seekers, as they were named for their task, had been formed, and so they constantly had the desire to search for it.

He vaguely remembered being a human. He had had a wife; Tira was her name, and two children. Then he had received a message from the dark lord, promising great riches and power. And so he had come. He felt a sudden twinge of remorse about leaving his family like that… he missed them, a feeling he had not felt for a long time.

Vrashnar shook his head violently; it would not do for him to be thinking like that. It was the past, and it concerned him no longer. He must concentrate on the task at hand. There were too many questions left unanswered, like what had been Vrael’s motive when he fled the Forsaken. The dark lord suspected he had found something very valuable, and had ordered the Forsaken to find him at all costs. Vrashnar knew he hadn’t found the Crimson Blade, because if he had, he would have been unstoppable, but he was eager to learn what had been so powerful as to cause him to leave the service of the dark lord.

The dark lord. Suddenly the seeker’s thoughts snapped back to the ring. He had personally sent Vrashnar to retrieve it, but while searching, he had acquired a leak on Vrael’s whereabouts, and the opportunity was too great for him to pass up. Leaving with only a score of goblins, he had entrusted the human captain to retrieve it, a relatively simple task. But he had failed miserably.

Humans! How he detested them. It was humans that had given him this weak body, and so he would have become the least of the Forsaken. But he had overcome his own weakness by studying long forgotten arts in dark magic to strengthen him, but for his pitiful human body, he might have rivaled the dark lord himself. But because of humans, he had been put in a life of servitude.

Humans, the weakest of all races, but the ones with the strongest belief that they were the greatest. He hated humans for what they had done to him. Many a man would fall before his anger was quenched. And now, he would have to take responsibility for this human’s failure. He hoped the dark lord’s anger would be cooled by news of the demon hunter’s capture. Besides, if all went as planned, soon he would no longer answer to the dark lord.

Already, his power was growing, and it would only increase with time. The lord of the black land was growing old, and his prime was gone, so the seeker was waiting for his chance. Besides, he planed on questioning Vrael before turning him over, and making quick use of whatever information he gained. He must concentrate on taking the demon hunter to Cair Amroth, where he was sure no one could escape, as it was his personal lair. For now, he made sure there was no possible escape for his nemesis. Four magicians constantly kept up a magical barrier around him and he was drugged heavily to be sure he stayed asleep.

Glancing up at the sun, he estimated the time he had before the dark lord demanded an update on his mission. He hoped to reach Cair Amroth by the dawn of the next day.

Suddenly he was disturbed by someone knocking against the rough canvas that made up his shelter.  This had better be important, he thought. Opening the tent flap, he was amazed to see a young Amarion soldier standing there.

“Yes, out with it.”

The young man looked nervous but excited, “Yes sir. You see, I was exploring the village, and I went in this one house and I started looking around…”

The seeker sighed, “Get on with it.”

“Yes sir, very good sir, well, you see, I found a secret passage.”

Vrashnar’s eyes widened, this was interesting, and “Did you explore it?” he asked.

“Nossir, I came to you as soon as I discovered it, thinking you would like to explore it yourself,” the young man said with a pleased expression.

Vrashnar nodded his head, “Good work, I am pleased by your actions, and you act like you can think. That’s good. I’m promoting you to captain.”

“Me sir! Oh yes sir! But what about Captain Farrell?”

Vrashnar grinned unpleasantly, showing his sharp teeth. “He won’t be traveling with us any more. I would think about his fate should ever think of failing me.”

“Yessir,” the young man bobbed his head nervously, “It’s this way sir.”

Striding after the newly promoted captain, the seeker made his way to the outside of the town to a old rundown shack that had been partially burnt, the roof had collapsed in the front and smoke rose from it in thin wisps. Kicking a burnt corpse out of the doorway, Vrashnar followed the Amarion in. He led him through a series of turns to the back of the house. There, behind the fireplace, was a hidden door which had recently been opened. Going down a dark flight of stairs, he went into a wide chamber dimly lit.  His eyes widened at what he saw.