“...rejoin the caverns from the sky

to smite the curse of old...”

Ranyik Rwahnna Rovikya V

2:3:1:5/5, III:IX

For the first time in decades, the old manor of the House of Grishem teemed with life. Veiled from the mountain fortress by the thief lord’s illusions, the mob spilled beyond the mansion’s sagging doorway, pressed at broken windows to spy the legendary Kingard upon the balcony. “When you said each man would rally a team, I didn’t expect this.”

Grishem’s disguised face beamed with pride. “Oh, I expected nothing less, my lord Kingard. You gifted the map to men I trust with my life. You swore us into the White Knights! Such noble thieves are sure to rouse deep loyalties.”

“Clearly.” Stirring his magic to amplify his voice, the elf stepped to the rail and called, “Last night, a brother asked you to follow him into battle. Through the tunnels, no less!” Taut laughter rippled through the crowd. “Some routes are fortified. Protect your navigator! If he falls in the darkness, you may never find day.”

Commanding the unsettled hush, he vowed, “You will see battle in the fortress yards. I’ll unturn them as they come, throw open the palace doors, and meet you at battle’s end.” He paused for emphasis and pleaded, “Remember, the men who fall on your blade are not your enemies! You slay allies, turned by the hands of evil. Spare life where you can, and I will bring them to light again!”

The solemn elf repressed a sigh. “Those of you that die this day, die as heroes. Your valor purges the rank Colkh’rak from the empire, and your blood restores freedom to our people. Today, as brothers, we rise up and fight!” He made a fist in the air, and the men cheered. “Today, we free ourselves! Today, we retake Sierlyn!”

The crowd erupted, and Kingard gripped the thief lord’s shoulder. “Take care.” Clasping hands with Kigal, he turned to Jorn. “Go with Grishem. Unturn those you can. I’ll meet you in the courtyard and we’ll sweep the lot together.”

Jorn grasped Kingard’s forearm, his jaw sturdy and face tinged green. “See you in the courtyard.”

“Don’t get killed.” The elf vanished, a gale boomed through the mansion, and silence gripped the astounded thieves.

“Boys!” Grishem barked across their reverie. “It’s game time. What are you waiting for? Hup hup hup!” His few claps spurred them into teams, and they scattered from the veiled estate. Cloaking his unit in a fresh illusion, Grishem hastened for their tunnel and the battle above.

Sierlyn rumbled with mage thunder, and Kingard burst onto the city’s sixth tier, ghosting up the tunnels to the first level of the fortress. He lingered in the darkness to conjure stealth around him, palm over the rune on his brow until its red glow receded. Skulking past a bored sentry at the tunnel’s mouth, the elf entered the lower courtyard, tingling as he crossed the wards against his old magic.

With a wave of his hand, he unbolted a door in the palace facade and forced two startled guards to sleep. Yanking the door shut behind him, the elf placed the guards in their chairs and scanned them for signs of the turning. He confirmed their innocence and advanced through the palace halls, yearning to search for Varyan. Instead, Kingard unlatched the dungeon stairwell and descended into dim torchlight.

Memories festered in the dank stench beneath the palace. The silent stone echoed with Jorn’s cackles, Sharis writhing in pain and the tang of blood in his mouth. Layers of recollection weighed upon him, and hatred singed his overt forgiveness of the youth’s betrayal. Beyond the dungeon’s last torch, Kingard enhanced his vision and launched into the chill of Sierlyn’s shadowed depths.

The press of evil stifled him, and a sharp curve revealed the den itself, slick and recently disturbed. Bootprints led up to two corpses that pulsed with dark magic, mere sleeping vessels stained by the absent mindwarps. Taking no chances, he revoked his night vision and set the whole den ablaze. Once the flames raged to ash, the elf kicked through the remnants and withdrew to seek Varyan.

Ascending the dungeon stairwell, Kingard discerned the clamor of fighting and sprinted for the highest tier of the fortress. A pocket of soldiers blocked his route, and the unseen elf scanned them for the turning. Three officers dropped like stones, overcome by remorse and trembling on all fours. As the soldiers gathered around their smitten captains, Kingard traversed the room. “Now you are free,” relayed his disembodied voice. “Arise in honor, and subdue those still turned. Soon you’ll all be free at last.” He left them to integrate their unfettered selfdom, onwards and upwards to the third palace level.

Outside, battle raged. Kigal and Grishem fought back to back, whirling at the eye of a bladed storm. “Still got it, brother!”

“Never lost it, brother!”

After losing his sword to a skilled guard, Jorn dispatched men as fast as any combatant, enchanting them to sleep one by one. Selecting two soldiers in tandem, he willed them to collapse and exulted as they fell. He dropped another pair, and another. Next he tried three at once, then four. With growing confidence, Jorn chose a group of five soldiers, but something in his magic refused.

Pushing harder, he demanded they fall unconscious. A white flash engulfed the courtyard, and a whole swath of men crumpled. Thieves and imperials toppled in a wide circle, and cries of terror rang off the stone. Horrified, the young Light Master reverted to single targets.

“Hold!” The doors of the palace flung open, and the grand general of Sierlyn emerged beside Kingard the Valiant. “Men, lay down your arms!” Trembling in awe at the sight of Kingard, aghast soldiers flocked to their commander, and cheers spouted from Grishem’s men.

While the liberated general commenced his explanations, Kingard swept the soldiers for the turning. Almost half of them gasped and sagged to their knees, quaking in the deluge of freedom. The ease of it rankled him, their salvation so trivial compared to the impregnable darkness he’d found inside Varyan. Shaking off his grief, the elf scanned the fallen next, unturning them in droves and revoking their enchanted sleep. As they allayed their confusion against the stony general, Kingard raised a fist and shared a grin of triumph with his men.

Signaling Jorn to help the wounded, the elf retreated from the doorway to conclude his search for Varyan. He found Haisrir’s vacant room, the door ajar and clothes strewn in the aftermath of packing. Kingard banged a fist on the doorway, curses heavy on his lips. Rummaging through wardrobes and dressers, the elf scoured for how to recover his lost greatson.

He dragged a trunk from under the bed, and a dozen bridal crowns glittered beneath its lid. Wrought in delicate filigree and inlaid beyond compare, they gleamed in the afternoon light. On top lay a half-finished crown, the silver band plain at one end and ornate at the other. Kingard plucked it from the heap, admiring Varyan’s latest project until it blurred before his eyes. “Damn you!”

“Knock knock.” Grishem’s voice escorted two raps from the doorway, his eyebrow quirked at the ransacked chamber. “Hope you didn’t mean me, my lord.” Fists clenched, Kingard replaced the crown and slammed the trunk closed, shoving it back where he’d found it. When the elf failed for words, the thief lord reported, “Jorn requests your help to preserve the dead for revival. And the imperials say Haisrir left alone, yesterday. Sounds like they abandoned the fortress before we even organized.”

Kingard brushed out the door, his brow aglow as he locked it from the inside. “Why forsake their stronghold in Allana, just to invade from across the sea?”

“I don’t know, Lord Kingard.” With a solemn grin, the thief lord ushered him down the hall. “I only hope it doesn’t kill us to find out.”

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