The elf and the man danced along the edge of an old rampart that was without most of its parapets—crumbled from an ancient attack that had aged the entire castle into a pile of crushed rock and half standing walls. Their swords clashed and gnawed at each other, each blade making the other duller with each stroke. One of the blades sang a sweeter song than the other as they kissed. The elf had been making a steady advance on Alaric, who backed towards the edge of the rampart until he could back up no further. He let his posture demonstrate his surrender, to which Galiria scolded him.

“You fight like man still. Fight like elf and keep the fight,” she said.

Alaric suddenly sprung to life, now taking the attack to her. His attacks were much more calculated than they had been. He advanced side on as he swiped high, then low, then strung together a series of small hacks at Galiria’s right side, forcing her to turn her body to avoid the blows. Alaric quickly adjusted, attacking the side that she now left exposed as a result. He had grown too excited and forgot about his own stance—now standing straight on thus making himself an easy wide target for the skilled elf.

Galiria checked both his slashes with the blunt of her sword, and then evaded an overhead swipe that was far too slow to be effective on any opponent, regardless of skill. Galiria slapped Alaric’s thigh with the flat of her blade and he winced.

“Dead,” she said. She wiped the sweat from her brow with her forearm. “Better, even now.”

Alaric was still catching his breath. Galiria had a way of dragging him into long volleys that would test his stamina. He remembered back to his first lessons when learning how to thrust a sword into thin air was enough to wind him for some time before he continued. Now he rallied and parried for hours with Galiria, falling in love with the art of the sword.

He had not known there was such a way to wield a sword. In Osknia, it was taught to hack at your opponent and the stronger of the two would win. It was a warrior’s mindset, and nothing more. Here, Galiria had showed him a new way of sword. It was as much about intellect as it was strength. The elves moved light on their feet, eyes constantly checking their opponent’s hips, their feet, their eyes. It was all taken into account through instinct for Galiria, and so now she attempted to make Alaric just the same. It had been three months now, and Alaric had finally managed to hold the elf to a close encounter—albeit, Galiria had still held back to allow Alaric a fair chance.

The two caught their breath and began the walk back for the night. A biting wind snapped at their necks until they were forced to raise the hood of their cloaks. The warmth of their bodies quickly left them until they were left with cold sweat that dampened their skin beneath their clothes. Alaric sheathed flamesword, a frown across his face as he thought.

“My sword. It hasn’t gone to flame like it does. I wonder why,” said Alaric.

“It is special sword?” asked Galiria. She had that curious look in her bright brown eyes as they walked. Galiria’s hand awkwardly brushed against Alaric’s empty hand and the two pretended it hadn’t happened.

“Yes, I believe so. I spoke Nhed, he talked of a magical sword created by the dark elf Golomoth.”

Galiria gasped at the name.

“What?” asked Alaric.

“Bad elf. Bad elf,” said Galiria.

“Yes, him. Nhed said that he made three types of swords—and this one might be one of them.”

Galiria stopped now. They had just finished walking down the stone steps leading down from the ramparts. Their boots grounded in a pile of mud at the bottom. Galiria turned to face Alaric, her eyes searching Alaric’s own set of blue eyes.

“Careful,” she said.

“I know,” said Alaric.

“Do not tell elf. Sword is bad for elf,” said Galiria.

“My sword? I suppose it could be—”

“—it is,” said Galiria. She walked away briskly, leaving Alaric to move into a half-trot to catch up.

“Why are you acting so odd about the sword suddenly, Galiria?” asked Alaric.

Galiria stopped again now, this time a much more serious glint in her eye.

“Nhed tell me. You save the elf. Defeat the dark elf, it is written. It is in the singing of elf,” said Galiria. Alaric was caught by surprise and so he said nothing. “Keep sword hidden, or else.”

“Or else what?” Alaric grabbed her arm to stop her from walking away once again.

“Or else they will force you to stay!” It was another instance in which Galiria spoke a perfect line of speech—making Alaric wonder if she was often capable of such when she really wanted to.

“To stay? Why?” Realization dawned across Alaric’s face as he saw her own remain furrowed. “They mean for me to end the wights…to slay the dark elf, Golomoth.”

“Leave,” said Galiria. She pointed a finger back and forth between herself and Alaric. “Osknia.”

“We can’t. There is no way to leave,” said Alaric.

“No. I know.”

“You know a way?” asked Alaric. An owl hooted loudly from atop a crumbled tower head, causing Alaric to flinch and Galiria’s pointy ears to perk straight up like a cat.

“Yes. Dangerous. We can go. Quiet. No talk,” said Galiria.

“We cannot abandon the rest of the elves. If you and I disappear, then the fate of the elves is on our hands. Golomoth will destroy them.”

“You don’t know,” said Galiria, a stubborn look upon her face.

“I know, I know…those elves do not treat you well. Arokas has long mistreated you, and I’m sure many others—”

“Baby. Inside.” Galiria pointed to her stomach and rubbed it gently, a softened look spreading over her face. Alaric dropped his gaze and brought the palms of his hands over his mouth. A long silence took them back towards Brymeria. Alaric did not know what to say. Galiria was not interested in waiting so she strode off, disappearing into the shadows through the looming trees beyond. That was the last thing Alaric had expected, still formulating in his mind what Galiria had meant by suggesting there was a way to leave Corpsia.

“Galiria! Wait!” He called, pulling up beside her even now. “You said there was a way to get out of here. Can’t we just gather the elves at leave from Brymeria? That river runs right along those banks and into the Hafforn Sea. That is how Mott and I were found. We could just retrace our—”

“—no. Hafforn Sea empty. Golomoth guards only exit. No elves escape.”

Alaric stumbled over a root that was concealed by the dark of night, almost tripping Galiria with him as he went down. His elbows were bloodied but he paid no mind. Golomoth did indeed guard the northern most route for setting sail from Corpsia. It was an ancient ship’s route dating back to the days that elves ruled Corpsia—where ships would attempt to travel to a distant land rumored to have darker beings than their own—only to return with word of the adventure cut short by a severe storm that threatened to drag them into a maelstrom of swirling waters. Golomoth would not allow elves to attempt the escape any longer, desperate to keep the elves contained and thus wipe them out in his own time.

“So, we gather the elves and make for the exit. I have the sword. We can do it, Galiria.”

“No elf has defeated Golomoth. Wights. Many,” said Galiria. As if on cue, the sound of a starving wight howling into the night pierced the arrow like a sickening cry of anguish. The creatures of the woods went silent. Not even a cricket croaked nor a bird chirp. Galiria and Alaric became aware of the sound that their boots made as they crunched through leaves and twigs. They paused. The sound came again. The trees and the critters around them seemed to hold their breath and a sense of dread came over all that lived in those woods.

Galiria tugged at Alarics’s arm, motioning for him to follow her. Her steps were soundless, as most elves were. Alaric struggled to prevent the bottoms of his borrowed elvish boots from crunching on twigs and sticks. Galiria shot him a few perturbed glances when he would snap a stick in half. He would cringe, praying that a wight would not pop out from behind a tree and maul him.

“One swipe is all it takes,” Nhed had said one night.

Galiria led him to an outcropping of black rock that veered off to the side of the wooded path they had followed. Far below, a horde of wights crouched over a running brook that ran along shallow ditch through the forest. Alaric’s had felt woozy at the sight. Most appeared clumsy and dumb, running into each other mindlessly as they searched for fish at either end of the creek. They muttered and grunted in a language that sounded rather than aimless flailing’s of their tongue.

There were around a thirty of them, and near twenty of the horde were huddled over something big. They feasted viciously, swiping their fingers against the flesh of whatever it was they had caught. Something told Alaric it had not been found in the creek, for it had seemed too big. Wights shoved at each other and bit each other restlessly as they fought for a position to consume their catch.

One particular wight caught Alaric’s eye. It seemed to have more wits about it than the others. It carried a club that appeared thick and wide at its base, and then it narrowed until the end was as pointy as a spear-tip and black as tar. The wight’s hair dropped from the sides of its pasty white face, where only black holes filled where eyes should have been. It sniffed busily through two flattened slits, sucking air in and out so loudly that Alaric could hear it clearly from his vantage point. Most of the wight’s skin was covered by mail under thick, black leather. The rest of the wights wore only a small patch of loin cloth over their groin.

Galiria put an arm across Alaric’s chest, slowly pulling him away from the ledge. Alaric was transfixed by the one wight who sniffed. It started to move toward the bottom of the ravine just below where Galiria and Alaric had been looking.

Raising his sharpened club into the air, the wight gave another shriek. The shrillness raised the heads of wights who feasted on the corpse below. Stealing one last glance before Galiria had snatched him from sight, Alaric could have sworn the corpse he saw below bore the sigil of an Osknian house, the armor strikingly resembling that of Heliot Sangrey. He did not know how long they had been running by the time they reached the border of Brymeria. His mind had taken him to a dark place—a place he had no intention of returning to ever again. The image of a rotted, empty corpse inside of hollow, Osknian armor left a pit in Alaric’s stomach. Tillet and the flaming sword sent a sharp pain through his head. Galiria steadied him with her hands, rubbing his temples with her thumbs.

“Quiet! Hu-man, brave. Now.” Galiria whispered instruction into Alaric’s ear but all he could hear was the chilling shriek of the wights, replaying over and over. The wight in leather and mail had stared directly at his hiding spot with those empty slots for eyes and the nose that sniffed. The rest of the wights had lifted their mouths from their feast, prying their nostrils up towards their leader’s call. Then they had run.

As usual, it was Galiria who clambered down the foothills first, towards the clearing where charred wood had burnt its last embers long ago. It was part of their secrecy that they did not descend the hill together in the case that they should be spotted. Often there were drunken elves who stayed up late and ended up asleep in chairs by the fire.

And it was on this night Galiria was caught.

Arokas turned the corner from behind the trunk of the Great Tree, striding across the yard with a distasteful look upon his face. Alaric’s fists clenched tightly, gritting his teeth. He couldn’t reveal himself—not now. Galiria pretended not to notice his teasing calls and then she was held up when Arokas yanked her by the arm, drawing her to him. Ralo had been fast asleep, drunk, and laying on the dirt by the fireside when his eyes flickered open and a sloppy grin crawled across his face. He stumbled across the clearing towards the two, laughing and cackling at the sight already.

Ralo muttered something aggressively in elvish, and Arokas called back to him daringly. Alaric crouched in the brush at the top of the hill, overlooking the altercation. Galiria landed a harsh backhand into Arokas’ face, sending him reeling away. Before Ralo could react, an elbow was already smashing through his jaw. Ralo spun around, falling to his knees and spitting out broken teeth.

“You just made a big mistake lady,” said Ralo in high elvish tongue.

“Did I?” said Galiria in her native tongue. She ducked under a lazy fist from Ralo, landing her own fist into his gut and knocking the breath from him. She hiked the bottom of her foot over her head and made solid contact into Ralo’s noise. Blood spurted busily and Ralo was staggering to the ground, dizzily. Alaric had almost shouted as Galiria stood distracted by Ralo’s demise. Arokas approached sneakily from behind. He tossed a rope around her neck like she was some wild animal and tightened. Yanking the rope with all his might, Galiria fell to the ground on her back with her fingers clutched desperately to the rope. Her face went pink before Arokas let her loosen the noose.

“What has inspired such a fight this time, I wonder,” said Arokas.

She slowly rose to her, unsheathing a dagger from her belt.

“Really? You want to go so far?” Arokas grinned, drawing his own short sword. Ralo had finally made it to his feet but he stayed put for the moment, seeing that blades had been drawn. Alaric was hoping someone would awaken from the noise of it all, but elves slept long and hard. It was near impossible to wake them unless it was near first light.

The two shuffled in a circle. Galiria quickly cut the rope from around her neck, but the blade caught on the rope just as she had about managed to cut it loose. Arokas lunged, slamming his own metal into the metal of Galiria’s dagger. The dagger spun from her hands, clattering into the dirt and leaving her without a weapon. Her sword hung at her side but Arokas quickly grabbed it by the scabbard, tossing it aside.

“You will come with me now,” he said. He grabbed her by the hand and dragged her along towards his tent. Alaric yelled. He did not know why. He stood right where he was and just yelled. Arokas turned, confusion slowly leaving his eyes as he made out who it was that had made a commotion.

“I should have known. I should have known!” said Arokas in high elvish.

Alaric stood with his sword sheathed down his side. The flame did not flicker from his blade, but he held a sturdy confidence about him, nonetheless.

“Elf scum,” said Alaric. He descended the hill towards Arokas who released his grip on Galiria, only to toss him to Ralo. Ralo drew his dagger and clutched it to Galiria’s neck in case she tried to make a quick move.

“Human dies. Easily,” said Arokas. “Elfwin spit on human.” Arokas had a deep bellied laugh now. He sheathed his short sword to unveil a fine longsword that appeared freshly sharpened. The blade had elvish carvings along the blade itself and twirling ribbons carved into the hilt to gather the favor of those who spun his fate above.

The swords slammed into each other like a collision between two boulders. The sound of two blades hissing angrily filled the night air. A single line of sweat rolled down Arokas’ face. His boiled leather sat upon nothing, but skin and warrior’s markings made with elvish ink. He still wore his leather wrist wraps because he was a warrior, and a warrior wears his leather so that it becomes a part of him—that when in battle they are used to its weight.

Alaric parried busily, shuffling his feet the way Galiria had showed him. He used a near fall upon a root of the Great Tree to disguise his low stab, scraping the inside of Arokas’ calf but losing his own balance in the process. Alaric let his sword hand drop the ground, which was a mistake. Arokas leaped to Alaric, stomping his boot on Alaric’s wrist so that he released his clench on his sword.

“Many ways to die,” said Arokas.

The blunt end of a sword slammed into the back of his head as he loomed over Alaric. Galiria stood on the other side of the sword, nostrils still flaring with anger. Alaric retrieved his sword, rubbing his arm which had already began swelling up.

A quick glance told Alaric that Galiria was still angry. They advanced on the fallen Arokas, who gathered himself slowly. Galiria spit out what Alaric could only assume were elvish curses. Arokas withdrew his short sword and his long sword at a blinding speed, catching both Galiria and Alaric off guard. Alaric slashed at the short sword and Galiria struggled to hold her own against Arokas’ reckless swipes of his sword. Ralo had stayed on his knees after recovering from a kick to the groin from Galiria.

One of Arokas’ slashes cut right through her parry and nicked her in the arm. She grunted, doubling over. His attention turned to Alaric, who stood in quiet concern for Galiria.

“I’m okay. Fight,” said Galiria, groaning.

Alaric advanced on Arokas, sending him backtracking towards the foot of the hills. His anger rose from deep, sending him into a full-blown rage. He screamed insults and shouting at Arokas as he slashes continually in an “X” pattern. Left, right, left, right. Arokas had to turn his back to Alaric to sprint a few paces and regain space. Alaric ran at him, avoiding two blows from Arokas completely, spinning to his right and cutting across horizontally at Arokas’ side. As his sword kissed against Arokas’, flames began to dance down the edges of his blade. The flame produced a wanton rage inside Alaric that brought out an ability with the sword he had only seen in seasoned knights as a kid.

In his mind, he was King Eyowen. Golden cape fluttering behind him, golden hilted sword at his fingertips and a face of young royalty sending blow after blow into his opponent. A double handed downward cut had caused Arokas to dive backward onto the ground. His raised his hands to above his head to beg mercy of this enraged Alaric. He raised his blade, breathing jagged breaths as spittle hung from the corner of his mouth.

He was brought out of his fury by a gentle tapping on his shoulder. Two soft hands took his own, lowering his sword before he slashes the head from Arokas’ shoulders. Galiria whispered calmly so that only he could hear, “Father.” Galiria rubbed her belly, matching her sad eyes to Alaric. The tension of the moment had been sucked out like a gust of wind. He glanced from Arokas to Galiria twice. Arokas furrowed his brow, still breathing heavy from being in a position to die seconds ago.

“Galiria,” said Arokas. His face was had been so overcome with emotion that it could not be told what sort of face Arokas was making now. He stared at her stomach, as if he could already see the baby.

A blood-curdling scream drew horror-stricken looks upon their faces. The shrill shriek of a starving wight rang through the air. There was a rustle in the bushes. Chain mail clinking against leather and pikes sounded. Emerging from the top of Brymeria’s foothills, stood a wight. It let off another shrill scream, and it was matched by the screams of the rest of horde—who had come clambering up behind him with pikes raised.

Brymeria was found. And now, it was under attack.