It took two days of moderate riding for the elves to arrive at Tarmath Kvith upon their snow-white horses. Each elf had one hand on the reins and another hand guiding an unmounted warhorse, clad in its own designed armor and saddle. Those horses had not been so white as their calmer mares—they were full of black and brown spots, snorting viciously and wanting to move much faster than the walking pace of the elven horses. Arokas yanked on the reins of his own unmounted mare, a stubborn warhorse that stood a good foot above his own white horse. It whinnied at a squirrel that scurried before their path, baring teeth and salivating at the sight.

Tarmath Kvith was a sight for sore eyes when they arrived. The front gate still functioned as all drawbridges should, but all around the perimeter of the fortress were walls that had been reduced to rubble at best. Ten watch towers still stood tall along various points of the ramparts, four of which had cracks running up its walls like ice that would break at any moment. Two watch towers had been crushed to ground, littering the hillside below the castle walls. In all, there had been twelve mighty towers that stood proud along Tarmath Kvith’s impregnable walls. Holes were carved along all four sides to allow for archers and projectiles to land amongst adversaries, but now there were more holes than wall, and it left the elves busy for days on end. Every pair of hands was needed for building and restoring, and within the week the elves had finished filling many of the holes with stone, grain, and paste.

Grooves of trees and thick underbrush had grown along the side of the hills and it was quickly cut down so that the enemy might not sneak upon their wall’s unseen. The wood was chopped thin and tall so that a palisade was raised along the bottom of the hill to force the wights to either scale it or simply run it down with force.

No elf relieved himself without supplying their bucket supply of feces. It stank to the high heavens and was kept at the rearmost end of the castle, but still the smell loomed over the entire fortress like rotting corpses. Rats were drawn to its smell and, they too, killed and tossed into the giant pails of dung. Wights were not elves, but they still fell prey to disease like any other.

The elves who were well versed in building and crafting things were sent to the forest to lay traps. Hidden ditches filled with sharpened sticks and pikes were covered by a cleaver weave of leaves and twigs. Thin lines of rope were stretched as a tripping mechanism to spring an onslaught of knives, rocks, and snakes from bulging nets in the trees above. The woods were full of unpleasant horrors to rid themselves of as many wights as possible. The same elves who built traps spent the rest of their time crafting arrows and building bows with the highest tension along the bowstring. One crossbow was made as to be as large as an elephant, and five bolts were specially crafted to be flung from its crosshatch. There were ancient wights double the size of the tallest elf among them, and they did not mean to watch approach their walls without a steel bolt piercing its mighty chest.

Alas, when the short and stout elf who had been deployed to scout the wights returned, he estimated that the wights were less than two days’ march out. The elves responded accordingly, heaving large rocks and projectiles towards the ramparts to be flung from catapult-like structures made of old wood and a stretchy spring-like coils meant for hurling boulders. Wights at the foot of their hill would have to make haste along the steep hill with a hailstorm of arrows, dung, and rock if they were to make it successfully.

The armory sat deep below the castle’s lowest floor. Upon arriving inside, weapons and chain mail lay scattered along the floor, untouched for many years and coated in dust and webs. A corpse sat by a row of haulberks with a dirk embedded into his skull. Most of his skin had rotted away and black mice scattered from its bones as the elves began moving about the hall of weapons.

Ralo had the pick of the lot, as he would be the one to shout the commands and lead the line should they find themselves opening the drawbridge to meet the wights—although they prayed to the spinners in the heavens above that it should not come to that. He turned a half-helm in his hands, pursing his lips as his eyes scanned the cold piece of metal. He blew the dust from it, admiring the elvish style to it. It was a high-crowned half-helm with the talons of a hawk sprouting from either side. The star that lit up Corpsia by night sat at the center of the circlet. He opted for an all-black look, allowing Shig to toss mail over his head that, turned into a surcoat at the waist, shining black as coal. Clad in all black with only the skin of his hands and the fair complexity of his cheeks to show, Ralo approached the arsenal which held a variety of weapons—old and new—staring upon the row of steel and wood like a child selecting a carved wooden toy. Elfwin had foolishly reached out to grab a helm of his liking before Ralo had finished glowering upon his choices. Shig slapped a swift hand across his wrist, a look of warning in his eyes.

His eyes were drawn to a scabbard that was black with thin golden lines wrapping in coiling patterns all along it. He withdrew the blade, marveling. It was an elegant blade encased in a molten coat of gold. He gave it a swing or two, nearly swiping Shig’s ear as he did so, and then sheathed it. He had Shig strap the scabbard across his back, adding his own short sword to his sword belt along his waist. He grabbed a shield that appeared battered and weathered, but it was the sign of a properly made shield that it had withstood battles of the past and Ralo had liked that fact. An emblem depicting an eagle and a hawk facing each other with talons bared and scowling faces painted his rounded shield a fine array of white, gold, and black. Elfwin was jarred back by the shoulder of Ralo as he stormed past him, making his way up the long creaky stairs of the armory to return to the ramparts for the first time in his splendid coat of arms. Alaric wondered If the fate of this castle would be the same of the last elves to inhabit it. The smell of death seemed to linger here as elves went about picking over their coat of arms now that Ralo had been granted his choosing. Elfwin went for a mace made of barbed steel at one end and a wide trunk of a base, and it was swatted from his hands by Shig.

“You are not defending the walls of this castle and therefore you shall pick last,” said Shig.

“But I am to leave very soon with Galiria and Arokas—surely I get to pick as well!”

“Yes, but you are not holding a rotting castle against thousands of wights. Get over yourself,” said Shig. He yanked a spear taller than himself from the wall, admiring it like a cool toy.

The elves sang songs at night, huddled together before the great hearth that warmed the throne hall where only Nhed’s cloak was lain across the chair. They took turns leading in song and shouting prayers to the spinners of their fate above, but even still, the wights marched closer.

The land itself seemed to mourn the coming of the wights. Clouds of various blacks and grays merged inward from the south and the north, spitting cool rain down onto the dampened land. With it came harsh winds and gusts of cold air that chilled the elves all the way to the bone. It was the season of marrengui—a vast variety of weather patterns would batter the land of Corpsia from either side. Sometimes a humid summer’s heat would drive in from the south and a gnawing cold would meet it head on from the north. It was those days that the skies would clash like two gods fighting fist to fist. But now it was a harsh cold moving in on two separate fronts, but somehow the snows resisted and in its place sleet and hail drove the elves deep into their restored castle until the wights arrived.

A pile of dirty linens sat in the corner of his bedchambers. Cracks spilled along the crude stone flooring as if it may burst apart at any moment. Alone, Alaric sat on a stool missing a peg. He had half a mind to grab that stool at any moment and launch out of the square carved holes in his room that served as windows. Dull light had begun to creep into the room and, alas, it was day again—although it would only be for a couple more hours. Most of the furniture had been broken or removed from the room, leaving a neglected look to it. Blood stains covered the floor no matter how hard a servant elf had tried to have it removed, and it gave an odd sense of age to the room. The blood was so faint it seemed rather brown than red, and the hinges of the door were so rusty that the wind would rustle the door and the hinges would make an unpleasant squeaking sound. He was to be confined here until Arokas had thought of proper use of him. He had let Alaric keep his sword, for the elves feared it and none dared to touch it. Alaric had obeyed Arokas’ wishes and followed the elves to the castle. He claimed I could demonstrate my own worthiness to the elves by staying and help defend their entire race. The other option had been to go with Mott Soulton, who had chosen to leave the land by skiff into the Hafforn Sea, despite it only leading south towards nothingness—just endless sea.

“I’ll miss ya, that’s for sure you rich bastard,” said Mott, pounding a playful fist into Alaric’s chest.

“Well I’m not rich any longer—not since the day your lot took me,” joked Alaric. The two shared a laugh, enjoying silence together before a short hug. Alaric had never imagined to one day be hugging a man who had taken everything. And yet, here he stood, in the embrace of his captor.

“If I see you on the other side, I’ll take back what is mine and I’ll buy you all of the trade galleys in world, and you will run Rivertrade all on your own,” said Alaric, “I swear by it.”

“Would be an honor, let’s worry about getting back to Osknia first,” said Mott.

Alaric laughed. Mott gave another nod, and then turned for his skiff and never looked back. He sat himself down in the center, grabbed hold of both oars, and off he went. Alaric wondered if he’d ever see him again.

The sound of squeaky hinges raised Alaric’s face to the door. Like sunshine of the earliest hour of the day, in came Galiria with her hair not in a single braid for once, flowing down to her mid-back. She wore an elvish blouse made of a fine, leather fabric and drenched a crimson red.

“Oh, erm, to where do you go?” asked Alaric.

“Feast. Great Hall,” said Galiria. Her eyes were as light as hazelnut from the streaming light that poured in from the windows. Her cheeks were high, and her nose was long. She gave off a great scent and Alaric pretended not to be swooned by her beauty, accustomed to her usual leather jerkins and green cloak.

“Come with me. When we go north,” said Galiria, chalking it up awkwardly. Even her accent had sounded quite elegant this morning, but Alaric found himself remembering Aslay, the lady whom he loved. And then he remembered he was married to the Lady Kallee, but he had not spent more than a night with her. He hardly remembered her face even now. She was forgettable.

“Come with you? Huh? Who’s going north?” asked Alaric.

“We are. Arokas, Elfwin, me. Few others,” said Galiria.

“But why? We must defend Termath Kvith with all we have. Without you and Arokas, the cause could be lost,” said Alaric.

Galiria shot him a despairing look. “Thousands of wights. Seventy-five elves. What are chances?”

“Then I would propose that all of us go north, if at all. What’s in the north for you?”

“To leave, we go north because Hafforn Sea never ends. Enter the sea from north, and faraway land awaits.”

Alaric thought over her logic upon his two-legged stool. He leaned to much weight one way and it clattered to the floor. It was down to one leg. “So, it is not the same sea then…that, I find odd.” He thought for a moment about the plan that Galiria had posed. It seemed to be that as many elves as could be spared were to stay at Termath Kvith and put up an unseemly defense in order to draw out Golomoth’s army of wights. Assuming he sends most of his army south to meet them, it was decided that Arokas would journey north with Galiria and their child. Elfwin was to come along to be their child’s spouse once she comes of age, if it is a she.It made sense, except for the fact that they journeyed out to sea, where it was said there had never been return beyond the first hundred miles from shore.

“Aye, I shall come if I am called upon. What does Arokas say?”

“Shall? You will! Arokas does not say,” said Galiria,” I deal with Arokas.”

“But why do you need me? I am honored to join, but I have no part to play with elves, after all. I am man, not elf,” said Alaric.

Galiria stepped closer to Alaric. He was standing now and so they faced each other and stood at a close height. “You are the one the spinner’s send. The sword,” she said, pointing to his scabbard, “a gift.”

Alaric forced a pursed smile, but only briefly. Flamesword weighed on his mind. Arokas knew of his ability with it, and he was sure to be thinking about the legend of Golomoth’s Swords of Dread. It was said that no elf could bear one of the three swords without falling prey to its control—for it was Golomoth himself who dwelled within the spirit of the sword. Alaric thought it all nonsense, but flamesword was unlike any sword he’d ever seen in Osknia, and it was now his token home.

“I want you, to come,” said Galiria.

“I know,” said Alaric, “but you must be prepared. I do not know the way home, no one does.”

“Is okay. We’ll find the way. But know, when we when get to Osknia—I am my own—and no one else’s.”

“Okay,” said Alaric, “of course.” What does she mean? But it was ridiculous to even think of a return when so much peril stood in the way, so he brushed it away.

“Is not easy, the journey. We travel far. Golomoth in the way,” said Galiria. She had become stern and Alaric could see the anxiety in her face now as it twisted into a worried panic.

“We will be okay, Galiria. Besides, I am an elven warrior now. As good as you!”

“If so, still not very good.” Galiria gave a subtle giggle, eyes flickering between his sword hand and his face.

“You want to find out right now? I s’pose we could but I don’t want to burn down the castle. The floors are made of—”

“Ha!” Galiria grabbed a stave meant for tending to a fire by the hearth and thrust it inches from Alaric’s face. “You weren’t ready. Still not an elf.”

Alaric’s hand was quick as a snake as he flung his hand out and yanked the stave from her hands, moving it inches from her own face now. “No, I am no elf—I’m better than an elf.” She slashed away his stave with another one from the fireplace, and two went about hissing their rusted staves against one another. She was dressed quite fancily, and even still, Alaric could not keep up. He backed into a piece of broken chair and jammed his heal into splintered wood. Yelping a flash of pain, he then tripped and slammed his rear side against the ground with a mighty thump and Galiria was doubled over, laughing until she could not breath. She tossed the stave towards a wincing Alaric, who managed to catch it just before it clonked his head.

“Come to feast?” Galiria asked.

“No, I mustn’t. The elves do not treasure me in the same way they do for you. You’d better go before they think the wights have got you,” said Alaric. She smiled slowly disappeared from his face when he remembered that Galiria had lost her brother to the wights at Brymeria. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

Galiria strode from the room, leaving his rusted door wide open and suddenly the light in the room was not so cheerful and bright as it had seemed moments ago. A bird chirped gleefully outside for the first time since the hailstorm had passed. Alaric cursed it, wishing it to die and launching the piece of splintered wood at it. His throw was pitifully too short. The trees were well outside of range, but he felt guilty nonetheless, so he apologized to the bird too. He let his thoughts return to Aslay now. He wondered if she had married by now, or if she had decided to wait. Or maybe she was dead. He had forgotten about the Skadjans and suddenly he wished he knew if she was safe. She was the thirst person he would have chosen to see if he could just return to Osknia, one last time.

Hours passed slower than the longest night, and Alaric lay upon a bed that had been crushed in its center so that It caved in towards the middle. It was by small chance that his hand went to his hilt, even as it sat in its scabbard. He could not have said if that was the reason why, but his eyes grew heavy and he was soon in a horrific dream—in which he envisioned his land of Khudril and there he was farmsteads and settlements burning. He saw men and peasants he knew bending the knee to some warlord who whipped them even as they knelt. He saw stone sculptures of great Skadjans warlords being raised outside of Castle Hildreth. The churches and the monasteries were burned and in its place a shrine of the first Skadjan to ever walk upon Osknia was raised. The worst had yet to come—and his dream soon shifted to Aslay standing outside of a thatch-roofed hut, naked and shivering from the cold rain that pelted her body. Skadjans took their turn with her and she spat in their faces, but they had liked her stubbornness and her anger, so they only laughed in her face. He awoke with beads of sweats upon every inch of his body. He was clenching the sheets so hard that his knuckles were white because he was almost completely fallen into the hole in the middle of the bed. He looked up and found that there was a hole in the roofing too, and water had begun leaking down from the roof and soaking his midsection. He prayed to his only God that his dreams were not true, but he feared they were. He had to return to Osknia. And so, he visited Arokas that night, with that as his sole aim.

“I am coming with you to Jakkara. You and Galiria and Elfwin. I am coming with you,” said Alaric. His hair was damp still from his sweats.

“Are you? I don’t know this,” said Arokas.

“I am. Galiria has said.”

“It was decided, long ago,” said Arokas, “Be gone. We leave in morning.”

Something moved in the shadows in the back corner of the room, drawing Alaric’s attention. “Who goes there?” Alaric called.

“No one. Be gone,” said Arokas.

Still, Alaric peered into the dark. He could see it was a person, and they were naked. Her face became clearer. “Galiria?”

“Be gone,” said Arokas, angry now. He moved his face inches from Alaric and the stench of his breath covered Alaric’s face like a mask. “Be gone.”

Alaric turned and left. He began preparing his things, which were not many, and preparing himself with more sleep. But sleep did not come. Instead, the first traces of dawn were beginning to show, and it was Elfwin who burst into his room noisily. He spluttered out some hurried sentences in elvish that sounded like complete nonsense to Alaric, and then he dashed from the room and was gone at once.

The four elves gathered their travel sacks and their cloaks, and they were off, riding upon fine white stallions. Three elves followed behind upon white mares as well, but they stayed a distance back. Taking the lead was Galiria, who remained far ahead of both Arokas and Alaric. Arokas followed, but he maintained his own distance from Alaric. So, they rode as spaced out from one another as possible, with Elfwin bringing up the ride after the three elves that rode alongside one another. Together the group traversed—gliding along the flattened, winding path along large plains that glistened under morning’s first light, wet with the morning frost.

“Jakkara,” Elfwin whispered to himself. Elfwin stopped and listened into the crisp, damp air. His young ears were straight up into the air, for he swore he heard the sound of shrill cry, but he wrote it off when a hawk cawed overhead.

“Ah,” he said, “Just the birds. Just the birds.”