Читать книгу: «Elantion», страница 2

I

Spur Valley, Draelia, in the summer of 324 F.R.

Summer was at hand, bringing with it clear skies and the heat that had been yearned for all throughout the lengthy winter. The warm winds carried a thousand floral fragrances to every corner of Draelia, while the orchards of the Savorfruit Plains offered bountiful cherries and plums prime for the picking. The fields were plowed to be sown, and the wheat was growing hearty and strong, to reach full maturity at summer’s end, when it would be harvested.

The cattle were freed in their pastures, and in their daily lives; following a strangely cold spring, they were grazing with a vengeance. The woods and forests were filled with the cheerful chirping of birds, along with an abundance of rodents and other small creatures. In the highlands, ibexes and roe deer climbed up onto unbelievably precarious rocky walls in search of the tastiest sprout. Winter’s all too ample snowfall continued to adorn the tallest peaks, whipped by the winds that blew through the mountain valleys. These gales were still quite cold, owing precisely to that mantle of pure white.

Spur Valley, a mountain valley characteristic of the Rugged Range, was crossed by a stream, and by the road that followed the stream’s course. The spruce woods made the area a favorite destination of the lumberjacks residing in the villages scattered throughout the valley, as well as of those who hailed from nearby regions. The relatively light wood of those spruces dried easily, and released a great deal of heat when burned, making it ideal kindling for warming up houses.

At the bottom of the valley, the road that ran along the mountain wall forked, and that last tract led to a hidden plateau. On the way down, one could lay their eyes on a building covered by a large dome, which was an unusual sight for such a place. Its stone construction clashed with its surroundings, and a sinister atmosphere suffused it. It served as the refuge of a substantial group of mages who had broken away from Draelia’s High Order of Magic and Alchemy, and proclaimed themselves the Fellowship of the Veil, several years after the Great Reconciliation.

More than two centuries had passed since the discovery of a mine full of peculiar never-before-seen green crystals. Disputes arose between the High Order of Magic and Alchemy, and the Symeris Order of Arcane Scholars, as both wanted to take credit for discovering their qualities. The crystals were carefully extracted in small quantities, and the mages devoted themselves to their study. Yet they soon encountered serious difficulties, and at a certain point, all of the mages who had busied themselves examining these crystalline formations began to exhibit madness and paranoia, prompting the High Order to suspend their investigations. The Archmages limited access to the extraction chamber by casting an illusion spell, and by stationing a guardian golem that would take form from the rock and dust should anyone tread upon the magic glyphs.

That being said, some stubborn mages of noteworthy talent managed to avoid the glyphs and sneak into the mine, so as to continue extracting the crystals. They started gathering in secret to study the stones’ bizarre properties. Many succumbed to madness and death, but through their sacrifices, the mages came to understand how the crystals worked. The Fellowship of the Veil was formed in that period, and remained hidden and forgotten for a long time. Not even the Archmages of Olennon remembered them.

The mages of the Fellowship discovered that the crystals had to be stabilized before they could be used, feeding each of them with a person’s life essence. A large quantity of stabilized crystals, when gathered in the same place, would begin to form small temporal distortions. Before long, the mages realized that those small, floating rifts of light were slowly growing, and that strange whispers were coming from the other side. The voices became more and more substantial, and echoed in the minds of the mages, addicting and enslaving them to the whispers. They became unable to perform the simplest of tasks without receiving their instructions. The Priestesses, guided by the potent Sight of the seers and the High Priestess, directed those mages to commit heinous acts, including atrocious murders. They taught the mages the perfect ritual to feed the crystals, and helped them choose the perfect victims. Quite often, these poor unfortunate souls ended up being children up to fifteen years old, as they were considered the purest fuel.

After more than a century, the ever-increasing number of crystals had transformed those rifts into a huge portal, beyond which Fellowship mages could view an arid, foggy world of grey.

At the same time, on Alceas (the other side of the portal), the tulvaren legions were ready to cross the threshold into Elantion for the third time. King Athal waited to receive the latest news from his Commanders, surrounded by all his stern and fearsome family members. As soon as everything was ready, Athal spurred his horse, and the horns sounded the advance. The immense column of soldiers generated a deafening din as they marched. It was a warm and clear June day on Elantion, very different from the smoky and gloomy Alceas. Athal passed through the portal, and his horse’s hooves tread upon the stone-slab floor of the Fellowship temple. The Third Tulvaren Invasion of Elantion had commenced.

II

Deryel, Draelia, in the autumn of 326 F.R

An unexpectedly cold autumn had come to Draelia, on the heels of an oddly hot summer, as though the seasons themselves were affected by the tragic events that gripped the world. The sky grew more leaden with time, and frigid air lashed every corner. In some areas, the fog was thick, and in others, the rain gave no respite. But apart from the tulvaren army, there was no longer anyone beyond the boundaries of Elelreel—neither human, nor elf, nor dwarf. Two and a half years after the invasion was initiated, not much was left of the Monarchy of Draelia; all that remained were the few strongholds and cities that the tulvars rebuilt after destroying. The divine powers of King Athal, of his Commanders, and of the High Priestess had helped them stand victorious.

In those days, the tulvar Sheera Khelun, Commander of the Violet Archers and royal daughter, rode her dappled grey horse (a large and inexhaustible steed, and her companion on many journeys) toward the village of Deryel, situated at the mouth of the winding Spur Valley. The emblem of the House of Khelun, a black flame on a red background, which she had embroidered on her cloak and engraved on the leather of her armor, made her immediately recognizable. Her helm, which sported a long black horsetail, was symbolic of her title as Commander, and the meticulous finishes on her armor affirmed her royal lineage. Sheera was tall, and regarded as very beautiful among the tulvars. Her long oval face was framed by black hair, long on one side and almost shaved on the other, which provided a contrast with her ashen grey skin. Her small, almond-shaped eyes, a characteristic of all tulvars, were a very intense red, and topped by thin black eyebrows. She had a long nose that was slightly pronounced, and her lips were wrinkly and not very full. On her left cheek, two ritual scars indicated her spiritual path. Uniquely, Sheera had a large purple iridescent spot that trailed from her left side all the way to her neck. In tulvaren culture, this was viewed with suspicion; in fact, it was said that whoever was born with the Abyssal Sigil could prove either a blessing or a curse upon the entire race.

She was ordered to journey to Deryel as quickly as possible by direct order of the High Priestess. Upon arriving, she got off her horse, left it at the pole, and approached the Governor. “I hope the load is ready… my patience is at its end,” she said, her voice coarse, as she gave her fellow tulvar a letter.

“It’s going to take time to prepare the crates,” began the Governor, as he read it. “Besides, only the best crystals are selected for the High Priestess.” He was hunchbacked from age, and much shorter than the Commander, his rumpled and frayed clothes dragging against the ground.

Sheera brought her hand to her sword and pulled it slightly from its scabbard. “Load. The. Crates.”

The Governor stiffened. The reputation of the King’s daughter preceded her, and none of the tales involved generosity or mercy.

Sheera and the heavy and noisy wagon left Deryel, and in a few days’ time, they arrived at the Eyjanborg Temple, where the High Priestess Yvalee made her anger at the delay known. The secondary portals that had opened to the south, in the heart of Symeris and Austur, had now lost their power, and their threshold was impassable by the tulvaren soldiers who had to invade those lands. The crystals would have served Yvalee precisely to restore power to the portals, even if the ritual would have been slow and involved. Sheera greeted her mother and reassured her that her anger would vanish as soon as she laid eyes on the crystals.

The High Priestess opened a chest, and her eyes lit up as soon as she verified their purity. “Bring in the crates,” ordered Yvalee. She then turned to Sheera. “When will you take the oath?”

“Never,” she declared.

“Don’t you think your rebellious phase has gone on a bit too long?”

“Even so, I will never become a priestess.”

“You’ll come to see your folly, sooner or later,” said Yvalee, glaring.

The great Temple of Eyjanborg had just been finished, and the large round hall, covered by an enormous dome painted in gold, accentuated the sacredness of the place. Sheera was momentarily entranced at the sight. She lost sight of her mother and saw her sister Auril emerge from a side room. Auril approached Sheera and gave her a nod, and nothing more. The younger of the sisters was shorter than Sheera, albeit slightly, and she too had black hair, though hers fell well below the lower back. Her long, spindly arms ended in bony hands and pointed fingers. Her face was very thin and devoid of scars, and her eyes were red, small, and distant, with fine eyebrows. Her nose was long and a tad pronounced, and her wrinkled lips were made dark using a lipstick composed of the juice of a particular berry mixed with fat. There were never two sisters as utterly different as Sheera and Auril; while one had accepted the traditional path of becoming a priestess without hesitation, the other had exercised the right granted to all tulvaren nobles to face military training instead, as she was reluctant to consecrate her whole life to the Goddess. Sheera observed Auril as she carried out one of her daily duties: bathing in the font adjacent to a side of the room. After immersing herself completely in the water, she came out with the very light dress she wore clinging to her body, and the light color of the wet fabric allowed her figure to be glimpsed despite the pallor of her skin, which attracted the gazes of the tulvars present. Bathing before turning to the Goddess was a purification rite that had been a daily practice for the Priestesses for centuries upon centuries. Auril passed in front of her sister with her typical air of superiority, and Sheera’s eyes tracked her, the rivalry between them written on her face. Ultimately, Sheera saw her disappear into the twilight.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she witnessed a young female hastily approaching. “Commander Sheera, the High Priestess awaits you.”

Sheera, who was accustomed to keeping her hand on her sword, squeezed the hilt and furrowed her brow in surprise. “Why?”

“Follow me,” replied the annoyed priestess, skirting the question. “She does not like to wait.”

With a chagrined grimace and an unenthused groan, the Commander followed the young female across the temple and past the priestly quarters. Looking around, she was amazed by the opulence of the furnishings, decorations, and clothes of the maidens. So different from the original temple, she mused. At the end of the corridor, the rooms of the High Priestess were windowless, and lit solely by a candelabra. In the center of her bedchambers, a heavy wrought-iron brazier housed the burning embers that kept the room warm. Sheera was watching them, and they pulsed with a strong red light that reminded her of the symbols engraved on the giant rocks which fueled the portal. Then she saw her mother.

“All this can still be yours, my dear…” she started.

Sheera rolled her eyes. “I’ve already made my decision.”

“With your abilities and powers, and with your Abyssal Sigil, you ought to serve the Goddess. And you could do so like none before you. Prepare to take my place and stop wasting your life as a soldier…”

“As a Commander,” she corrected.

“The rank matters little. Again I tell you, it is insignificant compared to the role you would have here,” her mother continued.

She dropped the fine blue silk robe that was sourced from Symeris to prepare for the evening prayer at the Temple, together with all the Priestesses. Sheera spotted the symbols on her back, which appeared on the body of the High Priestess when she was selected by the Goddess—bleeding wounds that turned into showy black scars, which stood out against her grey skin. They were a source of pride for the High Priestess.

Yvalee was slightly taller than Sheera, with the angular physique typical of their kind, an elongated face characterized by her long but not so pronounced nose and the thin lips that Yvalee usually colored red. On her forehead and cheeks, she bore sacred tulvaren tattoos that read: “Flesh and blood for the Goddess.” In addition, the moment she was consecrated as High Priestess, her eyes became larger, as well as white and opaque (as opposed to red and shiny); they now seemed to contain the thick fog that hung over Alceas. Yvalee’s long, flowing hair was fragrant, thin, and black, often braided or bunched into elaborate hairstyles. She turned to face her daughter, holding a small, featureless wooden box.

“This is why I made you come here,” she told Sheera, offering the box to her. “You may open it…”

Glancing at her mother briefly, Sheera opened the chest, within which she discovered a fragment of pure virk crystal, which was often used by tulvars of all stripes to enhance their power and resist elven magic. This fragment was different, though—it was large and drop-shaped, well cut and faceted (if not polished), and of a green hue so deep as to pass as liquid; Sheera found it shinier than normal. She took it out, and saw that it was the pendant of a necklace, watching as it swung in hand.

“Wear it. It’s yours,” said Yvalee.

“Mine?” Sheera replied, astonished. “But why? What have I done to deserve it?”

“Does a mother need a reason to give her daughter a gift?” she asked, though in reality, she figured the crystal might unleash her inner strength, thereby getting her to change her mind. She took the necklace off of Sheera’s hands, removed the meager fragment, and put it around her neck, regarding it with pride.

At first, Sheera sensed more strength in her, and then felt her magical might literally course through her entire body.

“It’s powerful,” she acknowledged.

The High Priestess smiled. “I knew you’d like it. It’s a taste of what would await you…” she said.

Those words made Sheera furrow her brow. “I should have guessed… This gift won’t make me change my decision!” she exclaimed.

Yvalee seemed resigned. “Do as you please, Sheera, but know that we are much more alike than you might think…” she said firmly, adding fuel to the fire she could tell was flaring in Sheera’s heart.

“I thank you for your largesse, High Priestess.” Then, without waiting for her mother to reply, she made her way out of the private quarters of the Priestesses, determined to exit the Temple as soon as possible. She hoped she didn’t need to return anytime soon.

In her room, Yvalee stood still while her handmaids prepared her for the great evening ritual: they began to douse her with warm water redolent of flowers, and sprinkled oils of intoxicating aromas upon her. She gave herself up to the massages, closing her eyes in a mixture of rage and exhilaration. Everything around her disappeared, as she dwelled on Sheera. She envied the strength and fire that drove her daughter, she hated her sneering attitude, she couldn’t stand how uncontrollable she was, she was disgusted with the fact that her powers were null and void with her, she felt the will of the Goddess within, she craved Sheera’s power, and she feared that if the young woman would not agree to be consecrated, many problems would arise.

*

In the city of Eyjanborg, atop one of the towers of the Royal Palace, King Athal was eagerly awaiting news from his children. Since they invaded Draelia two and a half years prior, his armies had killed, conquered, and laid waste. Immediately after crossing the portal, his military’s sheer might had devastated the cities and villages, and all the soldiers of King Osman IV could do in the fields of battle was get annihilated.

Triumphantly, Athal had entered Eyjanborg, the capital, at the end of the first year, and thanks to his children, the human territories of Draelia were completely subjugated by that time as well. The High Priestess had opened secondary portals, and the King’s soldiers had crossed those magical thresholds, taking the Southern Principalities by surprise, bringing havoc and death to the essenir elves of Rekonia and to the humans of Vetlag. However, the secondary portals drew power exclusively from extremely pure virk crystals, and repeated delays in the delivery of the crates carrying the precious gems led to the depletion of their power. As such, the invasion of the other lands had suffered a setback. The King then pushed his legions southward and westward, clashing with the armies of the three Principalities, a battle that ended in a terrible defeat, second only to the defeat they suffered at the Iron Plateau at the hands of the dwarves of the Icemount. From that point, the campaign of conquest had reached a dead end—which was part of why the frictions between the Houses had resurfaced over the last few months.

The King of the Tulvars was getting on in years, and his appearance reflected his age. Once tall and with a sculpted physique, he was now skinny and wrinkled, his back slightly hunched. Nevertheless, his arms (though slender and bony) and his long-fingered hands still had strength, and still yearned for combat. His hairs were grey, and his stern-faced visage was pallid and wrinkled, yet he inspired terror in all, save for his wife Yvalee. His shiny red eyes were also weathered with age, and his mouth (whose lips were nigh imperceptible) was always curved. The regal raiment he wore was sewn using the fine fabrics they’d become acquainted with in Elantion. He had on a soft tunic in black and green elven velvet that brushed against the floor, embellished with threads of gold and fragments of virk crystals. The royal tiara upon his head had been forged using the gold in the crown of King Osman IV of Draelia, who died two years earlier, run through by Athal’s blade.

“Two years have passed, and I still don’t know how to best them, but soon there will be elven meat for you, my rapacious friend,” said the King pitilessly, stroking his vulture’s soft feathers. The bird stirred slightly, and Athal handed it a piece of meat it wasted no time devouring. It flew away and perched itself on the back of the chair. Suddenly, the heavy door of the hall opened, revealing a member of the Royal Guard.

“What do you want?” asked Athal.

“A missive, Sire,” he replied, handing his Sovereign a scroll.

Athal unfurled it, and his mouth curled into an evil smile. He dismissed the guard and headed for the desk. The quill danced across the parchment, its ink tracing strange and twisted glyphs. After signing his name, he slowly poured the sealing wax and imprinted his coat of arms on it. Then he summoned the vulture and gave it the letter.

“Take this to Zund,” he whispered.

Meanwhile, Zund, heir to the throne and General of the army, was riding toward the western edge of the Whitetrunk Forest, where a patrol had reported seeing a human move among the trees before disappearing amidst the path leading to the Slumbering Peaks. Zund was a tall tulvar with a statuesque physique, and he was courted by all the daughters of the noble families. Zund never reciprocated their interest in him, as all he was attracted to was power. He sported long, exceedingly thin black hair, which was often tied behind his nape with a leather strip. Hi face was angular and square, his almond-shaped eyes an intensely dark red. His slightly pronounced nose had a bulge due to a fracture. His fair skin was covered with dozens of scars, the most striking of which was certainly the one that trailed from his forehead straight down to his right cheek, sustained by a sword blow inflicted on him at a wee age. The armor he wore was made of hedgot leather, imparting it with the marvelous attribute of fire-resistance. His breastplate was adorned with the emblem of the House Khelun—a black flame on a red background—and embellished with silver plaques. The edges of his thick black velvet cape were embroidered, and warm bear fur covered his shoulders.

“Where is it?” asked Zund, having arrived.

“It disappeared on the path to the pass, General,” said the soldier, pointing at the road.

Zund gritted his teeth in anger. “Is it a slave? A refugee?”

“Definitely a refugee,” he replied.

“Send some orcs to search for him.” The General briefly looked at the Peaks again, intensely enough that he might have set them on fire. Then he headed toward his steed, a horse as black and heavy as the shroud of night, mounted its saddle, and trotted away. Eyeing the horizon, he saw a thin silhouette, which was becoming clearer as it approached—it was his father’s vulture. He pulled on the reins, and the bird perched on his arm, its talons clutching his leather armband. There was a message with the King’s wax seal tied to its neck. He took the scroll, bade the bird talk flight by lifting his arm, broke the seal, unrolled the scroll, and discovered that his father had an important task for him. He took some soldiers with him and headed south.

*

Several hours later, in the elven territory of Elelreel, Kaj’s wagon trundled down the road descending from Falcon’s Pass. The tulvaren patrols he’d spotted in the distance while he was at the Whitetrunk had convinced him to head back immediately, so as not to risk being seen. He reached the bottom of the valley. At the crossroads, he decided to take the high road that separated the swamp from the Malivon River. The area’s enveloping mist moistened Kaj’s woolen clothes, much to his annoyance. They were no longer in any condition to protect him from the elements. He wore a linen shirt, a wool tunic, thick wool trousers, socks, and fur-lined leather boots, but the cold was as biting as ever. Kaj held tight to his thick, frayed-edged woolen cloak and ran a hand through his invariably disheveled dark brown hair to fix up the hairs that had fallen to his brow, all while panting and rolling his clear eyes. Kaj was a fairly tall man, well-built and muscular thanks to his many years working iron at his foster father’s forge. His stern features belied his cheerful and friendly personality.

The surrounding atmosphere seemed to muffle most sound, but as soon as he crossed the intersection following the bridge over the Malivon, he heard the whistle of an arrow whishing by his right ear. He froze. Instinctively, he flicked the reins and scanned the area, but instead of sprinting, the mule stopped in its tracks, encircled by five imposing orcs.

Kaj didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, one of their number collapsed to the ground with a grunt. Behind the fallen ogre stood a cloaked figure with a large hood, weapons in hand. The orcs attacked the figure, and Kaj jumped off the wagon brandishing his sword and dealing a few cutting blows. Then, he found himself with two daggers at the sides of his neck.

The elf withdrew her weapons. Kaj had time enough to observe her, and realized she was a nalnir. She was shorter than Kaj (albeit not by much), with an athletic physique; she wasn’t frail at all, for an elf. Her wavy reddish hair was styled in a half-up ponytail that highlighted her pointed ears, as well as a few small tresses ornamented with metal beads. She also had the classic nalnir tattoos on her forehead. Her face was delicate, her large, shiny yellow eyes (typical of forest elves) expressive and alert. Her groomed eyebrows formed part of a well-proportioned visage, though her slightly crooked nose was highlighted by a scar. Her lips were fairly full, though reddened and marred by the cold, and therefore standing in contrast against her pale complexion. Her clothes were of classic elven workmanship—her brown suede tunic was fastened by knotted leather laces, and her sleeves reached the middle of her forearms, from which part of her wool tunic poked out, covered by engraved leather armbands. Her hands were protected by wool gloves, apart from her bare distal phalanges, which were slim and slender. The bottom of the large dark grey woolen cloak (that reached around the midway point of her calves) was worn, and made warmer by a thick wolf-fur collar. Aside from the daggers, the nalnir also had a beautifully etched bow and a quiver full of arrows, in addition to a small satchel and a bag that she carried over her shoulder with various useful items inside.

“Pretty dumb, traveling alone these days,” she began. “And with a slow mule and a dilapidated cart, at that.”

“I didn’t actually encounter many obstacles…”

She arched her eyebrows haughtily as she checked whether the orcs were all fully dead. “Are you fighting with the human resistance?”

Kaj was silent a moment. “Who, me? No, no, I’ve got my hands full with the wounded arriving in Fenan…”

“That’s odd… you fight well,” she said with suspicion. “You’d make a fine recruit, in these times,” she continued, though without all that much conviction in her voice. “What have you got in that wagon?”

“Healing roots,” said Kaj.

The elf looked at him, then headed for the wagon and opened one of the bags. “Anruith!?” she exclaimed in Elvish.

“Yep, healing roots.”

The elf rolled her eyes. “These roots are also found in the environs of Herle. Leaving Elelreel and going past the Peaks for them is madness!”

Kaj looked chagrined. “I knew what I was going towards…”

“Then you’re twice as dumb,” she said tersely. “In any case, the name’s Clarice.”

“Kaj.” He extended a hand. “Wait, are you Clarice, the Vagabond?”

“Yes,” she replied dryly.

Suddenly, he heard a noise of unknown origin. “Did you hear that?”

Clarice was freeing the mule from the yaw. “Yes. Goblins. They must’ve heard us fight against the orcs. There’s nothing they’d want here; they won’t attack…” she said pensively. “Those orcs were definitely sent by tulvars.”

“I’d hoped they wouldn’t see me. Boy am I glad I got away quickly!” he cried, peering around. “We’d better clear out of here…”

He made for the wagon, but Clarice smacked the mule, who promptly ran away.

“But why?” he asked, surprised.

“I’ve got no intention of letting all of Draelia know where we’re headed!” she shouted, throwing him an empty sack. “Take your roots.”

Kaj shook his head and started filling it. “You headed towards Fenan?”

“No, but Fenan happens to be on the way. I’ll accompany you there, and then proceed from there.”

They walked down the road that cut through the plains so as to take cover in the forest. They had been walking at a brisk pace for two hours, but the forest was still a ways away. The sunset came quickly, and by the time they started weaving through the trees, it was almost dark. Soon, they stumbled upon a clearing sufficiently shielded by bushes and rocks.

“We’ll set up camp here. Light the fire; I’ll be right back,” said Clarice.

“Where are you going?” Kaj felt his pockets in search of the fire striker. “Dammit, where’d I put the stupid thing!?”

When he looked up, she had already melted into the darkness.

He stretched out his arms in resignation. “I don’t have my fire striker on me…!” he shouted, hoping she’d overhear.

The moonlight helped Kaj gather some wood and dry moss. He made a hole in the ground and carefully laid them in layers as he waited for Clarice. Suddenly, he heard a noise, and he saw her emerge from the undergrowth with her game in hand.

“A hare?”

“If I’m not mistaken, you had a fire to light,” she said, panting. She didn’t answer his question.

“You didn’t give me the time to…” he started, but the elf threw the hare at him before he could finish.

Clarice bent down, pulled a piece of flint from her pocket, and struck it against her dagger with a decisive motion. The dry moss began to crackle, turning into a nice fire. Kaj roasted the hare on the fire; the scent that emanated was mouth-watering. She was sitting on a small rock nearby, engrossed in cleaning her swords.

“I couldn’t help noticing the green streaks that appeared on your skin,” he said.

“I’m a nalnir,” she said tersely.

“Right, but you don’t see that often in Fenan elves… it’s weird.”

“Living in a village far from the forest, that’s normal. It’s even more evident within the Shadetrail,” she replied, a little annoyed. “Where are you from?”

“I told you, I’m from Fenan…” he said, as he turned the spit.

“I mean, before the Invasion,” she clarified.

“Lochbis.”

“Is your family at the village?”

“No,” he said bluntly, lowering his head. “My family couldn’t make it out of Lochbis, unfortunately. I was out of town when a pack of abominables led by a sorcerer attacked. I returned home, to find nothing left. There was a great big blast, and some people ran outside the walls. The remaining guards let me out; when we reached the mountains, we saw only smoke and flames rising from the city… I came back a few days later to look for my things.”