floors above, Zund was organizing three patrols to comb through the territory of the Twin Liegedoms and find the crypt. After a spot of torture, Pugh and Alston had let spill a local legend that spoke of an ancient elven sanctuary dating back to before the Great Exodus, when elves dominated the entirety of Elantion. The two men, hanging inside the cages suspended from the large ceiling beam, lay motionless, moaning occasionally due to the wounds that had gotten infected after a few days.
The patrols were already out of town, headed for the orchards. Upon their arrival at the place they had been pointed toward, they found a large, doubtlessly millennium-old apple tree. The village that was situated a little further on was deserted; everyone had barricaded themselves inside their houses, but when the Captain of the battalion threatened to set the entire village on fire if they did not leave posthaste, doors swung reluctantly open, and the tulvaren soldiers fettered the inhabitants, forcing them to dig.
In the meantime, a tulvaren messenger arrived at the Palace of the High Liegedom with an order from the King, calling Auril and the General to Eyjanborg.
“At long last!” exclaimed the priestess, happy to be able to leave the city. “Have you chosen their punishment?”
“Release them,” ordered Zund.
The soldiers let the cages down, and when the cages touched the ground, the soldiers dragged the two dying nobles out of them.
“Sort them out quickly; I can’t stand to stay here any longer,” urged Auril impatiently. “Or you can leave them to me,” she said, hinting at a spell to attack the two of them.
“No, Sister!” he admonished her. “Bring the beast!”
The little girl led the jorfang to the palace hall, where the two men awaited their end. Zund, seated on Pugh’s throne, motioned for the girl to be taken away, and for the beast to be allowed to go wild. “I’d like to savor the throes of their agony,” he said, his tone harsh and base.
The jorfang stood upright, in all its grandeur: slightly taller than Zund, massive, and muscular. Its arms, shoulders, head and back were covered in black, bristly hair, and its long hands sported sharp claws. Its greyish skin had many scars; in Zund’s eyes, it was at once monstrous and magnificent.
With a leap, it set upon Pugh, crouching to sniff at him; the man felt its breath and the bristly hairs on its face, and saw the yellowed fangs that dripped their slobber on him. The she-beast’s hands pressed him, its claws piercing clothes and flesh alike. The nobleman screamed in pain, his gaze terrified, and his endurance pushed to its limit. His eyes rolled upwards, and he lost consciousness. The jorfang bit him on the head, its jaws cracking the man’s skull. Blood spurted everywhere. Driven by bestial instinct, it reared up and vigorously shook the body of the liege who was now a tattered rag doll. Zund watched with satisfaction, sipping his keb-brew. Alston, not far from the lake of blood, tried to move, to run away. The beast pounced on him, and he flailed, crying and moaning, every part of his body aching from the torture. It jumped on his back, and the bones of his spine and neck were summarily broken. Alston was dead. The jorfang sniffed it, tearing at his back with one paw and turning over the corpse. It opened his belly and tried to partake, but found the man’s entrails unappetizing. Satiated, it squatted down in a corner of the room, sniffed the floor, and lay down.
Zund was satisfied, and rose from the throne.
“What ought we to do with the beast?” asked a tulvar.
The General glanced at the servants of the Palace, who had been forced to silently observe from the open gallery. He signaled, and the soldiers made the servants come down and stand before the General. Zund observed them all in turn, analyzing them. He brushed against them with his slender hand, lingering on a well-built young man. Though Zund’s gaze was chilling, the human stared right back, an act of audacity that surprised him. “He will remain here. Chain the others and send them to excavate,” he commanded, his eyes still on the human. “Enjoy the comforts of the Palace, and survive if you can.”
“You’ll be defeated one day! Mark my words!” the man shouted defiantly.
“We shall see,” said Zund, leaving the Palace. “Block all of the exits.”
V
Clarice and Kaj proceeded swiftly through the thick of the Shadetrail Forest toward Nidath. Five days had passed since Fenan, and when they arrived near a crossing, Clarice motioned for him to stoop down. After a moment, he could make out some chittering in the distance. Kaj leaned out of the bushes a little, and saw a gang of about ten goblins dragging a dead and partially eaten horse with ropes. The noisy and scatterbrained nature of goblins made them easy to identify, especially for those who, like Clarice, had traveled extensively. The barefoot, olive-skinned things were small and skeletal, with long arms and large hands. Their elongated heads were sprinkled with a few bristly hairs, and their hirsuteness varied. Their prominent eyes were large and yellow, their noses wide and flattened, and their mouths wide with thin lips that hid sharp teeth, perfect for biting and tearing. They wore only light shirts, often full of holes, and trousers in leather or wool, frayed and dirty. They did not suffer from the cold, having always lived in harsh climates. Armed with daggers, they were very fast and sneaky. They could jump on the shoulders of an unfortunate soul and start biting until their prey breathed its last.
“Come here, Kaj!” she scolded him softly. “We don’t need them spotting us. We’ll take them by surprise.”
He squinted, thinking. “It can be done…”
“At my nod, we attack. Wait here.”
The Vagabond waited for the last goblin to pass their hiding place, strung her bow, and killed two in rapid succession. The creatures, alarmed, threw themselves at Kaj, who had emerged from the bushes in the meantime. He stabbed the first one that stood before him, and narrowly dodged another’s blade, lunging to the side and wounding that goblin, which collapsed. The elf struck them with arrows as Kaj engaged them. By the end, only one was left, and it was in the throes of death; Clarice strode toward it with an arrow in her hand, and stuck said arrow in its throat. With a pained grimace, the goblin was killed outright.
Cold and deadly, Kaj thought.
“Nice work,” nodded the elf.
“I haven’t held this sword in such a long time! I had forgotten how well-balanced it is,” he exclaimed, slicing the air with it some. Kaj’s eyes glimmered with a young boy’s enthusiasm.
“That’s good to hear. You’ll be forced to use it often,” said the nalnir.
“Yes, though I’ll have to practice. I’m a bit rusty…”
They began to collect whatever might come in handy, and they found themselves staring at the dead horse with a certain craving. One shared glance, and they knew what needed to be done.
Late that night, the fire was still burning merrily before their eyes. The bits of horse had made for the perfect dinner; the meat cooked over the fire had become tender and juicy, and they ate it all up in in next to no time. Kaj, leaning against a rock and wrapped in a bear’s fur, was enjoying the heat of the fire; Clarice was lying down a little further on, covered by her cloak and sleeping soundly. Kaj felt snowflakes on his face.
“Clarice.”
“What is it?” she asked, immediately alert.
“Sorry to wake you up, but we have a problem.”
She looked up, and understood.
