Post by K Man on Aug 24, 2006 10:46:32 GMT -5
“Look at this one!” Morem, a small boy of about eight cried with delight.
“Nuh-uh, this one of the Dwarf is way better!” His friend, Trovyr, pointed authoritatively at the statue looming above him—he clearly believed it was the best in the room.
“Garor…Garor Skullsplitter.” A gruff voice from behind both boys caused them to leap reflexively, and rather awkwardly, in random directions. Each dove for a dark corner of the barely lit hallway, but instead only managed to turn and fall to the ground to avoid collision. They rolled onto their backs and sat upright, eyes wide and hearts pumping fast. They finally composed themselves and looked around for the voice.
Seeing no source of the voice, Morem, the bravest, called out with an all-encompassing question. “What?”
“The Dwarf. Name is Garor Skullsplitter.” The voice finally came into view. It was a cloaked figure, hunched over and seated on a bench, tucked neatly into an alcove. The figure was thin shouldered and slow moving, leaning heavily on a metal staff about five feet high. The boys had not seen too many before, but everything about this figure told them that this was a very old Elf.
Unsure of what to say and feeling very uncomfortable that a cloaked Elf of considerable age just seemed to melt out of the shadows, Morem shrugged. “Okay.”
The Elf shook his head, cloak waving back and forth like curtains billowing in the wind. In between the shakes, both boys could see wisps of thin white hair waving about, like the Elf was wrapped in a mane of smoke. “What do they teach in your lessons these days? Garor Skullsplitter, Great King of Bazarkrak and slayer of ten-thousand souls?”
The accent—Morem could not place it, but something about it seemed off for an Elf. As a young boy and more curious than afraid, Morem stood up and turned his back on the stranger, eyes pouring over the statue. “Slayer of ten thousand souls? Really?”
“Man…I can’t even count to a hundred!” Trovyr stood and joined his friend in admiring the statue that suddenly got a much more impressive name.
The frail old Elf shook and wheezed; an attempt to laugh through an eon of used lungs. “No one really counted, but the day ‘The Master’ came to Ephemiryl, he lost all his forces to Garor…and the rest of the heroes as they stood their ground before an army that spread from horizon to horizon.”
The boys collectively gasped. Once, when he was younger, Morem had learned the title ‘The Master’ and used it at home…he never did get the taste of lye out of his mouth. “You’re not supposed to say that!” Morem pointed as if someone with more clout was watching, like his mother with a bucket of lye.
“Ahh…so you know of ‘The Master’ and his evils, but not of how he was beaten?” The Elf leaned comfortably back into the shadows. Only the bottom half of him was visible, the billowed end of a grey robe.
“Pshhh, everyone knows that.” Trovyr chimed in. “The heroes eleven, stood their ground and fought for heaven, earth ripped asunder, from the depths came the…”
“No no no!” The Elf cut Trovyr off and leaned forward once more. “I speak not of some nursery rhyme. I speak of heroes and their deeds. I speak of kingdoms saved by sacrifice. Of heroes so strong, the gods stood aside at their deaths and placed them on pedestals of their own!”
This rapid and aggressive speech caused the Elf to wheeze even more—clearly this figure was near death, if not just waiting for him to show up any minute now. Morem thought it strange because he had heard that all Elves just sort of leave, not grow old and die like everyone else.
Morem looked to Trovyr and just knew that he would have to go without dessert tonight—this was too good to miss. Trovyr returned the gaze knowingly, full prepared to sacrifice a slice of pie for a good tale. “Tell us!” the boys chimed in unison.
The Elf pondered the request, rubbing his shadowed chin with bony fingers. After what seemed like an eternity, he nodded and settled back into a reclined position. Lanky fingers quietly rolled the metal staff back and forth in a divot of the stone floor, creating a haunting rhythm as the Elf began…
“Most of the poem of heroes is true. Where it differs from truth is in location. The final fight for mankind did not take place just outside the walls of Ravenshead…at least not at first. The greatest battle of all began on the doorsteps of the amber tower, in the Elven city of Ephemiryl.”
The boys squatted on the stone floor, cold butts be damned. They were in for the long haul.
“You know of the crystals kept in the grand hall of Ravenshead? Where the festivals of purity and healing are held each year?”
The boys nodded. They not only knew of the crystals, but Morem often faked being mildly sick with a cold once a year just to get to touch the crystals. The rush of their power was a feeling that nearly everyone in the city was aware of.
“Well, those crystals were once used for devastation, not healing…and the person that had them almost destroyed Ravenshead.”
The boys’ mouths went agape—unbelievable. The Elf went on.
“You see, it took nearly a full century of study by the brightest sages in the land, but they finally figures out what the crystals are. They are what you want them to be.” This confused the boys and the Elf saw this, so he continued immediately. “You see, the crystal first came to this plane as a gift from Wee-Jas, goddess of evil and hate, to her most powerful disciple. She wanted more souls encased in her wall of ice so that she could pick through the painful memories and use them for her vile magic. The crystal acted as a focus, a lens through which to filter hate and anger, and each soul killed by it carried unbelievable pain and suffering into the afterlife—something Wee-Jas wanted very badly.”
As if swallowing a large lump of vegetables, the boys gulped and continued to stare in awe.
“But one man stood up this disciple, and the resulting battle shattered the gem into several very large pieces, scattered everywhere. Because of the battle and the intense mix of hate from the disciple and the courage and goodness of the warrior, the crystal’s powers were altered.” The Elf looked at the two bewildered eight year olds before him and re-stated the problem.
“The crystals were confused. Whoever touched them could tell them to do something. The crystal maintained its power to focus an emotion, but it accepted any emotion. If you wanted to be protected, it protected. If you wanted to be healed, it healed…and if you wanted to kill, it killed.”
The boys simply could not believe what they heard. The crystal, the very ones that sat in the center of the castle could kill! Every one of their friends had touched them at least a hundred times; whether it was because they had a cold, a scraped knee…or just felt sad—the gem made everyone feel better. And now they heard that this same crystal could kill. “Who would want the crystal to kill someone?” Trovyr asked.
“The Queen of Astoril.” The Elf went on. “She was convinced that the crystal would save the world through destruction. She was mad with power and it nearly cost every innocent soul in Ravenshead. It took many of the heroes you see here to stop her.”
“Tell us.” Morem asked with his head turned, enamored with the statue of a human female behind him.
“Well, as I said, it began in Ephemiryl. Just outside of the Queen’s chambers in her amber tower. Girud, the Half-Giant you see over in the corner, had just cut a swath through the guards to the tower and a call rang through the city, piercing the night air. The call was to arms for ‘The Master’ had arrived on the city’s doorstep. The heroes knew they did not have much time so once the path was clear, they burst into the queen’s tower and proceeded to cut their way to the top. Elven guard after Elven guard stood in their path, but the heroes would not be halted for theirs was a mission of life and death.”
“Because ‘The Master’ was at the city gates?” Morem turned his attention back to the venerable elf.
“That’s right.” The elf nodded. “And because the Queen had given Ravenshead a choice…surrender, or die like the Master had. She had tasted what the crystals had given to her—the power to destroy. In her arrogance, she thought ‘The Master’ had been defeated and so she sought to rule the world from her powerful tower. The heroes raced against her madness and against the march of ‘The Master’ once more.”
“What happened when they reached the top of the tower?” Trovyr asked in awe.
“The queen’s son stood in their way, an adversary the heroes had faced before. This time however, they did not best him with sword and magic, they bested him with compassion and reason. They showed him what his mother was doing and how her blind lust for control and power would undo the world. Together with the Prince, the heroes raced into her audience chamber and defeated the terrible Queen of the Elves. Krysta, the one you see over there, delivered the merciful blow.”
The boys turned back to the human female statue, one clad in full plate emblazoned with stars. “What about ‘The Masters’ army? Who stopped them?” Morem went on, keeping his eyes fixed on the statue of Krysta.
The Elf coughed a bit, his throat working hard to free the story from an old chest. “The heroes knew that firing the weapon so close the city of Astoril meant certain destruction and loss of more innocent life. So, backed by the Prince of the Elves, they made their way to the city walls and stood ground against a powerful army of undead that assaulted the city. They were victorious that day, their presence a morale boost for the Elves and certainly the reason they were victorious.”
“What happened to the crystals?”
“The Prince wanted nothing to do with them anymore.” The Elf addressed Morem. “And in the spirit of peace and togetherness, he rode them back to Ravenshead’s doorstep personally and apologized on his knee to King Sturmguard.”
The boys had heard the name King Sturmguard before. It was the name of a square in town where they played in the fountains, and it was also the name of their current king. They must be related. “So what about ‘The Master’? The poem says the last fight for mankind was on our doorstep…”
“I was just getting to that.” The Elf leaned forward on his stick, trying to keep the boys’ level of excitement up. “The crystals were returned by the Elven Prince and his personal army, but that same night, during celebration, someone else showed up. ‘The Master’ was well versed in undeath and though the heroes had defeated him before, his soul was contained in a device that brought him back within one week.”
“The jewel of the royal family!” Trovyr spouted the line of the poem emphatically; he was really getting into the tale.
“That’s right. ‘The Master’ was very clever and knew the safest place for the container of his soul was right beneath his enemies’ nose. He gave the container very powerful magic so that it would appeal to the wearer to keep it on and safe, and saw that it made its way to the King of Ravenshead. Then, immortal as he was, ‘The Master’ bided his time and waited for the gem to become an heirloom…something that the royal family would take good care of. When he was defeated the first time, it was of little consequence to ‘The Master’, for his soul was well cared for by his enemy and he reappeared only a week later.”
The Elf’s body was wracked by a short-lived spasm, a drafty breeze making him cold. He shook the shiver and continued. “But once more, the heroes, aided by every man woman and child in Ravenshead, stood there ground when the largest army of ‘The Master’ appeared that night. The Prince and his Elves held the wall. Sturmguard and his men manned the gates. Krysta and the Knights of the Purest Star led the charge into the oncoming army, cutting a swath through thousands of skeletons, undead ogres, mummified trolls and even a dragon of bone! On his war platform, ‘The Master’ met his dearth a third time at the hands of the banded heroes.”
The boys sat in silence, imagining the battle. They closed their eyes and saw these figures of stone around them taking life; the Half-Giant and his massive blade, the Dwarf and his huge hammer…all of them so vivid in their mind, crushing evil beneath their boot. It was all the boys could do to sit still…but one question burned in their mind, a question Morem promptly asked. “So what happened to them after the battle?”
Even though cloaked in shadow, the boys could see the wizened Elf grin. “When ‘The Master’ fell, his bony skull cracking in two on the platform, his army fell silent once more. Knowing ‘The Master’ could return unless they destroyed the container that held his soul, the heroes worked tirelessly to find the container. By that same evening, the heroes had finally pieced together the puzzle of ‘The Masters’ power—the gem around the King’s neck. It was Garor that took it from the King and smashed it with his maul on the stone floor, right there for all to see…’The Master’ was dead at last and for good. Then, in reverence of their saviors, the people of Ravenshead fell to their knee and bowed to the Heroes…even Sturmguard himself.”
The boys knew it was something special to get even a wave or a nod from the King during a parade. It was unfathomable to think of a King on one knee to anyone else.
“The Heroes saw this and knew that the good King Sturmguard had not meant any harm by keeping the gem and he certainly was a good man. They picked him up and made sure the people of the lands knew the King Sturmguard was just as much a hero as they were; a champion of his people.” The Elf leaned back, his voice dreamy and full of joy. “The next year was nothing but a celebration of life and peace. The Dwarves, Elves and Humans of the land did nothing but share with each other. Old allegiances were re-kindled without any hesitation, any regret.”
Trovyr looked bored, he wanted to hear more about the figures surrounding this hall. “Yeah, but what about the heroes? What did they do?”
The Elf lifted his steel staff with a grunt and pointed the end towards the beautiful human woman clad in full plate. “Krysta Johnson. When the battle was over, Adolpho Ustgrave, leader of the Knight of the Purest Star, turned command of the Knights over to her claiming he had never seen such bravery, courage or compassion in a single human before. It was unprecedented that a woman should rule the clan of holy Knights, but not a single one of them questioned the move. For the remainder of her life, Krysta led the Knights through the lands, righting any injustice and taking in the lost children of the war, those orphaned by the battles.”
The boys looked over every inch of her visage. She was strikingly beautiful, and something about her spoke of strength and courage, like she wasn’t afraid of anything. Her sword and bow cast in stone across her back told the boys she was an accomplished warrior.
“To this day, I’m told the Knights of the Purest Star carry out her will. They offer housing for orphans and train the finest Knights the land has ever seen.” The end of the staff moved down the line, settling on another woman. This one was draped in granite robes that flowed down her shapely body. Her hair was adorned with a jeweled headband and everything about her whispered power in faith.
“Adelia. She was Krysta’s cohort, even after the war. She traveled with Krysta and the Knights of the Purest Star but she also took an interest in the clerics of the Hidden City. When Krysta passed, Adelia saw her body to the Hidden City to be placed in the hall of saviors among her companions. Adelia remained in the Hidden City for another decade, serving on their council and commissioning these works of art here. When she passed, it is said the entire population of the Hidden City wore ebony for a day.”
The staff had begun to waver, but the boys would never notice it. Their eyes were fixed on the statues and their minds were wandering. The Elf went on, pointing at the Dwarf with an immense hammer slung over his shoulder. “I already told you this was Garor Skullsplitter. On the day ‘The Master’ fell for good, Garor lashed the two pieces of ‘The Masters’ skull together with leather and walked to the Dwarven halls of Bazarkrak, holding the skull high. He returned to his homelands a hero and I’m told the celebration of peace was the grandest at Bazarkrak…many of the humans visiting at the time had headaches for a year.”
The Elf’s ancient muscles finally gave out and the staff fell to the ground, the sound of its collapse echoing throughout the halls. “Garor remained in the halls of Bazarkrak until his death. The Dwarves of the mountain kingdom inscribed his name among their greatest and they still celebrate his day of birth as a national holiday.”
The Elf looked at the backs of the boys before him. It was no use pointing out who he talked about any more, they would get the idea. He looked to Girud, the tallest statue in the room. “Girud Sandstrider. A wanderer since birth, Girud finally saw to it that he returned to his home after the celebrations. Because he was a hero, Girud was offered a seat at the head of the Council of Gathered Nations, and refused it politely. He had wanted to be a protector of the people all his life and he had never let his guard down—even in the times of peace. He formed a militia at the Dune Palace, a guard for all that sought refuge behind their walls, and to this day that duty is one the toughest, most respected and most feared forces in the world. The Sandstriders see emissaries safely across borders, caravans unharmed to the edges of the desert and they ensure entire tribes of desert wanderers never face the dangers of the wastes alone. To this day, they have never failed an assignment.”
Morem’s jaw dropped in admiration. He looked over the bulging muscles, the razor-sharp blade and the grim features of the stoic warrior. Never before in his life had he heard of anyone so remarkable. His eyes slowly drifted to the next statue, one about a quarter of the Half-Giant next to it. His ears listened carefully as the guided tour of the hall of heroes went on.
“Alton Orcbane, Girud’s close companion and dear friend. When the war ended and the celebrations died down, Alton remained by the Half-Giant’s side and traveled with him to the desert city. Alton served as second lieutenant in the Sandstriders, head of their archery division. When Girud passed, Alton and the Sandstriders saw his body to the Hidden City and he remained there the rest of his life, setting up another archery school—the Bow of Wind academy. It remains there still.”
The next statue in line was actually a dual relief. One half of the pedestal was a grotesque little creature, the statue of a Goblin that looked as though the artist had tried to give the Goblin some resemblance of decency. The other half was a striking and regal Elf, tall and gallant. The two were complete opposites, a dichotomy.
“Mordrock the Strong.” The Elf continued. “Mordrock actually began his life as a slave in ‘The Masters’ army, but the heroes showed him compassion and he served them dutifully until he met his end in ‘The Master’ fortress—sacrificing himself so that the others could destroy the undead lich-king.”
“Who is the Elf though?” Morem asked.
“Mordrock as well. The clerics of Ravenshead, under direct orders from the heroes, brought Mordrock back but placed his soul in another body, that of an Elf. It was an awkward time for the re-incarnated Goblin, but he continued to serve the heroes as faithful as he was before he fell. After the war, he continued to follow his ‘true loves’, Krysta and Adelia, constantly trying to prove his worth to them. When Krysta died, Mordrock walked away and was never heard from again.”
The Elf paused here, retrieving a water skin from his pouch. He unraveled the leather holding the top and placed the skin to his antique lips. He drank deep, trying to keep his lungs and throat moist as he filled the hallway with this story. The boys waited patiently for the old Elf to replenish himself. As they waited, their gaze drifted to the next statue in line, that of a thin human man…at least he looked like a man. He stood with his arms crossed, the stone about his shoulders and neck carved to resemble smoke and the smoke itself filled with bats. It was a very imposing image made all the scarier by the fact the man had sharp teeth like a wolf.
“Yuri Brottor.” The Elf coughed out as he finished drinking. “It is said that in Boon’s Freehold—where the heroes first fought—Yuri offered the greatest sacrifice of all to free the rest of his friends from a fate worse than death, his soul. He spent the next few years of the war earning the right have a soul once more, becoming a good aligned, undying soldier for Ravenshead. After the war, Yuri went on a search for his once good friend, Romar. Yuri sought his friend so that the two could atone for sins done during the war together, to walk the path of redemption as one. That search continued for nearly a century and Yuri never did find Romar. Since he cannot die, Yuri is still around today…but his whereabouts are unknown to most.”
The next statute in line was not a statue, but rather an empty pedestal with a simple plaque bearing a name—Romar Belamor. The boys looked quizzically at this empty pedestal and awaited the Elf’s explanation.
“Romar Belamor.” The Elf sighed heavily, his frail chest sounding more like a bellows-cramp as his story wore on. “The heroes were many in number when they joined the war and not all of them survived to see ‘The Masters’ fall. Romar was such a hero. There is talk among the sages that Romar was not a hero at all, rather a villain and a traitor. However, Yuri and other heroes claimed that Romar had done much good during his life and this fact could not be ignored. He was given a space in the hall of heroes and should record of his atonement ever surface, he will have a visage carved and placed here.”
“What do you think he did? Did he atone?” Trovyr asked in all seriousness.
The Elf rubbed his wrinkled skin through the fine wisps of hair. He thought about his response and slowly muttered it, his voice cracking with sorrow. “I wish I could answer that boys. I like to think that Romar was a good soul and that he sought redemption; hope that some deity took pity on him and saw him well into the afterlife…and that is all I can do, hope.”
The boys nodded respectfully. For the first time hours, they looked to the stained glass windows that dotted the space between the stone statues and the tapestries adoring the walls. The sun had gone down and the pains of guilt finally struck the boys—it was time to go home. They stood up, brushed themselves off and decided to conclude this little history lesson…at least for today. There were man more statues along the hall, not to mention the many tapestries and paintings; this place was huge in the eyes of an eight year old.
“Will you be here tomorrow?” Morem looked at the cloaked figure.
“I hope so.” The raspy voice responded.
The boys smiled a broad grin. Without much else said, they rushed towards the huge granite archway and into the grand hallway beyond. Their voices and footsteps echoed loudly, heard clearly by the old Elf as they ran home.
“I want to be Girud!”
“Ok! I want to be Yuri…or maybe Garor! We can tell Maura she can be Krysta! Let’s play tonight!”
“If we’re not in trouble…”
After that, the Elf could hear no more. There was a time when the Elf could have heard the boys run out of the grand hallway and even into the street beyond, but that time was long ago. It was a time so long ago in his life, that he barely remembered the fine details of it. He knew he was a rogue…and he knew he was a Goblin.
Mordrock mustered the strength to stand, leaning heavily on his metal staff. He shuffled his archaic form over to the foot of the closest statue, the same one he’d been staring at all day—Krysta. He reached out and placed a frail hand on the cold granite boot, his head leaned low.
“Mordrock is still strong, but without you here, I feel much, much weaker.” Mordrock lifted his head and looked to the other stone heroes lining the hall. “…All of you. I spent the remainder of the life I’ve had in this new body teaching all I could of the courage, strength and compassion I learned in your service. You spared my life, taught me what it was to live and I’ve done nothing but experience the world in new eyes ever since. But it seems that the war was so long ago that the land seems to have forgotten you…”
Mordrock thought back to the two small boys that ran out of the hallway moments ago, their minds filled with heroes and tales of wonder. “Well…maybe not all the lands.”
The venerable Elf moved away from the statue, tears leaving thin lines down the front of his robes. He straightened himself, brushed the salty trails from beneath his eyes and began the slow walk to the archway. Saying it to no one in particular, Mordrock made the same vow he made every day before he left this hall of heroes.
“So long as I breathe, others will hear your tale…”
And with that, Mordrock shuffled himself out of the hallway and into the night.
“Nuh-uh, this one of the Dwarf is way better!” His friend, Trovyr, pointed authoritatively at the statue looming above him—he clearly believed it was the best in the room.
“Garor…Garor Skullsplitter.” A gruff voice from behind both boys caused them to leap reflexively, and rather awkwardly, in random directions. Each dove for a dark corner of the barely lit hallway, but instead only managed to turn and fall to the ground to avoid collision. They rolled onto their backs and sat upright, eyes wide and hearts pumping fast. They finally composed themselves and looked around for the voice.
Seeing no source of the voice, Morem, the bravest, called out with an all-encompassing question. “What?”
“The Dwarf. Name is Garor Skullsplitter.” The voice finally came into view. It was a cloaked figure, hunched over and seated on a bench, tucked neatly into an alcove. The figure was thin shouldered and slow moving, leaning heavily on a metal staff about five feet high. The boys had not seen too many before, but everything about this figure told them that this was a very old Elf.
Unsure of what to say and feeling very uncomfortable that a cloaked Elf of considerable age just seemed to melt out of the shadows, Morem shrugged. “Okay.”
The Elf shook his head, cloak waving back and forth like curtains billowing in the wind. In between the shakes, both boys could see wisps of thin white hair waving about, like the Elf was wrapped in a mane of smoke. “What do they teach in your lessons these days? Garor Skullsplitter, Great King of Bazarkrak and slayer of ten-thousand souls?”
The accent—Morem could not place it, but something about it seemed off for an Elf. As a young boy and more curious than afraid, Morem stood up and turned his back on the stranger, eyes pouring over the statue. “Slayer of ten thousand souls? Really?”
“Man…I can’t even count to a hundred!” Trovyr stood and joined his friend in admiring the statue that suddenly got a much more impressive name.
The frail old Elf shook and wheezed; an attempt to laugh through an eon of used lungs. “No one really counted, but the day ‘The Master’ came to Ephemiryl, he lost all his forces to Garor…and the rest of the heroes as they stood their ground before an army that spread from horizon to horizon.”
The boys collectively gasped. Once, when he was younger, Morem had learned the title ‘The Master’ and used it at home…he never did get the taste of lye out of his mouth. “You’re not supposed to say that!” Morem pointed as if someone with more clout was watching, like his mother with a bucket of lye.
“Ahh…so you know of ‘The Master’ and his evils, but not of how he was beaten?” The Elf leaned comfortably back into the shadows. Only the bottom half of him was visible, the billowed end of a grey robe.
“Pshhh, everyone knows that.” Trovyr chimed in. “The heroes eleven, stood their ground and fought for heaven, earth ripped asunder, from the depths came the…”
“No no no!” The Elf cut Trovyr off and leaned forward once more. “I speak not of some nursery rhyme. I speak of heroes and their deeds. I speak of kingdoms saved by sacrifice. Of heroes so strong, the gods stood aside at their deaths and placed them on pedestals of their own!”
This rapid and aggressive speech caused the Elf to wheeze even more—clearly this figure was near death, if not just waiting for him to show up any minute now. Morem thought it strange because he had heard that all Elves just sort of leave, not grow old and die like everyone else.
Morem looked to Trovyr and just knew that he would have to go without dessert tonight—this was too good to miss. Trovyr returned the gaze knowingly, full prepared to sacrifice a slice of pie for a good tale. “Tell us!” the boys chimed in unison.
The Elf pondered the request, rubbing his shadowed chin with bony fingers. After what seemed like an eternity, he nodded and settled back into a reclined position. Lanky fingers quietly rolled the metal staff back and forth in a divot of the stone floor, creating a haunting rhythm as the Elf began…
“Most of the poem of heroes is true. Where it differs from truth is in location. The final fight for mankind did not take place just outside the walls of Ravenshead…at least not at first. The greatest battle of all began on the doorsteps of the amber tower, in the Elven city of Ephemiryl.”
The boys squatted on the stone floor, cold butts be damned. They were in for the long haul.
“You know of the crystals kept in the grand hall of Ravenshead? Where the festivals of purity and healing are held each year?”
The boys nodded. They not only knew of the crystals, but Morem often faked being mildly sick with a cold once a year just to get to touch the crystals. The rush of their power was a feeling that nearly everyone in the city was aware of.
“Well, those crystals were once used for devastation, not healing…and the person that had them almost destroyed Ravenshead.”
The boys’ mouths went agape—unbelievable. The Elf went on.
“You see, it took nearly a full century of study by the brightest sages in the land, but they finally figures out what the crystals are. They are what you want them to be.” This confused the boys and the Elf saw this, so he continued immediately. “You see, the crystal first came to this plane as a gift from Wee-Jas, goddess of evil and hate, to her most powerful disciple. She wanted more souls encased in her wall of ice so that she could pick through the painful memories and use them for her vile magic. The crystal acted as a focus, a lens through which to filter hate and anger, and each soul killed by it carried unbelievable pain and suffering into the afterlife—something Wee-Jas wanted very badly.”
As if swallowing a large lump of vegetables, the boys gulped and continued to stare in awe.
“But one man stood up this disciple, and the resulting battle shattered the gem into several very large pieces, scattered everywhere. Because of the battle and the intense mix of hate from the disciple and the courage and goodness of the warrior, the crystal’s powers were altered.” The Elf looked at the two bewildered eight year olds before him and re-stated the problem.
“The crystals were confused. Whoever touched them could tell them to do something. The crystal maintained its power to focus an emotion, but it accepted any emotion. If you wanted to be protected, it protected. If you wanted to be healed, it healed…and if you wanted to kill, it killed.”
The boys simply could not believe what they heard. The crystal, the very ones that sat in the center of the castle could kill! Every one of their friends had touched them at least a hundred times; whether it was because they had a cold, a scraped knee…or just felt sad—the gem made everyone feel better. And now they heard that this same crystal could kill. “Who would want the crystal to kill someone?” Trovyr asked.
“The Queen of Astoril.” The Elf went on. “She was convinced that the crystal would save the world through destruction. She was mad with power and it nearly cost every innocent soul in Ravenshead. It took many of the heroes you see here to stop her.”
“Tell us.” Morem asked with his head turned, enamored with the statue of a human female behind him.
“Well, as I said, it began in Ephemiryl. Just outside of the Queen’s chambers in her amber tower. Girud, the Half-Giant you see over in the corner, had just cut a swath through the guards to the tower and a call rang through the city, piercing the night air. The call was to arms for ‘The Master’ had arrived on the city’s doorstep. The heroes knew they did not have much time so once the path was clear, they burst into the queen’s tower and proceeded to cut their way to the top. Elven guard after Elven guard stood in their path, but the heroes would not be halted for theirs was a mission of life and death.”
“Because ‘The Master’ was at the city gates?” Morem turned his attention back to the venerable elf.
“That’s right.” The elf nodded. “And because the Queen had given Ravenshead a choice…surrender, or die like the Master had. She had tasted what the crystals had given to her—the power to destroy. In her arrogance, she thought ‘The Master’ had been defeated and so she sought to rule the world from her powerful tower. The heroes raced against her madness and against the march of ‘The Master’ once more.”
“What happened when they reached the top of the tower?” Trovyr asked in awe.
“The queen’s son stood in their way, an adversary the heroes had faced before. This time however, they did not best him with sword and magic, they bested him with compassion and reason. They showed him what his mother was doing and how her blind lust for control and power would undo the world. Together with the Prince, the heroes raced into her audience chamber and defeated the terrible Queen of the Elves. Krysta, the one you see over there, delivered the merciful blow.”
The boys turned back to the human female statue, one clad in full plate emblazoned with stars. “What about ‘The Masters’ army? Who stopped them?” Morem went on, keeping his eyes fixed on the statue of Krysta.
The Elf coughed a bit, his throat working hard to free the story from an old chest. “The heroes knew that firing the weapon so close the city of Astoril meant certain destruction and loss of more innocent life. So, backed by the Prince of the Elves, they made their way to the city walls and stood ground against a powerful army of undead that assaulted the city. They were victorious that day, their presence a morale boost for the Elves and certainly the reason they were victorious.”
“What happened to the crystals?”
“The Prince wanted nothing to do with them anymore.” The Elf addressed Morem. “And in the spirit of peace and togetherness, he rode them back to Ravenshead’s doorstep personally and apologized on his knee to King Sturmguard.”
The boys had heard the name King Sturmguard before. It was the name of a square in town where they played in the fountains, and it was also the name of their current king. They must be related. “So what about ‘The Master’? The poem says the last fight for mankind was on our doorstep…”
“I was just getting to that.” The Elf leaned forward on his stick, trying to keep the boys’ level of excitement up. “The crystals were returned by the Elven Prince and his personal army, but that same night, during celebration, someone else showed up. ‘The Master’ was well versed in undeath and though the heroes had defeated him before, his soul was contained in a device that brought him back within one week.”
“The jewel of the royal family!” Trovyr spouted the line of the poem emphatically; he was really getting into the tale.
“That’s right. ‘The Master’ was very clever and knew the safest place for the container of his soul was right beneath his enemies’ nose. He gave the container very powerful magic so that it would appeal to the wearer to keep it on and safe, and saw that it made its way to the King of Ravenshead. Then, immortal as he was, ‘The Master’ bided his time and waited for the gem to become an heirloom…something that the royal family would take good care of. When he was defeated the first time, it was of little consequence to ‘The Master’, for his soul was well cared for by his enemy and he reappeared only a week later.”
The Elf’s body was wracked by a short-lived spasm, a drafty breeze making him cold. He shook the shiver and continued. “But once more, the heroes, aided by every man woman and child in Ravenshead, stood there ground when the largest army of ‘The Master’ appeared that night. The Prince and his Elves held the wall. Sturmguard and his men manned the gates. Krysta and the Knights of the Purest Star led the charge into the oncoming army, cutting a swath through thousands of skeletons, undead ogres, mummified trolls and even a dragon of bone! On his war platform, ‘The Master’ met his dearth a third time at the hands of the banded heroes.”
The boys sat in silence, imagining the battle. They closed their eyes and saw these figures of stone around them taking life; the Half-Giant and his massive blade, the Dwarf and his huge hammer…all of them so vivid in their mind, crushing evil beneath their boot. It was all the boys could do to sit still…but one question burned in their mind, a question Morem promptly asked. “So what happened to them after the battle?”
Even though cloaked in shadow, the boys could see the wizened Elf grin. “When ‘The Master’ fell, his bony skull cracking in two on the platform, his army fell silent once more. Knowing ‘The Master’ could return unless they destroyed the container that held his soul, the heroes worked tirelessly to find the container. By that same evening, the heroes had finally pieced together the puzzle of ‘The Masters’ power—the gem around the King’s neck. It was Garor that took it from the King and smashed it with his maul on the stone floor, right there for all to see…’The Master’ was dead at last and for good. Then, in reverence of their saviors, the people of Ravenshead fell to their knee and bowed to the Heroes…even Sturmguard himself.”
The boys knew it was something special to get even a wave or a nod from the King during a parade. It was unfathomable to think of a King on one knee to anyone else.
“The Heroes saw this and knew that the good King Sturmguard had not meant any harm by keeping the gem and he certainly was a good man. They picked him up and made sure the people of the lands knew the King Sturmguard was just as much a hero as they were; a champion of his people.” The Elf leaned back, his voice dreamy and full of joy. “The next year was nothing but a celebration of life and peace. The Dwarves, Elves and Humans of the land did nothing but share with each other. Old allegiances were re-kindled without any hesitation, any regret.”
Trovyr looked bored, he wanted to hear more about the figures surrounding this hall. “Yeah, but what about the heroes? What did they do?”
The Elf lifted his steel staff with a grunt and pointed the end towards the beautiful human woman clad in full plate. “Krysta Johnson. When the battle was over, Adolpho Ustgrave, leader of the Knight of the Purest Star, turned command of the Knights over to her claiming he had never seen such bravery, courage or compassion in a single human before. It was unprecedented that a woman should rule the clan of holy Knights, but not a single one of them questioned the move. For the remainder of her life, Krysta led the Knights through the lands, righting any injustice and taking in the lost children of the war, those orphaned by the battles.”
The boys looked over every inch of her visage. She was strikingly beautiful, and something about her spoke of strength and courage, like she wasn’t afraid of anything. Her sword and bow cast in stone across her back told the boys she was an accomplished warrior.
“To this day, I’m told the Knights of the Purest Star carry out her will. They offer housing for orphans and train the finest Knights the land has ever seen.” The end of the staff moved down the line, settling on another woman. This one was draped in granite robes that flowed down her shapely body. Her hair was adorned with a jeweled headband and everything about her whispered power in faith.
“Adelia. She was Krysta’s cohort, even after the war. She traveled with Krysta and the Knights of the Purest Star but she also took an interest in the clerics of the Hidden City. When Krysta passed, Adelia saw her body to the Hidden City to be placed in the hall of saviors among her companions. Adelia remained in the Hidden City for another decade, serving on their council and commissioning these works of art here. When she passed, it is said the entire population of the Hidden City wore ebony for a day.”
The staff had begun to waver, but the boys would never notice it. Their eyes were fixed on the statues and their minds were wandering. The Elf went on, pointing at the Dwarf with an immense hammer slung over his shoulder. “I already told you this was Garor Skullsplitter. On the day ‘The Master’ fell for good, Garor lashed the two pieces of ‘The Masters’ skull together with leather and walked to the Dwarven halls of Bazarkrak, holding the skull high. He returned to his homelands a hero and I’m told the celebration of peace was the grandest at Bazarkrak…many of the humans visiting at the time had headaches for a year.”
The Elf’s ancient muscles finally gave out and the staff fell to the ground, the sound of its collapse echoing throughout the halls. “Garor remained in the halls of Bazarkrak until his death. The Dwarves of the mountain kingdom inscribed his name among their greatest and they still celebrate his day of birth as a national holiday.”
The Elf looked at the backs of the boys before him. It was no use pointing out who he talked about any more, they would get the idea. He looked to Girud, the tallest statue in the room. “Girud Sandstrider. A wanderer since birth, Girud finally saw to it that he returned to his home after the celebrations. Because he was a hero, Girud was offered a seat at the head of the Council of Gathered Nations, and refused it politely. He had wanted to be a protector of the people all his life and he had never let his guard down—even in the times of peace. He formed a militia at the Dune Palace, a guard for all that sought refuge behind their walls, and to this day that duty is one the toughest, most respected and most feared forces in the world. The Sandstriders see emissaries safely across borders, caravans unharmed to the edges of the desert and they ensure entire tribes of desert wanderers never face the dangers of the wastes alone. To this day, they have never failed an assignment.”
Morem’s jaw dropped in admiration. He looked over the bulging muscles, the razor-sharp blade and the grim features of the stoic warrior. Never before in his life had he heard of anyone so remarkable. His eyes slowly drifted to the next statue, one about a quarter of the Half-Giant next to it. His ears listened carefully as the guided tour of the hall of heroes went on.
“Alton Orcbane, Girud’s close companion and dear friend. When the war ended and the celebrations died down, Alton remained by the Half-Giant’s side and traveled with him to the desert city. Alton served as second lieutenant in the Sandstriders, head of their archery division. When Girud passed, Alton and the Sandstriders saw his body to the Hidden City and he remained there the rest of his life, setting up another archery school—the Bow of Wind academy. It remains there still.”
The next statue in line was actually a dual relief. One half of the pedestal was a grotesque little creature, the statue of a Goblin that looked as though the artist had tried to give the Goblin some resemblance of decency. The other half was a striking and regal Elf, tall and gallant. The two were complete opposites, a dichotomy.
“Mordrock the Strong.” The Elf continued. “Mordrock actually began his life as a slave in ‘The Masters’ army, but the heroes showed him compassion and he served them dutifully until he met his end in ‘The Master’ fortress—sacrificing himself so that the others could destroy the undead lich-king.”
“Who is the Elf though?” Morem asked.
“Mordrock as well. The clerics of Ravenshead, under direct orders from the heroes, brought Mordrock back but placed his soul in another body, that of an Elf. It was an awkward time for the re-incarnated Goblin, but he continued to serve the heroes as faithful as he was before he fell. After the war, he continued to follow his ‘true loves’, Krysta and Adelia, constantly trying to prove his worth to them. When Krysta died, Mordrock walked away and was never heard from again.”
The Elf paused here, retrieving a water skin from his pouch. He unraveled the leather holding the top and placed the skin to his antique lips. He drank deep, trying to keep his lungs and throat moist as he filled the hallway with this story. The boys waited patiently for the old Elf to replenish himself. As they waited, their gaze drifted to the next statue in line, that of a thin human man…at least he looked like a man. He stood with his arms crossed, the stone about his shoulders and neck carved to resemble smoke and the smoke itself filled with bats. It was a very imposing image made all the scarier by the fact the man had sharp teeth like a wolf.
“Yuri Brottor.” The Elf coughed out as he finished drinking. “It is said that in Boon’s Freehold—where the heroes first fought—Yuri offered the greatest sacrifice of all to free the rest of his friends from a fate worse than death, his soul. He spent the next few years of the war earning the right have a soul once more, becoming a good aligned, undying soldier for Ravenshead. After the war, Yuri went on a search for his once good friend, Romar. Yuri sought his friend so that the two could atone for sins done during the war together, to walk the path of redemption as one. That search continued for nearly a century and Yuri never did find Romar. Since he cannot die, Yuri is still around today…but his whereabouts are unknown to most.”
The next statute in line was not a statue, but rather an empty pedestal with a simple plaque bearing a name—Romar Belamor. The boys looked quizzically at this empty pedestal and awaited the Elf’s explanation.
“Romar Belamor.” The Elf sighed heavily, his frail chest sounding more like a bellows-cramp as his story wore on. “The heroes were many in number when they joined the war and not all of them survived to see ‘The Masters’ fall. Romar was such a hero. There is talk among the sages that Romar was not a hero at all, rather a villain and a traitor. However, Yuri and other heroes claimed that Romar had done much good during his life and this fact could not be ignored. He was given a space in the hall of heroes and should record of his atonement ever surface, he will have a visage carved and placed here.”
“What do you think he did? Did he atone?” Trovyr asked in all seriousness.
The Elf rubbed his wrinkled skin through the fine wisps of hair. He thought about his response and slowly muttered it, his voice cracking with sorrow. “I wish I could answer that boys. I like to think that Romar was a good soul and that he sought redemption; hope that some deity took pity on him and saw him well into the afterlife…and that is all I can do, hope.”
The boys nodded respectfully. For the first time hours, they looked to the stained glass windows that dotted the space between the stone statues and the tapestries adoring the walls. The sun had gone down and the pains of guilt finally struck the boys—it was time to go home. They stood up, brushed themselves off and decided to conclude this little history lesson…at least for today. There were man more statues along the hall, not to mention the many tapestries and paintings; this place was huge in the eyes of an eight year old.
“Will you be here tomorrow?” Morem looked at the cloaked figure.
“I hope so.” The raspy voice responded.
The boys smiled a broad grin. Without much else said, they rushed towards the huge granite archway and into the grand hallway beyond. Their voices and footsteps echoed loudly, heard clearly by the old Elf as they ran home.
“I want to be Girud!”
“Ok! I want to be Yuri…or maybe Garor! We can tell Maura she can be Krysta! Let’s play tonight!”
“If we’re not in trouble…”
After that, the Elf could hear no more. There was a time when the Elf could have heard the boys run out of the grand hallway and even into the street beyond, but that time was long ago. It was a time so long ago in his life, that he barely remembered the fine details of it. He knew he was a rogue…and he knew he was a Goblin.
Mordrock mustered the strength to stand, leaning heavily on his metal staff. He shuffled his archaic form over to the foot of the closest statue, the same one he’d been staring at all day—Krysta. He reached out and placed a frail hand on the cold granite boot, his head leaned low.
“Mordrock is still strong, but without you here, I feel much, much weaker.” Mordrock lifted his head and looked to the other stone heroes lining the hall. “…All of you. I spent the remainder of the life I’ve had in this new body teaching all I could of the courage, strength and compassion I learned in your service. You spared my life, taught me what it was to live and I’ve done nothing but experience the world in new eyes ever since. But it seems that the war was so long ago that the land seems to have forgotten you…”
Mordrock thought back to the two small boys that ran out of the hallway moments ago, their minds filled with heroes and tales of wonder. “Well…maybe not all the lands.”
The venerable Elf moved away from the statue, tears leaving thin lines down the front of his robes. He straightened himself, brushed the salty trails from beneath his eyes and began the slow walk to the archway. Saying it to no one in particular, Mordrock made the same vow he made every day before he left this hall of heroes.
“So long as I breathe, others will hear your tale…”
And with that, Mordrock shuffled himself out of the hallway and into the night.
