The Heir of Jeragoth
The Lone Tagonic Elf

The early morning sun shone brightly on the pristine white stones of the modest house where Erienne lived with her daughter, two servants and a Novadi warrior. The younger of the two servants, Nola, was getting out the breakfast dishes while Bretta cooked. “I can’t believe little Miss Alana is almost a year old,” Nola said. “Time has sure gone by.”

“Aye,” Bretta replied. “I’m surprised the Baron’s stayed with ’em this long. He’s not one for attaching himself to his mistresses.”

“But none of them ever gave him a child,” Nola replied.

“They were smart,” Bretta retorted.

Nola looked taken aback. “I heard Lord Iliard tell Miss Erienne that she was very smart. He’s even teaching her how to read and write.”

Bretta made a snort of derision. “What good’s it gonna do her? A slave’s got no use for reading and writing.”

“Maybe the baron’ll free her,” Nola said quietly.

“When the moons collide,” Bretta muttered.

Nola fell into a discontented silence while Bretta hummed tunelessly as she finished up her cooking. They had just gotten the meals onto the plates when Iliard walked into the kitchen. “Good morning ladies,” he said cheerfully.

“Good morning my lord,” they said in concert as they both curtsied.

He inhaled deeply and said, “Bretta, it smells wonderful as always.”

Bretta blushed and murmured, “Thank you my lord.”

Iliard picked up one of the plates, leaned against the wall and started to eat. “Mmmm, delicious. You’re going to make me fat.”

Nola looked at him with undisguised admiration and said, “I don’t think that could ever happen, my lord.”

Bretta glared at her. Iliard cleared his throat. “You’re too kind, Nola.” He finished his meal and then put the plate in the sink. “I’m off to the Sage Academy. I shouldn’t be long.”

“Yes my lord.”

After he left, Bretta took off her apron and said, “I’m goin’ to the market. Make sure Erienne gets her breakfast before it’s cold.” Then she walked out the back door muttering about uppity servants getting above themselves.

“Yes ma’am,” Nola said with slight roll of her eyes. She covered Erienne’s and Alana’s plates and put them on a tray.

Erienne was sitting on the floor playing with her daughter when Nola brought the breakfast tray up. “Good morning Miss Erienne,” Nola said.

Erienne looked up at the girl, who was probably the same age as she was, sighed and said, “Nola, please just call me Erienne.”

“Yes m…Erienne,” Nola replied.

Alana looked up from her toy and smiled at the maid then lifted her arms. Nola put down the tray and picked up the babe. “Now aren’t you the sweetest thing.” She nuzzled Alana’s neck and the little one gurgled with glee.

Erienne stood and Alana held out her arms. “Ma.”

Smiling, she took her daughter saying, “Time for breakfast now.” She turned to the maid, “Thank you Nola.”

“You’re welcome…Erienne.”

When Nola got back downstairs, she looked out the window and saw Iliard standing just outside the front door. “Strange,” she muttered. “I wonder if he forgot something.” She shrugged and went back into the kitchen to clean up.

After she finished in the kitchen, Nola went to get the tray from Erienne’s room. She hadn’t quite made it to the staircase when the front door opened. Nola’s cheeks turned pink and she curtsied. “You’re back early, my lord.”

Nola looked up and froze. It wasn’t Iliard standing there in front of the now closed door. It was a woman, as far as she could tell. Lithe and muscular, she was covered from head to toe in close-fitting, gleaming black armor, her face concealed by a gossamer thin black hood. Wicked looking steel talons extended past the ends of her black-gloved fingers and on her belt was hanging a single rune engraved dagger.

When the woman took a step toward her, Nola found her breath. But the scream that rose to her lips turned to a gurgling gasp when the Assassin’s talons slid through her throat. Her gasp was silenced when the second set of talons pierced her heart. The Assassin eased her talons out of Nola’s body and let it fall to the floor. She inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of fear and death before she turned toward the staircase. A small smile curved her thin lips as she slowly ascended the stairs.

#

Iliard walked briskly down the hallway of the Sage Academy. A guard who resembled a small mountain was standing outside the door of the Master Sage. Iliard bowed his head slightly and said, “I am Iliard Candril, Novadi Master. I would like to request a small amount of the master’s time.

“Show me your dagger, Master Candril,” the guard replied.

“Of course,” Iliard responded. He carefully pulled his Novadi dagger from its sheath and handed it hilt first to the guard.

The guard examined both sides of the hilt, then closed his eyes and passed his hand over it. With a nod, he handed it back to Iliard. He bowed and opened the door, “You may enter, Master Candril.”

The Master Sage’s office was really a library, but then again, what else would it be? Every wall was lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves and in the center of the room stood four large, elaborately carved wooden cabinets. The Master Sage was standing in front of one of the cabinets replacing a very fragile looking scroll. He was a tall man, thin and slightly bent with age. His silver hair went well past his shoulders and his beard had grown down to his waist. He looked over at Iliard with piercing blues eyes and said, “Welcome Master Candril. I was told you have been coming here for instruction materials. You are teaching someone to read.”

“Yes, Master Lotaris” Iliard replied. “A young woman in my care.”

The Master Sage nodded. “Commendable, especially for one who has such a high destiny before him.”

Iliard cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. “It’s less than I should do,” he said softly.

The older man smiled. “Ah yes, I understand. There are times when bowing to a higher authority is quite difficult. But,” he went on, “I do not believe you came to me to discuss your teaching efforts.”

Iliard reached inside his tunic and pulled out a scroll. “This prophecy was found in a temple of Arnitath. Well,” he amended, “not this one. This is a copy I made. I wanted to know if you could find out more about it.”

Master Lotaris raised a thin silver brow. “You inscribed a copy of an ancient prophecy?”

Iliard looked surprised. “Inscribed? No I just memorized it and copied it down.”

The Sage chuckled. “That’s what inscribing is, young Master Candril. Prophecies have a magic all their own. When you inscribe one, you bring that magic to the parchment on which you have written.”

“Oh. I…”

“It is quite all right,” Master Lotaris said with amusement. “You have done no harm that I can discern. May I see the scroll?”

“Oh, of course,” Iliard replied, handing it to him.

The Sage read the scroll silently. When he got to the symbol at the bottom he looked up and said, “This symbol seems familiar to me. Do you know what it is?”

#

“Alana, eat please,” Erienne said as she tried to get her daughter to take another bite of her eggs. But Alana was more interested in her toys than in breakfast. Erienne let out a soft sigh and smiled. In many ways Alana was as headstrong as her father. She shook her head, put down the fork and wiped Alana’s face. Then she picked her up and went over to the window. “Look Alana, it’s a bright sunny day. We should go for a walk after my lesson.” Alana gurgled and put her hand on the window.

The door to the bedroom opened and Erienne said, “Nola, you can take the tray. Alana just isn’t interested in eating breakfast today.” When Nola did not respond, Erienne turned from the window and stifled a scream as she clutched Alana close to her.

The Assassin stood in the doorway, her talons still dripping Nola’s blood. She said something in a strange, harsh language and drew the dagger from her belt. The runes on the dagger began to glow with a sickly green light. Clutching the pendent on her chest, Erienne backed away until she was up against the wall. The Assassin laughed softly and spoke again as she started toward her prey.

#

“The symbol of Jeragoth,” the Sage repeated thoughtfully. “I have not heard the name in more than a hundred years.” His penetrating gaze met Iliard’s. “I can see, however, that it means something to you.”

Iliard shifted and cleared his throat. “The symbol is associated with my family.”

Aster Lotaris nodded. “And you cannot tell me more without breaking an oath.”

“Something like that,” Iliard replied.

“Well, I’ll not ask you to do that certainly,” the Sage said. “Where was the temple in which you found the original?”

“Here in Candril.”

Lotaris’ eyebrows rose. “A temple of Arnitath here in Candril? That is an ominous sign.”

Iliard nodded. “Aye. But that temple has been destroyed and the Novadi keep vigilant watch.”

“That is good to know.” Master Lotaris rolled up the scroll and said, “I will see what I can find out about this prophecy.”

Iliard bowed his head. “Thank you Master Lotaris, I…”

The Sage looked over at Iliard, who had frozen stock still. “Master Candril?” But even before the words had left him, Iliard was gone.

#

He was not wearing both of his long swords when he went to the Sage academy, so Iliard appeared in Erienne’s bedroom wielding a long sword and his Novadi dagger. The Assassin didn’t miss a beat. She sheathed the ritual dagger and launched herself at him talons first. Iliard met her attack with equal ferocity and sparks flew when their weapons clashed. Alana was screaming in terror behind him while Erienne was doing her best to comfort her. “Erienne, get down!” he shouted, “Shield her!”

Iliard drove forward, forcing the Assassin to fall back, away from her prey. This, he knew, was no ordinary Assassin. He recognized the dagger she carried—a weapon blessed by the High Priestess of Igea, goddess of pain and suffering, and filled with a poison so deadly a single drop could kill a man twice his size in seconds. The Assassin herself would be a Tagonic elf, one of the dark elves who inhabited the innermost regions of the Great Forest. Tagoni were strong and fast and had no compassion for humans—their Assassins were some of the best on the planet. Her armor would be made of mithril, supple and heavily magicked. The two weapons he carried now would not be able to pierce it. He would have to aim a strike at the small space between her armor and hood.

A burst of energy surged through him. After nearly a year of only sparring his fellow Novadi, at last a real enemy. He roared a battle cry that was heard out on the street below and swung his long sword around at her neck. She ducked the strike easily and tried to go under his defenses with a quick swipe of her talons. Iliard danced away, using his dagger to deflect the deadly talons.

The pair thrust and parried this way around the room, with Iliard always keeping himself between the elf and his charges. Erienne was doing her best to make herself as small as possible, a difficult task when holding a wailing infant. The Assassin matched him in speed and skill, but he had the advantage of endurance. An Assassin’s work was meant to be swift and silent. They did not train for prolonged fighting. Iliard’s best chance at defeating her was outlasting her.

The battle raged on. Furniture and decorations became casualties of their deadly dance. Iliard could sense that the Assassin was growing desperate. He stayed alert, watching for the smallest opening, waiting for her to make a mistake. The Assassin lunged to her left, drew a dagger from her boot and threw it with deadly accuracy at Erienne’s back. With a shout, Iliard swung his sword wide to intercept it, knocking it to the floor. But it was enough. It gave the Assassin the opening she needed. She dove into the space and raked him deeply across the chest.

He couldn’t breathe. The talons had pierced one of his lungs. He directed a small amount of healing energy to the wound, but he knew he wouldn’t last much longer without help. He reached out with his thoughts, “Assassin. Erienne’s bedroom. Hurry.”

#

Bertrand was sitting in his smaller audience hall half asleep. He was receiving a very important but completely boring report on grain production trends throughout the barony. Neridius’ urgent whisper in his ear ripped through his groggy brain like a shout.

He leapt up from his chair which caused several long scrolls to fly from him and clatter loudly on the marble floor. He ran at top speed from the meeting room towards his study with Neridius close behind. It had been many years since he had attempted to run anywhere and it showed. His study seemed a lot farther away than it had just that morning. He turned a corner and ran headlong into a servant, sending a wine bottle and glasses crashing to the floor.

Bertrand ran on, all thoughts driven from his mind except the need to save Erienne. Could he still teleport? He would have to. He turned the last corner and ran towards his study doors. They burst open under his weight with a loud crash. He crossed the room in three bounds rushing to the back wall upon which was mounted his sword. Bertrand ripped the magical long sword from its mounting and held the hilt tightly. He thought hard on Erienne and her bedroom and willed himself to be there. Nothing happened.

#

The Assassin’s talons had torn through the muscles and tendons of his chest and he was having trouble lifting his sword. He was losing blood quickly and his breathing was labored. If Bert didn’t arrive soon, it would be too late. His heart sank. Bertrand was no match for the Tagonic elf. Iliard couldn’t fathom why he had called on his brother in the first place. It seemed the battle was lost.

Iliard’s mind rebelled at the thought. He had taken an oath. He was bound by that oath to protect Alana—with his life if necessary. But nothing would be gained here if he died. He collected his thoughts. He focused his energy on his oath, on the child whose life he now held in his hands. A child who, one day, might be something greater than he could imagine. He could not fail her. He felt an unexpected warmth on the palm of his left hand. To his surprise, his Novadi dagger was glowing with a soft white light. Unimpressed, the Assassin leapt at him, trying to finish him. Iliard fell back, lifted his sword as high as he could and slashed at her left hand with his dagger. It went wide and struck her armored wrist. But instead of glancing off the tightly woven mithril, the dagger sliced clean through and drew blood.

For the space of a breath, time seemed to stand still. Iliard saw the open wound on the elf’s wrist and the blood on his illuminated dagger. He sensed her surprise and wariness. Elation filled him. This fight was no longer as hopeless as it had seemed.

Time resumed its normal course when Bertrand ran into the room, sword aloft, with Neridius close behind. Without glancing in his direction, the Assassin pulled a second dagger from her boot and launched it at the baron. Purely on instinct, Bertrand deflected the dagger with his sword—right into Neridius. The older man went down, clutching his shoulder. “It’s poisoned,” he gasped.

Iliard heard his brother curse as if from a distance. He had narrowed his focus to the Tagoni alone. He pulled from deep in his resources, blocking out the pain and weakness caused by his wound. This battle had to end now. He saw her tense, felt his own body move in response. He closed in on her, got his long sword positioned under her arms and, with a near superhuman effort, thrust both of her taloned hands upward. With a cry of triumph, he drove the shining Novadi dagger through chain links of the mithril armor, deep into her chest.

She made no sound when Iliard pulled the dagger from her chest and let her body fall to the floor. He took a few steps back and collapsed, the last of his reserves gone. The last thing he heard before darkness descended was Alana’s high pitched wail.

#

Someone was shaking him. As he rose to consciousness he moaned. He couldn’t breathe and the pain was excruciating. He tried to close his eyes again, to get a away from the pain, but whoever was shaking him was persistent. “Iliard, you must drink this.”

He recognized the voice of Neridius. He opened his eyes a little wider. Neridius was kneeling beside him holding a dark blue bottle. His exhausted mind registered the significance of the bottle. A healing potion. He tried to push himself up, but he didn’t have the strength, Neridius put his arm behind Iliard’s shoulders and lifted him just enough so he could drink the potion without choking. Even that small movement almost caused him to blackout with the pain. “Stay with me,” Neridius said, “You must drink it all.”

Iliard felt the cool liquid hit the back of his throat and swallowed reflexively. The healing warmth of the potion flowed throughout his body. His breathing eased and the pain lessened. “Thank you,” he whispered. He looked at the blood stain on the older man’s pale blue robes. “Poison?”

Neridius nodded. “But I came prepared,” he added grimly.

His brother’s face appeared at his other side. “How is he?” Bertrand asked.

“Better,” Neridius replied, “but he needs a Priest’s attention as soon as possible.”

“We’ll take him back to the castle,” Bertrand said. “Saranya can take care of him.”

“Teleporting could kill him,” Neridius said.

“Then we’ll have to do it the other way,” Bertrand retorted with a glare at his advisor.

Iliard looked up at his brother and croaked, “What took you so long?”

Bertrand flushed. “I forgot how to teleport.”

Iliard let out a short, wheezing laugh. “Figures.” Then he closed his eyes and slipped into unconsciousness.

Neridius stood. “He needs a Priest,” he repeated.

Erienne came over carrying a now whimpering Alana. She looked down at Iliard with tear-filled eyes. “Is he going to die?”

“No,” Bertrand said gruffly. We’re going to take care of him.”

“He saved us,” she said with a sob. “That woman would have killed us.”

Bertrand put his arms around her. “Well you’re safe now. I’m not going to let this happen again.”

Neridius, who had been kneeling beside the Assassin’s body, said, “My lord, did you see this?”

“What,” Bertrand asked.

The older man pulled aside the gossamer hood. “A Tagonic elf.”

“What the hell?! How did a Tagoni Assassin get in here?”

Startled, Erienne stepped back. “I don’t know how she got in. Iliard always locks the door when he leaves.”

Bertrand’s face turned red. “Leaves! Why the hell was he leaving? He’s supposed to be watching over you!”

Erienne’s eyes filled with tears again and Alana started to cry. “He only went to the Sage Academy.”

“What the hell for?”

“He’s teaching me how to read and write. I wanted to surprise you.” She started to cry softly.

“Ah damn, don’t do that.” He wrapped his arms around her again. “I didn’t mean to shout at you. It’s going to be all right.” He took a deep breath. “I’m bringing you and Alana to live in the castle. You’ll be safe there.”

Erienne looked up at him, her eyes now filled with joy. “Really?”

“Really,” he replied. She turned her face into his chest and began to cry again. He looked over her head at Neridius. “I’m going to take them to my study. I’ll send Gormin to clean this up.”

A scream rang out from the bottom of the stairs. “Damn,” Bertrand muttered, “I forgot about the servants. Wait here,” he said to Erienne. He hurried down the stairs. They heard him talking to Bretta in soothing tones while she sobbed. Finally there was silence and Bertrand’s heavy footfall on the stairs again. “Nola’s dead,” he said when he walked back into the room. Erienne put her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. “Bretta has a sister nearby,” Bertrand continued, “She’s going there.”

“We should go,” Neridius said, “He’s looking paler.”

Bertrand nodded and said firmly, “My study.” Then he looked at Erienne and asked, “Are you ready?” She nodded and leaned against him. He pulled them close and disappeared.

Neridius picked up Iliard and said softly, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

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