A Soldier's Life - 414 - Alhur's Journey (compiled and edited on 6-29-25, 5900 hundred words)

Chapter 414: Alhur’s Journey

Alhur had assassinated one hundred and seven men in service to the Kingdom—most of them Telhians. He remembered each one with perfect clarity, and each had been, in his mind, necessary. He had killed countless more through less subtle means. Now he was travelling halfway across the continent to track down a single Telhian—and maybe add him to his death roles. No, not a Telhian, he corrected himself, but an otherworlder according to Raelia and the mages. He flashed back to his conversation with General Glavien before departing.

Alhur packed his saddlebags in silence, the room dim in the morning light. He didn’t look up as he spoke, but sensed the man now standing there.

“I can make this easier for Raelia—and better for your nephew,” Alhur said flatly, slowly looking up at his friend. General Clalyn Glavien stood near the door, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

“Give the human a chance,” he said, reluctantly. “If he dies, I’m not sure my sister would ever forgive me.” He hesitated, then added, “Don’t let the fact that he nearly killed you cloud your judgment.”

Alhur’s expression darkened. “It was your sister’s fireball that nearly killed me,” he muttered.

Clalyn tilted his head, acknowledging the point. “Agreed. But no killing—at least not until you’ve delivered Raelia’s message.” Alhur fastened the final strap and stood. “No. Don’t kill him at all,” Clalyn said firmly as an order. “Even if he refuses to return. A child should grow up having a father. And that child now carries the blood of my house.”

For a long moment, Alhur regarded the man he had protected, fought beside, and bled for over seven decades. Then he nodded. “You know me. I’ll do what’s right—for your family, for the Kingdom, and for the unborn child.”

They clasped wrists in a warrior’s farewell. Then Alhur slung his bags over his shoulder and made for the stables.

Alhur chose the trade roads and planned to travel across the continent on horseback. He never admitted it openly, but he was afraid of the sea. His fear dated back many years to a voyage he rarely mentioned. He had just been promoted from the Rangers to an elite Ashen Company and was given a nearly impossible task of ending the lives of Telhian artificers who were well protected in the Telhian capital.

He had been aboard a merchant ship bound for Telha, smuggled in a secret windowless compartment deep in the hold. For days, the waves had rocked him to sleep, the muffled sound of water lapping against the hull a strange kind of comfort.

Then came the night when everything changed. Without warning, the ship shuddered violently. Something or someone had attacked. He couldn’t see what was happening, only feel the chaos as the vessel bucked and groaned under assault, and the noise obscured the crew’s screams. The thick wooden walls around him became a coffin as cargo shifted and blocked his exit. He was trapped, helpless, as the hull cracked and the sea poured in. Then the ship tore completely apart.

Dragged beneath the surface almost instantly, panic had gripped him. The darkness of night ruined his senses. He couldn’t tell which way was up. Disoriented, lungs burning, he had forced himself to still his racing heart, letting his body go limp to conserve what little air remained. Somehow, after an impossibly long few minutes, he oriented himself and surfaced.

The sea was eerily calm. Nothing but wreckage and no other survivors. He clung to a floating barrel for three days. His skin blistered under the relentless sun, and his body was drained of strength from the cold water. His only reprieve was balancing on the barrel, and his only sustenance was the strong lemon water inside it.

By the time he washed ashore on Telhian soil, he was half-dead, parched, sunburned, and barely conscious. He drank from a warm, muddy stream and slept until his strength returned. But he didn’t have time for rest. He had a mission; he was an Ashen Ranger of Bartiradia. The men who silenced those who needed to be silenced.

Within days, his three targets were dead. The new young Emperor of Telha had once proudly boasted in public about those artificers' skills and was deeply embarrassed by their death. As Alhur rode, he let loose a feral grin. That Emperor was now buried, and his empire was crumbling under its own weight.

The Telhian Empire could not be allowed to rise, innovate, and increase its artifact advantage. Alhur was not expected to escape after completing his task, but he did, and he went on to succeed many times afterward as well. After three centuries as an Ashen Ranger, he retired and trained the next generation of men to fight the Telhians.

It was during that training that a charismatic young elf caught his attention. He didn’t know how it happened, but over the next century, their roles reversed, and Alhur was willing to devote what remained of his life to protecting this remarkable warrior, Clalyn Glavien. He knew the Kingdom needed leaders like him, and he would protect Clalyn from himself and their enemies.

Alhur’s path was to take him south, through Gesedmuria, over a pass in the Dragon Spine Mountains, down into the Shiunyuet lands. From there, he would have to pass through northern Linshania, and then pass through the home of the Mage Lords, Keisinia. His final leg would be through Gorgiphia to reach the Kingdom of Nausis, all to deliver an ultimatum to a human. Alhur shook his head; he had once been one of the most feared men on the continent, but he was now reduced to courier duty.

As he was crossing the Dragon Spine Mountains a week later, his anchor stone heated against his skin, and he deftly retrieved it. The voice of the general echoed in the air around the stone.  “Alhur, I hope you are safe and making rapid progress toward Nausis. If I know you, you are probably trying to get there before Eryk. Please remember to use his name when you see him, so he does not needlessly attack you. I wanted to bring you up to speed on recent news. The new Telhian Empress is moderately competent.”

“She’s fortified her borders and claims to prefer diplomacy over war—but she’s a Telhian, so we both know how little her word is worth.” Clalyn let out a heavy sigh, the kind that always came before bad news.

“According to Empress Renna, dozens of excavated artifacts have been stolen from Atlantium. She told our King and the Esenhem Assembly that her diviners traced the thefts to the Brotherhood of Mitzra. Those snake-bastards are stirring again—meddling overseas, pulling strings where they shouldn’t. If she’s not just using them as a convenient distraction while her empire regroups, then we may have new trouble on the horizon. Take care, old friend. And try not to die. Oh—and in case age has affected your memory—do not kill my sister’s lover.”

The message finished, Alhur returned the anchor stone to under his armor. The serpent men were active again? They were a crazed cult of cold-blooded, scaled men who sought the eradication of those with warm blood. They had dared to cross the sea since Alhur’s youth, decades before he became a Ranger. The Mage Lords handled their armies after they rampaged through Gorgiphia. He remembered reading the histories, and hundreds of thousands had died—perhaps more than a million. No one welcomed the Brotherhood ambassadors to their court anymore, as they were always known to betray their allies in the end.

Alhur crossed the open plains of the Shiunyuet without issue over the next few days. His most powerful spell, perceptual drift, allowed him to avoid drawing attention to himself. He could even extend the aura to include his mount. It didn’t make him invisible, but it caused people and creatures observing him to slide their vision past him, not seeing him as a threat. The only negative was that the more people affected by it, the faster the aether drained from his core. However, it had saved him dozens of times in enemy territory.

He encountered his first issue at the border of Linshania and Keisinia. A Spellwarden Captain was stationed at the checkpoint, and Alhur cursed himself for not entering through the wild part of the border. Spellwardens, apprentices of the Mage Lords, were constantly trying to gain favor and surpass other apprentices. It was too late to divert his crossing when the Spellwarden noticed his perceptual drift spell form active, and he was pulled into the checkpoint tower for questioning.

The human mage looked insufferably smug as she sat across from him, watching as the guards dumped the contents of Alhur’s saddlebags onto the table. One pulled out a wrapped bundle, recoiled slightly, and gagged.

Alhur didn’t flinch. “Careful. That cheese bites if provoked.” He sat comfortably, as if he weren’t surrounded. He wasn’t sure what passed for contraband this far south—maybe the cheese was enough to have him locked away. People had certainly complained about its offensive smell before. “Will this take long?” he asked casually, his tone more polite than his expression.

The woman’s chestnut hair was frizzed, likely from yanking off the coif of her robe in haste when she spotted him. “Using magic in Keisinia is forbidden without a permit,” she said coolly, her lip twitching into a self-satisfied smirk.

Alhur didn’t blink. “I hadn’t crossed the border yet. Not officially.”

“Semantics,” the Spellwarden said, leaning forward. “That was abyssal magic—if I’m not mistaken.” For some reason, this woman thought she had him at a disadvantage. Why did humans always think they had the upper hand over centuries of experience?

“You’re not mistaken,” Alhur replied with a tired sigh. “It keeps rabble from bothering me on the road. And abyssal magic is not outlawed like necromancy.”

Her golden-brown eyes narrowed. “And I assume you think that rabble includes me?”

Alhur tilted his head, studying her. “Well… you did notice me. So clearly, not rabble.” A flicker of amusement crossed her face. “I assume there is a fine, and I can be on my way after paying it.” Alhur didn’t want to get delayed here. One Spellwarden. Four guards. Only the man near the door might cause problems if he alerted the barracks outside—he would have to die right after the Spellwarden. But blood would draw attention. And he wasn’t in the mood to be pursued across Keisinia. If this apprentice was favored, he could draw the attention of her Mage Lord if he killed her. He was going to have to play along with this tiresome game.

One of the guards dropped the unwrapped green mold cheese into a trash bin, and Alhur winced in pain. “That cheese is expensive,” Alhur said with mocking indignation. Maybe they would back off if they thought they had destroyed his valuable property. It didn’t work as they continued searching after a nod from the Spellwarden. “Can I at least have your name, Spellwarden?”

The woman nodded, still amused. “Nyssa Vellcairn, apprentice to Mage Lord Intherra of the Bound Flame.”

That name meant absolutely nothing to Alhur. The Mage Lords were human and rarely lived past a century or two. He fabricated a smile anyway. “Impressive. I have heard Intherra has been rising among the Lords.” A tearing sound came from the Alhur packs, and he winced as the stitching was torn to find his House token and a dozen gold pieces secreted inside the lining. The token was soon in the hands of Nyssa, who rotated it as she studied it.

“An Elven Royal Crest?” she said doubtfully.

“It is more subtle than wearing a ring.” Alhur held out his hand, and the Spellwarden placed the token of his Elven House in his hand. The images on the token glowed in violet light before fading, confirming his bloodline associated with the token. It was a House that no longer existed, but the royal token should still be recognized, if not by the Spellwarden, then by her Mage Lord.

The Spellwarden was at a loss and did the only thing she could do. She let Alhur leave, but he was certain her Mage Lord would be informed of his presence in the Kingdom and of his house crest. They gave him a new saddlebag and fresh supplies, but his favorite cheese was a regrettable loss.

Alhur rode alone through the hills. He had slowed his pace, not showing urgency because he didn’t want to draw the Mage Lord’s attention. While being ancient Elven royalty was enough to intimidate the Spellwarden, a Mage Lord would probably find him interesting, and he regretted that the token had been discovered.

It wasn’t long before his sixth sense told him something was different. He didn’t have any mystical way to detect scrying, just five hundred years of experience. There it was again—like an itch on the back of his head. Not painful, not even threatening. Just... annoying. “Ah, she is watching,” he muttered to himself. He assumed it was Mage Lord Intherra, unless her apprentice told someone else first. A possibility if the apprentice was seeking favor from another Mage Lord. It was not unusual for the apprentices of the Mage Lords to switch masters for more favorable conditions.

He just had to act as boring as possible, and she would soon find better things to do. Alhur didn’t slow his horse. He chewed on a bit of dried plum and looked out over the rolling Keisinian hills like a man on vacation. He gave a lazy wave to no one in particular as he passed fields.

The feeling didn’t go away, and Alhur started talking to his stalker when he was relieving himself. “Enjoying the view, are we? Try not to drool on your scrying pool, Lord Intherra.” He muttered, but she was unlikely to hear him. Scrying pools did not transmit sound, but she could be using a spell, but that was unlikely due to the extreme distance.

He stopped in a small village to water his horse. A cluster of human children gathered at a distance, wide-eyed and whispering, fascinated by the sight of an elf. Alhur ignored them and stepped into a cramped general store, ordering provisions. Of course, they didn’t have blue-veined cheese.

The sensation crept back—like static under the skin—and he resisted the urge to scratch the back of his neck. Someone was watching. Again. He turned his head slightly and muttered to the breeze. “Still spying? Rude. What if I were bathing? Or is that exactly what your scrying pool is for?” Knowing the Mage Lord couldn’t hear him, he winked at a nearby chicken and spent a full minute having a quiet, pointed conversation with it. Then, without another word, he mounted up and rode on. If he was going to be watched, he might as well make the experience confusing.

Later in the day, a misty rain fell. The trail was mud and mist. Alhur pulled up his hood and hummed an ancient tavern song slightly off-key. The Mage Lord’s magic brushed his senses again, a pressure built in the air around him. He chuckled. “You're not even trying to be subtle now. Did you lose your favorite apprentice? Or are you just lonely, Intherra?”

He dismounted to rest in a grove of silverbark trees, made tea, and poured a second cup beside him on a flat stone. “Here. Since you insist on tagging along, you might as well share the heat of my stone.” He raised his cup toward the empty air, sipped, then got comfortable for a brief rest while his horse mowed the grass nearby. He leaned back and closed his eyes, smiling faintly as the Mage Lord watched him in.

It was on the fourth day in Keisinia that the Mage Lord’s patience finally ran out. Maybe he had just ridden close enough to her territory to provoke her into action. The road ahead shimmered—intense heat without fire. Alhur pulled his horse to a halt just as a flame took shape in the middle of the road. Having seen a lot in his centuries, he recognized what the mage had done. She had created a flame through her scrying device and then teleported between two flames. This confirmed Lord Intherra was as powerful as the Spellwarden claimed. He wasn’t sure what the spell was called, but it allowed a mage to pass from any flame to another within her sight. She was cheating using a scrying pool to extend her sight.

She arrived like a spark catching dry tinder, materializing in the center of the flame wearing ember-colored robes. Mage Lord Intherra of the Bound Flame stood tall and stern, her staff lightly planted beside her with a large ruby on top of it. Her complexion was too perfect, likely spelled, and likely a result of vanity. He admitted her glossy, long black hair was attractive to his sensibilities.

Her voice carried the weight of command and of someone used to obedience. “One of Caelorian’s royal line, strolling through Keisinian lands without invitation. Bold. Or foolish. Perhaps both. And yes, my scrying pool can transmit sound to me.”

Alhur smiled pleasantly. He had to remember everything he had said over the last four and a half days when her eyes were on him. Alhur arched an eyebrow. “A powerful artifact indeed. Why do you see fit to interrupt my journey?” He laced annoyance in his words.

The Mage Lord blinked once, not expecting the disrespect. “You are confident. I should have expected the old blood to be crass. Maybe I should temper your attitude in flame.” The air shimmered around her, and he could feel the heat even at twenty paces.

“My blood has nothing to do with my confidence. I am always an ass to those I do not know and interfere with my path.” Alur remained on his mount and took out a pear to eat. Alhur smiled while he chewed. “I may be disrespectful. But I am surprisingly resistant to heat, as it turns out.” He activated his fire spell form, firebane aegis, which could mitigate the heat and flame of even a fireball—if it was active. One of his strengths could counter the mage’s own.

She studied him, golden eyes glowing faintly. “Why are you here, descendant of Caelorian kings? What business do you have in my lands?”

“None, as I told your Spellwarden. I am just passing through to deliver a message to an individual in Nausis.” He tossed the pear core on the ground, and Intherra eyes did not follow it. Alhur assessed her as someone who had seen battle and was not above simple trickery. Being a Mage Lord, he was uncertain of the human's true age, but she was not one of the most powerful of the Lords; if she had been, her name would have been familiar.

Alhur was reasonably sure he would lose a fight with this woman in the open, but he wasn't going to be cowed by a human. The Mage Lord pushed back her hair. First, she tried the stick, and now she's going for the sugar. “Is it true what they say about your blood?”

Alhur just wanted to pass, but he wouldn’t lie. “That we are the only ones who can speak to dungeons? No. That is a lie.” The woman looked upset with his reply, but her mind was working.

“Have you ever talked to a dungeon?” She asked more directly.

“I could lie to you, but I won’t. Yes, I have, and it was about as entertaining as this conversation.” The flame behind her flared, and Alhur knew he needed to tone back a bit. He could protect himself, but not his horse from fire. He resignedly answered her. “My ancestors were the ones who formed the Pact with the dungeons. However, it means very little to me, and dungeons are not good conversationalists. A dungeon will talk with anyone if given the proper motivation, not just those who carry the blood of those who formed the Pact.”

“Then I have to ask a favor of you. All the dungeons in the central continent have expelled their creatures continuously for the last three days. The Runeforge Halls are within my lands, and I ask you to investigate,” she said politely.

“I have the blood of the first Caelorian Kings in me—diluted, watered down, and of no real use to anyone except to make an ancient token emit some light. I also have a message to deliver of great importance, and time is of the essence.” Alhur answered her with as much decorum as he could muster.

“I will deliver the message for you,” she offered with a cunning smile. The heat receded, and she held out her hand, expecting the message to be handed to her.

“The message needs to be delivered in person or it will not be seen as credible,” he answered steely. He had been turning over dozens of different impactful ways to deliver Raelia’s message on his long ride.

Her smile faded, but her body language did not appear threatening. “You’re remarkably flippant for someone alone on my road, in reach of my magic.”

Alhur looked down at her boots, then back to her glowing eyes. “And you expect me to be friendly to someone who’s clearly been spying on me for four days.”

That earned him a quiet laugh, low, musical, dangerous. “You have nerve, Alhur Larethian. Know there are things on the wind that signal change—and not for the better.”

She was trying to tempt him with an information exchange for his help. He considered telling her that the Brotherhood was active again, but he didn’t have time for a tea party or a detour to a dungeon. “I am not responsible for your dungeon break, nor did I play a role in creating it. I really must attend to my business.”

She was not pleased with his reply. “Very well,” she said coldly. “You are free to pass through my lands, but I will be watching.” She vanished in an eruption of fire. Nothing but a circle of ash was in front of him now. She likely returned to a fire in her residence far away—impressive magic.

He exhaled through his nose as the air smelled of grease left too long on the heat. “Bound Flame, indeed.” He no longer felt like he was being observed for the following two days. Maybe the Mage Lord was respecting his privacy, or she found another way to track his progress. He had let too much slip in their conversation.

Alhur crested the hill at a trot, the morning sun casting long shadows over a sprawling town in the distance. Stonebarrow, according to the signpost, but it was just another dot on his map. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and guided his mount down the slope. He would pass through the center of the town, and his spell form would keep him unseen. High-pitched screams erupted as he entered the commons in the center of the town. Desperate screams—the kind that only come when something horrific is happening.

There was a sudden eruption of people running between cottages, fleeing something. One of the retreating men had a pitchfork and was swearing and bleeding from a wound on his arm. In the distance, a dog barked once, then yelped in death. A furry mass scuttled across the road. A monstrous rat, possibly from the dungeon that the Mage Lord wanted him to evaluate.

Alhur stayed mounted, observing. Six, maybe ten of the dog-sized beasts, scurrying through the streets and into houses. Their eyes glinted red, meaning they were dire rats—a foul creature with jaws that could snap a femur.

He reached for his waterskin, calmly taking a drink. It was not his problem. Then came the child—a human boy no older than eight, sprinting down the lane, bare feet slapping mud. A rat the size of a wolf burst galloped behind him. The child screamed and looked back, panic froze him, and caused him to stumble. Alhur sighed, kicking his heels in to charge the rat.

“It’s always the children that get to me,” he muttered, tossing the waterskin to the ground.

He dismounted in one fluid motion and drew his blade. The light of the morning reflected off the mirror-like finish of Bloodbane. The boy screamed in pain as he was tackled, and the rat latched onto his calf. Alhur was on the rat before it could climb up the boy's body and bite into his neck. The rat turned toward the new opponent, hissing. It lunged, its bloodied, yellow teeth bared. Alhur stepped aside, pivoted, and sliced into its spine with a single downward slash. The rat collapsed, its jaws working weakly and its eyes filled with hate.

A second rat had appeared and had been trying to attack his back, but he was already moving. He spun, using a fence post to pivot, and drove his blade into the rat’s red eye, killing it instantly. A third and fourth reached him as he extracted his runic blade. Both rats were aiming to hamstring him, just as they had the screaming boy. Alhur stepped back, sword ready, and let a charging rat impale itself on the blade. A fifth was coming after his horse, and he cursed himself for stopping to help. He should have just ridden through and let the humans solve their own problems.

He extended his arm and pulsed an attack at the giant dire rat closing in on his horse. The aetheric pulse rattled the rat's senses, causing it to veer away confused, giving Alhur the chance to turn on the other rat. The creature was too stupid to realize three of its number were already dead to a vastly superior predator, and he made short work of it before turning on the final rat and finishing it too.

He grabbed his reins, as his horse hadn’t wandered far. A stupid animal, but lucky for him, in these circumstances, it hadn’t run. The boy was still screaming, but the townsfolk appeared to have handled the other rats and would get to him in time.

Alhur’s blade was perfectly clean, as its artificed effect was to bleed opponents and absorb their blood. He sheathed it and waited only a moment to confirm a woman was rushing to the boy’s aid before turning his horse and continuing his ride. Shouts from the woman and more townfolk erupted behind him, urging him to stop and thanking him for his assistance. Alhur didn’t turn around. “Not my problem,” he said flatly, but it was likely that no one heard him. And with that, he rode out of Stonebarrow without another word.

The Mage Lord had warned him, and throughout the day, he had to change course multiple times to avoid creatures released from the dungeon. Whatever had happened was spreading, and he considered heading to a city to contact Clalyn and see if he should abandon his mission and return to Bartiradia. The problem was that agents of the Mage Lords would observe anything he did in the city. Clalyn could also contact him, but his anchor stone had remained cool for weeks.

He was thankful for his ability to move unseen, and decided that moving day and night was necessary to escape the area where the dungeons were afflicted. The forest was peaceful under the glow of Neptune’s Tear as he walked along the wooded road. Just insects and owls spoke in the night.

His horse was getting tired from the long, continuous journey, and he was thinking about trading it for a new one at the next town. A sudden loud crack shattered the silence. He froze, the night air seemed charged, and his mount was becoming uneasy. It was a war-trained steed and shouldn’t be acting this way without at least first seeing the creature.

A towering outline emerged from the shadows—scales gleaming like shattered glass, reflecting the blue moonlight in a dazzling kaleidoscope. He recognized it. A young crystalline dragon, its eyes glowing ice-blue, moved with unnatural grace, its claws scraping stone and earth as it advanced. Alhur was fighting the same paralysis that his mount was. Dragon fear—he could overcome it, but needed just a little more time.

Before Alhur could react, the dragon’s massive tail whipped through the air, shattering his mount’s ribs and nearly breaking his own leg. The horse tumbled in pain and panic, tossing Alhur off. With a brutal swipe, crystalline claws tore through the horse’s side. The horse screamed, thrashing wildly and helplessly. As Alhur bounced across the ground, his senses returned, and he drew his sword, considering retreat.

The young dragon turned away from the horse, no longer seeing his meal as a threat to escape. Its focus was now on Alhur. The dragon lunged, its shifting scales sounding like muffled cracking ice, jaws wide, with shards of crystal teeth. Alhur dodged, rolling aside as the dragon’s claw churned the earth where he had been standing.

He slashed upward, his runic blade biting into a shard of hardened crystal on the dragon’s foreleg. Fracture lines formed, but the scale held, and the creature would be able to repair it in time. The tail whipped around, and he had not been prepared. The blow connected, throwing Alhur painfully across the ground for a second time. Pain exploded across his ribs. He gasped, tasting copper and grit.

Desperately, he crawled to his feet, ignoring the burning pain. He still held his sword. The creature was truly resplendent, and he could admire it in the moonlight. It appeared to be inspecting where Alhur had cracked its scale, maybe in disbelief. He couldn’t beat this opponent without surprise on his side. And what was this pseudo-dragon doing on the surface? They lived and hunted deep in the Endless Dark.

It was strong enough to see past perceptual drift, so there was no fleeing. He looked at his horse, struggling to breathe. He circled to it, cut its throat, and then retreated a few steps. He was not only giving it a merciful death but also hoping the crystalline dragon could be convinced that it only needed a single main course tonight.

Alhur kept backpedaling, and the dragon didn’t want to leave its kill, standing over it and watching him go. Alhur dug for a healing potion and drank it, his ribs popping as they healed. His saddlebags held what he needed, so he hoped the dragon didn’t swallow them. In the distance, he could hear the dragon feasting messily. He wasn’t sure what irked him more: that the Mage Lord had been correct, or that he had succumbed to dragon fear from such a young specimen. He waited in the thicket until the dragon left hours later. He reclaimed his damaged and bloody saddlebags and continued on his way. He would increase his pace, and get free of this chaotic land.

Alhur stood before the gates of Veilmark two weeks later. This would be his third time passing through its iron-bound gates. The first had been to return the body of a fallen Death Hunter. The second time, he was sent by the Ashen Rangers for lessons in recognizing and destroying the undead. Now, he had come to retrieve a human.

When the gates creaked open, a guard captain stepped out, flanked by two sentries in heavy armor. Alhur took a moment to recall the hand signs used by the Death Hunters—subtle gestures that formed a language. He had never been part of their organization, but over the centuries, he’d aided enough of their number to earn a measure of respect and instruction.

Without preamble, he spoke. “I’m not in the mood for delays. Take me to the current Hierophant.” The stout captain regarded him with skepticism, but Alhur was sure he had provided the correct signs for an urgent message.

“I will form an escort for you. How would you like to be announced?” the man said, with a note of suspicion.

“Alhur Larethian of House Caelorian,” Alhur said, amused at using his dead and disgraced house. The captain was unaware of its significance, and soon six guards escorted him toward the citadel. Clearly, he did not inspire trust.

The Hierophant’s chamber hadn’t changed much since his last visit a few centuries ago. The baubles on the shelves seemed to have been rotated, and the woman sitting in the seat had changed. His escort kept him within easy reach in case he tried anything. The Hierophant looked familiar, but Alhur couldn’t place her—maybe a daughter of an elf he was familiar with. The captain announced him in a crisp voice.

“I present to you Alhur Larethian of House Caelorian, an irritable, impatient, old elf,” the captain announced. The Hierophant smiled at the introduction. Alhur didn’t mind and just wanted to end this pursuit. He was still deciding between three different ways he would present Raelia’s message.

“Is the old elf of a dead House so dangerous that it takes six men to guard him, Solvar?” Elyssara said, amused.

“Yes, that is the impression he gave me,” the captain said seriously. Alhur mentally corrected his assessment of the captain. He was more competent than Alhur initially gave him credit for. Alhur had tried to be haughty and unassuming, but apparently failed.

“Very well, they can remain. I am Hierophant Elyssara Virethane. What is the urgent business you have with me?” The elf woman stood and approached him.

“I’m trying to deliver a message to a man escorting a child,” Alhur said, relief stirring beneath his calm exterior. “The child has golden hair and was brought here to study necromancy. The man has black hair and I was told he likes to bathe—a lot.” He still hadn’t decided if he would kill Eryk or not, but this hunt was almost over.

“You missed them by two weeks,” Elyssara said, her tone cool.

“Missed them? Are they dead?” Alhur’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“They’re headed to Sanctuary for training with the Death Sentinels. They’ll be watching over the Isle of the Dead, but they’re very much alive.” Elyssara allowed herself a small, knowing smile at his shock. “The only way to deliver your message now is by crossing the Endless Veil Ocean. The next supply ship leaves Nausis in a year’s time. You are more than welcome to wait her for it.”

A year of waiting, followed by as much as two months at sea—then he would have to sail back—another two months at sea. That realization hardened something inside Alhur. When he finally caught up to Eryk, killing him was sounding more and more like his preferred option.

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