A Soldier's Life - 414 - Alhur

Chapter 414: Alhur (yes, I wrote 414 before 413. I think I need to end chapter 413 with them leaving for Sanctuary)

Alhur had assassinated one hundred and seven men in his service to the Kingdom, most of them Telhians. He remembered each one in detail and each one as being necessary. He had killed countless more with less surreptitious means. Now he was travelling halfway across the continent to track down a single Telhian—and maybe add him to his total. No, not a Telhian 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, 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 line.”

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, and for the Kingdom.”

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

Alhur had chosen the trade roads and would travel the continent by horseback. He never admitted it aloud to anyone, but he feared the sea. The fear traced back many years, to a voyage he rarely spoke of. He had been newly raised from the Rangers to an elite unit and given an impossible task.

He had been aboard a merchant ship bound for Telha, smuggled in a 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 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. 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 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. 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—artificers, the new young Emperor of Telha had once proudly boasted of in public. 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. The Kingdom needed leaders like him.

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. Then through Gorgiphia to reach the Kingdom of Nausis—all to deliver an ultimatum to a human. Alhur shook his head; once one of the most feared men on the continent, 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 brief you 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 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 your memory’s slipping—do not kill my sister’s lover.”

The message finished, Alhur returned the anchor 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 before he became a Ranger, and 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 always betrayed 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. 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.

His first issue occurred 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. It was too late when the Spellwarden noticed his perceptual drift spell form, and he was pulled into the checkpoint tower for questioning.

The human mage looked insufferably smug as she sat across from him, watching while the guards dumped the contents of Alhur’s saddlebags across 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 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. “That was abyssal magic—if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re not,” 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. He was going to have to play along.

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 valuable property. It didn’t work as they continued abusing his possessions. “At least, can I have your name, Spellwarden?”

The woman nodded, “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 token and a dozen gold pieces. 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 easier 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. It was a House that no longer existed, but the royal token should still be recognized.

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. They gave him a saddlebag and fresh supplies, but his favorite cheese was ruined.

Possibly add two mini-adventures for Alhur here if readers are interested in more with his POV

I might have to as Alhur is passing through the lands where the dungeon release happened and the Endless Dark creatures surged forth

Alhur stood before the gates of Veilmark. 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 living man.

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.

“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 house. The captain was unaware of its significance, and soon six guards escorted him toward the citadel.

The Hierophant’s chamber hadn’t changed much since his last visit a few centuries ago. The babbles 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. 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.

“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. Alhur had tried to be haughty and unassuming, but failed.

“Very well. I am Hierophant Elyssara Virethane. What urgent business do you have?” 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 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.”

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

© Copyrighted 2024, 2025 by AlwaysRollsAOne

No Permission is given to translate, copy, or repost this original work of fiction. If you are reading this on a site that is not my Patreon it has been stolen without my permission and is a violation of DMCA. Remember, this work is the result of my creative effort and is protected by copyright law. Removal or altering of this notification is an acknowledgment you are aware you are in violation of DMCA.