When the Elves are Gone Read online

  When the Elves are Gone

  J.B. ALLEN

  Preface

  Where to begin? I must admit to you that this work in progress seemed more work than progress at times. Always a labor of love, the novel took more than a few years to nail down. Truth be told, it would have been easier to write any other genre than fantasy, especially one that involves a different race than the skin I cover myself in now. But that’s the beauty of fantasy, isn’t it? endless possibilities with no box to conform it to standards of logic and reality as we know it.

  This novel dives into the story of misery. Who among us has never reveled in their own misery, perpetuating it even as we uttered the words, “I must stop.” We hold tightly to misery with our strong hand while we work to break it loose with the weak one. The dwarf in this story is any of us who has seen the face of misery and struggled to free ourselves from its binds. Compelled like many of us to redemption, he feels the only solution is to trek the journey alone, that is, until help arrives in the most unlikely of places.

  Of course, a true journey would be nothing without those that make you greater. The people I surrounded myself with while writing this novel were truly of the highest caliber and I am thankful for them. My wife and family who never complained when fantasy often took me to another world. I love you. My bestestest friend, Greg, who somehow managed to read this novel more than a few times, even when most of it was unreadable. I hope you see your love of all things fantasy and your very thoughtful and wise insight in it. Men like you come around only once. Erik, who also managed to chew through this and offer me solid and sound fantasy advice, I can only hope that the thanks I express has the legs to extend beyond what words can. J. Howard, thank you for reading and helping me to enjoy the villains as much as the heroes. This is no small feat, yet you helped me to see all things as purposeful. Dave G., Thank you for loving this project, even in its infancy. Its men like you that encourage little people like me to write. Felix Ortiz, the incredible artist who brought the companions to life. I knew the moment I saw your work that you were the only one who could do it properly, you are a testament to your profession. Thank you, Shawn King. You have captured an “old soul” in both character and author and managed to give the book a fresh feel at the same time. And lastly, a very special thanks to my editor. And last but certainly not least, Kimberly Steffen. You miraculously made a bunch of words read like a true story. Thank you for showing me how to tell it without making it somebody else’s. To say you are a professional would be an understatement. You are a portion of the heart which pumps life into our main character. And without further ado…

  Misery has a story.

  To give an account of its tale might seem deplorably cruel. It is, without a doubt, agonizing in its rawest form and ugly in its delivery. Misery often is ignored or skirted like a minacious shadow in a dark alley. But Misery’s story is a warning, and we avoid it at our peril.

  Sufara

  Sealed within an empty room

  Alone, so cold and dark,

  Light has gone, candles burned;

  Thy shadow left a mark.

  Scent of lily lingers on,

  Eternity to bear;

  Warmth of skin too sweet to touch

  Could never be as near.

  If not fate’s choice but mine alone,

  Would always keep thee here;

  Thou eyes would hold me tight to thee,

  My sorrow disappear.

  To brush thy lips just one last time,

  I’d surrender life to thee,

  Through flame and sword and death I chance,

  If only one to be.

  In empty room, I sit apart,

  Too dark and cold to move.

  Thy light is gone, thy candle cool;

  Mine shadow leaves no mark.

  --Agonni

  Book I

  Chapter 1: The Lost Souls of Journey’s End

  The place the dwarves called Journey’s End sat deep within the bowels of the great dwarven kingdom of Stone Deep. The inferno set in the center of the remote cavern cast a crimson glow, flickering sporadically against the ancient rock’s surface. The raging fire spit clouds of smoke and flame, plastering the walls with white ash and hot char. This fire burned so hot it was rumored that it could melt metal. The heat, so intense that a keg of cool water brought in to quench the tomb kindler’s thirst would come to a boil if not consumed immediately. The unbearable heat stifled breathing, choked lungs, and dehydrated the body. None came to this desperate place unless necessity directed it.

  Thirteen would make the journey tonight: four tomb kindlers, a priest, and eight corpses. Individual ceremonies had been held two days prior for those that had family.

  The trip to Journey’s End would be made only once this nightfall, a rarity for the dwarves known as tomb kindlers. It was not uncommon for the grim group of dwarves to travel this road two to five times on any given night. On some days, the entire evening was consumed transporting the dead of Stone Deep to the great fire at the end of the kingdom, several miles toward the center of the mountain.

  Although the funeral for these eight corpses had already been held, it was customary for a priest to escort the remains to Journey’s End, where the deceased would receive a final send off to the after-world.

  The duty of escorting the dead was normally given to the lowest in the priesthood, usually young, newly graduated priests brimming with devout theological aptitude and brash opinions about a world they had not yet experienced. Tonge, the youngest son of the second-high priest Andrrak, was tasked with the four-mile trek through Visions Pass this evening. The hour was late, and the young cleric had only mildly protested being woken from his warm bed for the duty.

  Tonge was tall and thin by dwarf standards and prone to coughing fits he made no effort to stifle. His hands were soft and clean, matching the smoothness of his pale chin. Endless brush strokes had worked to straighten his hair, and his dwarven mane ended at long sideburns which curled endlessly. As a small child, he had been teased on more than one occasion that one of his parents must have been an elf.

  Squinting at the mirror, he gingerly wrapped his spectacles around his ears. He rather enjoyed putting his spectacles on after he was dressed. It afforded him the opportunity to admire his recently acquired tunic, a deep purple and silver robe crafted of fine fabric. It was, after all, the required attire of the priesthood. Tonge stared at his reflection, fighting the right sleeve caught inside his robe while absently reciting the evening’s ritual verses in his head. Already late, he sat for a moment longer in front of the mirror. His lips turned upward into an awkward smile that revealed crooked yellowed teeth. His eyes lingered a moment longer upon his reflection before he grudgingly turned his head and left the room.

  The young dwarf sauntered lazily through the narrow streets of the eastern district of the great Kingdom of Stone Deep. In the distance, Tonge watched the stoked orange glow of a blacksmith’s fire. Seeing an opportunity to present himself, Tonge adjusted the folds of his tunic and deliberately slowed his pace for the blacksmith, who was busily hammering blackened metal.

  Bright-orange shards of fire streaked like lightening and bounced off the blackened stone walls in the smith’s small, charred quarters. Though Tonge desperately hoped the grizzled smith would recognize him as a member of the priests’ order, the smith continued hammering rhythmically at the thick metal, paying no mind to the young dwarf. Tonge pursed his lips in disappointment and quickened his pace, anxiously aware of his tardiness. He wished the duty of escorting the dead was confined to daytime hours.

  By the time Tonge reached Visions Pass, the four tomb kindlers had already loaded the corpses in pairs onto four wooden wagons, parked in a line
. A pair of thick wooden arms extended from the front of each two-wheeled wagon, and metal rings connected the arms to old leather harnesses, which like the wood, were dark and smooth from wear. Each kindler had already inspected the leather for cracks and tears and the smoothed, fire-hardened wood for splits and damage. Tonge could see when he entered that the kindlers were already harnessed to the front of their wagons. All four were visibly irate at having to wait for the young priest.

  The four-mile trek to Journey’s End was difficult—and near impossible without a harness. Erring on the side of caution, the kindlers had packed an extra harness under the fresh blanket of hay on the last wagon. Each kindler assumed responsibility for his own wagon, so an extra wheel and tools were also tucked neatly into a small shelf underneath each. As was customary, the bodies, wrapped tightly in a thin, off-white cloth with various fluids seeping through the material, had been loaded by weight distribution, not family nobility. For kindlers, the dead held no rank; all were of the same standing now. Even class, with its expectation of consideration, didn’t carry one further through Visions Pass. The one-way trip ended in the same place for everyone whose heart no longer beat.

  The kindlers had mixed a mash of ingredients together and placed the paste in their nostrils to ward off the stench of the dead. The black, tar-like substance was thick and oily, making it difficult to remove, but the powerful citrus smell did a fine job of deadening the foul odor of death that sought to invade their nostrils.

  Tonge entered the staging area, the large stone room the tomb kindlers called Deaths Stable, with an air of entitlement rather than embarrassment and walked silently to the front of the small convoy. He looked around. Two doors, opposite each other, graced the enormous place, and a lone sentry stood vigilant at the second. Upon seeing the young priest, the stout sentry uncrossed his arms and stroked his long beard. He turned his head, spat on the ground, and then swung the large, wooden-plank door open. A rush of heat blew through Deaths Stable, causing the smell of death and loose hay to swirl about the chamber. The young priest felt his stomach knot, and he tightly held in the urge to vomit. The tomb kindlers seemed not to notice.

  The sentry folded his arms again and stood to the left of the large doorway, which revealed an endless, chiseled tunnel. Each side of the long corridor was torch lit as far as the eye could see, bathing the stone passage in a flickering yellow-orange hue that resonated like the haunting glow of a bad dream.

  Without a word from the tomb kindler, the first wagon bucked forward, the rattle of metal disappearing as the harness stretched. The first dwarf leaned hard, pumping his strong legs forward, turning the wheels of the waking cart as it labored forward. The second wagon lurched, then the third, followed by the fourth.

  As with most places, death in Stone Deep was neither uncommon nor remarkable. Tradition had taken the place of compassion long ago, leaving statues in place of family and recited eulogies in place of lamenting loved ones. The dwarven kingdom of Stone Deep was an unforgiving place filled with unforgiving dwarves. It was, without the slightest doubt, built in the likeness of the very dwarves who lived within its walls: simple and cold. But what it lacked in intricate stonework typical of dwarves, it made up for in complexity and purpose. The dull-gray streets were meticulously carved from the mountainside they paved. Polished and smooth, they lacked the slightest sign of hundreds of years of wear. Flat was how most dwarves described it, however; it was neither uphill nor downhill. The only things that rolled on Stone Deep’s city surface had to be pushed or pulled.

  Long ago, however, the dwarves of Stone Deep had carefully crafted the tunnel to Journey’s End to run slightly downhill. The entire four-mile stretch dropped precisely ten feet and ten inches by the time it reached Journey’s End. It was recorded that the exact measurement ensured easy transport to Journey’s End with cargo and easy exit without. The road had been laid with gravel and smoothed and flattened over centuries of use. On occasion, the track was meticulously combed to dissolve the rut marks left by tomb-kindler wagons.

  Tonge squinted through rippling waves of heat exhaled from the gravel track, focusing with weak eyes on the colorless kindlers. Strapped to the first wagon was a foul-faced dwarf named Mundarth, who had wiry hair, a toothless scowl, and an air of sickness about him. He began to grunt a cadence with each step, and one by one, the other kindlers took it up, their low drone echoing through the low-ceilinged cavern. The echo of the four kindlers’ lamenting cadence made the young priest uneasy. He had done the duty once before and hated it. He had been a priest for over a year now and could think of at least twelve new priests who had not done the duty yet. The thought angered him as he glanced back at the pathetic row of carts in tow. He was, after all, the son of Andrrak, the second-high priest of Stone Deep. He had no recourse but to talk to his father in the morning.

  He remembered the first dwarf, an ex-convict. What was his name? Mund…Mundar? Mund something. No matter, he thought.

  The second dwarf, Gimar, had been a tomb kindler since Tonge was a small child. He guessed his age to be around ninety. Gimar was probably the oldest kindler on duty. His eyes and face revealed his true age, but his shirtless chest boasted young muscles under old, leathered skin. Although there were no ranks among tomb kindlers, Tonge guessed that age and experience made Gimar the unwilling leader of the motley crew.

  Tonge looked intently at the third dwarf. His unkempt, dark-auburn hair sat like a bird’s nest upon his head. His visage was gray and depressed, as if he were in perpetual pain. Tonge could see that his eyes were bloodshot and somber; they seemed to bore through whatever they were set upon. But it was the flesh of his face that drew Tonge’s eye. Young maidens once may have called his plump, rose-colored cheeks handsome. But now his skin looked tortured, as if sharp objects had been ground into it, leaving dark-pink scars and fresh ribbons of crusted red.

  Tonge fought the urge to look away, even moving closer to the scowling dwarf. He must be the one they called Agonni, Tonge thought. The young priest shook his head. He dropped from the head of the caravan to walk next to him, tripping over the hem of his tunic. The young priest’s nose curled involuntarily at the strong odor of alcohol on the dwarf’s breath and seeping pores. His once-yellow shirt fit his broad shoulders poorly and stretched tightly across his distended belly. Old sweat stained the armpits and back of the shirt, and fresh sweat saturated it. The dwarf kept his eyes straight ahead, on the unending path before him.

  “Are you the one they call Agonni?” the priest asked.

  The dwarf continued chanting in a low, rhythmic cadence, never shifting his bloodshot gaze from the wagon in front of him, his dark eyes wearing a pain that the privileged apprentice’s inexperience prevented him from understanding.

  Tonge, figuring he would get no response, shrugged his shoulders and shifted his eyes to the fourth kindler, the sight of whom caused him to shift nervously, unconsciously creating space between himself and the fourth wagon. The enormous ogre half-breed stood just under seven feet tall and pulled his wagon with treelike legs. He looked as though he could easily tow loads that would cause other kindlers to falter. The mounting heat had plastered the half-breed’s worn shirt to his gray skin, revealing his huge, barrel chest and bulging arms. The young priest dared a brief glance at the half-breed’s bald head, which resembled a chiseled stone block atop his thick neck. The ogre swiveled his head enough to expose two large, yellowed fangs sprouting from his perpetually grimacing lower lip. Tonge quickly turned his head away like a child who’d been discovered staring too long. He thought better of trying to speak with the ogre half-breed they called Jaar.

  As the caravan churned slowly down the lonely rock corridor, the sweltering heat intensified. The corridor stretched endlessly, magnifying Tonge’s impatience with the journey. He was required to be in constant prayer, but every priest knew that the walk to Journey’s End was an annoying duty rather than a priestly sacrifice. It was well known that this was the worst job for any priest in Stone
Deep, and a certain degree of tolerance was assumed.

  Just as he had last time in approximately the same place, Tonge decided that he hated the duty of accompanying the dead. The confining tunnel did little to ease his irritation; worse was the frustration of feeling lost while moving in a straight line made him hateful. The trek wore on like winter’s end, lingering infinitely and allowing the trekker no concept of how far he had come or how much longer he must travel.

  The unusual group labored on for four agonizing miles. Each tomb kindler, drenched in sweat, subconsciously picked up his pace as the large cavern called Journey’s End came into sight.

  At last, the tomb kindlers unbuckled their dark-leather harnesses, laying them carefully on the hot gravel. Free of their shackles, they could still feel the dragging weight of the carts pressing upon their beaten shoulders.

  Tonge was miserable in the clinging heat and frustrated that he had no one to take it out on. He knew better than to show his mood to the kindlers. Do these kindlers bear no sense of urgency? he screamed to himself. The temperature was unbearable now. He adjusted his collar to release the heat building inside his tunic.

  Traditionally, the bodies were prayed over one by one, starting with those in the first wagon and working back to the last. The first two kindlers walked slowly to the rear of the first wagon and carefully lifted a body. They stopped and looked toward the young priest with irritable eyes.

  Tonge, dazed by the heat, suddenly realized they were staring at him. He had been consumed with the flickering reflections of the flames on the cavern walls and momentarily forgot his prayer duty. The heat continued to grab at him oppressively. He shook himself back to reality, and the kindlers shook their heads in aggravation.

  Tonge began chanting slowly. The kindlers grimaced with pursed lips and glares that could pierce stone. Slowly, they dragged the body from the wagon and carefully carried it toward the colossal birth of fire screaming from the hole in the center of the cave floor. The young priest continued his prayer, choking now and then on the heat and ash given off by the inferno. The fire roared like a lion after a fresh kill, making Tonge’s chants barely audible in the enormous place.