This book is dedicated to everyone who supported my writing, but mostly to my father, who valiantly slogged through thousands of pages over several rewrites and who proof-read, edited, and commented on every page and run-on sentence.

Rose Prophecy

Book I: Shatter

     The world is a cruel-minded being.

     This I have come to know and to accept countless times throughout my long years in this existence. Our loved ones shall leave this world and fade away into oblivion, blown from our memories like leaves in an autumn breeze as time continueth to flow in its never-ending stream. Eventually there shall be no one who remembereth that we helped to build the world and shape it into what it is today. And yet, time marcheth on to the rhythmic beat of the cosmos, heedless of the mortals who call to it, entreating but a moment’s rest.

     But if the world is as cruel as I say, then why do we exist at all? Why do we not give up our lives here and now, to depart to the life beyond life, to Eterne, where we shall live for eternity in tranquility? Perhaps this life doth hold some promise in return for the suffering it offereth. Or maybe I am simply a fool for thinking such thoughts.

—PureDove Falconis

     The castle was in ruins.

     It had once been a glorious place, built of white marble called up from the ground through powerful magics and woven into the trees as naturally as anything in the great forest. Its winding halls, many now collapsed, meandered through the boughs of pines and oaks almost aimlessly, but crafted with Elven design—that of functionality hidden beneath layers and layers of beauty. Now, fires smoldered in most of the enormous treetops, the oaks and maples crying out to the world in anguish as their life forces burned away.

     Bodies were piled two and sometimes three high in the graceful, winding corridors that had once been filled with light and laughter, the white walls stained with the blood of the soldiers who had given their lives defending their homes and families. Small fires danced here and there in some halls, and the remains of a lightning trap still flickered with residual energy, although not nearly enough to kill or even seriously injure even the weakest of enemies.

     A falcon flapped in the breeze inside the great throne room, a falcon embroidered onto a banner, the only one not touched by the destruction. The vaulted ceiling above no longer watched the room from overhead, but there was no trace of rubble, or even dust on the floor. Whatever had destroyed the roof had disintegrated it so completely that not a trace of it remained.

     Now there was nothing else to do but wait for the castle’s final destruction. Nothing could ever rebuild it to its former glory; forever would it be remembered as the house of yet another great family that had fallen to the dark forces of the Drakoch. The old wizard lamented with a sigh that he would no longer have a house to serve, no Patriarch to love, no laughing children to train. He shook his head with remorse but shed no tears. War and death were simply facets of life, things to be accepted, even if they had to be accepted grudgingly.

     He sat calmly in a crumbling room made of finely carved, white stone that seemed to flow up from the ground, creating elegant patterns and statues and relief sculptures depicting heroic battles and epic romances. Or rather, patterns that had once been elegant. Out of the four statues that had once adorned the room, only one was recognizable—and just barely at that. Its surface had been partly melted away, and it was missing an arm, but nothing could hide the inner strength of that figure, the form of Yenfarnen, the Elven god of strength and war.

     The mage suppressed a half-hearted chortle. It was disgustingly ironic that Yenfarnen’s statue still stood, even though the battle had obviously turned against the defenders. Well, he thought, best not to dwell on such matters.

     The wizard shifted, and his velvet robes shone slightly in the light of the moon—dark, subtle reds and deep violets flashing in the dim light as the garments settled. Along the borders of his clothes, runes embroidered in thread-of-gold glimmered even brighter than the rest of the robes, shone so brightly that it could not have been just moonlight reflecting off the metallic threads, nor even light from the smoldering fires in the room.

     Thin hair the color of snow cascaded down his robes to sweep the stone upon which he sat. His visage was calm, accepting, friendly, and wise, and as he sat, the old mage thought only that as long as he took down a good number of Drakoch with him, he could die at least somewhat pleased.

     He absently moved his fingers through the motions of a spell, though no fire or lightning flared from his fingertips. It wasn’t even a spell that he had prepared for this battle; he merely needed something to take his mind off the events to come.

     A minute later, he had nearly dozed off when a small flare of blue light whirled around his head. He started suddenly before remembering that it was just another of his many layers of protection against his enemies. In fact, three such spheres of light lazily danced in the air around him, illuminating him alternately with pale green, blue, and orange light. He swatted one of the orbs aside, and the motion caused his sword to clank softly at his side, the sound muffled slightly by his thick robes. The enchanted blade shuddered as if it were a living thing; tiny lightnings crawled up and down its edge, visible even through its scabbard. While his garments were elaborate, he was not dressed for a ceremony: this was war, he reminded himself, although the current lack of anything to fight might suggest otherwise.

     A rumble from a distant part of the Falconis castle caused him to glance at the archway for a second before turning back, his features blank. The soldiers would eventually make their way here, but judging by how faintly the noise arrived at his ears, he had time to reflect on events gone past.

     The Drakoch troops had begun by blasting apart the castle’s walls with every destructive spell they could muster, followed by an impressive barrage of siege projectiles. The giant ballista bolt jutting out of the wall was testimony to that. It was typical of them, though, for the Drakoch had not as many fighters as the Falconis family did… or once had. Most of them were dead by now, the wizard thought. Soon he would probably be joining them in Eterne, the final heaven for all elves, but at least he had lived a long life. He could not, however, spare any pity for the soldiers. War was a terrible thing, but ultimately it was the soldiers’ choice to fight, and they had decided to take up arms against their horrible foe, despite the overwhelming number of soldiers and evil magical might that they faced.

     The next time, when it came, the noise was closer, and he could make out a few shouting voices. From time to time he heard a scream as the Drakoch forces encountered one or two hiding Falconis elves. As much as he would have liked to rush to their aid, he had his orders, as well as a matter to which he must attend that was more important than those few lives. As long as Patriarch Falconis still drew breath, the old mage was his liege’s servant, his court mage, one of the mightiest archmages this side of the Galeini Umarnya, the mountains to the east of the Falconis castle.

     They come at last, he thought a few minutes later, as he began to pick out individual voices in the fray. He raised his hands, and a visible barrier grew in the air around him, enclosing his body in a sphere of blue magic. Drawing wands into his hands and preparing his spells, the aged wizard readied himself for the last stand.

     “Come, foolish warriors. Face thy judgment at the hands of Master Rumazzen of Falconis!”

     PureDove Falconis twirled amid his foes as gracefully as the most dexterous dancer in a troupe of entertainers. His dance, though, was a dance of death, and it was not entertaining to those with whom he reveled.

     In his hands he spun a sword with two blades, one on either end. Runes of immense power blazed furiously along its edges as he whipped one end across at neck height, removing his latest foe’s head with a grand fountain of blood. Spinning, he stabbed fiercely to his side, his blade sliding through the next warrior’s armor as smoothly as a fine needle through porous fabric. Guiding it to the other side, he deflected a blow aimed at one of his allies, sparks flaring into life as his magical weapon unleashed its power through the weapon that PureDove’s opponent wielded.

     As this latest enemy fell to the ground, smoke pouring from under his armor, the Patriarch glanced at his underling. “Art thou well?”

     “Aye, I am fine. Thanks be to thee, Patriarch,” said the weapons master-in-training, a rather young elf of rough complexion and even rougher manners.

     “Dance on, then,” PureDove called as he cut his way through Drakoch troops like a farmer harvesting grain. The other elf, Eldammareth, saluted with a wielded dagger before sinking the tiny weapon into the eye of a closing fighter. Paying the salute no heed, the Patriarch shouted, “We must soon relinquish the field, however. Prepare to retreat! To the Grove!”

     Eldammareth nodded gravely though he knew the Patriarch could not see him. Hacking away at the armor of a fresh foe, he quickly backed away, fading into the thinning throng of Falconis soldiers to relay the orders to everyone else.

     Lamerie Falconis patted the black-haired head of the child who stood in front of her, his face buried into her robes in fear. “Hush thee, love. Despair not, for the ZYO shall be with us this day.”

     “Do not let them hurt Father!” the boy wept into the white robes of the motherly priestess. Ever since the boy’s birth mother had passed away, Lamerie had been given the task of raising him as her own. She was the high priestess of the Falconis family, the wisest lady in the castle, and thus was given the task of rearing the second son of PureDove Falconis. He was a boy of only ten winters, a raven-haired child by the name of NightHawk Falconis. Lamerie valiantly held back the tears that jumped into her eyes at the thought that this child would have to endure a calamity such as the one going on around them now. In truth, she was not sure whether he would be better off surviving or dying this night. She encouraged him anyway.

     “Nobody can defeat thy father, Master NightHawk. He is the strongest fighter in all the land. Believe in him,” she said. Some of the other clerics in the chamber looked sadly at the boy. They held scrolls of holy power unrolled in their hands, ready to unleash a blast of searing light if and when enemies drew close to their location.

     “I know! I do believe in him, Mother! I really do! Just let him be safe….” NightHawk’s tears soaked a small area of her robes. Lamerie knelt and hugged her foster son close.

     “Know, then, that I pray for thy father with all my might. The ZYO guide his every step. Everything that shall happen is their will, and they are wonderful gods, NightHawk.”

     She looked up as the patter of a lone set of feet approached. “Eldammareth, weapons master trainee, my Lady,” said the priest when she looked at him. She nodded.

     “My Lady,” Eldammareth said as he quickly sketched a bow, “I come with a message from Patriarch PureDove Falconis. We are to retreat as soon as is feasible, and to take refuge in the Grove.”

     “The Grove?” Lamerie’s face was calm, but her voice betrayed her surprise. The Grove was the most holy of all places in the Falconis compound, the place where they would be forced to make their last stand and possibly flee with their lives, if they could. If they had to fall back to that location already, it meant that the battle was going badly for the Falconis warriors.

     “Aye, I know what thou thinkest, my Lady,” the male said, “But ‘tis the Patriarch’s desire. Thou must move, and fast, as the foe closeth swiftly upon this locale.”

     “Mm,” Lamerie nodded and rose carefully. “NightHawk, didst thou hear? Come; we shall protect thee, young master.”

     The black-haired boy nodded and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. His small velvet cloak rippled in a fashion that made him seem the prince that he was meant to be. She sighed. He was meant for greatness, but this would not be the day he achieved such a role.

     Taking his hand in hers, she signaled for the others to move out, and the circle of three priests and four priestesses did so, forming a protective ring around their ward. Then, speaking to PureDove through the mental rapport they had shared for many years, “Come quickly, Lord Falconis. We have little time.” They walked as fast as they could through the ruined castle to reach the Grove.

     PureDove barely heard as Eldammareth fought his way through the Drakoch soldiers and piles of dead bodies toward where he stood, a bastion against the hordes of evil. “Master Falconis! Preparations are complete! We may withdraw for now.”

     “Excellent.” With a wave of his hand, the Patriarch tossed a line of powder onto the ground, muttering an arcane phrase. In a brilliant flash of light, a barrier sprang into existence, barring the path of the intruders. The arrows and swords that touched the wall sizzled into a shower of sparks and a crackling hiss.

     “Come,” he said, “Let us flee to that most sacred of places in our home.” One last Drakoch warrior, wounded, was attempting to stand. Mercilessly the Patriarch cut him down with a blazing-fast swipe of his blade. The most powerful elf in the Falconis family spat upon the dead body before taking up the rear as the patrol retreated. The wall he created was not invincible, and already a group of Drakoch spellcasters were blasting it apart with spells of dismissal. It would hold for a while longer, though.

     The sound of many running feet closing in put the circle of clerics on their guard, and one of them almost started to cast a spell from his scroll when PureDove’s troops rounded the corner behind them. “Lady Lamerie, continue onward!” came a call from the Falconis soldiers, and the clerics eased their guard slightly as they hurried themselves on the way to the Grove.

     “Of course,” replied the clerics as one. “Lady Lamerie, we must fly swiftly.”

     “Yea, Erbrandis, I know. NightHawk, here,” the priestess leaned down and scooped up the boy, gracefully straightening and running, taking care not to trip on the stones and debris strewn about the hallways.

     A small detachment of the soldiers moved out to take up guard positions around the clergy, while another group hurried past and the others remained as a rear guard.

     “Father! Father! It is thou, yes?” NightHawk called back, seeing the black hair, gleaming armor, and furiously glowing swords that all belonged to his sire.

     PureDove flashed his second son a smile. “Of course, my boy, ‘tis I. Why, didst thou doubt me?”

     “No! Never!” NightHawk cried back, feeling stronger and safer in the presence of his father. Nobody in all the land could face his father in a fair fight and win; the boy had been witness to that truth several times during the tournaments held each year, he remembered with satisfaction. On Lamerie’s shoulder, NightHawk grinned furiously back at his father, who nodded decisively at him once before checking to make sure there was still no pursuit. The barrier had not yet been broken, but he would be able to sense when that happened.

     The entourage ran on through the vast labyrinth of white stone, all of them lowering their eyes and taking steadying breaths as they looked at the destruction that the Drakoch had wrought. They passed several of the famous archways in the house: the wedding ceremonial entrance, the coronation hall, the throne room, and many others, all of which brought forth memories in the minds of the retreating army, who pushed them aside in this moment of urgency. If they had time later, then they would mourn the past, but not now.

     The whole group skidded to a halt as they entered what looked like a battlefield. Bodies wearing the tinted armor of the Drakoch lay draped over the stones in this room.

     PureDove, though, grinned. “Master Rumazzen. ‘Tis surely a pleasure to know that thou still drawest breath.” He stamped out a small magical fire by his foot, left over from the spell-battle that had previously raged in this room.

     “Bah,” came an answer from a gloomy corner of the room, “These were but bold youngsters. Foolish, as well,” he added, “and now dead.” Rumazzen the archmage stepped out from the shadows, where he had been waiting again, almost hoping for more difficult enemies. “I grew impatient waiting for ye, my master.”

     “Indeed. So they have penetrated this far already?” He motioned for most of the group to continue on, and they did, leaving only four soldiers to aid PureDove if he was in dire straits. The sounds of their feet on the floor receded into the once-bright halls as Rumazzen spoke.

     “Yea, but only a small group, probably only an advance force. Reconnaissance, perhaps. The hallway from which they entered is now sealed, though.” PureDove correctly supposed that the wizard had collapsed the ceiling to prevent any further intrusion.

     “Good work, Master Rumazzen. I have but one more favor to ask.” Rumazzen nodded for him to continue, but PureDove shook his head. “I shall define it in the Grove. For now, I need for thee to remain stationed here if thou hast yet enough magical might, and to defend us from the rear. When we reach the Grove, thou art to retreat to the same place. There I shall give thee thy task.”

     “Of course. Go on ahead, then,” Rumazzen said, pushing back the sleeves on his robes to reveal a ready stash of more magical items. “I’ve yet enough spells to take out a legion or two.”

     PureDove blinked and brushed his raven hair out of his face. “Then, I hope to see thee shortly.” Without another word he raced off with the other four Elven warriors.

     Rumazzen did not watch them go. Instead, he sat down on the same stone upon which he had been recumbent before the Drakoch warriors had interrupted his musings.

     Soon enough the soldiers would arrive and he’d have his hands full blasting them to tiny pieces. It was a shame, really. So many youngsters lately had been throwing their lots in with the Drakoch, and in turn they all lost their lives. The few that did climb the ranks of the rogue family still lived in constant fear of retribution, from above or below, as the hierarchy in any evil organization was determined solely by the speed with which one could eliminate any threat to one’s position.

     Few People outside that family understood why the youngsters had joined. The Drakoch family was a splinter of the noble and widely popular Drakis family, an enormous group that lived in several Houses in many different locations. Drakis members were often found in governmental or otherwise influential positions in society. That was what baffled most of the People. Why one would throw away such prospect was a mystery to most.

     Rumazzen paused in his thinking and looked out into the nighttime’s starry sky. Clouds covered some portions of the heavens, but two of the world’s three moons shone brightly, sending their soft rays down on the land known as Iterra. Beautiful, aye, but by no means were the moon’s rays helpful this night.

     The wizard glanced up, sensing the ripple left over from dissipated magic. Patriarch PureDove’s spell must have finally toppled. He’d only have a minute or three before more soldiers came rushing to their deaths. But something was wrong. He cast out a small tendril of seeking magics, only to discover that there seemed to be no soldiers at all. His magic told him that they still waited at the barrier, though it had clearly fallen.

     Concerned, he drew himself to a standing position, and once more he was encapsulated within a sphere of protective magics. Few spells could win past his protective mantle, but if some spellcaster was powerful enough to block his seeking, then he ought to be more cautious, so he wove another mantle with his power, and stood, waiting.

     There it was. He sensed it. “Come out, Drakoch. I can see ye, easily as a beacon in the night,” he said. The Drakoch had foolishly teleported to an area within Rumazzen’s magical sight, which enabled him to see things invisible or incorporeal. “I am no mere mageling. Leave now, and perhaps ye might keep hold of thy life.”

     “Nameless Falconis mage,” addressed the newcomer as the sound of armored feet clanked its way toward their location, “Neither am I any apprentice. Lacarien of Drakoch am I, harbinger of thy death!”

     This would probably be over quickly, Rumazzen mused, as the Drakoch fell into the casting of a spell. The Falconis mage identified it as a fireball, a staple of the spellcasting diet of most inexperienced mages. Rumazzen sighed and waved his hand in a short, watery motion. With his other hand he crossed his thumb under his first two fingers and then flicked it outward. All three magics came into effect. First, a tangible wall phased into existence at the doorway, blocking the Drakoch warriors from the entrance.

     “Not again,” came some cries, “Mages, to the front! Take this one down, too!”

     Paying them no heed, Rumazzen watched as his own second spell met with the Drakoch’s fireball, and both fizzled into nothingness.

     “Not as powerless as ye thought, eh?” Rumazzen said as the Drakoch blinked in confusion before he scowled.

     “Nay, nay, mage. ‘Twas but a test. Thou art more adept at recognizing spells than I had thought at first.”

     “Address me not as ‘mage,’ youngster. I, Rumazzen, am the Archmage of the Falconis family. Now, may we dispense with the façades and begin battle?” The old wizard raised his hands as if preparing to cast a spell.

     “Aye, let us to spells!”

     They both began casting at the same time. The Drakoch recognized the spell that Rumazzen was preparing and dropped his own spell to prepare to defend against this attack. His feet lifted off the floor not a moment too soon, as stone spires protruded from the ground, spires which would have impaled him had he not moved.

     Rumazzen hardly glanced up at the airborne mage. Instead he focused on the fact that his opponent had unwisely forgotten to raise any sort of mantle. The Drakoch was now tending to that matter, but Rumazzen’s spell took effect first this time, and Lacarien’s flight spell failed, sending him plummeting toward the ground. It was only a fall of about forty feet, but it would do a good bit of damage anyway.

     Lacarien composedly kept concentrating on the task at hand. He knew he couldn’t cast another spell to restore his flight in the second or two it would take him to hit the ground, so he finished his current magic, and at last a barrier grew around him, protecting him from direct attacks. He hit the ground at an odd angle, but his mantle absorbed most of the damage, dissipating the impact over the rest of the shell.

     Rumazzen threw his arms out as if in disgust, and from his sleeves rolled the form of a cloud. Upon closer inspection, though, it was not a cloud at all. The other mage’s eyes widened as he realized that these were the spirits of those dead that still lingered here. Hastily he made a wiping motion with his hand that caused a new, shimmering barrier to surround his person. It was just in time, as the ghosts brushed against it in their motion, and they kept moving as if in a river, disappearing through the wall.

     He quickly pulled out a needle from his spell pouch and gently tossed it into the air. It sped toward his opponent’s mantle, carrying with it a small amount of spell-stuff, a wisp of energy that was barely detectable to the magic-imbued eye. It contacted Rumazzen’s shields, and without delay, Lacarien thrust as much power as he could through that tiny hole.

     He watched as Rumazzen writhed within his own shields, which kept the energy from escaping. The Drakoch relaxed as Rumazzen’s body crumpled to the ground—and winked out!

     “Never let thy guard down in a spell-duel, O bold youngster,” came a warning from behind. There Rumazzen stood, whole and unhurt, with his spell-mantles still in place.

     The Archmage of Falconis plucked the needle from the air, where it was still stuck in his web of magic. “Interesting little spell. I devised it myself, actually. Here, let me show ye how it really works.” He put the needle to his lips and blew gently on it.

     Lacarien grimaced, realizing that he had no time to evade this attack. He watched with a mixture of dread and interest as a spray of tiny needles struck his mantle. Then, ever so precisely, Rumazzen went through the few motions that would unleash a great amount of energy.

     In but a few moments, Lacarien dropped to the ground, his spell-mantle shattered and smoke pouring from every orifice in his body. Rumazzen stood over him, shaking his head in a combination of exasperation and regret. Yes, it was a shame indeed that these younglings were swept into the torrent of evil that plagued this world.

     He watched as the barrier he had raised slowly faded away before Drakoch magics, and he was about to raise another, more violently reactive barrier when a strange tingling in the back of his mind told him that PureDove had reached the Grove.

     “I have not the time. ‘Twould be best were I to conserve my power.” Rumazzen shrugged his old, tired shoulders. Lazily swinging his arm up in front of him, he called up another barrier. He would have liked to take the time to craft a particularly nasty wall, but his orders were clear. “And away do I fly.”

     Twisting his hands into complex motions, he brought into being a glowing portal wreathed in soft blue flames that did not lick at his skin or clothes. Stepping calmly through the portal, he disappeared, and the magic of the spell caused the gate to close behind him.

     “Ah, thou art arrived safely. Prepare thyself, then, Master Rumazzen,” PureDove greeted him cordially as the old wizard stepped through a magical gate identical to the one through which he had exited the destroyed room a ways back in the castle.

     “I am ready to meet whatever foe they might throw at me, Patriarch,” Rumazzen replied. He drew a warped, white wand into one of his hands and looked around at those who had made it to the Grove. There were only about fifty, he guessed. Only a few of them seemed wounded: the Drakoch fought to kill, not simply to injure. Most of their foes’ blades were enchanted to kill with merely a touch.

     He looked up, slightly startled, as more armored feet clanked their way through the halls. How had the enemies arrived here so quickly? When he saw his Patriarch calmly awaiting the arrival of the newcomers, he, too, relaxed. “Ah.”

     “PureDove, son.” PureDove Falconis greeted the family heir as he arrived with a decent-sized detachment of Falconis soldiers.

     “Father. It is good to see thou art in good health,” PureDove II said, kneeling. His black hair cascaded over his cloak as his knee touched the ground.

     “And I thee. Please rise, my son. Thou hast as much command at the moment as I. Kneel to me only when I sit upon my throne.”

     “Of course.” PureDove II rose, his scabbards clinking gently as they swayed back to their original positions. “What news? My brother?”

     In response, Lamerie stepped forth, guiding NightHawk toward his older brother with a steady hand. “Here he is,” she replied for the Patriarch, “We shall stop at nothing to ensure that he is safe. Fear not.” She smiled in a motherly fashion and sketched a quick bow.

     “My apologies for doubting thee, my Lady,” PureDove II said almost curtly. Then, turning to his father, he asked, “What are our plans? Are we to flee or fight?”

     PureDove looked gravely at his son. It would probably be for the best if he did not know what was going to happen in the minutes and hours to come. “A bit of both, I am afraid. Lamerie shall lead as many as she can away from here. They shall take refuge in the closest temple.”

     “But that is in Malsheni! To travel there now is a day at least, Father,” PureDove II pointed out.

     “Indeed, so it would be, but Lamerie hath spoken to me that she hath prayed this day for spells of speed and transportation. The refugees should arrive at Malsheni within a quarter hour. Is this correct?” He looked at the high priestess, who nodded back to confirm his claim. “The rest of us shall remain behind until the magic taketh effect. Then we, too, shall flee and meet with the others as soon as we may.”

     “How many are leaving, then?”

     PureDove glanced around. Two of his troops were too badly wounded to continue fighting, even with the clerics’ healing spells. So, two, plus his sons, plus the seven priests, along with an entourage of, say, ten soldiers…. “About twenty, along with whomever else believeth that he must flee. I want only the bravest of the brave by my side.”

     “Then I shall stay h—”

     “No! Thou art the heir of this family. Should I fall, thou must take up my blades and use them to regain our former glory. Thou art to flee with the others, and make haste.” PureDove waved his hand in front of himself, closing the discussion. “Now gather with the others, and prepare to run. And obey my commands, hear?”

     “Yea, father.” PureDove II walked away, ruffling his little brother’s hair fondly as he passed. Feeling a small hand tugging on his cloak, he stopped. “What is it, NightHawk?” he asked, squatting down in front of the child.

     “Art thou angry with father?” NightHawk asked with an innocent look on his face. His brother shook his head with a small chuckle.

     “No, no, it is not that. These are tense times, NightHawk, and we are all easily disturbed at the moment. Now be a good boy and stay close to Lady Lamerie.” He looked up into Lamerie’s smiling eyes, returned the expression, and stood before walking off to help prepare for the combined defense and escape.

     Patriarch Falconis motioned to Rumazzen, who leaned in to hear his words. “Master Rumazzen, thy task is twofold. Is this acceptable?”

     “Name ye thy commands, and I shall tell ye what I may do to fulfill thy request, my lord.” He glanced around at the soldiers. Most of them were the seasoned veterans that had fought by either the Patriarch or his son’s side. A few of them looked a bit weak-kneed, and he supposed that they would be among the ones to flee.

     PureDove nodded and continued, “Then listen well. Thou art to first shield Lady Lamerie and the others whilst they cast their spell of translocation. Then, once they are gone, I want for thee to remain here… for a while.” He paused and looked down at NightHawk, who was following his older brother around. Lamerie had her back turned as she kept watch over him. “I want thee to be here when I fall, Master Rumazzen. Then, thou art to escape if at all possible, and bring along as many others as thou art able.”

     Rumazzen’s visage grew stern and grave at the words, but he complied with a bow. “Of course, Master Falconis.”

     Lamerie herded those who would escape toward the center of the Grove. The floor was of white marble with both arcane and divine writings, circles, and runes inscribed into its surface with varying materials. The ceiling was a masterpiece, emulating the conditions of the outdoors, and tall trees ringed the center of the Grove, seeming almost as if they were pillars holding up the roof. The group stepped quickly inside a circle of diamond dust infused into the floor

     Rumazzen interposed himself between the circle and the entrance to the Grove.

     “Prepare yourselves,” PureDove called as his soldiers rallied around him, lining into a defensive formation. “They come.”

     Lamerie began the chant as the first Drakoch enemies rounded the corner and charged through the archway into the sacred Grove. The other priests and priestesses joined in the holy song that appealed to the gods for relocation. The dust magically sealed into the floor started to sparkle as divine energy swirled around the white-robed clerics.

     Rumazzen waved his hands in intricate patterns while muttering an arcane chant below his breath. He was so skilled with the art of magic that he could form the wall exactly as he wished. Now, shield the circle from harmful magic… and weapons. Now, add the power of destructive force to all not of Falconis blood who come into contact with the sphere, he told it with his mind, and then he translated it into the precise arcane language that he spoke with both his voice and his fingers. The mage watched with satisfaction as the barrier grew and grew while the clergy invoked the power of the holy ZYO.

     PureDove Falconis II watched longingly as his father danced and twirled amid the foes. Each sweep of his double-headed sword hewed down several foes at once. He would have dearly loved to join the battle, but his orders had been strict, and he would not leave the circle under any circumstances.

     NightHawk, too, watched with awe as his father cut through foes like a hot wind: a very sharp and deadly hot wind.

     “Back, Halvatos! Go reinforce the left side!” PureDove shouted. He grunted, putting all his strength into a vicious stab that slid smoothly through one Drakoch skull before he ripped it out and turned a pirouette, whipping his twin blade around him in a full circle. An entire patrol fell to his sword in that one moment and he didn’t even hear Halvatos’ reply, but he did see that he and those under his command had fanned out to block passage on the left.

     This was a losing battle, and PureDove knew it. It was a small room, though, so the Drakoch were forced into a bottleneck as they entered through the small archway, and PureDove’s army of twenty-nine—no, make that twenty-eight now, as Fieros fell with a sword in his heart—could hold them off for long enough, assuming the Drakoch didn’t bring their wizards to bear.

     He almost flinched as a bright, white lance of light reached high over his head to sizzle the evil flesh of the Drakoch troops, but he fought off the feeling and kept on fighting, silently thanking and cursing Rumazzen at the same time.

     “How long is this going to take?” one of the more timid soldiers inside the protective mantle whispered to another, who replied with a shrug.

     PureDove II turned and hushed the speaker, but gave him a definitive answer. “A spell this potent may take several minutes, perhaps a quarter of an hour.” A few elves groaned but did not speak again as the heir of the Falconis house resumed his role as a helpless spectator. What if his father didn’t make it after all? PureDove was the keystone of the family; what would his People do?

     He then remembered his position and his duty. He was the heir of the house, and he was certainly old enough to take up the role of Patriarch, but he was not certain he would be as adept at leading as his father. Besides, PureDove I was the strongest fighter in all the land, and an accomplished sorcerer. They would need him to protect them, even with powerful figures like Lamerie and Rumazzen guarding their lives. The Patriarch’s eldest son sighed and stared.

     The casting of the mass teleportation spell was half completed when Rumazzen sensed that something was amiss. Enemy magics suddenly began clawing tenaciously at the barrier he had erected, as well as the shields on his person. “Patriarch!” he called, “Beware!” Something was destroying all the protective magics around the soldiers, too, and he dropped his battle spell in favor of one that could temporarily guard many elves at once.

     PureDove sensed it, too. Whirling around, he pinpointed the source of the magic-draining spell. It was somewhere about fifty feet through the wall, in an adjacent room.

     Then the world exploded.

     “Father!” PureDove II’s voice cracked as he shouted. Shards of broken armor screeched along the barrier that Rumazzen had put in place, which began to flicker and waver slightly. His eyes burned from the intense heat of the eruption, but he could not look away.

     When the dust cleared, Patriarch Falconis still stood, along with a small handful of the original thirty warriors, thanks to Rumazzen’s spell. The old wizard sighed with relief even as he drew a wand to prepare for the next wave, but none came.

     Drakoch troops lay scattered all over, thrown this way and that in the blast. Whoever had cast that spell did not care who was killed, only that the Falconises took heavy damage.

     “Damn them,” PureDove spat, glancing quickly and readying his weapon. Still, no more foes arrived. Growing suspicious, he ordered, “Back, all. They plot something dangerous.”

     Dangerous indeed, for even as his remaining five soldiers backed away, black, shadowy arms sprang up from the floor to grab the necks of the Falconises. Hurriedly PureDove brought a dispelling power down upon his grappling arm, while Rumazzen blasted the others with beams of gray light from his fingertips.

     “They intend to wear us down and perhaps kill us with spells, my lord,” he said quietly, but his voice echoed throughout the Grove, making itself heard over the continual chanting of the clerics.

     “I see. Then we must take the battle to—” He stopped, as all five of his soldiers seemed to simply rip themselves apart from the inside. Turning his head away, he was thankful that his own shields had held, sparing no time for thought of the poor soldiers.

     Now it was the two of them protecting the chanters, and fortunately the spell was almost complete. Three more minutes and they would be on their way.

     “I know, my lord,” Rumazzen said when PureDove glanced at him. He stepped back, almost touching the sphere, and put his fingers together in an almost meditative pose, willing the shields to become even stronger. He concentrated so hard that he almost lost his bearings, putting so much power into the giant mantle that it began to hum a loud, low noise that reverberated throughout the Grove.

     PureDove knelt on the ground, digging one point of his blade into the stone, and lowered his head, focusing on senses other than those he was born with.

     “He cometh,” he murmured. Either Patriarch Drakoch was very confident or very foolish. Either way, PureDove sensed his presence, a malign force that pervaded the goodly halls of the former Falconis compound.

     “Kneeling to me?” a mocking voice echoed from somewhere. A booted foot stepped through the wall as though it was not there, and another black-haired elf strode in. He, however, was clearly not of Falconis blood. His features were more angular and intimidating than those of the strikingly attractive PureDove and his sons, who had inherited most of their traits from their father. “I never expected to see thee in such a position, Falconis.” He glanced over to the sphere as a small voice rang out inside of it.

     “Brother,” NightHawk said, pulling on PureDove II’s cloak, “Father is in trouble! What is going to happen?”

     Patriarch Drakoch’s eyes slid evilly back to leer at PureDove Falconis, who rose quietly. “Die,” Patriarch Falconis said, bringing his sword to bear.

     A moment later he found himself flying backward through the air, to impact one of the trees in the Grove, his breath driven forcefully out of his lungs. Drakoch chuckled as he recoiled from his attack, which had been so fast that none of those present could tell he had even taken a step, and most of them gasped in shock and horror. Faint wisps of fading magic swirled about his form after the magically-hastened attack.

     PureDove picked himself up off the ground after sliding off the tree’s trunk, wincing as he used his sword to push off the ground.

     Drakoch straightened his black leather glove as he sneered, “Oh, my, thou seemest to have trouble keeping up.”

     PureDove did not reply. Instead he set his sword down on the empty air in front of him and pulled out two scimitars from their sheaths on his back. Drakoch chuckled again and scorned the scimitars. They weren’t going to be any more useful to the Falconis than the weapon he already had in his hands—or would they?

     PureDove closed his eyes, concentrating, and then released the swords into the air with a cry of, “Falivé!” As the scimitars spun in the air around him, he implored the gods, “Let this be over quickly.”

     Both snatched their weapons: PureDove grabbed his sword from the air, and Drakoch drew two short, curved swords from scabbards at his sides.

     Their blades met in a flash of magical light and sparks that showered down on the marble floor. PureDove carried through with his strike, mentally directing the scimitars even as he lifted the back end of his two-bladed sword to deflect a swipe of the Drakoch’s weapons.

     Drakoch, however, found himself in trouble for a moment as he flinched reflexively when the scimitars, wielded by nothing but the air, swooped in, lightning-fast, toward his face. When his blades bounced off PureDove’s with a clang, he raised them to knock the seeking scimitars away before ducking low and lashing out with his right arm.

     PureDove jumped high into the air, higher than normal thanks to magics in effect on his person, and performed a full somersault in the air before coming back down, his blade leading the way. His attack met with nothing, however, as Drakoch rolled away and straightened. He was growing tired, he knew. The battle had been raging for a long time now, and even he, one of the most renowned swordmasters in all the land, had trouble keeping ahead of his opponent.

     Then PureDove gasped as the hilts of both of the Drakoch’s swords slammed into his face. His shields protected him from cold steel, aye, but not from fleshy fists. With blood trailing from his nose, he shook off the attack and called out for arcane power, sending a small wall of force outward from his palm to push the Drakoch back, who was charging back in to finish the job.

     PureDove II held his breath as he watched the fight. His father was not faring so well, and both of them knew it. This Drakoch, he was unnaturally skilled with the blade, and the scimitars weren’t helping much. They were certainly an annoyance to the Drakoch, but they did no real damage, although one of them managed a shallow flesh wound along his left forearm when he stumbled back from the force sent by Patriarch Falconis.

     Cursing, Drakoch looked up in time to react when PureDove rushed him, and he brought his blades to bear in an “X,” blocking both of Falconis’ attacks. He then swept them out to the sides, deflecting the scimitars as they zipped toward him in a pincer strike.

     PureDove used the distraction to utilize his enhanced jumping power, leaping right over Drakoch’s head and stabbing downward from his upside-down position, scoring a minor hit on his foe’s shoulder. Unfortunately the armor absorbed most of the damage, but the Falconis didn’t have time to dwell on that as he landed and spun about, facing—nothing.

     “Die,” came the command from behind, and PureDove felt a vicious force clawing at his very soul. So Drakoch was a powerful spellcaster as well, then? He grimaced and grinned at the same time, an odd combination, as he threw off the death magic, spinning his own spell as he turned and successfully faced his opponent. A ripple composed of ruptured time fields cut the air toward the Drakoch, who took the full impact of the spell. Bits and pieces of his being and soul scattered here and there, disorienting him and weakening him substantially.

     “Drakoch, now!” the leader of the invaders called as he staggered about.

     PureDove looked over his shoulder as three wizards—no, they were more powerful than that. These were Royal High Mages, judging by their dress, all garbed in the colors of the evil Drakoch family. His eyes widened in shock as their first spell rocked the room, causing Rumazzen’s shield to flicker and fade slightly, despite his best efforts to lend it even more power.

     PureDove Falconis now knew there was no escape. He had hoped to live to see his sons grow up, even if it were in a tiny House comprised of tonight’s few survivors. But now that was not possible. The clerics still had a minute or two to go before their spell was complete, and Rumazzen’s shield would not hold for long.

     Patriarch Falconis flung out a hand, and a bolt of white lightning shot from his fingertips toward the busily casting mages. One of them coldly glanced over, and his magic disappeared without even the courtesy of a flash of light.

     “Heh,” Drakoch grunted, feeling the effects of the time ripple. He had almost thrown off the damage, thanks to the help from an enchanted armband that healed him even as he took more hits.

     PureDove turned and charged, followed by his scimitars. “Bastard!” he roared, bringing his arms down in a mighty slice that would cleave his foe from head to toe, but once more the mages intervened, and he writhed as a bolt of energy slammed into his back. His double-bladed sword clattered to the ground from his convulsing hands, but the two scimitars sped onward, one piercing the Drakoch’s upper arm, which he tucked tightly to his side, partly from the pain and partly to pin the weapon there so it couldn’t do any more damage.

     “Father, no!” PureDove II and NightHawk cried at the same time, along with a chorus of furious voices from the others in the ring. Then the oldest son of PureDove saw it happen, all at once. Rumazzen’s shield failed completely in a brilliant flash of sparks and flares. Backlash from the discharged magic swooped in and sundered the chanting clerics, who were but moments away from finishing their spells. Four of the clergy died instantly, their bodies dropping limply to the ground, their life-forces snuffed out like a candle thrust underwater. Lady Lamerie and the other three did not, but their own magics, unleashed at the wrong time, backfired and flowed right back into their bodies, and all fell to the ground. In a few moments their bodies would turn to dust and blow away.

     None of that mattered, though, as PureDove watched his father’s remaining scimitar. It was headed right for Drakoch’s black heart, on a course that could never miss. One of the Drakoch Royal High Mages blinked once, and the bodies of Drakoch and PureDove Falconis shimmered briefly before switching positions.

     “No! Father!” But it was too late. By the time the words fled his mouth, his father’s own sword had impaled him, leaving Drakoch unmarred. Angrily and with tears streaming from his eyes, the Falconis heir set foot outside the diamond circle.

     “No, boy! Get back!” Rumazzen shouted in his face as he aimed a wand at the back wall of the Grove, and a hole opened up in the stone, through which the remaining refugees could flee.

     Again, the call came too late. Rumazzen realized the danger and attempted to stretch his own spell mantles to cover the Falconis heir, but three gray rays shot directly toward PureDove II, blasting minute holes in Rumazzen’s shields. Their power was diminished slightly, but they made up for it with the fact that there were three of them.

     PureDove Falconis II disappeared with a strangled wail as his body’s components were scattered throughout the multiverse.

     “Gods damn,” the old wizard cursed, “My lord, I am sorry.” He concentrated for a moment, and all the rings on his fingers flared into life, lending him their powers.

     He rushed forward, toward the exit he had created, as the others made their way through it and into the nighttime forest.

     “NightHawk!” he exclaimed. The boy stood rigid, staring alternately at the empty air where his brother had stood not a moment before and at the limp body of his father, cut down by his own weapon.

     Wasting no time, Rumazzen scooped NightHawk up in his robed arms and fled. His feet moved faster than was possible, thanks to one of his rings, and he burst out of the newly-formed gap in the wall to join the others as they fled. There were only five more, and he did not see them as he ran.

     As he ran, with NightHawk flopping limply at his side, he raised his free hand in the air and formed the patterns for a spell similar to the one the clerics had attempted to cast, only on a lesser scale.

     It had been a long time since the wise, old archmage had cried, but he let tears flow freely down his cheeks as a blue portal shimmered into existence in the air. He continued running right through the gate. In moments there was no trace of them to be found.

     Drakoch grinned with pleasure, despite the scimitar still stuck in his arm. The Falconises had defied them and lost. No one could stand up against the might of the Drakoch. No one.

     His harsh, grating laughter echoed throughout the once-bright hallways of the Falconis house, causing even his own troops and archmages to shiver involuntarily.