Ashes of Crysin

By J.L. Davis

The ashes still smolder in the betrayed city of Eriden, crown jewel of the kingdom of Crysin. Meanwhile, Prince Jayden fights to maintain his sanity in a dark cell where he is forced to relive his nightmares over and over again by the vile sorcerer who has infected his mind. His only chance for freedom may depend on a subterranean people whose existence has been kept hidden from the outside world for thousands of years, and the powerful beings who protect them. Yet even if he does escape, he will still need to reclaim his ancestral home from an invading army of well-trained mercenaries, led by the betrayer's ruthless champion, in time to ready his people for the dreaded Day of Darkness when savage forces from another world will be unleashed to wreak havoc on humankind. And to do that, he is going to need all of the help he can get.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.L. Davis
• Release date: May 5, 2010
• ISBN: 9798215657713

J.L. Davis

J.L. Davis currently resides in Maui Hawaii with his wife, Michelle. His hobbies include performing on stage, disc golf, and surfing.

Book preview

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ASHES OF CRYSIN

Book II of the Irrillania Chronicles

by

J.L. Davis

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 © J.L. Davis. Smashwords Edition. All rights reserved.

Published by J.L. Davis.

Cover design by J.L. Davis

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

PROLOGUE

The Lost Kingdom

The wizard inhaled deeply the aroma of the morning, savoring his victory one last time. Eriden had become a place of chaos and death, the smell of charred buildings and their deceased denizens lingering in the air like a fond memory. Celes would fall next, if it had not already, and then Crysin would be firmly in his grasp. The South was insignificant compared to the brutal might of his new champion and the army of mercenaries that followed him, the East was filled with primitives who would soon have problems of their own to deal with, and the self-absorbed West barely thought of itself as part of Crysin at all. There would be no one to challenge his claim to the throne.

It was time to move on to his next, and greatest conquest.

Soldiers scampering about the conquered city ducked their heads in fear and awe at the sight of him, quickly finding alternative places to be. He did not blame them; he could kill them where they stood with a mere glance if he so chose. A cool breeze ruffled his bushy white beard, tickling his grandfatherly face, and he smiled in anticipation of what was to come. For too long had the Father sat in his tower and pretended to be in control of worldly events. It was time to expose him for what he was: a weak old fool. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the dark clouds above promised to bring more rain.

One man did dare approach. He was big, handsome, and honest looking, with a sizable nose and a touch of receding hairline. No one would ever guess that Nordin Murk, by virtue of his new master, was now the most powerful mortal in all of Alnorda. Grizzland regarded him as he would a prized bull.

What news, my Champion?

Murk bowed gracefully, with no hint of expression. Grizzland had never seen the man smile, or even knew if he was capable of the act. All the better as far as he was concerned. What need had livestock of emotions?

The rubble has been cleared, Great One. His tone was as expressionless as his face.

And?

The Queen's body was recovered, but no others.

Murk delivered the acceptable news as though it were of no consequence, as if the wrath of his master might not strike him down where he stood. Grizzland admired his courage.

The boy is alive. I am certain of it. Tell your men to keep searching. I will be most displeased if he escapes into the forest. He knows the land and can survive as long as he needs to on his own. He is to be killed on sight, and proof of the deed sent to me by your swiftest courier. The people in the surrounding communities are preoccupied, as you have seen, and the lifeblood that flows in our young prince’s veins is the only means to revive them. Every drop of that blood must be spilled into the ground and rendered innocuous.

It shall be as you say.

Of course it would.

Meanwhile, you will make haste south with a large enough force to crush any resistance that you find. Gustabus must not be allowed to gather troops from the outlying areas. I want that fat fool of a governor’s head on a pike before the week is out.

Consider it done, Great One.

Grizzland shifted his gaze to the northeast, not bothering to dismiss Murk. His champion was linked to him by a bond of magic that brought them both an acute awareness of each other, and he should know by now when his master was finished with him. It was time to focus all his attention on the self-righteous puppeteer in the Great Tower.

Unconsciously, he reached for the comfort of the roughly cylindrical lump that protruded from a pocket hidden deep within his robes. He had already used the black stone to conquer a nation with a single spell and was anxious to discover new uses for the awesome power it granted him. The days of conquest had returned, and this time there were no wizard-led nations to stand in his way. Nefarin would rise again. For the first time in thousands of years he felt what could only be described as... a thrill? The pathetic nations of Alnorda would fall before him like wheat to a scythe.

There were gasps from the nearby soldiers as his feet left the ground, and he floated forward toward his destiny.

CHAPTER ONE

The Heir of Fire

The beam of light sparkled in the stairwell for one last moment, hovering like a ray of sunlight piercing the clouds, and was gone, the slam of the door made louder by the stifling silence that followed. Jayden Rionthorne, heir to the throne of Crysin, slumped in the corner of his dark cell, grateful for the departure of his jailor. Damp moss soaked through the tattered remains of his breeches, an only slightly more numbing chill than the stale, frigid air of his prison. What little warmth could be found came from muck on the floor, droppings of who-knows-what from previous tenants mixed with the water that permanently dripped from cracks in the natural rock of the ceiling. He forced his toes deeper into the greasy quagmire. His mother had always told him that the feet were the most important part of the body to keep warm.

He was a man now, he supposed. His eighteenth nameday had come and gone, a day he preferred not to think about. Instead, he tried to look back on the innocence of his childhood, remembering the faces of family and friends who had shaped his life. Had anyone in Eriden survived? Could they have? It was no use. The images of that day burned in his memory as the city had burned, as the castle had burned, as his home had burned, leaving him alone in the world. As he had done so many times in the past few weeks, he turned to the sound of his own voice for company.

No one to help you now, little Prince. You’ve got to be strong or die. They are all gone. Death.

So cold. So easy to sleep forever, to be with my family. My family. Time stood still as he floated in a strange place that looked like the world he knew but was somehow different. He bumped his head on the ceiling. I’m floating. Am I dreaming? Is he in my mind again? I will kill them all for what they have done!

He bolted upright, his eyes wide. He had not realized he was so tired, so close to despair, so close to giving in.

I must be free!

There was a sound at the top of the stairs. The light was back, bringing hope. It could not be the sorcerer again, come to fill his mind with hallucinations of his parents gruesome deaths, not so soon. Was it soon? Had he slept? Was it the imp? The vile creature was sometimes sent to bring bread and water when its master, Hycenthor had more important things to do than torture the muddy boy in the dungeon. He closed his eyes and waited.

The light slap of small, leathery feet padding down the stairs indicated that it was the servant and not the master. Jayden knew he had no hope against the old man with his burning eyes–those merciless eyes–but the creature was a different matter. Imps were not a physically imposing race, far smaller than trolls and most of the other vicious creations of the jealous ones that lived in the high places of the Crystal Mountains. The thing was as cruel as its master, yet vulnerable. He would need every ounce of strength he had.

Keys jingled, followed by a muttered curse in a foreign tongue, and the rusted cell door creaked open. He lay motionless on his stomach, waiting.

Through closed eyelids he perceived the light from the creature’s torch. There was a series of small sucking sounds as the foul little beast approached through the sludge. He wanted to scream when the cold water that was meant for him to drink was instead splashed across his exposed back, but he remained quiet, motionless. A furry, clawed hand with a rough, leathery, worn palm grasped his arm, shaking him. Still, he did not move. The creature muttered a curse, sat down its torch, and grabbed Jayden’s shoulder with both hands, heaving him over onto his back.

Through one partially open eyelid he could see its hideous, furry face as it neared his own. Saliva dripped from long fangs, matting the dark fur around its mouth. Two lidless black slits devoid of kindness stared down at him, hating him for being human.

Is it awake? The imp’s voice was a deep, bass rasp, an eerie sound for its diminutive size. Is it dead? Hmmm, dead I think. You dead, humon? Me think you dead before. You play good, not even breathe, cold and pale like fish. You no smell dead. Hmmm, freshly dead. Hubart eat you soon, maybe, after you rot a bit.

Jayden lunged, fighting to get to the creature’s neck through the thick, tangled mass of matted hair. They rolled twice through the slop, the imp fighting ferociously. It was stronger than he would have believed possible for something so small. Less than four feet tall, it was all lean muscle covered in coarse, dark hair, with rigid, leathery wings on its back too stunted for flying.

At last, he gained position above the beast, squeezing its jugular with both hands. He realized with dismay that in his weakened condition, Hubart was stronger than he was. It was by sheer weight alone that he managed to stay on top. The imp gave up trying to remove Jayden’s hands, instead using its sharp claws to tear bloody gashes in his stomach. There was nothing he could do but hold on for his life as he began to lose blood. His vision blurred, and just as he thought he would pass out, the imp’s movements began to slow. Before he knew what was happening there was a rush of air and he was lying face down in the muck, the creature nowhere in sight, vanished.

He looked around wildly, expecting the crushing blow to fall, but discovered that he was alone. The cell door was open. His breath came in ragged sobs as he wondered again if he was dreaming. He rose, only to fall back to his knees in pain. On the second try, he managed to maintain his balance. He squinted as he picked up Hubart’s abandoned torch and moved to the doorway, slipping in the slime and nearly extinguishing the light. To the right was a sure way out, if he could only manage to sneak through an entire fortress of enemies, all of whom were sure to be looking for him soon if they were not already. To the left was the unknown dark. His decision was made for him as the stone door at the top of the stairs began to grate inward.

He ran left.

Along the way, he passed scores of empty cells, many with the remains of previous occupants still inside. It seemed the sorcerer did not like guests. The fact that Hycenthor deemed him important enough to keep alive this long did not make him feel very special though. The only thing that kept him from being discovered was the twisting and turning of the passages, which doubled back on themselves as often as not. If he had not been hopelessly lost to begin with, he surely would have become so by now. He thought about discarding the torch, but quickly dismissed the idea as folly. If he did manage to evade his pursuers, he would need the light to survive. Only once in his flight did he stop to catch his breath and gather himself. He was quickly becoming too fatigued to go on, but the appearance of torches at the end of one of the halls, in the direction he had just come from, gave him enough frightened energy to continue.

Sourly, he thought of all the times he had prayed to the Great Thoughts for light as he slowly went mad in the dark confines of his prison, and now the light heralded his certain death as a beacon that marked the enemy. On he ran. Just when he thought he could go no further, he was struck by a sudden barrage of blinding light that put any torch to shame. Every color of the spectrum assaulted his sensitive eyes, and he gaped with helpless wonder as a new chamber opened up before him. It took him valuable time to adjust to this new onslaught of visual brilliance.

What is this place?

He shielded his eyes against the harsh glow, as far overhead a staggering array of crystals diffracted the light of his torch, heightening its intensity a thousand-fold and sending it back at him. His eyes eventually adapted enough that he was able to judge the true size of the chamber. It was enormous. A small, clear lake in the center of the immense space reflected the overhanging crystals with perfect clarity, making it seem as though another chamber descended from the first straight down into the depths of the earth. Hope faded as he realized he would be caught here. His pursuers were far fresher than he, and the chamber was too long to reach another opening.

At least I will die in a beautiful place, and not that dingy prison cell. The weeks of solitude had prepared him for this moment. He was no stranger to death.

He turned to face his fate head on, determined to put up what little fight he had left. As he did so, he noticed a little hole in the wall just large enough that one person might be able to squeeze inside. Setting down the torch, he made a dash for it, managing to scramble up a small stretch of loose rock and disappear into the shadow of the wall just as the hunting party burst into the chamber. He did not get a clear look at his pursuers, but he saw enough to know that they were not imps. They were not men, either; they were far too big.

His pursuers spoke in deep, guttural grunts, unintelligible to him. He knew it would not take them long to notice his convenient hiding spot, especially when they saw the fresh disturbance in the rocks right next to his discarded torch, and sure enough their voices soon grew louder as they approached. The hole narrowed into a miniature tunnel at the back. Lying down, he pushed himself feet-first into the little space and hoped that the creatures were too large to come in after him. Closer the voices came, and deeper he squeezed into the ever-shrinking hole, until he could feel rock on all sides. Torchlight filled his vision. He gave another urgent push backward, realizing suddenly that his feet had crested a ledge of some sort and there was nothing beneath them. Wiggling his toes, he tried to touch something solid, but could not. It was conceivable that there was a short drop, and more space would open up.

Or perhaps...

He preferred not to think about the possibility of a long plummet onto a hard surface. Still, it was better than what awaited him at the other end.

Again, he forced his body backward, wedging himself in until it seemed that the weight of the world above was bearing down on his chest cavity, pinning him against the rock below. He could breathe only in short gasps, which came painfully loud to his ears considering the close proximity of the enemy. His knees crested the ledge. Further still he pushed, jamming his shoulders in to the point where there was no going back even if he chose to. He could no longer push at all now, only wriggle like a fish in a vice. So, wriggle he did, heedless of the rock scraping his skin to shreds and aggravating the already weeping wounds on his stomach. His legs hung down into the unknown, their weight helping pull him through, but he still felt nothing beneath him, and breathing had become impossible. Panic began to set in, as he realized the very real fear of suffocation.

He thrashed about recklessly in a final effort to dislodge himself, until the rocks gave way and he fell.

CHAPTER TWO

Underground

Jayden drifted.

Strange images assaulted his mind like flashes of someone else’s memories. He caught brief glimpses of lit passageways interspersed with black, foreboding holes that disappeared into nothingness. Flawless, dark faces reflected a green glow, in contrast to the bluest eyes he had ever seen, round spheres, as foreign and beautiful as the full moon, which radiated a deep intelligence and shone with a light of their own. There was something calming in those eyes that filled him with a sense of peace. The image faded and suddenly he was back in Crysin Castle.

He knew every inch of the old bed, from the taught velvet canopy to the carved oak posts. Old Aldrich Buel himself, Eriden’s most respected woodworker had etched the intricate designs into the frame when Jayden was a boy. Dragons, unicorns, lions, and a fascinating host of other wildlife appeared frozen in time, enslaved in the dark woodgrains by the master carpenter’s spell. He knew every face as if they were old friends. On the bed next to him sat-

Mother?!

Shhh, rest now.

She stroked a stray lock of his sandy-brown hair, smiling. Her voice, as always, made him feel as if he were eight years old again, but then Queen Jocelyn had that effect on everyone.

I have failed you, he said, his eyes swelling with tears. I have failed everyone.

There was something he had neglected to do. The weight of unknown, unfinished business bore down on him, filling him with an overwhelming sense of dread. His mother's knowing look helped silence his fears.

You have a long road ahead of you, my beautiful boy, she said patiently. This war has been waged since the beginning. There is still time.

Time? echoed a deep voice in the background. If the boy sleeps any longer, there will be no battles left to fight!

Father! Jayden exclaimed with wonder.

King Eurion was of medium height, handsome, with a broad frame. Shoulder length curls the exact brown as Jayden’s flowed from beneath his ornate golden crown. His face held the same mischievous grin that it always had. The queen rolled her eyes at her husband but was unable to contain a smile of her own.

There has never been any shortage of battles, she murmured, or men to fight them. Your mind will serve you better than your muscles in the long run, my son.

Don’t coddle him, Jocelyn. He is a Rionthorne. His mind is keen, and he is as strong as an ox, like his father.

We can only hope he did not inherit your humility, she chided her husband, before turning a serious face back to Jayden. Now is the time to rest and regain your strength. The land needs you.

On instinct, he turned. The walls of the castle became transparent, and he gazed out across the countryside. The lush fields, forests, and orchards of his homeland maintained their beauty, but there was an unnatural stillness about them as though the life that thrived within was holding its breath. There was a sense of wrongness to the scene that stirred a fire deep within him. This would not stand. He turned a gaze filled with renewed determination toward his parents.

I will make things right, he told them. I swear it.

I know you will, my brave boy, his mother replied proudly.

She stepped away from the bed to stand beside her husband. A faint glow enveloped the couple, and the rubies that bedecked King Eurion’s crown transformed into flame. The glow brightened to white hot, blotting everything from sight. Jayden was gripped by a terrible fear that he would never see them again.

Come back! he shouted. I need you!

Their voices whispered in unison inside his head. When you need us most, we will be here. We are thoughts. And they were gone, taking the light with them.

He struggled to see in the darkness and found that his eyes were closed. A part of him had known all along that the apparitions were not really there, but the physical confirmation that it had all been a dream was still upsetting. The experience had been so vivid that for a moment he almost believed they were real.

Opening his eyes, he found himself staring up at the most intricately chiseled stone relief he had ever seen. A glowing green orb suspended in the corner of the little room illuminated the scene on the ceiling with incredible clarity, bringing it to life. The artist had used the variation of color in the rock itself, each stroke carefully placed where it was best suited as if they could see into the stone as they worked, or as if the stone itself had been created for this one purpose. The effect was magical.

The scene portrayed the last king of Sideon as Father Allamon the Wise presented the legendary bladed staff to him over two thousand years ago, granting him mysterious powers and proclaiming him Protector of Alnorda. Jayden had heard the tale before, but to see it spread out before him, the planets floating lazily around the sun in the background, left him with a newfound respect for the enormity of the event. The occasion held a special meaning for him, as it was one of his ancestors who had crossed the Split shortly after its creation to help seal the gate to the demon world. The role that Mandin Shearn played in the historic act was unclear, but somehow, along with three unknown individuals, the Protector, and Allamon himself, they had performed the heroic deed.

His mother had told him the story many times as she sat at his bedside, lulling him to sleep with her hypnotic voice. Most people had no idea what happened that day, but Jayden was tutored by the brightest minds in Crysin, his mother one of them, and he knew his history well. An army of demons had crossed into Alnorda, and a great battle was fought. Men, wizards, and demons alike had died, but the outcome was that mankind had survived. It was his favorite story.

He was so caught up in the chiseled masterpiece, and his own reflections, he failed to notice that he was not alone. When he turned his head, he was startled to see a pair of big, blue eyes similar to the ones from the strange dream, only this time it was no dream. He shrieked.

Long lashes fluttered in surprise.

It was a girl, with ebony skin so dark that the gleam of her eyes in the dim, lantern-like light was all he could see of her face at first. As his own eyes adjusted, the low, green reflection of the orb on the exposed areas of her skin gave her a surreal, fragmented appearance, as if pieces of her were floating in mid-air.

She shrieked back in imitation.

It was obvious from her playful smile that she had either misinterpreted his reaction or was enjoying his fright. Moving toward him with a fluid grace, she eyed him as one might inspect an intriguing bug on a leaf. Her features were sharp, delicate, beautiful, then her hands came up to the side of the bed and he noticed her claws. The ends of each finger melded seamlessly into long, razor-sharp talons.

Dras’a faire Druania, she said. Her voice was airy and lilting.

I’m sorry. I don’t understand.

The girl frowned, biting her lower lip and tapping her claws on the bed. Then her face brightened, and without another word she turned and burst from the room. As she left, Jayden noted the lean muscles of her body as they glinted in the strange light. Her clothing consisted of loose-flowing green breeches, cinched above her calf, and a sleeveless green shirt of the same material with twin straps that ran over her shoulders. The shirt was tied tightly beneath her bosom, exposing her midriff.

Where am I? he wondered aloud.

Sitting up was not nearly as painful as expected. His lower torso had been wrapped in bandages made from the massive leaves of some plant. Picking at them, he found that they tore easily. Underneath, his stomach was covered in a clear, sticky substance, and he was pleased to discover that the gashes made from the claws of the imp, Hubart had already begun to heal.

Looking around the room, he was struck by the amazing variety of vegetation. There were plants of all shapes and sizes, many of them new to him. Spread amongst the common green leaves were exotic reds, oranges, yellows, and purples, adorned with thorns, flowers, or both. Everything was in full bloom. Woven hanging baskets, with flowered vines spilling over their rims to hang loosely in the air, framed a small window, through which he could see what appeared to be a dense forest. Had he somehow gotten outside of the mountain?

Dangling his feet over the edge of the bed, he gently lowered himself to the floor. The square-cut stone was smooth with wear, and delightfully warm against his bare feet. Examining the bed, he saw that the straw mattress was perched atop a low pinnacle of rock that rose straight from the floor. Other naturally formed amenities, such as a long counter and a table jutted from the ground as well. There were oddly shaped woven reed furnishings covered with pillows, and two hammocks strung from metal bolts set into the ceiling on opposite sides of the room. Woven rugs covered much of the floor. He decided that he must be in someone’s home; a home like none he had ever seen.

A simple beige linen shirt and matching trousers were folded and waiting for him on a carved wooden nightstand, as well as a pair of woven sandals and a cloth sash that he assumed was intended to be used as a belt. He paused briefly to relish the feel of clean clothes against his skin as he dressed. His time in Hycenthor’s dungeon had made him temporarily forget what it was like to be comfortable. Now, he felt well rested and ready to accept what fate had dealt him. Making his way to the open doorway, he peered out.

There were almost as many types of trees visible outside as there were plants in the home. His eyes followed the trunks of the largest up to the top, where the crowns ended beneath a jagged ceiling strewn with more of the glowing, green orbs, much larger than the first, forming an intricate pattern that ran off into the distance. Incredibly, he was still inside the mountain.

His first instinct was to sneak away and search for a tunnel that might lead to the outside. The problem was that he had no idea which direction to take and would just as likely find himself back in the sorcerer’s clutches. Besides, judging from the way he had been treated thus far it was difficult to imagine that his new hosts were in league with his captor, so perhaps it would be wiser to stay and see if he could find help. He contemplated his options until the choice was taken away from him by the arrival of a second ebony figure, clad in loose-fitting blue overalls.

The stranger stepped from the shadows of the tree line and approached at a steady pace, as Jayden prepared for the worst. He was a thin man, but looked wiry, with no hint of excess fat on his body. His head was bald, and his chin sported a well-trimmed patch of dark beard with just a hint of grey. Claws hung down from the tips of his fingers, nearly to his knees. He paused no more than ten feet away, inhaled deeply, released a contented sigh, and fixed his gaze on Jayden. Wide blue eyes blinked twice, and teeth gleamed as he smiled.

You are welcome, said the man in an accent similar to the girl’s. I am Dego.

Jayden trusted him immediately. He was struck by the childlike honesty in those voluminous eyes, like a young soul in an older vessel. This was no friend of Hycenthor.

Thank you, he told him, letting go of some of his fear and remembering his manners. My name is Jayden.

Do you come for knowledge? Dego asked brightly, curiosity plain on his face.

No.

The look of curiosity deepened. Why do you come?

I am lost, he admitted.

Ah. The expression on Dego’s face was almost smug, as if he had expected the reply. Knowledge weel find you.

As he pondered Dego’s words, two more figures approached from the cover of the enclosed woods. One was the girl, and the other was a tall female in a light blue dress, who had to be her mother by the resemblance. The older woman carried a steaming tray of food that caused his mouth to water with the smell of strange spices. The three shared a smile at the look on his face.

Dego laughed heartily, then gripped him gently by the shoulder.

We weel eat now and speak of Druania.

CHAPTER THREE

The Hooded Figure

It took Jayden days of exploring, and a number of circles, before he realized that the lights on the ceiling were placed in relation to the stars. When he asked Dego how the strange globes were made, an enigmatic smile was the only reply. The man was a kind host and proved to be a wealth of knowledge concerning the history and everyday lives of the Drokka’lfar, as his people were called, but there were many questions that he simply chose not to answer.

So, Jayden looked to the walls.

The home of Dego and his family was inside of a large rock column, one of many that stretched from floor to ceiling in Druania, the subterranean home of the Drokka’lfar. The pillar was at least two hundred cubits high, and about forty wide at its thickest points, with drawings or writing covering much of the surface. More homes were carved into its interior as it went up, extending all the way to the top. Dego claimed there were thirty dwellings, five communal areas–including two markets–and one hundred and seventy-two residents in the structure which he affectionately referred to as ‘Ganta’l Tress’, or Eagle’s Nest.

The first time Jayden saw one of the drokka–a less formal name for the people–scaling the massive structure, he almost shouted for help before recognizing that it was the only way to the upper levels. There were no stairs or ladders. Even the drokka children could shimmy up the vertical rock with ease using nothing but the long claws on their hands in concert with the shorter ones on their feet. Someone would occasionally toss a long rope down with a basket attached, to save an unnecessary climb or when there was too much to carry in a pouch or satchel, so one did need to watch their head.

He counted nearly twenty of the pillars, or ‘pati’–villages–as Dego referred to them, spread throughout the endless-seeming dome. Interspersed among them were an even larger number of stalactites and stalagmites that looked half formed next to their big brothers. That was only what he had seen of Druania so far.

The images on the outside of the pillars were carved–exclusively by the steel-hard claws of the drokka–with as much skill as the relief inside Dego’s home. The people’s history, and what they knew of the outside world, was laid out in striking detail. Jayden did not understand half of it, but he managed to decipher from the images that they had once been part of a larger tribe. They had been given a great gift and were responsible for guarding it. Originally from the world above, they left behind all they knew to reside beneath the surface where their revered possession would be safe from any who coveted it. The ancient forest home they once inhabited, before the mass exodus, was depicted with lush vegetation and fruit-bearing trees, spread out endlessly beneath the image of the burning sun. He wondered if the knowledge of which Dego spoke was contained in these images. If so, it would take a lifetime to study it all.

One colossal image, etched into a village nearly twice as thick as Dego’s, portrayed ancient Allamon’s Great Tower in the lake, with Dahgmar–a massive stronghold built into the cliff-face of a nearby mountain where the brotherhood of mages kept their council–looming menacingly in the background. Another, that Jayden recognized instantly, sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.

Hagmere Castle, which now belonged to Hycenthor, was outlined stark against the sky in the pale moonlight, an amazing feat considering the artist was working in stone. The fortress in the image was smaller, but the slender silhouette of the northern spire was unmistakable, as was Nightwind Pass, the narrow, winding road that cut through solid rock beside it. Once a haven for weary travelers and merchant trains making the long trek from Crysin to the central kingdoms, Hagmere was now a dark place filled with even darker beings. It was up there, somewhere not far above them.

Scars from the gashes on his stomach would have been painful reminders of his time in that fortress, except they were no more than long, thins scabs now, thanks to the sticky plant that Dego called z’tahrs da’l var’, or tears of the air. Dego’s wife, Fiega, took great care in reapplying the salve when it began to dry out, fussing over him in her own language. It was a mothering tone that he took to be half chastisement and half prayer. As quickly as his wounds were healing, he would say that the prayers were working. There was a sort of deep, natural magic about the Drokka’lfar that he could not quite put his finger on.

Fiega was currently seated on a bed of thick grass beside a slow-moving stream, passing baked fish, tubers, grilled mushrooms, and fruit out on clay plates for lunch. A doe and her spotted fawns had meandered into the center of the little picnic and were sniffing at the strange food as if trying to decide if it was edible. Jayden sat between Dego and Zuhrilla, the couple’s daughter. He accepted the food politely, trying his best to avoid the younger girl’s eyes which always seemed to be following him.

A sudden thought occurred to him as he inhaled the savory aroma.

How do the plants grow without sunlight? he asked, causing Dego to look instinctively to the ceiling where the spheres continued their constant radiance. Is it the globes?

Dego fidgeted and flashed his smile again, a sure indication that he would not speak on the matter. The globes were always a touchy subject.

Though his host’s close-mouthed nature was occasionally tiresome, Dego’s willingness to let him explore and learn what he could on his own more than made up for it. He was also the only drokka in Ganta’l Tress who could speak the common tongue of the nations, something he claimed he had picked up from a traveler who had come to Druania long ago. His knowledge of the language, and the proximity of his home to the ground were two reasons the soft-spoken drokka had ended up with him for a houseguest. Another was that he was an important man.

The ground floor of the pati was typically reserved for the most skilled craftsperson and their family. Of all the sculptors who lived there, Dego was the only one allowed to work in crystal, the most cherished commodity in Druania. A small group from Ganta’l Tress had been mining the precious mineral when they found Jayden unconscious in a distant shaft. Not knowing what to do, they turned to their d’aromo–something like a mayor–for direction, as they did with the majority of their problems and disputes. Dego had graciously accepted the curious stranger into his own home, solving the problem.

Jayden’s rescuers had stopped by with their families shortly after he awoke the first day, bringing words of encouragement translated by Dego. A stream of curious villagers followed. Everyone was extremely polite, going out of their way to make him feel comfortable. They offered him everything from food to examples of their handiwork–the latter he regretfully declined, having no way to carry it. Commerce within the community, he quickly learned was based on a system of trade that took advantage of the special abilities of each member. Everyone had their own unique way of contributing to the whole, whether through farming, fishing, mining, or crafting the necessities of everyday living. Two women from a nearby village had visited that very morning, trading with Dego for a pair of crystal figurines. They left behind a large supply of flour, and extra blankets for the new guest.

Fish ees good? Dego asked.

Yes, very good, he replied truthfully. "Thank you. The mushrooms too; they are delicious.

Dego passed the compliment along to Fiega, who beamed with pride.

While dinner among the Drokka’lfar was a community event, featuring music, storytelling, and often visitors from nearby villages, lunch tended to be more casual. The stream by which they picnicked now was the main artery that ran through the underground land. It was filled with a variety of fish that spent most of their lives in a large lake that made up much of Druania, traveling a short distance upstream year-round to spawn.

A small raft piled high with wicker baskets passed slowly by, propelled upstream by four men with long, wooden poles. The drokka paused in their labor to wave, not appearing the least bit surprised to see Jayden. Word of his coming had quickly spread beyond the boundaries of the pati. As much as he was enjoying his newfound freedom, and getting to know the locals, he could not help but feel a pang of guilt when he thought of Crysin. Here he was, sitting comfortably by a meandering stream, eating mushrooms while his people suffered. Suddenly, the meal did not sit so well.

Are you for walk? Dego asked hopefully.

Druanians spent much of their free time observing the many species of deer, birds, and large colorful bats indigenous to the caverns, or simply admiring the beauty of their own handiwork. They could often tell which artist had created a specific carving by the style and form of the image.

I guess so.

While the carvings and the magnificent gardens they had cultivated were all well and good, even they could not improve his spirits when thoughts of home surfaced.

I must leave Druania soon, he told Dego.

The drokka was caught off guard by the statement. He looked to his wife for help, but she had not understood and smiled as if nothing had been said. A strange look came across his face, almost as if he were afraid.

You walk weeth Zuhrilla today. Tomorrow, wee talk about thees thing.

While he did not relish another long, uncomfortable walk with the drokka girl–he was not a bug!–politeness won out and he soon found himself hiking through the indoor wilderness under her intense blue-eyed scrutiny.

The air was clean, permeated with the earthy scent of mineral-heavy water mixing with the soil. A warm mist began to rise, until it was swimming through the trees and rock pillars like a rolling sea. Combined with the green glow, it gave the place a surreal, faerie-like feel. He smiled woodenly at a young couple that passed, holding hands and gazing longingly into each other’s eyes. Something about the Drokka’lfar tugged at the back of his memory. As foreign as they were to him, they reminded him of home in a curious way.

Zuhrilla tried to lead the way, as always, but he refused to follow out of sheer stubbornness, striking off in a direction he had not yet been. The lean, dark-skinned girl had no choice but to follow or be separated. A weight had begun to grow on his shoulders. He should be doing something. His people needed him, and the more time he spent here, the less he could do to ensure they had a future.

After a few hours of quiet walking a roar started to build, and they soon came to a waterfall that began somewhere near the ceiling. At the base, beyond the cascading curtain of falling water, a natural cave was visible, yawning open like a great maw. The cave pulled at him. His pulse quickened, and a tingling sensation raged through his blood as he continued forward.

Dimly aware of a sound behind him, he turned in annoyance to see that Zuhrilla had stopped following. She stood perfectly still, her eyes no longer probing, but pleading. Shaking her head, she spoke frantically in her own language. What did she want now? He did not have time for foolishness. Ignoring her, he turned his attention back to the cave.

The desire to go on was overwhelming. He began to pant as he approached the sand-strewn opening. Something deep inside had awoken, and it tugged at him on a primal level. Spray from the waterfall struck him as he neared the cave, the cold sensation serving only to focus him on his goal. He fed on the feeling, moving onward with a sense of urgency.

Zuhrilla began to shout.

Two dark figures suddenly dropped from the concealment of the rocky cliff-face, blocking his path. They