Delver Magic II: Throne of Vengeance, Jeff Inlo [graded readers .TXT] 📗

fought there, it was long since over.

The three quickly closed upon the cliff face of the sandstone mountain. As the cave entrances grew more defined with their proximity, Ryson’s distress leaped. Immediately, he noticed the fresh trails of hundreds of algors. He said nothing to his companions, but his quickened pace spoke volumes of his anxiety.

The elves struggled to keep up. Just as Holli was about to call for the delver to slow, Ryson came to an abrupt halt. Each elf breathed heavily the hot, dry air as they waited impatiently for an explanation.

Ryson said nothing at first, his attention squarely fixed upon the sand in front of him. His eyes scanned the trails which moved away from the rock and over the dunes. He counted under his breath, staggered by the signs of so many.

He dropped to his knees as he inspected several sets of algor footprints. The claw marks and the wide-spread sole imprints were easily distinguishable in the soft sand. Ryson measured the depth of several prints.

“They were carrying something. Something heavy.” He got to his feet and looked directly toward Holli. “The trails lead directly to the sand cloud over there. There aren’t any fresh trails coming back.”

“Any other markings?”

“If you mean dwarf trails, no. The only thing around is algor prints.” Ryson paused to look up at the edifice before him. He shook his head. “I don’t think there’s anybody left up there.”

“Can you be certain?”

“No.”

“Should we call to them?” Lief asked tensely.

“I don’t know if we should,” Ryson responded with caution. “If there are any of them left up there, they’re probably going to be cautious about strangers. We don’t know what happened here.”

Holli’s grim expression revealed much of her own dread, expressed more than her simple reply. “Our priorities have now changed. Let us answer what has happened here first. Follow the trails.”

Ryson did so eagerly. He moved carefully toward the lingering dust cloud. He said little, only enough to instruct Holli on what he found.

“The trails form stringent lines, they marched in rigid formation. It’s hard to tell exactly how many of them were marching this way. At least over two hundred, but maybe five times that much.”

Holli looked back to the sandstone ridge. “How many do you think the mountain could hold?”

“Impossible to say. I know very little about how they live, how many per cave, what they might consider cramped. It’s also difficult to say how deep the caves go into the rock. If you forced me to guess, I’d say … wait a minute!”

The elves stopped, stood dead still.

The delver sniffed the air, put an ear to the wind. “They’re still there.” But his voice was a mixture of confusion and certainty. “I can hear them. There’s no battle, they’re alive, but they’re crying, wailing. What’s going on?”

The delver wanted an answer, and he wanted it now. He took off in a dash, quickly outdistancing the two elves.

Lief cursed under his breath as he and Holli sprinted to catch up. They followed in his wake, fighting the heat and the shifting sand. They lost sight of him over the first dune. As they topped it, they caught his blurred movement quickly passing over the next. Again, Lief cursed.

“Why does he do this?”

“It is what he is,” Holli responded without slowing.

As the elves reached the top of the second dune, they did not expect to see the delver, only his trail in the sand which he did not bother to hide. To their surprise, Ryson stood in their view, stopped upon the peak of a third dune and looking down upon a valley of sand before him.

The elves fought against the desert slopes that separated them from their friend. They plunged forward, saying nothing, their feet slipping over loose granules. They reached the side of the delver only to join him in viewing a sorrowful sight.

Thousands of algors circled a large open pit, stood hand in hand grieving. Well over another thousand algor bodies rested lifeless and still at the bottom of the pit. The dead were not covered, and large jagged wounds were grossly apparent. No blood dripped from the gashes, only a thick ooze glistened in the sun. The three stared down upon the sight with marked sadness as well as disbelief etching their expressions.

Ryson’s voice cracked with emotion. “So many, so many dead! Look at the wounds! They were attacked, slaughtered.”

Lief spoke with gray gloom. “The dwarves. They must have found the meeting place. Fire upon them all.” The last was spoken without angry emotion, but with grievous regret.

Holli, though moved by the sight, called upon her guard training. She placed the facts together, ordered the events in likely fashion.

“They are indeed axe and mace wounds. I doubt the algors even knew what hit them. They were attacked in their mountain, not in the open. I’m sure that’s where we’ll find the signs of battle. The sand cloud that you saw was the result of excavating the burial site. They carried the bodies from the mountain. The lines you spoke of were a funeral march.”

“The bodies. That’s what weighed them down.” Ryson could stand the sight no longer. He swung his head away, took a few steps, and dropped to the seat of his pants.

“Should we let them know we’re here?” Lief asked of Holli.

“They already know,” Ryson mumbled. “They saw me when I climbed up here. They didn’t move. They just stood there wailing, ignoring me.”

Holli frowned. “We came here to tell them the dwarves wished to attack them. That, they now know. But I wouldn’t suggest we leave until we get a chance to tell them of all we understand. They must be told of Yave’s actions. They must be told why so many were killed. I doubt it will help ease their grief. I have no idea how long their ceremony will last. I can only suggest we go back to their caves and wait for them to return to the mountain. Hopefully, they will hear what we have to say.”

Holli walked slowly back in the direction of the sandstone mountain. Lief followed, but Ryson ignored them both. Still sitting in the sand, his senses fought for reason in the scene he had witnessed. The wailing of the algors streamed into his ears, bit into his skin. His fingers clenched about handfuls of sand. Confusion, grief, anger; all of it flooded his consciousness. The sight of the pit haunted him, remained clear in his mind no matter how hard he fought off the image. Death, not of one or even a handful, but death in grand design as if the reaper himself had swooned down and his black spirit engulfed them like a low cloud, that was the image of his horror. Three comrades had died in his presence at Sanctum, but never, never before had he witnessed death on such an immense scale. He couldn’t just walk away.

He staggered to his feet. He turned to face the algors, looked into the heart of the burial pit. Though the algors were not his own; not his family, not even his race; he hurt. Pain exploded in his chest. A thickness filled his head, beyond tragedy, beyond horror. It was not the twisted mutilated shape of the dead. It was the loss, a loss he felt as deeply as any algor. How could the soul feel so empty, yet hurt so much at the same time? He wished to release his pain. Ryson did not even consider if the algors would have him. He simply trudged down the side of the dune to the edge of the pit. He stepped up to the ring of algors that stood hand-in-hand.

Without a word, without any other acknowledgment of his presence, the circle opened for him, opened as if he was simply another algor. Two algors broke hands and stepped aside, offered a space for the Ryson to enter, an invitation for the delver to join the circle.

Ryson took a small step forward, took the hands of the algors, and completed the circle once more. At that moment, he was both one with the algors, as well as separated from them. He felt the sense of belonging to their community, just as he felt that which made him different. In that same instant, he understood what it was like to be an algor, a race that constantly struggled to seek individualism in a community bound as a whole. He looked into the pit and saw the loss in a new light, the loss to the community. The pressure in his head doubled, tripled, and forced the unyielding release of tears. He wailed with the algors. Screamed until his voice was nothing more than a grumble and his throat was raw.

For one of the few times in his life, the delver lost track of both his surroundings and of time. No pressing desire to explore the land tempted his spirit. He simply stood with the algors crying, exhausting his grief. He held nothing back, he released it all.

The algors began pushing sand from piles into the pit. They worked in a fashion which typified their struggle between acting together and acting alone. At times they moved in orchestrated flows, moving like a single arm directed by one mind. Other times, their coordination broke down. They appeared more like angry bees flying in every direction.

As the algors finished the burial, Ryson realized that they had not yet released all their emotion. Though they had discharged their grief, they held to their anger, anger out of their community being viciously attacked. And though they welcomed the delver into their ceremony, they now ignored him. The algors filed away, passing the delver with disregard.

Ryson looked to the sand, looked upon the burial site. There were no markers left behind, no list of names of the dead. The desert had swallowed the bodies and soon a hot wind would remove all traces, all signs of the burial. It was not the algor way to leave remembrances for their fallen, for their dead, but Ryson could not bring himself to simply walk away from the empty sand.

He reached into his pouch and pulled out his dagger. He plunged it into the sand. It looked out of place, a weapon on top of a burial mound for hundreds. He thought of picking it up. He knew the desert would swallow this as well before the end of the day, it would fail as a marker. He bent over, but his hand stopped before his fingers could clasp the handle. He would leave it behind, a marker for his own memories, a marker that a delver had stood with the algors and understood their grief.

Ryson quickly returned to the sandstone mountain, only to find the algors circling the elves with angry shouts. They were not listening to Holli’s call for calm or even Lief’s curses. Most were not even listening to themselves. They simply shouted out threats, insults, and accusations.

“The elves are allied with the dwarves!”

“These are but more spies!”

“Send them away!”

“Take them prisoner.”

Ryson tried to make his way through the mass of algors to the elves, but they blocked his path. Otherwise, the algors ignored him. They heaped their fury upon the elves. The delver meant nothing to them. He was able to use his speed and agility to pass through much of the mob, but there were so many. The circles of algors grew tighter as he closed upon the elves and it became near impossible to pass unless he climbed over them. He considered it.

The algors continued their harangue.

“Elves have no business here.”

“We have work to do, the magic must be collected.”