Finally relenting, Beltayne perched upon a rock near a pond and prayed. It was not a frequent occurrence that he actually took the time to pray, and it was even rarer that he believed he had done so correctly. Elves of the Sea of Obsidian Ice were taught that their patron goddess, the Queen of Falling Snow, was much too busy to worry her divine self with the concerns of a single snow elf. More importantly, the elves were also taught that resourcefulness was to be prized, while asking for pity was forcefully discouraged.
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First, he knelt upon the flat stone and then he carefully removed his greatest possession. Beltayne’s sword, a rapier with a long and thin blade, a simple silver cross-guard and alternating blue and white dyed leather wound about the grip, had been a gift from his mentor. Beltayne himself had supervised the metalworker who deftly carved the six-pointed snowflake into the circular pommel.
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The sword laid across his knelt lap as Beltayne prayed aloud, “Brittle Maiden, intercede and help me, please. Send me a fox to point the way, or a gust of wind to propel me the right direction, or maybe a trail of coins, accidentally cast from a pocket and left in a trail…”
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His invocation was suddenly interrupted by a disastrous shriek, what Beltayne believed to be the desperate cry of a maiden in distress. So great was the shock of the scream that Beltayne nearly fell from the rock, spilling the sword from his lap and sending it sliding towards the pond.
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With a deft hand, enhanced by natural elven reflexes, he caught the blade just before it struck the water. Already bounding from the rock, Beltayne sheathed the sword and checked to make sure his hand-axe, honestly more of an icepick, was still securely seated at his belt.
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The cries of help echoed off the stone walls of a nearby cavern and Beltayne charged ahead, heedless of danger.
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As he rushed past the cave mouth, entirely oblivious to the glowing fungus and fetid moss at the entrance, Beltayne unsheathed his sword. With his focus solely on the prospect of saving innocent lives, he charged into the darkening tunnel while the sound of screaming intensified.
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The tunnel itself appeared naturally occurring, with a wide and extensive mouth, that tapered into a narrow path, extending into pitch-black darkness for several hundred meters. First, subtlety descending before rising again, the path was clearly natural and not the result of clean-cut stone working. Blessed with the ability to see in near darkness, Beltayne could make out two shapes blocking the tunnel path ahead as the tunnel climbed upwards.
One of the figures, a male dwarf of indeterminate age, stood at about a meter and a half. His thick black hair and closely cropped beard framed his hardened face, and his flowing robes that reminded Beltayne of pajamas. The other figure was taller, a male elf wearing interwoven scale armor with a cloak attached at the shoulders.
Both figures appeared at the ready, the dwarf with an outstretched hand, lit by a summoned fireball, and the elf, too, with a readied spell of dancing golden flames, shocking the once-black cavern tunnel into bright light.
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One, or perhaps both figures, yelled, “Halt!” The echoed command reverberated off the walls of the close-hewn rock.
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Shocked at the abrupt appearance of people, especially magic people, and specifically magical people who were not screaming for help, Beltayne skidded to a stop. He stood, transfixed in his confusion, tilting his head slightly and listening for the screams that had led him into this standoff.
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Beltayne stood confused as he watched the pair, wondering why anybody would order such an obvious savior to stop before even given the chance to save anybody. He struggled to think of something noble and reassuring to say, to prove that he was clearly a friend and meant no harm.
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“I am here to save you! Stand clear and point me at the enemy,” was what came out.
The dwarf and elf continued to stare, apparently unmoved by Beltayne’s words. The silence between them dragged, until accompanied by the swift and muffled slap-slap of bare feet running across stone.
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“They got my arse!” screamed a female elf, running towards Beltayne but coming from behind the two magic wielders. She held one hand on her left backside and used the other to shove past the dwarf and elf. The screaming elf wore a hempen tunic, a leather vest, short trousers and no shoes.
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Beltayne quickly scanned her for injury, but because her movements were more akin to a fleet-footed snow leopard, he could see nothing clearly as she barreled towards him. She abruptly stopped about five meters in front of Beltayne, looked up at him, and then collapsed upon the stone.
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Dropping his rapier immediately, Beltayne held his sword-hand up, palm outwards. He knelt slowly on his left knee, the toe of his leather boots scraping the small dirt and pebbles on the damp stone floor. As Beltayne laid his other hand upon the cheek of the wounded elf, he breathed a small missive to the Queen of Falling Snow.
“Lady of the Ice, please help me to restore the warmth of this person’s being, only to be absorbed by the blizzard of death when deemed appropriate to you. Also, it would be helpful to heal this woman, so her friends do not light me on fire.”
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Beltayne felt the warmth travel through his hand and onto the cheek of the fallen elf. As the warmth left him, Beltayne noticed the injury itself was probably less grievous, and more likely shocking, because the she-elf was back on her feet almost immediately.
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“Have you been here the whole time?” she asked, before taking off at a full sprint passed Beltayne towards the cavern entrance.
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“A friend of yours?” Beltayne shouted to the dwarf and elf. Neither answered but instead turned and began racing back in the direction the she-elf had come. While they turned, Beltayne noticed the abnormally short ears on the elf, apparently an elfling, or perhaps a cursed and stunted elf.
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He needed no further approval and knew that he would get none, so Beltayne grasped the sword he had dropped and took off after the pair, to save them from further dangers that lay beyond.
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After a short jog forward, the tunnel opened into a much wider cavernous room, completely unlit but ringing with the sounds of battle.
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Again, Beltayne’s lack of familiarity with the flora and fauna of Eastern Eridan was to his detriment. He saw what he believed to be an unholy and devious tree monster. Its unnatural nature was clear by the tree’s shrieks, and Beltayne’s conviction that no good and decent god would animate a tree only to have that tree attempt murder on other living beings.
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As he stepped into the wider cavern, Beltayne heard the tell-tale whistling sound of an approaching projectile. He executed a feint-step to his right, before diving to the left, narrowly avoiding the half-meter long thorn shot from the gnarled and arboreous monster.
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With a height of at least three meters tall, the creature had wooden, bark-like skin and an infected oozing moss covering much of its being. Beltayne could see no eyes, nor a mouth, but knew that the accurate aim of the thrown thorn was enough proof of an evil sentience. The top of the beast was covered in quasi-branch appendages that tapered into regenerating thorns.
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As he knelt upon the cold stone, still down after executing his dodge of the barb, Beltayne felt spindly, sharp scraping dig along his unprotected upper leg and looked to see the tree monster, in miniature. No taller than a half-meter shrub, the creature had executed a silent attack and was winding back for another.
Beltayne retaliated, stabbing at the devious amalgamation of sharp twigs that had formed into two claws attached to a central trunk.
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While the reflex to immediately thrust his rapier at the beast assuredly saved him from further injury, it began a lesson that Beltayne had yet to learn. He had spent years, decades even, training with the rapier, but in that moment, the fundamental style of that weapon became his disadvantage. The creatures in this cavern, both twig and fully sprouted variety, had all the hallmarks of a tree and were therefore resistant to any thrust and stab method of attack. A rapier is rarely used to slash, and for Beltayne, rarely effectively.
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Beltayne’s stab managed to push the creature backwards but seemed to barely scrape its bark while providing little to no injury.
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He made the decision in that moment to sheath the sword, with which he had lived by, and instead withdrew his handaxe. A much simpler weapon, with a hollowed, metallic haft that expanded into a double-sided head. It was a tool Beltayne had more frequently used for climbing and digging through ice.
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But to a sentient stick demon, an icepick was still an axe. Beltayne raised his arm high above his head then swept downward in a wide crescent. The sharp blade of the pick connected to the outstretched claw, fully severing it halfway towards the trunk.
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Enraged, the monster lunged forward with its remaining claw outstretched, aiming for Beltayne’s thigh.
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Beltayne executed a quick backstep, then brought the blade of the axe down upon the limb, catching the branch as he drove it into the ground, pinning the creature’s only remaining claw harmlessly unable to raise the axe.
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Trusting in his superior strength and athletics, Beltayne released the axe itself, leaving it to maintain the beast’s position. Again, he backstepped, but this time used the momentum of the immediate forward step to bring the flat top of his boot’s toe solidly through the monster’s torso, severing it in half and propelling the top half into the nearby cavern wall.
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Breathing deeply to steady himself, Beltayne reached down and retrieved his icepick and looked around the cavern for further threat. His thoughts and awareness were elsewhere though, realizing that the stick demon, diminutive as it was, represented the first monster slain on Beltayne’s quest to prove himself worthy to be a Winter Knight.
He began slowly moving forward, half-scanning for creatures when he was surprised by a dark blur, moving from one wall towards the back of the cavern.
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A being, for Beltayne could not tell if the creature was man or woman, elf or human, moved silently and advanced on the rear cavern wall, holding a short bow in an outstretched hand. The rest of the creature appeared to be covered in a dark cloak, with a hood drawn entirely up and about the head.
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As that person methodically advanced, they drew arrows from an unseen quiver, and in one fluid motion nocked the arrow, drew the bowstring and released it. As he watched, Beltayne was able to see the bowman’s target, a cluster of three twig monsters emerging from the rear wall of the cave.
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Deciding to charge and offer assistance, Beltayne took three steps before feeling a sharp, stabbing pain in his right foot. He glanced down and noticed another unnatural overgrowth of this unholy space. Carpeting the cavern floor in different spots, appeared to be Creeping Moss. Beltayne knew these demons to move as silently as Ice Wanderers that spun crystalline caves in the West.
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More importantly, Beltayne knew that the Western Creeping Moss, of which he was familiar, attacked its victims with hidden, poison-tipped thorns. As he looked down at his boot, he could barely see the tip of the thorn poking upwards through the toe of his shoe. It seemed like a moot point, but Beltayne still prayed that the Eastern variety of the Creeping Moss thorns were without venom.
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Beltayne raised his injured foot and brought the metal plated heel crashing down on the Moss’ center, the location of his central nervous system. Hearing a satisfying crunch, followed by the ooze of muck squelching out beneath, he was sure he eliminated this particular enemy. Beltayne had yet to feel the tell-tale numbness and scorching pain of the Creeping Moss’ toxins. Breathing a sigh of relief, he vowed to be more careful and maintain his battle awareness until the fight was concluded.
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As Beltayne again scanned the room, he noticed that the large tree beast that had originally attacked him with the projectile thorns was a smoldering heap near the cave wall. The dwarf and elfling were making their way slowly towards the same area from which the group of three twig monsters were absorbing the archer’s arrows.
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Doing little to no damage, the arrows served only to keep the twig beasts from advancing. Noticing that, both the dwarf and elfling conjured their magical fire in outstretched palms, allowing the archer to quickly fire his shafts through the flames. Then, with arrowheads alight with glowing flames, the arrows that struck the creatures, in turn, set them alight and made quick work of the three.
Beltayne was walking carefully towards the group, when he heard another scream, this time more of a bellowing war cry, coming from somewhere beyond the rear cavern wall.
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“Where the hells is Magnar?!” cried the fireball conjuring dwarf, who quickly turned toward the rear wall, stepped sideways and…disappeared.
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As Beltayne approached closer, he could tell that a large wall, bigger than an ordinary cavern stalagmite, operated as a false wall, shielding a rear passageway from view. Beltayne followed the trio of dwarf, elfling, and shadowy archer behind the false wall and into the cavern beyond.
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While the first expansive cavern had been dark, lit for Beltayne only by his natural elven ability to see beyond the normal spectrum, this room was something else. It appeared roughly the same shape and size, large and cavernous, but this chamber was most definitely lit.
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All along the walls, the cavern floor, and any protruding outcroppings were covered in glowing fungus. They glowed brightly in all number of fluorescent colors of pale pink, a sickly green and deep, pulsating purple.
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In the center of this chamber was an even larger, fully grown tree beast. Attacking the monster, was another dwarf, though instead of pajamas, this one appeared to be wearing only ripped pants held up by suspenders that did little to cover his bare chest. The dwarf held a massive hammer in both hands and pounded away at the trunk of the massive beast while screaming obscenities.
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The other dwarf and the elf both began hurling fire at the monster as soon as they cleared the passageway, setting the creature’s upper branches on fire. The air, thick with the damp mustiness of the mold, began to crackle and singe.
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Wanting to contribute to the cause, Beltayne gripped his icepick and took aim.
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“Fast as a coming winter storm, sharp as hiding ice,” he mouthed as he aligned the pick with the tree, which had since fallen onto its side, flailing.
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The bellowing, hammer-wielding dwarf continued to smash the branches as Beltayne’s icepick let fly. The pick’s blade, spinning end over end, just narrowly missed hitting the elfling’s outstretched hand, burying itself deep in the trunk of the massive creature. The branches quivered, then shook no more.
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Beltayne visually searched for further dangers in the glowing cavern but saw no further threat to himself or his new battle companions. He began walking to where the four had gathered, near the great felled tree. He was careful to approach them with arms outstretched and palms open, an elven sign of non-aggression.
As Beltayne neared the group, he heard their disagreement concerning who actually provided the finishing blow. While not wanting to damage his new acquaintances’ pride, and knowing how low his own had been just prior to the battle in the caverns, Beltayne surreptitiously placed his boot upon the beast’s great thick trunk and dislodged his icepick so that they would believe it was one of them who defeated the tree.
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“Aye, the beast was dead ‘fore it hit the ground, ya know it to be true! Who else but the great Magnar could have caved this beast low?” roared the dwarf.
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While the magic dwarf began extolling the damage his fire spells had done, the elfling acknowledged me first, and in pure High Elvish.
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“Well met, stranger. Sioch be praised for providing another capable warrior. Your name?”
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“I am called Beltayne, squire of the Winter Court and servant to the Queen of Falling Snow,” he began, but faltered as his eyes were again drawn to the elfling’s stunted ears, and the two months of wandering had given Beltayne little in the way of practice for social grace.
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“Why are your ears so small? Are you sick?” Beltayne implored the stranger.
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“My ears are fine, thank you,” he said, taken aback. As he spoke, his hand when to the pendant about his neck, a white stone with a calligraphed swooping shape and five topaz gems adorning.
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“My mother was an elf, but my father came from the race of men. And I think I should further thank you to remember this conversation in the common language of my companions,” he continued.
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Wondering what a Sioch was and feeling ashamed for embarrassing the elfling, Beltayne bowed to him.
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The stranger straightened, mollified by the bow, and continued.
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“I am Kel’dhos, cleric and emissary of the great god Sioch,” he finished his introduction.
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Beltayne noticed that Kel’dhos was now carrying a book, with a dark leatherbound cover and ornate script written on one side. Beltayne was entirely illiterate, so the script meant nothing to him.
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“You’ll get no bowing and scraping from me, but you may call me Magnar, the Great and Powerful” said the shirtless dwarf as he barged past Kel’dhos to stand immediately in front of Beltayne. He dropped the head of his hammer on the ground to emphasize his point as he gripped the shaft that came up nearly to the top of his meter and a half frame.
“Magnar jests surely, because he knows it is his brother who possesses true power. I am Magnus, wizard of the Arcane Academy of Eldrin,” stated the other dwarf, pushing to stand beside Magnar.
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From over Beltayne’s shoulder, he heard a soft breathing and glanced over to see the hooded figure drop his hood, revealing another elf with deep red hair and tanned skin.
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“I am Telerek, a trained hunter and disciple of the shadows,” said the elf, in an almost affected hiss.
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“Truly, I came to rescue you when I believed you all were in danger, but I see now that you are all capable warriors. Was that she-elf with you?” inquired Beltayne to the assembled group.
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“Oh, shit! Val! Where the hells did she go?” asked Telerek, looking back towards the first cavern chamber.
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Telerek took off at a silent sprint towards the first chamber while Beltayne joined the others in starting a makeshift campfire.
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Beltayne sat down and removed the boot that had been pierced by the thorns, using a rough and thick sewing needle made from the fang of a slithering weasel to mend the leather.
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After explaining his chance encounter with Windegoth’s village and the mission to find the hunters, Beltayne listened to the journey of the others, now joined by Terik and the she elf Beltayne had healed, named Val.
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“How much they payin’ you to find those villagers?” questioned Magnar.
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Beltayne laughed then stopped when Magnar remained stone-faced, “Wait, certainly you joke, Magnar the Great and Powerful! I asked for no payment, nor would I accept any. A knight…”
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He was interrupted by Magnar, “Well, we’re getting paid. And that little arrangement was made before you, so you’re not really part of it.”
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“You know he’s not actually called the Great and Powerful, right?” corrected Magnus.
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“But you’re still welcome to stay and help us uncover the secrets of whatever this place is,” added Kel’dhos.
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And like a flash of mid-winter lightning, the realization hit Beltayne. This cavern, with these adventurers, and this mystery all around them. This is how he would begin his journey to knighthood and prove himself to the Winter Court. He attempted to tamp down his emotion and reply calmly.
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“Yes! Uh, absolutely yes, I mean, for sure. Yes…thank you…” Beltayne stuttered.
And with that, the decision was made to rest, make a search of the cavern and take in sustenance.
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End of Chapter Three
It had been nearly two months since Beltayne left the Sea of Obsidian Ice, the westernmost tundra on the entire sun-blasted continent of Eridan. He had spent nearly the entirety of those two months walking east. Before leaving the only home he’d ever known, Beltayne had agreed to undertake the “Great Sojurn” that was required to become a Knight of the Winter Court. The Sojurn itself, however, had always been ambiguous, simply requiring that the adventurer, “prove worthy enough,” eventually.
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Taking a moment to rest beside a pond, Beltayne took his shoulder length white and light blue hair and braided it along the sides, tying the entirety into a bun at the back of his head. He still wore the combination of chained mail and leather armor that he had taken with him from his home on the Snowy Sea, only recently realizing that he may have prepared himself poorly. The weather had heated up significantly and Beltayne found his sturdy mail and leathers, and his grey heavy cloak, somewhat uncomfortable. He splashed water from the pond across his face, waiting until the water calmed and he could see the reflection of his pointed elven ears.
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But after two months in, it had taken Beltayne all of two days before he realized he was sorely out of his depth. It had taken him another day before he admitted that fact to himself and he had perhaps taken on more than he could handle.
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While wandering the Tiuv Forest, the elf had happened upon a small village’s headman. Beltayne begged for a quest, a noble deed, even a simple task that he could perform to start showing the Queen of Falling Snow that he was worthy. He had run across a remarkable few people since leaving the Icelands, and most of them just stared when he aggressively offered to help.
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And so, it was with Windegoth, headman of that village, that Beltayne did not remember the name of. Windegoth had let slip, after much prying, that two village hunters had been gone for a week and had not been seen by other hunters, which was mildly unusual. He also described “abnormal growth,” affecting the surrounding flora, but as Beltayne had spent the last fifty years growing up in a frozen tundra, all the flora around looked strange. How was he to know if one tree looked stranger than another, or if this mushroom was or was not supposed to glow in the dark?
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He was given a description of the hunters: two humans, skin an olive tone, significantly darker than his own pale tone, with hair, or possibly bald. Carrying spears. Or maybe bows. Regardless, they had traveled south from the village and Beltayne was set upon finding them.
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It had turned out that tracking the Flightless Horrors on the Ice Sea or hunting Slaybears throughout the cave systems was different than pursuing two hunters who may or may not have been lost. Beltayne was unfamiliar with the wood, poorly dressed for the weather, and ill equipped to track methodical hunters.