Argyle’s thoughts whirled as he lay in the cold snow. There was something glowing above him, but he didn’t dare look. He was alive. That was all that mattered. Alive, and out of Hell. He was alive once more. He managed to roll onto his back, and he lost himself in thought, forgetting the cold bleakness of the endless mountains that surrounded him.
Darkness. Eternal darkness. It is what has shaped me for the last six days. I have not stopped. I have not found food or water. I have found three giant spiders, however, and I have killed them. But theirs is not meat, merely bone, hard and rubbery alike. There was nothing to do but continue. So I have continued. I have continued the long trek through the endless caves. I remember clearly the final trek as I came to the tunnel that led me out into the vast mountains.
There was darkness all around, with only the crystals here and there reflecting what little light there was. There were spider webs everywhere, only on a vast scale. A single strand of that web was as fine as silk, but the smaller webs as a whole took up entire passageways and spanned entire tunnels. I moved through them slowly with the stolen scimitar I carried. Periodically, I had to wipe the webs from the blade and my hand alike on the moss that lined most of the tunnels’ walls. I remember being terrified. What could have made such massive webs? What foul creature could have been so great as to construct a temple of sticky silk darkened underground passages? How dangerous could such a creature be as to remain unchallenged for so long that it could construct such an empire of fear and intimidation as this? But I ignored these thoughts as I traversed the underworld.
I wondered if Drow still ruled the night in surface empires as they once did. There had been rumors in Hell that they’d retreated into the underground. If that was true, then they had become far more dangerous. If that was true, then why were they not utilizing these tunnels? They would be a perfect place to dwell. Yes, they were close to Hell, but not so close as to present a problem. And they were close to the surface – they had to be. They just had to be. They had to be close to the surface. If they weren’t…
But that was another thing I wasn’t going to think about. I’ve gotten through all of this by being stubborn and persistent. I’ve made it this far. I dare not create for myself the illusion that I will fail. I cannot fail. I must not fail…
I came to a vast cave. This place…it is damned. I can feel it. There is something here…something evil. I raise my scimitar. My arm aches. There are scars all over my body: countless lashes and burns and cuts. MY skin is stretched tight over the muscle that covered my body. Bruises have healed, but they have left marks that cannot be erased by any healing that a mortal could do. Only a god could rid me of them. They are the marks my immortality in Hell, the marks of what was done to me – of what has made me what I am now: an escapee of Hell itself.
And so my arm isn’t all that aches. My entire body aches. I want to collapse. I don’t want to get up again after, either. I want to just lie down and give up. But I cannot. If I do, I will never relax again. I will die here, and I will die for real. There will be no Hell for me, but also will there be no Heaven. I will simply die, simply cease to exist in any capacity other than that of a decomposing corpse lying in a spider-infested series of tunnels so deep underground that no one – probably not even a god – could or would ever find whatever was left of my body in the end.
I raise my scimitar. Suddenly I am filled with fear, but I resist it. There is no hair anywhere on my body – it has all been burned off – but there is the ghostly feeling of hands on me, clenching my heart, freezing the blood that is slowly beginning to circulate through my body once more. I take a step forward, my feet squishing and crunching on the webs and bones and the gods only know what else as I make my way slowly into the chamber, scimitar at the ready, body tensed and ready to run or fight in an instant.
Adrenaline begins to pump through me as I see something out of the corner of my eye. It’s the barest of flickers, a shadow against shadows, yet it has crossed my vision nonetheless. As the adrenaline flows, my fear swiftly begins to dissipate – or at least lessen, replaced by tension that threatens to rip me apart.
A scuttling reaches my ears. No, not a scuttling – more a light clacking of nails or claws on stone. There! It rushes at me, my eyes widening in astonishment as a spider so massive that it very nearly dwarfs the cave itself rushes at my half-crippled body. My muscles kick into action.
I leap into a dash at a wall on my left, leap up onto it, use it to run to avoid the giant spider’s sudden attack. I leap off the wall and grab onto a stalagmite sticking up from the ground hundreds of feet. I swing around it to kick the turning spider in the side of the head, then kick off of it as I do a backflip and – as soon as I land – I rush forward to slash up at it. My scimitar sounds a chink as it connects with the spider’s pincer, nearly slicing it off. I’m lifted up as the spider rears, my scimitar carrying me into the air, until I’m finally able to kick free. I leap to the ground and roll to my feet quickly, whirling with scimitar raised to face off against the foul beast that has deigned to attack me. Hell could not defeat me – not completely – how could a simple giant spider do so? But this was not my thought then. I was only trying to survive, and hopefully thrive, against the menace that now came at me with new fury.
Argyle shifted in the frozen snow as his thoughts took him back to that fateful battle. He found himself moving as a wolf came toward him, but it was more out of instinct than out of conscious thought. He managed to get to his feet somehow, stumbling to a wall of jagged rocks. He stared at the wolf, and then nodded respectfully. It came naturally, without thought, for wolves were the peak of nobility. The wolf seemed to do the same, but then turned around. It looked back at him and then took off. It wanted Argyle to follow. He did so, still lost in thought about all that had happened in the Spider Caves below. Spider Caves: that was the name he had given them. And if he had his way, he would never go back…
He returned to his thoughts of the place, though.
The spider came at me again. I sped toward the stalagmite and ran up it, then leaped from it to the spider’s head. I slammed my scimitar into its head and jerked it out roughly, staggering and falling as the spider moved again. I rolled on the ground, finally coming to my feet. The spider was dying, and it knew it – but it wasn’t going down without a fight. I could see this, and I leaped to the side to avoid its next attack. I rolled to my feet and rushed to slam my blade into the side of its head. I was jerked around and thrown to the side, but I got up and quickly severed three of its legs. I rolled to the side and severed two more as the spider fell, then rushed forward to slash and hack at its head until, finally, the head rolled from the spider’s body and came to rest.
I collapsed to the ground. Knowing I didn’t have long before the adrenaline wore off, though, I got up and rushed to the other side of the cave. I began to climb again.
Hours I climbed, ascending the slippery, sticky slope that was the narrow, low-cielinged tunnel leading upward. I came across small caves here and there, the cold air biting at my wounds and the moisture providing the only water I’d had in almost ten millennia. I’d never needed water in Hell, of course. I was a Demon’s slave, an immortal prisoner, a torturer’s plaything. But no longer…I will never be a slave again. I will never be anyone’s prisoner ever again. I refuse to undergo that pain, that suffering, even one more time, no matter how short that time is. I will master my own destiny…
The wolf had led Argyle to a small valley. He stepped away from the walled support and fell to the ground. He scrambled to his feet as the wolf stopped and turned back to watch him. He stumbled on, and the wolf continued. There was something up there – something up on the peak. Something gleamed up there, like a second sun reflecting the first’s light. He reached the rock wall on the other side of the small valley. He clung to it for a moment, and then followed the wolf up the narrow slope to his left. His thoughts whirled again as he made his way up after his lupine guide…
My fingernails – what was left of them – were crusted over with dirt and blood. My fingers hurt worse than any other part of my body. My arms ached nearly as much. My leather pants were torn and wrenched apart, and my bloodied bare feet were in no better condition. The rock tunnel here was almost vertical, but fortunately, there were many hand- and foot-holds for me to latch onto as I attempted to scale this place. There was no light here. It was all I could do just to keep going. I had to reach the surface…I had to…
I slipped. I slid down quite a ways before I finally managed to stop. I remained there for several long minutes, not moving, not thinking, just praying that I wouldn’t slide further down. Then, finally, I began to draw in breath – and I let out a scream of frustration that would have sent a wild boar scurrying – positively scurrying – away. I had been making a very slow progression up this slope for what had to be hours now, if not days. This was the quickest way up. It had to be. There had been other passages, but I had no doubt that they would have looped around or taken far longer to lead me to the surface. Now I was an hour down. After a few more minutes, tears nearly coming to my face – tears of anger, of frustration, not of sadness or despair – I moved on. I began my slow ascent once again.
I clawed my way to a small landing. It wasn’t nearly large enough to bear my weight, but it led to another, larger landing. I rested there. Gods it felt good to rest. Yet in truth, I really couldn’t feel much of anything at the moment. Pain filled my body in dull, roaring aches that would have driven most men mad. But most men did not have a goal in mind. I would not die here. I would not die in some god-forsaken cave filled with giant spiders, and spiders not so giant in size. I would not die in some place that was so long forgotten even the faintest light came only from the caves themselves. No light reached here from the outside. Yet there was something…no. It wasn’t a light. It was a gleam. Not another spider…
He rose himself up, though not without great effort. He was beyond exhaustion. Even adrenaline would not come to him now. It was another spider, but it could not get to him here. He fell back, and sleep overtook him…
He could barely stand now, but the wolf had vanished. He was staring at some kind of gleaming white rock. This was not a rock covered by ice or snow – it was a smooth white stone larger by far than the spiders he’d faced underground. It was worked in silver in many places, but that was almost imperceptible. But the more he looked at the silver workings, the more he realized what this was. Even as a child, nearly ten thousand years earlier, he had heard of this stone – this gem. The gem had no name, of course – but it needed none. Perhaps now, he could finally rest and recover his strength. He walked toward it, but felt himself collapsing as he did. Then all was black, and he felt nothing more…
Cool air surrounded me. All was darkness, but I could see a little. I was tired, but not as much as I had been. My body still ached a little, but it was not bad. I got up and stretched, my bones creaking and cracking and popping. It felt good to get the tension out of me. I was filthy now, and probably stank, but I hardly noticed. I peered out slowly. The spider…it was sleeping. Good. I drew my scimitar and made my way to it. This was going to be a really stupid idea, but I could not risk it waking up. It had a single eye, and behind that had to lie its brain. It had to be there, for that was where I had struck the other one – only from the top. I managed to approach it, came within a foot or two of it. IT slept like the dead, not moving even to breathe. I would almost have thought it was, if it wasn’t for the light rustling that was its hairs quivering about slowly. It was the only sign of life. I raised my scimitar – and brought it down with all my strength. It was awake! I let go of the scimitar immediately and dropped to the ground, falling onto my back as I did so. Had I still been holding onto it, the spider’s pincers would have crushed me in an instant. But then it fell; as I scuttled backward, it fell with a loud thump that shook the ground. The only thing to do for it was to wait. Finally, ever so slowly, I rose to my feet. I was shaking. It was dead, this time. Not a single hair stirred on its body. IT was dead…
It took some time to recover my scimitar, but I did so. Then I tumbled away and headed down the passageway. My bare feet slapped against the ground carelessly. Any other time, I would have cared to take a bit more caution, but I was tired and in pain. Even resting as I had had not allowed me to fully recover. There was only one thing for which to celebrate now: I had escaped from Hell. But I had to press on, and so I did, until the tunnel came to a T at the end of it. I felt myself groaning. If I took the wrong passage…
But I had to move on. I took the right passage. It was much narrower than the already narrow left passage, and I barely had room to move my legs properly. The passage went on for hours in darkness, never turning, never ending, never letting in the least bit of light. But at least I was not climbing as I had climbed before. This was much better, even with the cuts, bruises, and scrapes that adorned my bloody feet. I pressed onward…
Argyle felt cold – very cold. His eyes opened slightly. He saw what looked like some kind of fancy white boots beneath a white dress heading toward him, but he wasn’t sure with all the snow and ice surrounding him. He was so cold…
His eyes closed again, and he slowly faded off.
He woke up in a warm, sunny pasture with a large stone pool filled with clear water in it. He walked toward it slowly, not sure where he was. Then it struck him that he was dreaming. A woman now stood across from him. She was human, but dressed in only a silk shift. It was enough to cover her decently, but why would someone be dressed in a shift in the open? Shifts were clothes for the bedroom, or underclothes, not clothes for the open plains.
“Who are you?” Argyle asked the woman, stopping just before the pool. She was on the other side, just about at the same distance from the pool as he was. “why are you in my dreams?”
“I am a Dragon named Fennewil. I have been watching you for some time, Argyle. Your thoughts are not pleasant ones. I would like to know more. But this is a place of peace. Be restful here.”
“you’re – a Dragon? But you look so – ”
She smiled. “So human? We Dragons have learned much in the last ten thousand – or nearly ten thousand years. Show me your memories, young one.”
‘Young one’? He was almost ten thousand years old! How old was she, then? But he didn’t worry too much about it. Instead, he sighed.
He went to the pool and looked in. Everything shifted. Now he was back in his memories once more.
I came to a small opening. I sat down to rest there. I kept my sword at the ready, but its blade tip was on the ground and it was leaning against the rock wall. I leaned my head back against the rock and slept…
When I awoke, a giant spider was about to make short work of me. My sword was in my hand in an instant, and I was surprised that no blood flew as I struggled with it. My blade was in its head from underneath. Finally, the spider fell backward and my sword fell out of my hands as the spider fell over a ledge. I rushed to the edge, but it was too late. The spider was falling faster and faster, plummeting down the seemingly bottomless pit that lay below me – and my sword had gone with it. Now I was angry again. I had no means with which to protect myself now! Damn that foul creature!
But there was nothing to do for it now. I had to get out of here.
Hunger gripped me, though the pains of that were long gone now, as I scaled the slippery, stair-like passage that wound upward. I came into a very large cavern, and found myself searching everywhere for another spider. This was getting redundant, and now I had no sword. I made my way slowly across, picking up speed as I went, until I finally hit a dead run and was across the cave in seconds.
I emerged through a hole into the mountains. Bright light blinded me. I spent several minutes adjusting my eyes. Then I realized my real predicament. Though not nearly as deep as the ravine I’d seen the spider fall into, the narrow icy bridge before me was long enough to make me worry about the long fall below it. I made my way across it slowly but surely, my arms outstretched to either side in an attempt to balance. I nearly lost my balance several times.
Finally, I was across and in another cave. It was a narrow tunnel, but I followed it nonetheless. I picked up some snow from the ground outside and ate it greedily, for I had had no water in a long time. I spent several minutes filling up on it, and then I continued. Then I came to a ravine that was impossible to cross and even more impossible to see the bottom of. But I was in luck. If I could just make my it somewhere safe across that narrow ledge…
And so I did. I was even more worried about falling now than I had been on that bridge – by far. I made my way slowly along, hugging the wall, desperately hoping I would not fall. It seemed like hours. It was probably only a few minutes, but that was what it felt like as I ambled along the narrow ledge. Finally, relieved, I slid around the corner to a small landing. From there, I turned and made my way down the long tunnel…
At last, I came to a small cave. I approached the entryway tentatively, and soon found myself staring at a safe spot in the mountains to collapse. I did, and lay on my back for a long time, relieved that I was finally in sunlight once more, until I finally faded off…
“An interesting passage. I see my friend has brought you to me, as well. Darneel is a good wolf, and a loyal friend. He will not let someone die if he can help them. Join me in the waking world.”
The woman vanished. Argyle looked back down at the pool. It was clear once more. Then he was awake again.
Argyle’s eyes opened slightly. He was so cold…but something was wrapped around him. Ice, probably. He didn’t know what else it could be. But it didn’t feel like ice.
He could hardly move. His eyes were fully opened now. He was on a bed of some kind, and he was moving. He was in the open, though. Someone was carrying him. It was a man. He looked like Fennewil, but he was a man.
“I am Farendwel, Fennewil’s brother. Do not worry now, friend. You are in good hands. Darneel has brought you to us. You are safe, and soon – very soon indeed – you shall be well.”
Hours passed. He felt himself being carried up a slope to some kind of small valley. There were mountains all around. He was in the mountains.
“Welcome to the Ered Annon Mountains, traveler. You spent a great deal of time in the Spider Caves, but you are safe here. We are Light Dragons, you see, and our human forms are merely for easier passage amongst the mortals. But you are no mortal, are you? What do you call yourself, human?”
Farendwel’s voices was strong and deep. Argyle was only barely able to respond. He vaguely hoped they had heard him.
“Argyle,” was what he said. Farendwel nodded in response.
“It is a good name. Argyle boasts of strength and determination, and you are indeed in possession of great strength, Argyle. Not many can traverse the Spider Caves and live to tell the tale, but you have done so. I have seen your story as Fennewil has. You are not a man to be judged lightly. You are a man to be honored. I do not believe you have the capacity for evil, and so we shall help you. Once you have been healed, your spirit turned to flesh and your flesh given life once more, you will feel good. You won’t eat, drink, or sleep ever again, you won’t get sick, and you won’t age, but you will feel as other humans do. And I will teach you how to cast a Minor Heal spell, and Fennewil will give you a Bastard Sword and some good clothes. Then we must send you on your way, of course, for the mountains are no place for a human. But we will help you as we can.”
Argyle listened without any real interest. All he heard was that he was going to be healed. Finally, he would be able to feel the pleasure of life in him again. All he had felt for nearly ten thousand years was pain – unending, merciless pain and suffering that was only lessened when he’d escaped. What he’d experienced in the Spider Caves, as it seemed they were called, was nothing to what he’d experienced in Hell. He would not be a slave ever again…
Days passed as Argyle recovered. Hour by hour, he slept to regain his strength. He drifted in and out of consciousness as he was healed. His scars slowly, but surely disappeared. His body was no more than that of a wraith’s, but his undead flesh was slowly made into the facsimile of a mortal human body. His new body was given life, of a sort, and – at long last, with over a fortnight having passed – he fully awoke.
Argyle rose slowly on a particularly cold morning. The sun had not yet crested the hills surrounding the valley in which he had now rested for over two weeks. It had not yet shone its light into the Dragon-made home, carved out of the icy rocks of the mountains, in which Argyle now stood. A full-length mirror stood at one end of the small room he was in now, less than three feet from the foot of the bed, the head of the bed was against the other wall. His flesh had taken on the tone of the living. He felt life in him again – good, strong life. And he remembered…
He felt no hunger, no thirst. He felt no exhaustion at all. No pain coursed through his body. He felt himself. He could feel as any other man could, yet he knew in the very depths of his heart that he was no ordinary man. In truth, Argyle should not have existed here at all. If the minions of Hell ever found out where he was, or that he had survived at all, he would not live long. They would send everything they had at him. He was certain of it. Hell was not a forgiving place, especially where one who’d escaped from it was concerned, and…
He shuddered. The thought of what would be done to him if he was ever discovered chilled his bones as surely as the cold did. The cold…it was cold. It was very cold. He could feel that. But there was no pain. He was healed.
He heard the door open and turned to see a man enter. Farendwel, he remembered. The Dragon stood before him and looked him up and down as Argyle remembered his sister’s name. It was Fennewil.
“You have grown strong again, Argyle. But you are cold. You should not shiver so. Your clothes are over there, on the table, and the sword as promised. It is a Bastard Sword. It is very sharp and it is heavy. It has been well-kept. It will serve you well.
“As I told you before, you shall never hunger or thirst again. You shall never feel the need for sleep, for you shall never again become exhausted. You shall never suffer any illness or fall prey to any poison. You shall never age. You are free and immortal. But you are probably rusty with that sword. When you are ready, follow the hall to your right. It will lead you into a large common room. From there, we will greet you. I will teach you the Minor Heal spell, as I promised, and then my sister will take you to a training room if you want. There, you can spar with her. I have always been a great healer and a powerful sorcerer, but have never been very good with a sword or any other weapon. I can wield a mace well enough, and crossbows are easy if I have an easy mark – a still mark, one that does not move.”
He laughed at that, then settled with a grin.
“But you should not move about in naught but your skin. Dress and be ready, but take your time. You shall not be hurried here. You are a guest, and a welcome one. We have not had guests in a very long time, and those last ones tried to kill us. They failed,” he said ominously. Then he brightened again. “But please, take your time, as I said. Then join us when you are ready.”
Farendwel nodded politely to Argyle and left, softly closing the door behind him as he went. Argyle found himself sighing. It was a sigh meant to signify satisfaction – deep satisfaction of a kind he had never felt. It was like coming home. He wondered what had become of his kingdom. No doubt it had become another. When he’d heard that it was broken up into wild, dangerous territories, he’d stopped listening. It was no longer his kingdom. He had to keep reminding himself of that. It was a distant land now, a country of foreign peoples he would not know unless he learned of them in great detail on his own. They were not his people any longer. It had been nearly ten thousand years since he’d had any ‘people’ to speak of at all.
Argyle stared at the door for a moment before going to his clothes. He stretched a bit, and then began to dress. The breeches and shirt were of brown leather, and so were the sturdy boots. The cloak was well-made and would keep him warm, certainly, but it would also allow him to blend in easily with the forest around him. He donned the sword belt and gripped the Bastard Sword. He practiced with it a bit. It was indeed quite heavy, but very sharp and wielded with a fair amount of easy by him. His strength would grow as he wielded it more, but of course, it would not hinder him in battle; he felt no exhaustion from the weight of the blade, after all. He noted this as he carefully resheathed his new sword. Then he walked over to the door, pulled it opened, and stepped out into the hallway. It was a narrow hallway, made not for combat, but rather for simple passage. Argyle pulled the door closed behind him and headed down toward the left end of the hallway. The right end led to a window that he looked through before stepping away; he was four floors from the icy ground below.
As he approached the door at the left end of the hallway, he heard voices and slowed his steps. The Dragons were speaking of him.
“The boy is strong.”
“He is a boy no longer. You should know this by now.”
“Just because he is almost ten thousand years old does not mean that he is a man.”
“He was a man almost ten thousand years ago, a king. A young king, but a king nonetheless, and while he is obviously king no longer, he is still to be respected. He is a guest in our home, and he has faced more than we have ever done. We have always lived here in peace and relative safety. Only of late have we begun to see hostility directed toward us, yet we have kept ourselves safe nonetheless. This boy, as you call him, has been constantly tortured and mutilated and allowed to regenerate only so it could be done to him again for almost ten millennia. He has crawled and clawed his way out of the Underworld itself and from the deepest caves into the open air of the mountains, only his wits saving him from the three Giant Spiders that came his way. You should be thankful that he is alive, not wondering how long he will stand against your blade.”
“You know me well. I am sorry, Fennewil. You are right. Argyle is a boy no longer. He is more a man than most other men have ever been or will ever be. I concede the point.”
Seeing that talk of him was clearly over, Argyle reached for the doorknob and pushed open the thick, heavy, solid oak door. The room inside was quite luxurious with its massive fireplace that looked big enough to hold a small cottage within it, the twin golden statuettes of angelic women holding a silver orb together – a crystal ball, if what his mother had always kept close to her for Scrying was any indication – and the soft, velvet-covered couches and chairs surrounding a large coffee table in the middle of the common room. Over a dozen banners, all from different nations, were hung about the giant, stonebrick walls of the room, and a huge, gold-bordered rug depicting a white lion fighting off Black Dragons (or perhaps the other way around; these were Dragons he was facing, after all, if in human form) lay underneath the room’s central furnishings. Tables and chairs stood against the far left wall, numerous and varied weapons covered the back wall on the left side of the fireplace, and the right side of the fireplace was taken up with suits of armour of every kind. On the coffee table was a set of shining silver dishes containing tea, milk, honey, sugared biscuits, and three different kinds of jam – strawberry, blueberry, and blackberry, from the looks of them. It really was quite a lavish set up despite the weapons and armour – or perhaps because of them.
The Dragons turned to face Argyle as he entered the room. Farendwel was sitting forward on his seat with his hands folded between his long legs. Fennewil was just setting down a teacup on the tray before her as she rested her left hand on her knee. Fennewil’s white silk shift reaching only to her ankles, leaving her feet exposed, caught Argyle’s eyes. He could not help but allow his eyes to roam over her slender, pale, sensual curves – until he realized that they were both staring at him. He cleared his throat.
“You wished to see me.”
Farendwel nodded after a moment. Clearly, he and Fennewil had been sizing him up. It was obvious he was attracted to Farendwel’s sister – who wouldn’t be, with an alluring body and revealing clothing like that? – but he said nothing despite his obvious feelings that Argyle was no more than a young boy. To him, perhaps he was – at least in physical age – but Argyle had, as Fennewil had been quick to point out, seen more than Farendwel ever had and probably ever would. Regardless, he was not here to lecture the Dragons on proper respect. He was a king no longer, he reminded himself again.
“It is time,” Farendwel said, his deep voice filling the whole room despite its quite tone as he slowly stood the way a man aching with age would, “for you to rediscover the sword, young human. Come with me.”
Farendwel stepped to a section of uncovered wall across the room and did something with the bricks. Suddenly there was a dark hole in the wall, a doorway that looked into some kind of long passage. He began walking down the passage, motioning for Argyle to follow without looking back. Argyle did follow him, turning back only long enough to see Fennewil close the room’s outer door and look at him, and then the closing of the wall behind him. He turned back to Farendwel, who was halfway down the passage by now. He started after him.
The hall went on for some time, seeming more like a grimy dungeon corridor than anything else, until it finally, slowly began to curve to the left. There were no decorations here save for the periodic appearance of torches in wall sconces lit with green fire – magical fire, no doubt. Eventually, they were in another long corridor. There was a single door at the end. It was about five minutes before they reached it. The door was thick, heavy oak bound with even thicker, heavier iron bars. It had a very large lock in it, and Farendwel pulled out a large, rusted iron key. He inserted the key into the lock and turned it with a loud clacking sound that rang through the tunnel in echoing bursts. He turned the key back and returned it to the pocket of his brown, form-fitting leather trousers. Then he opened the door and walked inside – or outside, rather.
The cave into which Argyle followed Farendwel into was vast indeed. It was filled on the sides with stalagmites and stalactites that had to be dozens of feet long and at least a dozen feet thick at the base. There were small pools of cool, clear water here and there, but most of the rest of the cave was incredibly smooth rock. A large hole in the hundred-foot-high ceiling had to be ten or fifteen feet in diameter and looked out into the gray sky above, but to Argyle it seemed no more than a foot or two across due to the distance between him and the hole.
Argyle closed the door behind him and followed Farendwel into the center of the room. There was a sword lying there, and Farendwel picked it up and handed it to Argyle.
“That, as I told you before, is a Bastard Sword.”
He pointed to the sword at Argyle’s side. Argyle drew the sword and balanced it in his hands, swinging it a few times to get comfortable with it. He felt the weight of it, yet he seemed not to tire with the swings. It was heavy, but sharp – very sharp – and in the hands of a trained swordsman like Argyle, it was a deadly weapon. Farendwel said as much to Argyle as he practiced with the sword briefly, though his slight sneer (which he unsuccessfully attempted to hide) told Argyle that Farendwel didn’t think much of Argyle at all. Was he always this arrogant or just when faced with someone better than him?
Of course, Argyle had no idea what skills with a blade this Dragon called Farendwel had. All he knew was that he was supposed to spar with the Dragon until he was comfortable with the blade again. But he was already comfortable – more than comfortable, as he had shown back in the Spider Caves. But of course, he’d been facing monsters then – not swordsmen who knew how to block his every attack and could probably match him move for move in a battle. He had no doubt that this Dragon could do so, and easily. Something told Argyle that Farendwel was not a man whose anger he would want to invoke, at least not against Argyle himself.
“You were a master swordsman when you were a king, were you not?
“That is correct,” Argyle said as he lowered the Bastard Sword he’d been holding before him. The dark blade was appealing to him in a way most probably wouldn’t have understood; it wasn’t the colour that attracted him, you see. Rather, it was the fact that it was much like his life had been – bleak and uninteresting. And yet, there was a danger in what it was – a sword, and a Bastard Sword at that, though to Argyle it was nothing more than a merely heavy, albeit very sharp sword. “I studied the sword for years before I took the throne in my father’s place. I was handed the title of Master Swordsman and given my sword of office about a month before I was set to be king. After my father died, I spent three months learning of his current affairs of state before I officially took his place, during which time I laid down my sword. But, as I said, I had the ceremony scheduled for a month before I took office as king and then began my rulership of my father’s lands afterward.” He didn’t know yet that his lands were now called the Salquedor Grasslands, but he would know soon enough. Once he was comfortable with his new blade and had made his way out of the mountains, he would see what had become of his lands over the last ten thousand years.
Farendwel nodded politely. He was clearly trying not to be rude, if only for Fennewil’s sake, but he was just as clearly irritated – as per the look in his eyes – at the elaboration on Argyle’s rise to power that obviously wasn’t wanted at the moment.
“Then you know very well how to fight. When you spar against me, I will start slowly to test you. I want to know exactly how skilled you are with the sword. I want to know your every move, your every maneuver. The more I know about how you fight, the more difficult my so-called ‘lessons’ will become. When you are ready, I will push you to the fullest extent of your abilities – and then beyond them. When I begin to do that, the real teaching will begin.”
Argyle nodded as Farendwel drew his own blade. It was a beautifully crafted longsword with a two Dragons’ heads facing away from one another forming the pommel that separated the sharpened steel blade and the bronze hilt. Farendwel and Argyle readied themselves for combat, both taking almost identical stances – legs parted slightly, just enough to balance, both hands on their hilts, blades tipped forward, backs bent slightly as though ready to either crouch or leap. They began to circle one another, sizing each other up, judging how each would move. Finally, Farendwel struck. His blade came in fast and hard, but it was a direct strike that was easily parried. The next two were just as swift, and just as easily blocked. This went on for some time, until Argyle noticed that Farendwel was growing increasingly creative in his movements, eventually forcing Argyle to take evasive action. He backflipped several times consecutively at one point, all the way up to a rather large stalagmite and a group of smaller ones surrounding it.
Argyle whirled and leaped up onto the stalagmite, using it to send a frontal roundhouse kick toward Farendwel’s head. He fully expected Farendwel to dodge it, and he was not disappointed. The Dragon leaped back as Argyle landed on his left foot and followed through with his right in a fluid kick that was blocked by the sword again. Driving Farendwel back, Argyle finally returned to the stalagmite and leaped up onto it again. He kicked off of the stalagmite to flip backward over Farendwel and, upon landing on his feet, immediately set into a series of about a dozen backward handflips that landed him in a readied position. Farendwel was now readied once more himself, and he was eyeing Argyle with newfound respect. Clearly, Farendwel recognized Argyle as being almost as dangerous (perhaps just as dangerous, in his own way) as Farendwel.
The mock battle continued for several hours, until the two finally retired for the evening. Argyle took a meal with the Dragons. It was a vegetarian meal consisting mostly of fruits and vegetables apparently ‘gleaned’ from villages south of the mountains. Regardless of how they obtained them, though, the food was good. The Dragons discussed Argyle’s plans with him as the trio ate.
“I wish to return to the lands I once ruled. I know they are no longer my lands – they have not been for almost ten millennia – but I want to see what has become of them. From there, I do not know where I will go.”
It was true enough. He’d focused only on getting out of the Spider Caves the entire time he’d been down there, and getting out of Hell before that. Once he’d reached the mountains, he hadn’t exactly been all that worried about where he would go later on. He’d been half-dead, after all, and it was the Dragons that had healed him. Now he thought about it, and he had no clue.
“I think I will play it by ear and see what comes my way. I know what Arda was like ten thousand years ago, but no doubt it has changed drastically since then,” he said dryly.
Farendwel nodded. He asked where Argyle’s former kingdom was. Argyle described his lands in great detail, including their location. After Farendwel exchanged a glance with Fennewil, he explained that those lands were now called the Salquedor Grasslands. They had no real ruler, but were instead a vast plain sparsely populated with small villages, farms, and ranches. It was Argyle’s turn to nod, though his was more one of speculation and deep thought than confirmation of anything. The trio continued eating in silence that night, and Argyle finally retired to bed.
The next morning, Argyle was greeted with fresh fruit and bread, and milk as well. His training began immediately after breakfast and stopped only at the end of the day, for dinner. Though he did not hunger, the Dragons insisted that he fill himself to regain his former strength – and so he ate. During and after the meals, the Dragons taught him much of the modern world and its history. When he finally retired, he went over everything in his mind, committing it to memory as until it was running through his mind automatically over and over and over again as he slept soundly through the night. The Dragons had told him that they would be putting him to sleep to aid with what was left of the healing process, as well. When it was done, he would eat, drink, and sleep no more.
His days continued in much the same manner for the next several weeks, until he found that he was far more skillful than he’d ever been with the sword in his life. Farendwel finally declared that he was ready to leave their home, but said that Argyle would always have a place should he need one and help should he require it. He thanked them profusely, and they gave him some supplies to start his journey. He spent a few more days in the Dragons’ home before he finally left, heading south through the narrow passes leading out of the mountains.
The weather was mostly fair through the mountain passes, but some of the passes were treacherous and several snowstorms came at Argyle in all their ferocity. The way was lonely and cold, but Argyle had been alone before. He’d been alone for ten thousand years. The only difference was that he was not suffering here. Not physically, anyway.
He did encounter several goblin bands on his travels, but they were small – no more than ten or twelve of them together at the most and not very well organized at all – and made for good practice. Argyle struck only at night, while they slept, for the guards were low then and not ready for attack besides. He slaughtered the guards of each group swiftly and silently, and then moved on to killing the others in their slumber. A few of them stirred here and there, but not quickly enough to fully rouse or defend themselves.
The kills were quick and simple, child’s play even for a child. Few of them wore armour, and those that did wore only makeshift armour that wouldn’t stand up to the simplest of blows from someone with a decent amount of physical strength. None of them carried very much of value, if anything at all. A few carried tarnished bronze or copper rings or amulets, but none with any magical value and only a dozen or so pieces of gold were found at each camp site. The gold was particularly odd due to the size and the images on either side. But he was only interested in destroying the presence of goblins in the mountains. He wasn’t intent on killing all of them – only a fool would pursue that quest – but he would at least destroy those whose path he crossed.
His most interesting encounters, however, were those with orcs. They seemed to patrol the more dangerous cliffs and valleys, especially where there was unfrozen water and fresh meat. They seemed to mostly eat the Great White Bears and the Gray Seals that wandered throughout the Ered Annon Mountains, though it seemed Human Barbarians sometimes filled their bellies as well. Several times throughout his travels through the mountains, Argyle found the bones of such Barbarians littering the ground, half-buried in snow and some being chewed on by White Wolves and White Foxes. The number of bears, wolves, and foxes of the arctic variety diminished as Argyle made his slow, descendant trek through the jagged peaks and narrow passes of the Ered Annon Mountains. He found the days growing longer and longer as he stalked through the mountains, heading southward into the forest that was slowly making its presence known. When at last he had emerged into the forest, he’d found that it was the middle of spring. Brown Bears and Black Bears were apparently constant visitors throughout the small forest, and foxes were almost seen more often than trees. Wolves made occasional appearances, as well, but they bore gray or black pelts. Those of the foxes were red or brown, and their feet were often white; their tails were almost always tipped with white and occasionally flecked with the same red or brown that the rest of their coats boasted.
The road outside the forest was another matter entirely. Rarely did Argyle spot a wolf, and never did he spot a fox, but the occasional Black Bear would make its way across the road from time to time. Deer and elk were apparently quite common sights along the road, as well, and he often stopped to watch them watching him with a smile. He admired nature. He had always loved it, in fact. He almost felt a part of nature, though he was certainly no Dryad or Naiad. A couple of times, he even saw moose along the road. Twice, though, he had to deal with bandits along the road. The first incident was rather interesting.
The bandits came out of nowhere. They were good – he’d never detected them at all. Not once had he heard or seen even a hint that anyone was near. They were simply invisible one moment and there the next. They carried longbows and crossbows alike, and every one of them seemed to have at least three knives he could see – and probably several more that he could not. He was instantly on his guard, his hand on the sword his friend Farendwel had given him, watching every movement made by the bandits and judging the angles and trajectories of their bolts and arrows before they were fired. They demanded that he hand over his weapons and anything of value that he had on him. He refused, to put it politely. They shot at him – and he dodged. While they were still reloading, he managed to kill two of the three archers. Then the remaining archer and the two crossbowmen shot at him again. He hurled his sword at the archer, the blade sliding easily through his leather armour and into his heart. He retrieved it while the others were reloading. When he got to the first crossbowman, he was just raising the weapon as Argyle’s Bastard Sword sliced cleanly through crossbow and bolt alike. A fluid motion carried through to his heart in a whirling slice, and a horizontal whirling attack took off first the other one’s leg, and then his head. He searched the men and found a great deal that was of value.
Over the next few days, he slowly began to realize that he was being watched. He couldn’t explain the feeling – not really, anyway – he just knew that he wasn’t alone. Finally, though, he was attacked again – or would have been, had not several (perhaps a half-dozen) rangers intervened. Their arrows cut the bandits down quickly and efficiently, and it wasn’t long before the leader of their small band made himself and his men known to Argyle. He introduced himself as Garth Marendan, a servant of the Deity of Nature and a chosen protector of nature.
This began a friendship almost as strong as the bond Argyle had formed with the Dragons in the Ered Annon Mountains. Argyle became very close to Garth, even becoming his blood brother, and he swiftly grew through the ranks to become a high-ranking member of their order. He became quite prestigious in his following of the Deity of Nature, dedicating his life to protecting nature. At last, he had a purpose. He had clawed his way out of Hell, which he had since learned was called the Underworld, and now he had a reason to have done so other than merely escaping the eternity of unbearable torture and mutilation that was the very essence of the Underworld. When he finally left Garth and the others to pursue the world in which he now lived, it was with great reluctance. He promised that he would one day visit with Garth and his kin again. He would not break that promise.
Argyle traveled for some time until he came to the lands that once had been his but no longer were: the Salquedor Grasslands. There were woods there now, and there were no great cities anymore. Villages, farms, and the like had replaced the grand palace that had once dwarfed every structure from the Palanen Ocean to the Spine of the World. Where once castles stood tall and proud, there was now only dead grass and sparse trails of dirt and pebbles.
Entering the villages was an odd thing indeed. He was seen as an outsider – him! – but was welcomed nonetheless. The people he found were broken and defeated, as though some great force had driven the spirit out of them that once caused them to explore the world with an eagerness befitting a child chasing a butterfly. These not only were not the lands he had once known – these were not the people he had once known. They were nothing like them. The people he had served had been a proud people, eager to die if only to save those that they loved. These people could hardly muster the energy to get up in the morning. They did their work because they had to, not because they wanted to. They knew nothing of pride or honour, nor did they care. Argyle was disgusted with them and left the villages. For weeks, he brooded in the plains, never staying in one place. But he should have expected it, and he knew that. In the end, he went to what were now called the Taurai Woods and exploring there.
The forest was a welcome sight. Argyle was part of nature once more as he treaded through the woods, loving the sounds and the sights and the smells of nature. He was one with the trees, the bushes, the deer and the wolves. He was one with the rivers and the streams, the forest paths and the birds that looked over and hunted along them.
Argyle, as per his training in the forest outside the Ered Annon Mountains, had discovered quickly that there were two best times to hunt: at dawn and at dusk, when animals would be heading to their homes or just coming out of them, food was an easy mark. Argyle was thus found on most mornings to be setting traps to catch small game. Every once in a while, he would catch a larger animal and kill it quickly to offer mercy, for Argyle could not bear to watch an animal suffer. He slowly built up a stockpile of furs and pelts, tools and weapons made from bone and bound with tendons. Some things Argyle even made out of the antlers of the larger animals that he caught. He traded such things for fruits and vegetables and breads of various kinds that traveling merchants and other such passersby in the forest carried. Few of them carried but a little coin amongst them, but they always had good food and wine to trade, and some had other things that would be valuable to various people. Argyle took particular interest in the various garments, as there were a number of women that passed through the forest on a regular basis to one location or another, and they often had valuable information and supplies to trade in return for the fine clothes and jewelry.
Eventually, however, Argyle realized that the occasional traveler was not enough. He liked the Elves that dwelt in the forest well enough – they were entertaining and pleasant, and good company all in all – but he did not bother them on a regular basis. He was no Elf, after all, but a human. He needed others of his own kind – humans, and perhaps other, more social creatures – with which to convene on occasion. This wasn’t to say that the Elves were antisocial, of course – quite the contrary, actually – but he needed his kin, humans, to speak with. Those outside the forest knew more of how his race had evolved and developed into the modern citizenry of Arda than the Elves did.
And so he made his way across the plains, stopping in several villages and towns for days or even weeks at a time to gather information and establish a place in the world. He slowly but surely built up a steady knowledge of the modern Arda and the patrons of its resources. He discovered much of its wilderness and the various incidents occurring. There was even news of a war of some kind going on. It was apparently taking place on Isiltelpe, a moon belonging to Arda. When last he’d checked, the moon was unreachable by any but the most powerful mages, and it was uninhabitable besides. But now, it seemed, the moon had an atmosphere of sorts and was home to two warring parties: the Light side and the Forces of Darkness. Neither could tell who was winning the war for the moon or how much longer it would last, but it had apparently lasted several months already.
In truth, part of Argyle wanted the war to end so that Arda could be peaceful and he would not have to see the aftereffects of such a thing. He had seen enough in the last ten thousand years to last the next hundred thousand lifetimes. He did not want to see more suffering. But deep down, another part of Argyle wanted to join the war, to see if he could help defend the moon against whatever invaders were present. If the moon fell to the Forces of Darkness, it would be a massive victory. If the moon was still as inaccessible as it had been back then, though Argyle somehow doubted it considering what he’d already heard about the War for the Moon, then it would prove a formidable – very formidable – base of operations from which to strike at Arda itself. And they could no doubt pose a very serious threat if that happened.
Argyle spent several weeks debating whether or not to seek out the fortresses near the mountains that he’d heard could carry supporters of the Light side to the moon. He had no right to join. He had not been on Arda for almost ten millennia, and he knew little of the world save for what he had gleaned in his first few months back on the planet. That, many would say, wasn’t nearly enough time to become (or to rebecome, rather) an ‘official citizen’ of Arda. Only once he was an Ardian once more in body and mind would he be fully equipped to handle such a war. Only then would he be accepted as an Ardian.
On the other hand, few even realized that he was not an Ardian as many thought of Ardians. He had been gone far too long to be an Ardian in truth, but to most, he was just another face. And if the War for the Moon was truly as large and great as he had heard, then his presence would no doubt be welcomed – even if not with great fervor, as he would (again) be just another face in the crowd, just another blade lent to the Light side for the sole purpose of driving back (and hopefully destroying) the Forces of Darkness before they could take the moon and mount a stand against Arda itself. Besides, the war would give him something to do. It would give Argyle’s new life purpose and meaning beyond simply life itself.
For Argyle had escaped from the Underworld only to escape the pain and suffering he had felt there. He had escaped with the plan to rebuild his life, his kingdom. But once he had arrived and been healed, he had almost immediately begun to realize that this was a complete and utter impossibility. How, after nearly ten thousand years, could he possibly expect even a single bloody shard of the lands that had once been his to be anything like what he had known – let alone the rest of the world? Farendwel’s news and Fennewil’s confirmation of that news had only been confirmation of what Argyle had already figured out, though to most it might have seemed a slap in the face. To Argyle, it was merely grim confirmation and nothing more. He needed something to live for; something to drive him now that he was no longer under the influence of the Demons and Devils that had once held him. He needed something to give him meaning – and this was it. Perhaps he could not rebuild his own life, but he could at least help others rebuild theirs and preserve for themselves what he had not been able to preserve for himself: their homes.
And so it was a few hours before dawn that Argyle, covered by light blankets up to his chest, rested his head upon a soft feather pillow on the second floor of a good, high-quality inn called the Wilwarin Inn and Pub. It lay in the heart of Lomedor. Darkness still covered the land, but Argyle was used to such things. When he had ruled as King of Panal Tarea – the Salquedor Grasslands, it was called now – he had risen long before dawn and retired an hour or two before dusk. It had been quite a common thing for him. It was no different now, except that Argyle was using up the last of the salve given to him by the Dragons to complete his healing. Once that was gone, he truly would sleep no more. But for now, Argyle was just stirring in his room. It was quiet, of course, save for the occasional muffled footsteps or mewing cat in the street below his condensation-covered window. He rose slowly, getting out of bed with some minor grogginess still in him as he wiped the sleep from his eyes and stood to greet the day. He prepared the flames for the water that would fill his bath and disrobed. He prepared his wardrobe for the day: a pair of blue cotton trousers; a blue shirt with a v-shape sprouting from the neck, the whole of it – as well as the sleeve cuffs and the bottom of the shirt itself – rimmed in gold threads, the same that covered the waistline and ankle cuffs of his trousers; black leather boost well-cared-for and very suitable for long travel in both comfort and durability; a black leather swordbelt with a silver buckle that would bear his sheathed Bastard sword on the left hip for easy drawing; and a pair of blue cotton gloves with told trim to match the rest of his wardrobe. It was the wardrobe of a noble, he knew, but the blue was dark enough to blend in with almost any environment and situation and the gold was simply a necessary evil. He’d gone for price and looks, and this was the best he’d found. He wanted to appear more than a beggar, but he did not quite want to appear a noble, and this was the end result. It would work well enough.
Argyle glanced out the window as his bath water was heating. It was a misty morning, though dawn had not yet come, but it always seemed to be a misty morning here in Lomedor. No matter where he went, it seemed to Argyle that it was the same. He went over to his bath water. It was suitably heated and he made the flames go lower so that the water would be kept warm without boiling him alive. He wanted to be clean, not a stew.
Once he had bathed and dressed, he took his gold down to the inn’s front office and left it in an envelope on the mantle from where the keys were hung. He had taken his time with the bath and he had few possessions save for those he already carried with him or wore upon his body, so when he left the inn, the sun was already cresting the horizon. Light had not yet fully reached the street in which he stood, but at least there was some light.
As he walked down the slightly dusty street, using the boardwalk since the street itself often took on a much busier feel, the sun slowly began to light the path before him. Already, people were starting to rouse from their slumber and wander the streets. It would not be long at all before the street became quite busy with the hustle and bustle of the day's business being tended to in one fashion or another by everyone from simple beggars to stall workers to wealthy nobles, all coming in or going out or staying to do what work or experience what pleasure they needed or wanted to.
Argyle was just turning a corner when a person talked to him. He did not immediately realize that he had been spoken to, but it quickly became apparent when the person hurried up to walk beside him as he proceeded to stride down the street. He turned.