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Ever since an early age, Orin Keene dreamed of leaving his father's side and going off to make a name for himself. Like his father before him, Orin long desired to leave the familiar grounds of Windspear in search of his own destiny. In his mind he had envisioned a life of adventure laced with riches and excitement. He had grown weary of retold tales of fame and fortune by drunken patrons. In many ways, he envied the travelers who sought attention and revelry at the Red Gryphon Inn, unable to tear away from the life that he had been dealt.
The unexpected death of his mother, Arialla, during the birth of his younger brother had all but derailed the adolescent hopes of becoming more than simply “one of Ol' Thelred's boys”. With his mother gone, he had been thrust into helping his father run the Inn; a task which he felt was more suited for one of the opposite sex. His only escape from the mundane tasks of running the Inn was the occasional barroom brawl. Often times, he looked forward to them and the chance to jump into a fray. Although he enjoyed mixing it up with drunken patrons from time to time, he knew that his size and strength were clear advantages over the inebriated souls that fancied the Inn.
As such, they did little to satisfy the overwhelming desire that had been with him for so long. He longed for the opportunity to take to the road and perhaps, if he were lucky enough, draw swords with an opponent worthy of drunken tales to be told.
With things being as they were, Orin had been ecstatic to hear his father's order to follow the small Halfling to where ever his travels would take him. The rush that he had felt when Hadrian had burst into the main hall of the Inn claiming to have been attacked was moot compared how he felt about tracking the Halfling. If Hadrian's accounts were correct, Orin knew he would be faced with the sort of challenge he long desired.
“Keep a watchful eye, my boy,” his father warned. “Something tells me young Hadrian is in over his head on something or other, so you best watch your back as well as his.”
As he cautiously tracked the path that the Halfling's wagon had taken, his father's words echoed within his head, a staunch reminder of the danger he faced in tailing the Halfling. For one full day, Orin had followed the Halfling's trail rather easily; a fresh path of hooves and wheel markings that even an unseasoned tracker could have easily followed. However, a sudden change in direction brought concern to Orin's mind as the trail seemed to unexpectedly veer away from the well-traveled roads that led to and from Windspear, jutting to the northeast.
Having spent his whole life working for his father in Windspear, Orin's familiarity with the surrounding lands was lacking at best. He undoubtedly knew of the varied regions by way of overheard tales and traveling merchants, but he knew little of what to expect from the trails before him. The uncertainty that he had been dealing with increased ten-fold with the Halfling's trail turning away from the common roads.
Pausing for a moment's rest, Orin reached into one of the pockets of his leather vest and removed a small folded parchment from within. Ragged and tattered, the document had undoubtedly seen better days. However, it was the rudimentary map of the surrounding area that had been inscribed on it that mattered most to Orin. Although he initially felt as though he had overpaid for the seemingly ancient, and possibly outdated map, he did feel that it aided him in his pursuit.
At the epicenter of the map lay Windspear. Orin traced his journey from the town and estimated the distance traveled with a quick glance at the summer sky. With the blazing sun high above him, he quickly studied the poorly sketched map in an attempt to figure out where the Halfling was headed. Glancing ahead at the horizon, he not could see the tree-line that had been marked as “Holigart Woods” on the map. Orin stifled a soft chuckle as he glanced over the map. The Holigart Woods hadn't been called as such since before he was born and was now known as The Deermouth Forest. He gave some thought as to the hard earned coin he had used to purchase the ancient map and hoped that other markings on the map still held true.
Orin carefully folded the parchment along its creased lines, taking great care to not worsen its physical condition, and slid it back into his pocket. The trail before him remained fresh and he dared not pause too long in his pursuit for fear of losing sight of the trail.
***
The unkempt field of tall grass and weeds that Orin cut across offered no reprieve from the blistering heat. With the grass reaching up to about mid-calf, the impression of the Halfling's wagon wheels was clearly identifiable and easy to follow. Salted droplets of sweat streamed over Orin's face and into his mouth, making him thirst for some of his father's cool Meade. A few sips from his water sac had temporarily quenched his thirst, but did little for the aches and soreness he had started to feel. He noticed the tender redness of sunburn across his arms and shoulders and was reminded of the sun's effects each time the straps of his loaded pack dug into the inflamed skin.
He could feel his legs straining to keep the quick pace that he had set. The exhaustive pace had caused the muscles in his legs burn, and he knew he would have to rest soon or suffer worsening effects. His right hand held his sheath-covered sword. He had hoped that carrying the weapon by hand would ease the burden of his load, but found humor in realizing that he probably should have packed a smaller, lighter sword. He quickly pushed that thought from his mind. He'd never used the massive broad-sword in combat, but was undoubtedly strong enough to do so with ease. He had always found the sheer size of the weapon to be intimidating and imagined that any opponents that faced it would feel the same.
Orin cleared his mind and focused on the Halflings trail. The sight of the nearby tree-line filled rejuvenated him and offered the promise of shade for his aching shoulders. Pausing for a moment, Orin took a knee and shading his eyes from the brightness of the sun as he scanned the area ahead. A glint of shining metal on the path ahead of him quickly pushed any discomfort he had been feeling from his mind.
“What in the nine hells is that?” he asked aloud, straining his eyes for a better look.
Rising from the ground, he quickly ran towards the metallic object to find a large silver buckle fastened to a leather strap. Taking hold of the strap, Orin pulled at both ends firmly, stretching the leather tight within while trying to determine its origin.
“This is too big to belong to the Halfling,” he said quizzically.
An uneasy feeling quickly swept through his body. Glancing around at the surrounding area, he searched for any signs of what would appear to be a struggle, but found none. He tried to reason that perhaps the wagon handler had discarded the strap, but found difficulty in believing it himself.
Orin let the strap slide free from his left hand and noted a sticky residue on the tips of his fingers. His furrowed brow brought a quizzical look to his face. He expected the strap to be wet from the morning dew, but not sticky. Holding his fingers to his nose, Orin inhaled, noting a faint scent but was unable to determine the cause of the peculiar smell.
“Where exactly are you headin', my little friend?” he wondered aloud.
Taking in another whiff of the substance on his fingers, he quickly rubbed the tips of his fingers together and tasted the mysterious residue with a quick flash of his tongue. The bitter taste caused him to spit at the ground. An alarmed expression instantly washed over his face as he quickly realized that he was not alone in his pursuit of the Halfling.
Reaching into one of the small pouches that hung from his belt, Orin fished for the small greenish vial of elixir he had procured from the local alchemist .
“How could I have been so damned foolish,” he cursed himself, his body beginning to feel the onset of effects caused by the poison he had so willingly inhaled and tasted.
Twisting off the pliable cork that sealed the vial, Orin poured the healing concoction of crushed herbs, roots, oil and water down his throat. His left hand began to tremble uncontrollably. A sudden flash of pain streaked across his abdomen, forcing him to squeeze the small glass vial until it shattered within his grasp. Thin shards of glass cut into the palm of his right hand, but he barely felt it over the excruciating pain that swelled within him.
He franticly hoped he had taken the elixir in time to ward off the damaging effects of whatever poison he had inadvertently administered to himself. He could feel the poison affecting his organs as his lungs began to ache with every shallow breath he drew. A twisting sensation in his stomach caused his body to convulse onto the moist ground. Lying on his backside, Orin forcefully closed his eyes as beads of sweat made their way into his eyes. Writhing in agony, Orin's world fell into a world of darkness.
As Orin's body writhed with pain, the yellow-tinted eyes of his unsuspecting assailant watched with elation from the cover of the nearby tree line. Licking his scaly lips, the Darconite assassin named Sithera, felt pride in his ability to lure in and dispose of the pursuing warrior. He had counted on the man's curiosity to be his downfall and had proven to be correct.
“Delightful,” Sithera said softly. He was, after all, an assassin. He cared little for hard fought battles or crossing swords with war-hardened soldiers. He sought pleasure in setting up his opponents and watching them fall. He enjoyed waiting in the shadows and observing his hapless victims. In many ways, Sithera found face-to-face confrontations to be beneath him. He loathed the brutality of hacking away at an adversary. For him, there was nothing more satisfying that the skill and finesse required to stalk and subdue a target without making a sound.
For that reason alone, Sithera felt an overwhelming urgency to settle his score with Hadrian. Had he not clumsily tripped the lock on the door to the Hadrian's room at the Inn, he would have completed his task and been done with the Halfling. To make matters worse, he had been outwitted by the Halfling. Not only did he allow Hadrian to escape, he also allowed his presence to become known. There was no doubt the local Assassin's Guild would not take his presence lightly, especially when there was profit to be made.
Regardless, he thought, there were times when silence and shadows were simply not options. Despite the desire to live up to the traits of his calling, he knew that from time to time, a bit of savagery was needed. Although the use of such tactics did leave a foul taste in his mouth, he was not above using them when needed, especially if it meant saving his hide.
As Orin's labored breathing slowly came to a halt, the skilled assassin swiftly turned to continue his own pursuit. As he had done so many times before, Sithera had attained his goal with as little effort as possible. However, he had wasted more than enough time in setting his trap and would have to double his pace if he wished to remain on the Halfling's trail.
***
With his short sword in hand, Hadrian glanced around at his surroundings and decided to take a moment to rest his weary legs. He had long paid the carriage-handler for his services and been traveling on foot through the wooded area that would lead him to the Scribal Tower. Settling down on a soft patch of grass, Hadrian unloaded his knapsack and slid his sword into its sheath. Reaching for the leather-bound canteen that hung from his belt, he took a swig of sweet Elven ale that brought vivid flashes of good memories to his mind.
“Elven ale was always Valdor's favorite,” he said to himself, a soft hint of sadness swirling around in his thoughts.
Taking another drink, he wiped his chin with the sleeve of his tunic and tied the canteen back onto his belt.
Hadrian's thoughts took him back to the night he had been attacked by the Darconite at the Red Gryphon Inn. It had only been a few days since the attack, yet it seemed longer to the Halfling. Visions of the Darconite gave Hadrian a nervous feeling. He couldn't understand how the Darconite had known of the black shard, as he had told no one of its existence, save for the Scribe, Aleron Vale. He knew the Scribe would never reveal the shard's existence to anyone. The Black Shard of Odan was a sacred object in the eyes of the Scribe and Hadrian had known that it would be well protected while in the Scribe's possession.
Hadrian realized the only other person with knowledge of the black shard's existence was the sorceress, Sidria Ailema. But she only knew of the shard, and was not made known to the fact that Hadrian and Valdor had been successful in their attempt to obtain the powerful shard.
Hadrian knew he would have to confront her in order to answer the questions that filled his mind, but resigned to the fact that he would deal with that problem when the time came. For now, his priority was to get to the Scribal Tower and retrieve the shard with hopes of figuring out what the Darconite was really after.
Rising from the cool ground, Hadrian slung his knapsack back onto his shoulders and drew his sword once again. He knew that he wasn't far from the Tower and hoped to reach it by nightfall. The last thing he wanted to do was to spend the night among the creatures of the forest.
***
The high-rising walls of the Scribal Tower glimmered with the light of the setting sun. Hadrian stared up in amazement at the sheer walls of polished granite and marble. He remembered the first time he had laid eyes on the tower and once again felt the same sense of awe in the presence of the massive construct. He could feel the aura of magical energy that surrounded the tower as he approached the eastern face.
Soft muffled tones brought a smile to Hadrian's face. The Scribal acolytes, servants to Aleron Vale and caretakers of the Temple grounds paid him no mind as the scurried to and fro. Their dedication to the Scribal Arts left little, if any, room for deviation from their rigorous duties and servitude. Although they did not address Hadrian directly, the Halfling's keen hearing could distinctly hear their softer-than-a-whisper greetings as he made his way towards the tower's entrance.
A high arcing arch that had been carved into the polished walls of the tower marked its entrance. Magical wards designed to protect the tower kept the doors hidden from view. Running his hand across the face of the wall, Hadrian could feel no seams or ridges and smiled in amusement. Reaching into the folds of his cloak, he retrieved the small polished gemstone that Aleron Vale had given him at their last meeting.
“Use this stone if you ever need to return to the tower,” Aleron had told Hadrian long ago, “Without it, you will not be able to enter.”
With the stone in hand, Hadrian held out his arm and could feel a small surge of energy emanate from his palm. A soft hint of golden light quickly appeared at the top of the arch and streaked down both sides of the carved framework. Suddenly, to Hadrian's amazement, the magical wards that sealed the doorway were revealed. Spanning the entire length of the arch and illuminated in the gold lighting were indecipherable characters and symbols.
Hadrian initially thought the characters to be of Elven-kind, but quickly realized he was wrong when he found that he could not read them. A bright flash forced Hadrian to look away, and just as quickly as he had turned his head, the illuminated glyphs were gone. Thin seams suddenly appeared in the solid wall before him, which was followed by the soft creaking sound of doors opening.
As Hadrian slipped the stone back into the creases of his cloak, the massive marble doors swing open.
“Amazing,” he thought to himself.
Stepping through the doorway, Hadrian returned the gemstone into the hidden pocket of his cloak and continued into the Great Foyer of the Tower. The soft tune of hand-strung instruments filled the air. Hadrian thought it to be that of a harp, but was unsure. Regardless, he thought, it was pleasant and relaxing.
As the doors swung closed behind him, Hadrian could hear the distinct voice of Aleron Vale. Echoing throughout the large chamber, the Scribe's voice quickly drowned out the pleasing music.
“I knew that I would see you again Halfling, but I didn't half expect it to be so soon!” the Scribe's deep voice called out.
The voice of Aleron seemed to come from all around Hadrian, yet the Scribe was no where to be seen.
“Where are you, Aleron,” Hadrian asked as he looked about the large room.
“I'll be with you shortly,” Aleron replied, the strong tone of his voice echoing louder than before. “Make yourself at home, and please don't touch anything this time.”
The Scribe's words brought a smile to Hadrian's face.
***
Sitting in a plush chair made of velvet and satin, Hadrian marveled at the sight of the various artifacts that filled the large room. He had made himself comfortable, having already removed his boots. Glancing around he was amazed at how massive the inside of the tower was. It was by far grander than anyone could imagine based on its exterior appearance. He thought it was odd that although no windows could be seen from the exterior, large stained-glass windows filled the room with brilliant light.
Unable to control his intuitive impulse to investigate the unknown, the tired Halfling rose from the chair and made his way to a collection of crystal figurines that stood on display upon a great mantle off to the side of the room. As he neared the mantle, he took notice of the astounding detail that each one offered. Seven in total, each figurine appeared too fine in craftsmanship to have been carved by hand. A wave of excitement swept through his tiny frame as he inspected each statuette. Not wanting to miss any detail on the tiny figures, Hadrian leaned as close as physically possibly to the tiny sculptures. Tempted as he was to take one for safe keeping, he was wary of the Scribe's stern warning and decided best to keep any of the marvelous creations from finding their way into his pockets.
As he anxiously studied the figurines, the excitement that coursed through him quickly changed to confusion.
“That can't be…that looks like…” Hadrian started, unsure of what he was looking at.
Hadrian rubbed his eyes as if to clear his already impeccable vision. Peering in for a closer look, he felt a flutter in his chest as he realized that he was correct in his initial assessment.
“It does look like Valdor!” He said aloud.
Reaching for the crystalline figure, Hadrian was alarmed to find that he was holding a miniature replica of Valdor exactly as he appeared when Hadrian had last seen him. Holding the replica figurine close to his face, Hadrian's eyes poured over every tiny detail of the tiny statuette. The amazement that swept through him brought a bevy of thoughts to his mind. He wondered if the Scribe had actually found a way to reverse the magic that had changed his friend to stone.
“If so”, he thought, “How come Aleron never sent word”!
As he contemplated the unknown, Hadrian was quickly beset by a current of electricity that swept up through the arm that held the Valdor statuette. Hadrian instantly dropped to the ground as the electric wave swept through his tiny frame. The pain that had engulfed him lasted for only a few brief seconds, but it felt like nothing short of an eternity for the diminutive Halfling.
Although the electric energy had dissipated, Hadrian still felt a bit of tingling in the hand that held the figurine. He quickly realized that he no longer held the statue in his hand and glanced around furiously in an effort to find where it had landed. Still lying on the floor, he turned his head and was startled to find a pair of sandaled feet tapping angrily on the hard marble floor. Glancing up, he felt a wave of embarrassment come over him as his eyes met the unnerving, and seemingly angered eyes of the Scribe known as Aleron Vale.
With the statue of Valdor in his hand, Aleron gave Hadrian a cold hard stare.
“I told you not to touch anything, did I not?” questioned the Scribe. “As you can see, I've taken some precautions since your last visit.”
“So I see,” replied Hadrian as he lifted himself from the floor. Clenching his fist, he still felt the ill effects of Aleron' ward. “You could have given me a better warning than that, don't you think?”
“Don't worry, Hadrian,” Aleron stated, as though he had read Hadrian's thoughts. “The ward's effects are short-lasting. You should have feeling back in your hand in no time.”
No sooner had he spoken the words, a sly smile crept across Aleron' face, breaking the intense scowl he had maintained. He was somewhat proud of himself for his efforts in deterring the Halfling's kleptomaniacal ways. Turning away from Hadrian, he beckoned for the Halfling to follow.
“Come quickly my ever-curious friend, I have much to share with you,” he said.
***
Cold eyes peered out through overgrown brush that surrounded the outlying grounds of the Scribal Tower. Sithera had lost track of how long he had been lying in wait among the shadows of the forest. He had become patience incarnate. Silently, he waited while studying the patterns of scurrying acolytes, taking mental notes of how they moved and where they went. He paid particular attention to their physical attributes as well.
“That one is not tall enough,” he thought to himself, taking note of a passing acolyte who was no taller than five feet.
He silently cursed in his native tongue. His height and slender build had always been an advantage to the crafty and lethal assassin. Now, for the first time in his life, they had proven to be a hindrance. He knew that all hope of remaining undetected by the acolytes or the steward of the Scribal Tower depended on his ability to remain unnoticed. The acolytes provided the perfect cover. The thick hooded robes they wore would undoubtedly conceal his presence among them, at least until he was able to locate the Halfling.
Sithera had indeed seen one particular acolyte whom he thought would provide the cover he needed. Tall, but thinner than the Darconite, the acolyte had been one of the first to pass through the area several hours prior.
As he silently watched another acolyte shuffle past, he cursed again. Sithera's thin forked tongue lashed out quickly over his dry lips searching for moisture. He was thirsty, but did not dare reach for the leather water sac that hung from his belt, lest he be seen.
“Soon,” he thought. “Soon, enough, the tall one will pass through here again.”
***
The boiling tea that Aleron poured into Hadrian's mug brought a smile to the Halfling's face. As he lifted the mug to his lips, he could feel the warm steam upon his face. Drawing in a deep breath to savor the scent of the intoxicating tea, Hadrian softly sipped the boiled brew.
“Just the way I like it,” he said with a satisfying sigh.
Placing the mug onto the small wooden table located between him and Aleron, he thought of the conversation that had just transpired between himself and the Scribe.
“So what you're saying is that you've been able to reach out to Valdor using the figurine?” he asked. “Is it possible for me to do the same?”
Annoyed by the Halfling's endless curiosity, Aleron replied, “As I have told you repeatedly already, I have been able to see your friend's thoughts using the figurine.”
Taking a sip from his own serving of tea, Aleron continued, “The figurines are tied to me; an embodiment of myself and the powers that have been passed down to me through years of ancient teachings.”
Placing his mug on the table, he regarded the statuettes and continued, “These enchanted creations are part of my very existence, and hence, I am the only one that they serve.” Looking back at Hadrian, he could see that his explanations were once again falling upon the deaf ears of the Halfling's bewilderment.
Aleron' words echoed once again through Hadrian's wandering mind. The thought of Valdor encased in stone sent a flurry of emotion through him.
“What has he…?” Hadrian paused. “What kind of thoughts does he have?” he asked hesitantly, afraid of what Aleron' answer might be.
“He is at peace for the most part,” Aleron replied. “There are flashes of confusion from time to time, mostly having to do with his present state. But he is peaceful, or at least what he would consider it to be at. He is surrounded by a darkness that is as silent as it is endless.”
Aleron could sense that Hadrian had become disheartened by his accounts of Valdor's being and quickly tried to offer him solace in the fact that Valdor was not in any harm or danger in his present state.
Raising his eyes to the high ceilings of the Scribe's Study Chamber, he asked the question that had been burning in him since the day Valdor had been turned to stone.
***
Sithera felt a soft rush of adrenaline at the sight of the acolyte. The late afternoon sun had long dipped past the horizon, leaving Sithera to his keen night vision and the sliver of moonlight that lit the sky. There was no mistaking the fact that this was the acolyte Sithera had been waiting for. He recalled how the young creature's head bobbed as he walked.
Slowly, Sithera reached for the blowgun stashed in the sleeve of his tunic. He had been wise enough to arms the weapon long before he reached the Tower, so as to avoid any delay. As the acolyte slowly approached, Sithera raised the thin wooden weapon to his lips and waited.
Suddenly the acolyte stopped, almost as though he had somehow been alerted to Sithera's presence. Sithera felt another rush as the acolyte turned his head. If the acolyte gave any indication of running, Sithera would be forced to act quickly. But the acolyte just stood in silence. Coming into view from around the path the encircled the Tower appeared another acolyte, its short stubby legs working feverishly to catch up to Sithera's intended prey.
Sithera smiled. As the two acolytes slowly approached, he knew that he could not afford to shed the taller acolyte's blood for sake of ruining the garments he wore. The smaller acolyte, however, was open game. Bringing the blowgun again to his lips, Sithera used his off hand to unlatch the leather strap that held his stiletto in place. Wrapping his hand around the small handle, he drew in a deep breath and took aim.
***
A soft whistling sound quietly filled the air and quickly dissipated. The Halfling, Merle Marnin, one of the older acolytes to serve the Tower, thought it odd that his companion had slapped at the back of his arm, as though he had been bitten by some sort of bug. Without a word, the taller acolyte fell lifeless to the ground. Reaching for his colleague, the worried Merle never heard the soft rustling of light leather boots skipping across the cool grass. All Merle was able to manage was a quick flash of light out of the corner of his eye as Sithera's blade sparkled for a moment in the moon's light.
Unable to catch his breathe, Merle reached for his throat and fell to the ground as a small red hole appeared on the side of his neck where Sithera had jabbed the stiletto with deadly precision. Without a moment to waste, Sithera quickly grabbed each acolyte by the leg pulled both bodies into the shadows.
Pleased with his actions, Sithera knew he was one step closer to Hadrian. He was tempted to take a long and much needed drink of water from his sac, but decided he did not have time to waste.
“There would be plenty of time for that later,” he thought.
***
“Is there a cure?” Hadrian asked without looking at Aleron.
The reply from Aleron caught Hadrian off guard as he had not anticipated anything other than a negative reply from the Scribe.
“I've actually made some progress in that respect,” replied Aleron.
Alert and refocused, Hadrian's eyes seemed alive once again with the thought of promising news.
Aleron continued, “The Black Shard you brought me has significant power.” He paused as he sipped his tea. “I managed to make a powder from some of the chips that I was able to cut away. Each batch of powder contained separate magical qualities that didn't work as I had expected. However, when I combined different samples of the powder together, I was able to attain promising results.”
Hadrian cut in as Aleron continued, “Have you been able to test it?” His tone was alive with excitement and anticipation.
“Well,” Aleron continued, annoyed once again with Hadrian's less than courteous manners, “I've tested it on…”
The sound of the chamber door opening brought a quick silence to the room. The thought of intrusion into Aleron' personal sanctuary sent a tidal wave of building anger through the Scribe.
Rising from his seat, the Scribe turned toward the door, which was now completely ajar. Aleron could barely make out the shape of the hooded person standing beyond the open door and demanded that whoever it was identify himself immediately.
Slowly, almost without purpose, a cloaked and hooded acolyte stepped through the doorway. Aleron immediately recognized the symbols inscribed across the sleeves of the acolyte's robes.
“Ephrates!” he stammered, “What is the meaning of this! You know that acolytes are not allowed within these chambers!”
The silence that followed was typical of all acolytes, as they were trained to be seen and not heard. However, the delicate movements of the acolyte as he entered the room told Aleron that something was not right.
“Ephrates”, Aleron called out, “Lower your hood so I may see your face.” Aleron's tone had shifted from anger to suspicion. He had known Ephrates for many years and always knew him to be more gawky than graceful.
From underneath the dark hood came a voice as raspy as it was deep.
“The one you call Ephrates is no longer under your care, Scribe.”
The familiar voice had a daunting effect on Hadrian. He quickly recalled the last time he had been so unfortunate to hear it: The Red Gryphon Inn.
“Who are you and what have you done with my acolyte!” demanded Aleron.
Stepping further into the room, Sithera pulled free the hood that hid his reptilian features and tore away the robes, confirming Hadrian's fear.
“And so we meet again, little Halfling,” Sithera said, his words causing Hadrian to reach for the short Elven sword at his waist.
Aleron quickly realized how the Darconite had gained access to the Tower. Hanging from his neck was the charmed stone that all acolytes carried with them. It was the only means to come and go freely through the Tower's protective wards.
Suddenly, Aleron's voice cut through the room, echoing through the chamber and drawing a quick halt to Sithera's advance. The slits of his yellow eyes narrowed as he changed his focus from Hadrian to Aleron.
“How dare you trespass onto sacred ground…” he yelled, his tone heavy with anger as his voice reverberated throughout the large room. He pointed at Sithera and continued, “…you have violated the sanctity of my home!”
Sithera regarded the Scribe and coldly replied, “My quarrel is with the Halfling, Scribe. Step aside or you shall inherit his fate.” The sound of steel being drawn filled the room as Sithera pulled free his sword from the leather sheath that held it.
Aleron wondered for a moment what had become of his assistant, Ephrates. Forcing all emotion for his missing assistant from his mind, he gave himself to the rage that had swelled inside of him.
“Your threats have no merit here, creature!” Aleron said mockingly. “Whatever your quarrel with this Halfling may be, your actions against this sanctuary are an assault on the Scribal brotherhood…” he paused.
Drawing a deep breath, he continued. “Such actions have but one penalty,” he shouted. “Death!”
Without warning, the diminutive Aleron clutched his small hands together as he spoke a single word.
“Hammer!”
As quickly as he had spoken the word, the handle of a bluish Battle-Hammer shimmered within his clasp and took form. Almost half the size of the Scribe and by appearance, heavier than Aleron, the scribe swung the magical weapon with ease back and forth across his body.
“Tonight,” he shouted at Sithera, “Galun's Hammer will taste Darconite blood!”
The Reaper's smile stretched far and wide,
As did his sinister touch.
For Galun's Hammer had been called upon,
And Death would follow as such
To be continued.
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