“This is Northport?” Claire asked in disbelief. Northport was the major trade hub of the Kolaen Empire. In the center of the city was a glorious marble palace for the Duchess, a beautiful aasimir, Amber. She was a descendant of the first angel that made contact with Kole centuries ago, the one who later married the first empress of the empire. Her palace glowed with well cared for marble, a pearl that sat alone on a grey slate. The ports, on the other hand, were rundown and littered with the poor, making it the location of choice for many missionaries. As the young adults walked down the street, many could tell that they were not poor, their fine cloaks and thick furs gave unwelcome attention to them. Claire walked side-by-side with Kerthir, feeling very nervous in the ports. She held his hand quietly and rested her other hand on her hip, just above her sword.

They continued on until they reached a tavern in the center of town. The Frozen Spirits was one of the finer taverns in the city’s center, but in the afternoon it did not have many customers. As they walked in the dwarf behind the counter looked at them curiously. He was tall for a dwarf, standing a bit over four feet tall. His beard came to his collarbone, and was well kept. A large scar started at his left ear and came to his chin. His eyes were cold, as if they had witnessed more horrors then most could imagine. Thur’il placed the mug he’d been drinking from on the counter and said “My tavern is not a place for children.” The dwarf’s voice was deep and strong, carrying around the tavern with ease.

Kerthir looked around his legs and said, “I’m sorry, good dwarf, but I do not see any children.” The dwarf’s eyes narrowed and he asked, “Boy, do I look like a fool to you?” Kerthir locked arms with Claire and said, “Excuse me, sir, but we are not children. This is my wife. You know, elves can look quite young.” The dwarf’s eyes grew colder if that were possible and he rose from his stool “I’ll ask you again, do you think I am a fool? You are not elves; I have seen them for myself. You two are mixed-blood children. Now, get out.” Kerthir’s smile evaporated and he glared at Thur’il almost as coldly. “As long as you get money, why the hell do you care who it came from?” The dwarf answered “Children are a nuisance and I do not allow them in my tavern.” Just as Kerthir was about to answer, a lute was stuck. All eyes turned to a human standing in the corner of the tavern “Gentlemen, rather than fight over such trivial things, let us all have a drink and listen to some music.” The dwarf looked at the bard with malice in his eyes, but stayed his tongue. Annoying or not, musicians did attract customers.

Kerthir and Claire entered the tavern, taking drinks from the dwarf quickly and sat by the bard.  Claire looked at him and smiled “Thank you, stranger. We travelled a long way and just wanted to rest.” The bard bowed and said “Anything for a lady. Caelorian Gimirth, Best Bard in the Empire, at your service.” Another human turned her head to look over at the bard. Her right arm was in a sling, bloody and torn and her body and armor were covered in scratches and marks. The most horrifying wound was a gash on her left temple. All these wounds looked at least a week old. Her voice was rough and bitter “Shut up, Celorin.” The bard smiled and said, “It is Caelorian your ladyship. Whatever sorrow you have, my music shall make you weep away.” The woman stood up from her table, several bottles crashing to the floor around her. For once, the dwarf’s voice was filled with concern “Deniva, do not bother with them. Please just sit down, you should not be moving.” Deniva ignored his warning, awkwardly drew her sword from her side with her left hand and lifted it toward the bard’s throat. “Should I help you control your tongue?”

Kerthir looked at the armored woman and saw a silver icon around her neck, a holy symbol. It was the image of a young woman, resting a sword across her shoulders, Saint Miria, the patroness of Northport. Miria was a young paladin who had rid the city of an undead plague nearly 800 years ago, her statue stood at the center of the city and radiated divine magic, to keep away undead and bless the citizens. Kerthir said calmly, “I did not think that Paladins of Miria held swords to the throats of innocent people.” The woman’s eyes turned to Kerthir and he saw deep self-loathing in them “What did you say, you inbred brat? I’ll cut your head from your shoulders.” As Deniva raised her sword to swing at Kerthir, Claire’s hand shot forward and threw a dart into the paladin’s neck. Deniva’s eyes clouded with confusion and she sunk to the floor. Claire said sternly, “It is only a sleep dart, you had left me no choice.” Kerthir gave a sideways look to Claire “You think I can’t handle a drunk person?” Claire shrugged “You were taking too long.”

The odd party waited for Deniva to wake up, which took most of the day. When her eyes opened, Deniva looked much older than she was, and her body looked cloaked in shame. “I caused trouble didn’t I?” She asked quietly. Kerthir’s heart moved from anger to pity as soon as he heard her disheartened voice. “Oh, I’m such a failure.” Deniva whispered as she stood. She looked at her table, disgusted with how many drinks she had. “I’ll just be going now.” Deniva staggered and walked toward the door. Caelorian, who had been playing a moment ago, ended his song in a short, elegant way and dove to block the door. Kerthir and Claire steadied Deniva helped her to a different table. “You are in no shape to move, and then whatever you must do will not be able to be done.” Claire advised. Deniva chuckled in a sad way “You have no idea what troubles me.” Caelorian made his way to the table and said, “You can talk about it. These two have shown an interest in helping you.” The paladin shook her head and said “I cannot drag you into my burdens.” Kerthir hesitated before he spoke, knowing very well that what he wanted to say might very well anger or upset Deniva. “I couldn’t help but notice you are a paladin, a holy person. Did you fail some holy mission? I’m not a religious man, nor do I claim to be…but whatever you failed at may not be a sign your patroness left you. Perhaps she is upset at how you are treating yourself. Your wounds are ignored, you are drinking constantly, and you are refusing help. Do you not think that the Patroness wants you to help yourself?” Deniva sighed, “You want to help me, but you cannot. It is impossible.” Kerthir grunted “And why not?” The paladin asked in a hushed tone “Have you ever seen undead?”

The atmosphere around the table grew chilly and shivers ran down the spines of Deniva’s new companions. Caelorian laughed nervously “Of course I have.” Deniva’s eyebrow rose and she looked at him accusingly “I mean in the flesh, not in your songs.”     Caelorian admitted sheepishly “Well...then no. But they can’t be much difference can there be?” Deniva asked, “Where do you think I got so wounded from? The undead are back once again, the blessing of the Patroness’ statue grows weaker and I was sent to destroy them. As the captain of the expedition, I lead the others into the mountains, all clerics and paladins. We never even got to the top of it, we were ambushed and defeated.” The paladin’s head hung low as she finished “And…I survived away. I was saved when my allies were dead; I should have died among them. I should have died with them, I do not deserve Lady Miria’s grace.” Claire gently took Deniva’s hand as the paladin began to cry silently. The half-drow said quietly “In my former home, defeat was unforgivable. I saw many drow be killed for failure. That always stuck me as wrong, if everyone who failed was killed, who would be able to finish the job? And besides, everyone fails at least once during his or her life. Deniva shook her head “Saint Miria did not fail. Her god made her an angel, and the guardian of our city. She died because she used up all of her life force to protect the city.” Kerthir decided to speak now, for better or worse “Deniva, I know that you admire Lady Miria. You say she died protecting the people of this city…so then why would she demand for you to die in her name? Wouldn’t she want you to live, for her death to be what saved you? Maybe…Lady Miria is not angry with you…but sad instead.” Deniva looked at Kerthir with a newfound curiosity “I appreciate your concern, but I know what is expected of me.”

Claire said suddenly “If you’re going back to that place, take us with you.” Deniva looked at Claire, into her pale amber eyes. “What I must do is my task alone. I will not have more die in my stead. I will return to the Forgotten Mountain and reclaim it for Northport.” Claire whispered to Caelorian “Is it not within the sight of the city?” The bard leaned over and answered, “Over 400 years ago this city lost control of the mountain, so the statue does not protect it. No one knows what is inside now. It’s great material to make songs from.” The half-drow added hastily “Until your ‘material’ becomes infected with undead. Perfect.” Caelorian could tell from Claire’s pained, contorted face that she’d seen the undead before. Before he could question her she answered, “My people, or rather half my people well…oh you know. The drow are usually necromancers, I’ve seen many raise up the dead before. They are terrifying creatures, no intelligence, no emotion, just sick and ghastly smiles painted, eternally on their rotting faces. Their eyes burn with arcane light but there is no warm in their bodies. They are immune to many things that the living is not; they do not starve, thirst or need sleep. They don’t fell pain, unless from magic, and are unaffected by or cold or remorse. Most importantly, some of them are resistant to certain weapons. They are the perfect killing machines.”

Deniva said forcefully, “Which is why I must go alone. These things are more than a match for any of you three. I will take them out myself, for Lady Miria, or at least die doing her work.” Kerthir felt as if he’d slammed into a wall, suddenly this woman’s problem hit him. He looked up at her and said, “You want to die.” The other two shifted their gaze from Deniva to Kerthir, bewilderment in their eyes.  Kerthir continued “You feel guilt for the deaths of the others. You are angry not at the undead, but at your self. You were not strong enough to save your allies, you were not strong enough to finish your mission, you were not strong enough to be like Lady Miria. You feel like you were the most unworthy to live and would have rather them to have lived or for you to have died with them.” Deniva hissed, “Do not think you know me! You are strangers to me! Stay out of my business!” The paladin rose, and pushed aside Caelorian as he attempted to block her path. For the first time, Kerthir saw Deniva in her full height, without any stumbling. She towered over Caelorian and outmatched his grapple with relative ease. She was much more athletic than most of the men in the room. This was not a woman to engage in battle with, whether physical or mental. She would not have defeat from either.

Deniva took off down the street before Kerthir could even rise from his seat. Knowing he’d never be able to chase such a fit soldier down, even if he was not wearing heavy armor, decided to wildshape into an eagle. Being a druid had allowed him to master the ability to morph into beasts, a skill he used very often. Kerthir hurled himself from the table, beat his wings and climbed out the tavern doors. He took to the sky and caught the wind. Instantly, he felt extreme cold piercing into his feathers. Frost grabbed his feathers and he struggled to maintain flight. This environment was too harsh for his eagle form to fly in, and his flying skill was not as good as natural birds. He landed, feeling severely foolish.

Next Chapter: Memory