Wuldegren Novella

Wuldegren and the Pillars of the Moon

A novella by Dan Bruington

In a land known as Daragoth...

In a land known as Daragoth, where man, elf and dwarf lived together in relative peace, harmony reigned. The ancient and powerful Loreldians watched over the world, preserving it for their own purpose: Pathos, who represented Dualism, the union of the dark and the light, was the most powerful of them. Under him served the three major fates: Felewyn, who represented Order, Urdual, who represented Balance and Equality, and Torkalath, who represented chaos. They were known as the fate manipulators, those beings who balance the destiny of those on Daragoth. Each, of course, had what might seem to be mutual goals: Felewyn desired peace and happiness for all, and Torkalath wished ruin and destruction, yet both served the same power. The lower world, the world of duality, had two forces: The dark, and the light. These two forces are generally considered to be constantly fighting, combatting over dominance in the mortal plane. The Loreldians serve to balance this effect: The dark and the light are one and the same, they serve the same power and they achieve the same outcome.

It was not always so: Previous to Pathos’ arrival, the Loreldians constantly fought over the world of Daragoth, spawning an entire age of war, known as ‘The Age of Malice.’ Torkalath fought bitterly against Felewyn, and Urdual was powerless against the two rival armies. From that age came many of the horrors of the world, including the most powerful evil ever spawned: Lor Malgoriand. Lor Malgoriand was born a simple human, but in time he was twisted by Torkalath’s influence and became the Dreadlord, otherwise called the hatespawn. His armies fought against the forces of order, and in time brought most of the world into chaos. Torkalath even gave him a gift: A race of creatures so terribly oriented to destruction, the elves named them ‘Orcat’, meaning ‘The scar of the world.’

Commonly known as Orcs, these terrible creatures swung the balance too much, the forces of Order had no chance to win. In the final battle, Felewyn sent an apostle, those who are between the mortal and the immortal plane and represent the will of the Loreldians on Daragoth. She sent her greatest, Lanethan, to outbalance the forces of Chaos. Lanethan wielded a powerful blade, known then as the Asteral Blade. Its true name was the Atlas, twister of fates, bender of the wierding ways.

With Lanethan’s help, the three great peoples (elves, dwarves, and men) finally defeated the scourge of Lor Malgoriand, and banished him forever from existence. The Orcs, however, endured, and lived on, unorganized yet still dangerous. Pathos arrived soon after, to watch over the Loreldians and ensure that the world would not come so close to complete chaos ever again: Lanethan was graduated to an apostle of him.

The Age of Malice ended...

The Age of Malice ended, and so began the Age of Wonders. The world lived in peace for a long time, order constantly winning over chaos, and the world was built anew. The tall Maer elves lived in their houses among the great trees of the Kray, while their much shorter cousins, the Ayling elves, settled in the plains and river valleys to live in peace. Humans rebuilt their empires of stone, forging new alliances and bloodlines more powerful than had ever been known. Dwarves tunneled under the lands, building marvelous palaces with waterfalls gliding through the underground halls of the great. Magic returned, and those who studied it were accepted as powerful, intelligent, and generally peaceful people: not feared or hated by any, excepting maybe the dwarves, who did not excel at such practices. Magic was only a simple way to interfere with fate, which meant that no matter how powerful a magician could be, that person never could command as much power as even the weakest of the Apostles of the Loreldians, who dealt directly with fate itself.

Fate is like a single string, usually it is a straight string leading from life to death. The Loreldians could do many things with this string: They could twist it, they could bend it, they could even tie one line to another. Magicians could merely pluck this string, attempting to do change its original path, but always failing short. The great dragons were dead, slain during the Age of Malice, but for good or evil, some were saved by the elves, who consider the dragons to be the most powerful race of intelligent creatures alive.

Among these peoples come the great warrior guilds: The Hands of Felewyn, Legends of Tyale, Myrlanegal Folar, and others. These became the champions of order, ridding the world of evil wherever they could find it, and destroying attempts to create chaos. One such guild had a very revered member: An elf named Faelon, who wielded a sword of immense power. Some thought him mad, but his gentle actions and intelligence were testaments to his grace. He himself stopped the uprising of a revolt in Tulgarde, and as was his usual way, he simply talked to both groups and came to an understanding. ‘Order goes with that elf’ was a common compliment to him. Eventually, Faelon married and all but disappeared from the world, living in a solitary portion of the Kray.

A fresh autumn wind sped through the leaves of the great oak tree, moving them to sudden fluctuation as if compelled to animate the day. Golden rays of mellow sunlight filtered through the canopy above, sprinkling luminance on the rooftop of a small wooden dwelling. Inside, a baby's cry rings.

“Faelon! Wake up, our son calls.” His wife Pylean's voice beckoned to him from the inner hall. The tall elf climbed from beneath the covers, donning a silver robe. He was about forty years old or so, but looked more aged, as if heavy years still hung on his shoulders. Their son, Wuldegren, was requesting his morning breakfast. Birds sung outside, echoing through the trees of the deep forest, and animals yawned in their dens.

“The child wakes up before the world does..” Faelon remarked to his wife, a tinge of pride in his voice, as he entered the kitchen area. “Bright as morning, he is, too. I have a feeling it won't be long until he's speaking.” She looked down at the boy cradled in her arms. She glowed. Faelon returned to the bedroom and stared down at his dresser. Slowly he drew back the top drawer. Inside was a sword, glowing slightly blue in the morning light, and an almost inaudible humming noise issued forth: a noise as of the striking of a tuning fork against a solid object. He sighed, and slowly closed the drawer.

“I hope he doesn't grow up to be a warrior. Life would be too hard for my little boy. Just as it was for me.” He turned, and withdrew from the room.

The great oak tree's branches stirred in the mid-day light. The squirrel had returned and was nibbling away at an acorn, nesting in the small hollowed portion that the squirrel's father had chiseled out, four years ago. Now the squirrel's father was dead, his spirit returned to the forest, and the squirrel lived alone in the knothole. Suddenly, an elf child ran up to the tree and grabbed onto the lowest branch, struggling to pull his slender body to it, and grasping for another. He looked to be of the age when boys climbed trees, between eight and twelve years, and had auburn brown hair, and his eyes shown with a silver glint.

“Wuldegren! Wuldegren get down from there, you'll break your neck!” His mother cried from the porch, cupping her hands around her mouth. Wuldegren's grip faultered, and his footing lost balance. Predictably, down he went, landing on the soft grass in the shade of the tree, flat on his face with a cushioned 'Whumpf' sound. His mother rushed to him, shouting, and helped him back on his feet.

“Really, boy! Scare your poor mother half to death..I don’t want you climbing that tree anymore, do you hear me?”

“Yes, mother.” The boy said, and she led him back inside the house to wash the dirt from his face.

A light layer of snow hung...

A light layer of snow hung upon the branches of the great oak tree, and a harsh sunrise cut through the cold air. It hadn’t snowed in this area of the Kray forest for twenty-three years. A young elf crept by the tree silently, brandishing a brand new bow and arrows, which the elf had made himself. His dark hair and piercing complexion offset the snowy ground. Suddenly the boy tensed, lowered himself into a slight crouch. He raised the bow, notched an arrow with brilliant speed - the bowstring let out a slight ‘twang’ as the arrow sliced through the air, landing in the wooden target’s center. The boy sped to the carved target and salvaged the arrow, and returned to his house. “How does it work, son?” Faelon asked Wuldegren, sitting at the table writing a letter.
“Great, father! It is much better than my last one..where did you get the wood that I made this out of?” “Remember that trip I took to Guldastor? I bought it from a wayman there, he said it had a magic in it to preserve it for many years. It seemed a fitting gift for a sixteen-year birthday...but that isn’t the only gift I have for you.” At the last, Faelon donned an expression of concern, but Wuldegren didn’t notice. “You mean there’s more?!” He shouted excitedly. “Yes, son. Wait here.” Faelon stood and left the study, returning a minute later carrying a bundle wrapped in a fine green cloth, embroidered with a gold lacing. Faelon carefully placed the assortment on the table, and meticulously unwrapped the object.

A sword, about 4 and a half feet from hilt to tip, lay upon the cloth. The hilt was made of a greyish metal that looked as if it was slightly frozen. Upon the hilt was set a medallion: A circle of metal. Atop that medallion was set a design, what looked like a lion, rearing upwards, mouth open to display fierce teeth. The blade itself was of great craftsmanship, Wuldegren observed, there was not a single chip or dent in its fine surface. The blade was set with intricate designs: A warrior battling a large wizard, a great castle floating among the clouds, and engraved on it were words: “Agojae aela nemgo tso O lewa te vea lo cyl.” (Let it shine forever more O bane of woe and tear) It seemed as if it gave off an ambience of blue, similar to the light of an early morning rain, which didn’t actually light anything, but it influenced it’s color. “Wuldegren, your mother and I decided that you should be given this sword on your sixteenth birthday. It is a gift, yes, but I don’t want you to ever show it to any others, or to use it casually. This sword is special, and should never be used unless it is necessary. It is never to be sold, or given away, except to your own son. Do you understand me, Wuldegren?” “Yes, father.” Faelon wrapped the sword once again, and handed it to Wuldegren, who took it and locked it into the special chest he had underneath his bed.

The great oak tree sat in silence, for it was a day of morning. The funeral procession moved silently down the path beside the tree, carrying a wooden casket upon the shoulders. There were about 15 elves, the youngest of which leading them: He was about twenty-three, with a chiseled complexion and boney features. He was about seven and a half feet tall, shorter than most of the others there, leading an elderly woman with him. Nothing in the forest made a sound (not even the noisy birds), as a show of respect. The animals noted that the youngest had an aura about him, a destiny of great importance. Animals are sensitive to such things. Further down the path, they laid the casket into an open pit of earth, and some of the people began to shovel dirt back into it. The elf watched in silence.

Wuldegren lived in the shadow of the great oak tree for more than thirty years, alone, as his mother passed away shortly after his father. A moistness hung in the air of mid-day, a gray overcast sky blanketed the lands in quiet content. A fresh morning rain had wet the earth, which made his rock-climbing hobby much more difficult than usual. Crossing a hill near his home, he suddenly spied an odd cliff face to the west. Running to it, he decided it would be perfect for climbing: small footholds jutting out of a near sheer cliff. It took him a couple of minutes to get to the bottom of it: A hidden spring of water bubbled from beneath the rock face, splitting into small tributaries that ran in various directions, none of which longer than fifteen feet. Somehow, there was magic in that place, a feeling of inner calm, a gathering point of energies unseen.

Wuldegren hadn’t spent much time studying magic, but he knew a little about it: The four elements, holding together the physical plane of the world, ran like a net over the lands. In some places it was stronger than in other places, these points of strength referred to as ‘focals.’ Turning to re-scale the rock face, he tripped on something which entangled his feet, and landed hard upon his side, scraping skin from his arm on the sharp rocks.

Blood poured from the open wound, and he quickly tore off a piece of his tunic with which to wrap around it, providing pressure in the places where the blood was distributed from arteries leading to his heart. In his disorientation, he almost missed spying a cave: Dark, secret, and hidden among the foliage, a gaping hole into wonder and danger. He walked to it, discovering its dimensions, and peered inside: Nothing. Inside, the air was slightly warmer, feeling heavy against the cool outdoors. Not wishing to explore further with his wound, he slowly rescaled the cliff and returned home.

The night hung like a weight upon him, as he sat and read the latest Uldagrand, a tangible feeling which could be described as a junction of fate, or the feeling you have when standing at a crossroad. His arm still hurt a little, after he had scraped it upon a sharp cliff-edge earlier that morning, but at least his bandage was holding up well.

Suddenly, a harsh banging sound resonated through the halls of his home, a panicked rapping upon his front door. Putting down his spectacles, he rushed to the door, and upon seeing no one in the glass window, he opened it. A young human woman had slumped against the doorway, and fell with a loud crash to the floor of his entryway. Not knowing what else to do, Wuldegren kneeled down and grabbed her by the shoulders in an attempt to lift her, but when he turned her over, he saw that her tunic was soaked with blood. He rushed to his bedroom and grabbed a blanket, returned to the woman who was muttering frightened words that he couldn’t understand. He wrapped her in the blanket and lifted her from the floor, and carried her to the guest bedroom, laying her carefully upon the bed. She looked around and tried to lift her arm, failed to do so, and then looked at Wuldegren.

“Where am I?” She coughed.

“Where am I?” She coughed. Of course, Wuldegren had no idea what she said, as he could not speak humanspeech, only elvish. “Waerwy zae?” (who are you?) He said slowly, an then realized that it didn’t matter how slowly he talked, because she looked at him with a very puzzled expression on her face. It was then that he remembered she was hurt, so he began to lift her tunic to see the wound. She shouted angrily and tried to pull back. Wuldegren pointed to his arm, showing her the bandage upon his arm. She understood this, at least, and allowed him to view the wound: A gash, it seemed, as if from a sword or other cutting weapon. “Waer now paed o zae?” (who did that to you?) He started to say, but stopped, remembering she could not understand him. He washed the wound out with a small tub of water, and dressed it with a cloth bandage. She tried talking to him some more, gibberish it seemed to him. She pointed to herself, and said, “Leida.” He understood that to be her name. He pointed to himself and said, “Wuldegren.” She repeated it, with some difficulty, but eventually figured she got it down. Then, she looked at him with frightened eyes. “Help.” Wuldegren, although he did not know how to speak the language, almost instantly understood what she meant by that. “Fie.” (Yes) He said, and nodded to accent the statement. She let out a sigh of relief, and laid back down, falling lightly asleep. He stared at her: She was beautiful. Long auburn hair and soft features, green eyes which seemed to glow among themselves. She was nearly a foot shorter than Wuldegren, he noticed, and remembered that most humans were shorter than elves. She was wearing a dark green tunic (stained with blood), which had a curious design etched into it: A hand, fingers outstretched, a red jewel floating above the palm. The symbol of the ‘Red Dragon’ mage guild? So this woman was a wizard, of some sort.

“What could possibly have done that to her?” Wuldegren thought to himself. His answer was a loud crash and the sound of splintering wood, ringing through the house. He took one look down the hall toward the front door, which was hanging loose, ripped off its hinges, pieces of it on the floor. Something about manheight rushed in the door: Dark green skin with a rough texture, and a face with red eyes, tusks, and a crude helmet. Glint of metal armor, a platemail breastplate. It was carrying a very large axe, and made very deep guttural noises in its throat.

An Orc. Wuldegren had heard many tales about Orcs, the scar of the world, the most hideous of creatures: created by Lor Malgoriand, the dark enemy of old, who has long been vanquished, yet these creatures still remain. Wuldegren, not knowing what else to do, ran to his bedroom and pulled the special chest from underneath his bed, unlocked it, and extracted the sword. A woman’s scream sounded from the guest bedroom, and Wuldegren rushed back. He found the orc lifting her from the bed, howling in triumph.

“Ago lor seao sep!” (let the woman go) Wuldegren shouted, and ran into the back of the beast. The woman was dropped on the bed again, forcefully, and the thing turned to face Wuldegren, snarling fiercely. It raised its axe above its head, ready to strike it down upon his head, but Wuldegren was faster than the lumbering hulk: He desperately shoved the sword straight at the chest of the creature. The thing was wearing some pretty heavy platemail, so the sword should have glanced off it. However, when the sword impacted, Wuldegren felt nothing: No resistence. It was as if the Orc wasn’t there, and he was shoving at thin air. The Orc, however, obviously felt the blade, as it howled in pain, and slumped to the floor. Green blood dripped off the blade, but even as Wuldegren watched, the blood fell off the blade as if it wasn’t there: The blade was clean in seconds. Some form of magic protected the blade from the evil of the thing’s blood. He turned his attention to Leida, expecting to see a frightened woman cowering in a corner. Instead he saw face burning with anger, a fierce snarl on her lips. She wasn’t looking at the Orc on the ground, she was looking over Wuldegren’s shoulder. He quickly spun around and discovered that a band of Orcs had crammed their way into the hall.

They let out a blood-curdling roar and charged their way in, but before they even stepped into the room, a blinding flash of energy slammed into them, traveling through their bodies from one to the next, charring their skin black and charring their armor. Wuldegren looked towards Leida. She was standing, facing the hall, arms outstretched. Some form of lightning energy cracked and hissed from her finger tips, eyes, and parts of her body. She staggered, and Wuldegren rushed to catch her before she fell to the floor. Turning quickly, he carried her body and ran from the house into the night air, feeling a cold feeling of dread in his mind. It’s all right, keep running. What? No time, cannot concentrate...the feeling was incredible, a mix of adrenaline and pure fear, mingling in his blood stream. He felt invincible, and suddenly his fear went away, replaced entirely with adrenaline, like one who has just seen his future and enjoyed what he saw.

Wuldegren’s sharp mind quickly began to analyze the situation. Eight orcs lay dead, one by his hand and seven by Leida’s. That only made eight, and he remembered reading somewhere that Orcs only travel in groups of ten or more, which meant more trouble. His sensitive elven ears picked up the sound of burning wood, and the smell of smoke stung his breath. Acting quickly, he gently picked up the now unconscious Leida, took some money and a map from his things, and hurried out the back door. A still night surrounded his home, there was no wind to speak of. Running off towards the path, he stopped himself short: Red eyes, glowing in the darkness, literally hundreds of them. They had surrounded the house, it seemed. An entire brace of Orcs? What had this woman done that had angered a power big enough to control a brace of Orcs, his mind began to wonder.
“No! No time for wondering.” He said outloud, and turned his thoughts more to a plan of action. The house was surrounded, but there was at least 150 meters between the house itself and most of the Orcs. Some had dared to rush towards the house, bringing torches, and the house was beginning to blaze where the torches were flung. The road would surely be packed by now. There was a faint breeze in the air, which he noted was blowing southward, which means that the Orcs to their north had not yet picked up their scent: this was a good thing. He was beginning to form a desperate plan: The cave which he had found to the north, he hoped, would not be infested with Orcs yet. If he could get there with Leida, he could hide within the cave until the Orcs had left.

“It’s worth a shot..” he thought to himself, and sped down the path toward it. Arrows from Orcish archers pierced the ground around him, missing him by less than a meter each time. Still running, he suddenly found himself looking straight at an Orc: About thirty feet away, it quickly pulled an arrow from a quiver on its back and notched it. He aimed, and suddenly the arrow disappeared: It was flying straight at him. A quick twist of his hand, and the sword deflected the arrow only inches from his face. He let out a loud cry, and slew the Orc deftly, remembering his brief training with his father years ago.

Running quickly, he reached the cliff in under ten minutes, not having to face any more Orcs on the way. The cliff seemed more menacing in the night, and he had an uneasy feeling about the whole affair. A cave, at the bottom of the cliff? It would offer some protection, however, from the raging brace of Orcs that had beset his home and attempted murder upon him and his guest. The sound of orcs was all around him now, and he realized that if he was to escape, and save the girl, he would have to move very quickly. However, the rockface wasn’t exactly the easiest thing to scale, and a fall from it would mean certain death for the both of them: It was at least 50 meters tall, and perhaps even more than that. His mind was wandering, so he quickly focused his thoughts onto the problem at hand. Very carefully he scaled the cliff, which was made even more difficult with the burden of carrying a woman on his back while he did so. Smoothly, he reached from rock to rock, and like a spider he descended toward the ground below. Reaching the bottom, he saw the same little pool of water he had noticed on his first trip there only that morning, and oriented his directions from it. If he was on the right side of it, facing the wall, then the cave would have to be on his left and away from him about fifty paces. Looking round, he spied the cave only a couple of meters away, and ran quickly inside. He was fairly sure that the Orcs had not seen him scale the cliff, but they would explore this way anyway, he believed.