of the nature of illusion; tending to mislead or delude: deceptive; unreal

"You are a child, Jarell!"

The young elf glared at his mentor. "I'm nineteen! Old enough to go into the mountains!"

The elder sighed, weary blue eyes raised to the ceiling, praying to the Elven Deities to bestow patience upon him for insolent adolescents who thought they should be given free rein. "You are not old enough to be anywhere outside of Raushanka territory. If a band of barbarian humans should find you, they would torture you for pleasure then kill you. Mark my words, child."

Jarell's dark blue eyes glittered with reproach. "How do you know it's true, Morden? Nothing like that has ever happened."

Morden inclined his head, wrinkles pulling at the edges of his frown. "From what I've heard, they're entirely capable of it. Don't be foolish, boy. If I ever hear that you have left elven territory I will personally see to your punishment."

The teenager opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it and snapped it shut. Instead, he whirled around, his curly locks bouncing with the sudden movement, and stalked off, the plush carpeting absorbing the sounds of his angry exit. The door slammed behind him, leaving the council member alone in his chair. He sank into it, leaning his head back, billowy gray hair sweeping against the edges of his face. In resignation, he closed his eyes, thinking that he was much too old to be watching over the young man. If only Jarell's parents had not been killed...

Humans had murdered them. There had been no solid proof, but in the back of his mind, he knew his ward had lost his parents to the heathens. If he could just find the emotional strength to support the angry youth he had taken under his wing, things would be so much easier.

A long chain of mountains, the Kilns, separated the human land of Duranee and the elven land of Raushanka. Due to the rugged terrain and frequent cold they were seldom traveled. On occasion, the more ambitious would set out for the mountain chain. Some returned, some didn't.

Jarell had heard many stories of the Kilns. Several, he believed, were merely tales to discourage children from venturing into this dangerous territory. For years, it had done just that for him. Yet the more he learned how to use magic, the more his determination grew. The greatest of the Mages had come here to meditate and gain strength. Morden had. That was why he was of the tenth circle.

All around, Jarell noticed hints of the approaching Winter Solstice. The breeze was cool and crisp. Many of the indigenous trees were beginning to lose their leaves, coating the soft ground in a vast array of brown and pale green; the forest was quiet as many of the animals were preparing to go into hibernation. The only sounds Jarell could hear as he walked through the woodland was the wind whistling through the trees and his own crunching footfalls. Tiny twigs and leaves were crushed under his feet, sending various insects scurrying to find new hideaways. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the richness of the thick air and the many sweet smells saturating it. He thought about his act of rebellion as he took in the surrounding land and it reminded him of a story he had read as a child.

When he was about seven, he had read a book about humans and the land they lived in on the opposite side of the Kilns. On one page was a picture of what was stated to be a human, a barbarous creature with furious eyes, an unkempt beard, wild hair, and a devastatingly large body. Throughout the book were detailed scenarios of the "heathens'" lives. The territory they lived in, Duranee, was described as a land wilting under their careless hands, rotting with the stench of their excrements and the carcasses of animals that had been hunted only for game. One paragraph stated that humans hunted elves to eat their flesh, sometimes raw. Before killing the elves, they would first delight in torture, bringing the helpless victim to the brink of pain and despair before ending the misery.

The novel had frightened him to the core and for years he'd had no reason to not believe what he had read and been told by his elders. Now, stepping into adulthood, he was beginning to question the stories. Morden blamed Jarell’s reticence on his adolescence. Within two years, Morden said, Jarell would no longer question what he had been taught his entire life. Still stubborn and unwilling to believe--perhaps just for the sake of argument--Jarell had held onto his own assertions. Morden claimed that humans murdered Jarell’s parents, but the truth was, neither he nor any of the elven elders could be completely sure. Even the Hierarchy, Morden himself, Lorelei, Ortos, and Sarina, didn't really know. Despite questioning this, Jarell did not let his assumptions become public knowledge. Others had claimed that humans were not to be despised and they had lost their heads.

As Jarell ascended into the Kilns, he could feel his ascent into the elevated land by the hardening ground; the thinning of the air, losing the rich sweetness he had enjoyed; a dropping in climate, and the slight sloping of the land. These changes had come upon him so gradually that it took several minutes of hiking to realize he was no longer in Raushanka.

After hiking for a while, ascending into the mountainous terrain, he decided he was ready to go home. He had left in such a fit of fury he'd left with only scant provisions and he'd already eaten the last of the food and drank the last drop of water. Besides that, he didn't like the smell that permeated the air. He wasn't in human territory yet, so what was that stench? Perhaps it was best he didn't know. The atmosphere in the mountains was cold and thin, hard to breathe. The ache in his lungs was proof of that. He paused to take in his surroundings, contemplating a possible return, when he heard a low moan.

It was sudden and startling in the surrounding serenity, causing his heart to immediately begin pounding in his chest. The leaves in the trees rustled, branches swaying in the soft wind. Maybe that was what he'd heard... the wind.

Another moan, this time louder and decidedly not the wind. Another elf? Or a human trap, waiting for him to snag the bait? He heard it again, loud and soaked in pain. The wretched sound bit at his heart. It sounded like a dying person. He clenched his hand as he debated the wisdom of what he was about to do. He couldn't just leave the person up here alone to die in agony. Resolved to his purpose, Jarell trudged upwards, heading for the sound. The moan did not come again, but he was sure of its location.

Half-hidden by a monstrous oak was a sprawled form in a draping, dark cloth. Jarell's heart skipped a beat at the sight. Get control, he admonished himself, as he padded towards the inert figure. He rounded the tree and received an unobstructed view of the body. It was large. Much broader than an elf, but only slightly longer. He knelt down, dark blue eyes roaming over the prone form that lay on its side, a thick arm covering the face. Curiosity seized control and without regard to his actions he stretched out and grasped the arm to get a glimpse of the face.

The face was clean-shaven, and though it had the look of chiseled stone, it was not the face of a cold-blooded killer. The hair was cut close enough to see the scalp, vastly different from the long hair elves kept. The ears were rounded, not pointed like an elf's. The man's clothing was vastly different from his own as well. Where elves preferred flowing, jewel-toned garments, the man was decked out in black leather pants, a tight-fitting shirt covered by chain mail, and a thick woolen cloak to protect him from the freezing temperatures.

Staring at this marvel, a creature he had never seen in his life, Jarell almost forgot why he had sought the being out. The body's stillness disconcerted him and he wondered if he was too late. His long, slender hands drifted over the body and he struggled to roll it onto its back. The man was big and heavy. His eyes widened when he saw the arrow protruding from the man's left shoulder. Blood covered the shaft and the viscous liquid saturated the cloth around it. He placed his palm over the chest to feel for a heartbeat. It was there, and a sigh of relief escaped him at the irregular, faint thumping.

If he saved this person, what he thought was a human, he could bring him before the Hierarchy. They were among the aged, those who had faced the humans in battles only they remembered. They would know what he was. For this, the Hierarchy might even promote him to the seventh circle. He would be the youngest to ever reach that level. The prospect was enough motivation to sit him down into a half-lotus and begin a very familiar ceremony.

He rubbed his hands together, heat building with the friction. He focused intently on the sensation, letting the warmth become him. He placed his hands on the edges of the wound, making sure to avoid the arrow. The fire erupted from him, radiating from his palms in spasms of energy, jerking his head back, his long curls bouncing. His lips stretched into a paper thin line, his eyelids squeezed tight, and brow wrinkled in concentration. Surge after surge heaved from his body, coating the bloody wound, tapering off into a sizzle that left him with the distinct impression his skin was encased in ice. He withdrew his hands to draw his cloak tighter around himself.

The man lay unmoving as if nothing extraordinary had just occurred. Fear gripped him. The icy numbness soaked into his skin, spreading throughout his body like an unstoppable disease, wrenching his stomach in its frozen grip. He fought the urge to vomit, wondering if he should live the rest of his life eternally cold, now that he had sacrificed so much to save this stranger's life. He clutched the body desperately.

"Wake up! Don't you die! I just saved your life!"

Fear merged into anger. He began to shake the body fervently, ignoring the completely healed wound and the arrow lying innocently on the ground, only focused on the man that refused to move. He flared up and swung his arms down, realizing too late that striking chain mail bare-fisted was a bad idea. He jerked back, shaking his hands wildly and swearing boisterously. He was so caught up in the throbbing pain, he missed the initial movement beside him. It wasn't until the man broke into a fit of hacking coughs that he realized his success. He stilled, watching wide-eyed, enraptured at the size of the being. Though the man was large compared to the young elf, he was not the giant Jarell had seen in children's stories. Perhaps he wasn’t a human at all. Maybe he was some other creature no one had ever heard of. His heart leapt at the thought as he envisioned a gold medal to go with his promotion to the seventh circle.

Irises, blue as the summer sky, cold as the winter, turned on him. They were similar to Morden's in not only color, but also scrutiny and apathy. They were eyes that saw everything and cared little about it all. Jarell swallowed nervously determined to win this curiosity to his side.

"My name is Jarell K'letta. And yours?" Names were easy and safe. Surely he could do names.

The man stared blankly. "What did you just do?"

Okay, no names. He could work with it. "I saved your life. An arrow pierced your shoulder.”

The pale blue eyes narrowed. "How'd you . . . magic." The last he muttered as if it were a despicable thing. "You a Wizard?"

Jarell blinked. The name sounded familiar, yet he couldn’t remember exactly where he’d heard it. “I'm a Healing Mage of the sixth circle." At the blank stare from his audience of one, he explained, "There are ten circles of magic. Our leaders are of the tenth circle. Very few reach that level." He stopped at that, realizing his audience was completely baffled by his explanation. Instead of trying to go further in detail, he blurted out, “What are you?” As soon as the words passed his lips, his eyes widened and he slapped a hand over his mouth

The man grinned at this reaction, revealing a full set of teeth, not pointed or even remotely razor-sharp as he thought they might be. Jarell tensed, illogically wondering if he would pounce on him and gnaw his throat out now. “I’m a human. Nice to meet you, Twig.”

Jarell frowned. Twig? What was that supposed to mean?

"Funny, from what I’d heard about Mages I thought they weren’t supposed to be kids.”

Jarell’s brow furrowed as his frown grew more pronounced. Now the human was insulting him. "I'm nineteen,” he said, a bit defensively. “I'm an adult."

The human waved dismissively. "I'm thirty-eight. Anyone under thirty is a kid." He scooted himself into a sitting position similar to Jarell's. They sized each other up in silence before the human asked, “Did you know humans and elves are sworn enemies?"

Jarell shrugged noncommittally. “That’s what I was always taught, but I’m an adult now. I can start making my own decisions. Besides, I thought saving your life would be the right thing to do.”

The man's eyebrows arched in an unvoiced query.

"All my life I've been told that humans are these gigantic, wild-eyed creatures that murder in cold-blood. You don't look like a murderer to me." Please, please let this work. If he could just get this human to his side, he’d be promoted. He licked his lips anxiously, then wondered how it would be interpreted. He stopped, smiling instead in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

The human quirked his lips to the side. There was nothing in his eyes to tell Jarell what he was thinking. He crawled to his feet, like a decrepit man, and as he did he drew a sword from the scabbard resting against his thigh. The young elf found himself hypnotized by the brilliance of the weapon. Elven weapons were not nearly so large and shiny. They weren’t nearly so deadly looking.

"You don't think I'm a murderer?" The human twisted the weapon around, allowing the metal to catch and play with the sunlight.

Jarell shook his head, suddenly feeling inexplicably nervous. An emotionless gaze turned on his and in one fluid motion, he was knocked flat on the ground. Sharp steel tickled the tender skin of his underjaw. His chest heaved with fear. Only the glinting metal remained in his view, the glinting metal and the man who held it--a man who seemed impossibly tall from where Jarell lay supine.

"You don't think I'm a murderer?" the human repeated, his face a blank wall.

"I don't think you want to be." Jarell's voice was a loud whisper in the mountain's silence. For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, the blade lay against his throat, threatening to end his life in one swift stroke. Finally, eternity ended and the sword was drawn away, returned to its rightful place in the scabbard.

"Lucas of Sorren."

Jarell lifted a shaking hand to feel for traces of blood. There were none. He lifted wary eyes to the human. "What was that?"

"Lucas of Sorren. My name. I'm a lieutenant. Second in command of Duranee's largest military unit."

That explained the chain mail and the violent reaction to his statement. "I thank you for not killing me, Lucas of Sorren."

"You saved my life. I owe you that, Jarell K'letta. In my land, we repay a life for a life. If you kill someone you pay with your own life. If someone saves your life, you are to do the same in return. Besides, you’ve given me no reason to kill you . . . yet."

He stretched a hand to where Jarell still lay on the ground. Hesitantly, the elf accepted it, inwardly praying his hands weren’t shaking too much now. Lucas pulled him up to settle Jarell back on his feet. The soldier's grip was strong and Jarell realized that he probably knew many ways to kill a person with his bare hands. The concept at once fascinated and repulsed him. In the back of his mind, his thoughts overlapped each other, but they were all the same. The human could’ve killed him. The human should’ve killed him. Why hadn’t the human killed him? Jarell tried to study the human discreetly, to push down the overflow of emotions and thoughts. If he could keep the talk light, maybe the human wouldn’t notice. "How do you feel?"

"Sore," Lucas admitted, seemingly completely oblivious to Jarell’s inner war. "And thirsty. I got lost while scouting the area with four of my men. I was supposed to go back to base, but I thought I saw something and went chasing after it. Then the arrow found me." He grimaced at the memory.

Jarell looked around the rocky, woodland surroundings. He saw nothing in either direction, save for the mix of dying trees and evergreens. "What were you scouting for?"

"Wizards. We came upon two yesterday." Lucas began to pace, his cloak flapping around his legs. "They were dead. Three others have been missing for weeks. This has been going on for some time, but only recently were the king and queen able to release men to seek out and eradicate the problem." He avoided eye contact with the young elf as he spoke. The accusation was clear.

"You think my people did it," he said bitterly.

Lucas gestured to the arrow on the ground. "Wasn't that your people's trap?"

"That doesn't even look like one of our arrows! It's too large. Besides, our people rarely come into the Kilns!"

"Neither do we," Lucas stated emphatically. "So if this wasn’t your people’s trap and it wasn’t my people’s trap, then whose trap was it?”

"I don't know. Some of our people come into the mountains and many do not come out. We're discouraged from coming up here by ourselves."

Lucas stopped pacing, his entire attention on Jarell. "Which people?"

Flustered, he replied, "I don't know what you mean."

"Which people?" Lucas reiterated, approaching the nervous teenager.

Jarell backed up a step, eyes wide, and his breath coming in shallow spurts. "The Mages! They would come into the mountains to seek spiritual enlightenment. It was supposed to help them advance to the next circle. I wanted to do that, but I didn't feel comfortable. I was going to leave until I heard you."

The soldier said nothing. He only stared at the elf. Jarell backed up another step, wondering if he should fear for his life.

He hated the timidity with which he asked his next question. "What are you thinking?"

Lucas's eyes blazed cold fire. "I'm thinking we have a very serious problem. I'm thinking we're dealing with trolls."

Tucked in the side of the mountain, hidden from prying eyes, was a gray fortress that blended into its environment. Massive trees, hanging ferns, and moss and lichens helped camouflage the fort. As added security precautions, guards were posted along balconies invisible to the naked eye. This was how they had thrived over the centuries and never been considered a danger.

A man of about thirty approached the fortress's entrance. He wore chain mail armor, and a thick hide that encased his muscular legs, disappearing into rubbery black boots. He gestured to where the lookouts were hidden. With a grating of hinges, the doors swung inwards to allow him passage into a hallway that seemed to stretch into nothingness. There was no heat in the fortress and the walls were coated in thin layers of ice, the windows frosted over, and on the ceiling, twig-sized stalagmites dripped down. It would have been nearly unbearable conditions for anyone other than the trolls. They thrived on it. The soft glow of torches, spread out sparsely along the stone walls, gave the long corridor a meager amount of illumination.

The drudgery and daily physical tasks put before them had given them an impressive musculature. Lack of sunlight had made their skin and irises pale and photosensitive. Their wild, dark hair covered their huge, pointed ears. They were the creatures elven children feared.

Down the corridor, past countless hallways and doors, and the occasional vaults, he walked. He turned right when he reached a corridor twice the width of the others, leading directly to a door adorned with a circular golden seal, that of royalty. He approached the door, his stride lengthening, excitement brimming within him. The king would be pleased to hear his news. They needed only one more magic-user to fill the Eye of Jaffa and he had found the one. The human bothered him though. Velakis wouldn't like that. However, it was only one soldier in his mid-life. The little elf would be nothing to grab and he wasn’t very worried by the human either. They were too close to complete empowerment.

Ragaitan banged on the door, the hollow sound bouncing off the all-encompassing stone, fading into the corridor. From the other side of the door, a booming voice beckoned him to enter. He rushed into the sparsely decorated room.

"I have found another," he announced before the king could even remove himself from his desk. He hastily dropped to one knee.

"Wizard or Mage?" The king dropped the quill he had been scrawling with and stood abruptly from his chair. He strode towards his first in command. The king's eyes, a pale luminescence like the full moon, stared deeply into his own.

"A Healing Mage. A teenager," he added quickly. "I overheard him say he was of the sixth circle. He brought a human soldier back from the brink of death. I think he is nearing the seventh circle."

“Amazing. Seven is impressive, especially for one so young. The energy contained within him would be phenomenal. We've never captured anyone that was not well within adulthood. This could be very useful to us," he mused, scratching at his beard. "Healing Mages are easier to deal with, too. I remember the last incident with the Warrior Mage. I was out ten men."

"It was an unfortunate incident," Ragaitan agreed.

"Watch him. You and four of your best men. Healing Mages are the easiest to dispatch. If the human is still with him, I’d be more worried about that.”

The officer bowed.

"This may be our chance to finally conquer those who held power over us for so many centuries. The elves and humans were smug because they had the magical ability we could never obtain. Now we have it and we can use their own power against them."

The king stared at his first in command, not seeing the officer, but seeing what Ragaitan knew was the end of civilization for elves and humans, and the transcendence of trolls--an occasion that had taken considerable patience, cunning, and bloodshed. Ragaitan smirked. The bloodshed of other races.

“One more to reach a thousand,” Velakis said under his breath. “Just as Jaffa’s scrolls said.” With that he dismissed his most trusted with a pretentious about-face. He settled himself at the flat desk, picked up the quill lying on a piece of parchment and continued writing.

Ragaitan left the room, anticipation churning within him like a deadly whirlwind, increasing in velocity and destructiveness. As he turned back into the main hallway, he could feel the song of the Eye. He knew little about it. Velakis knew as much as he did. The Eye was a thing of mystery, but a thing that carried its legend with it. Even without the tales, Ragaitan would've known that it was special. He knew it was special because it sang to him.

The human had pushed Jarell away and reluctantly he left the human’s side all visions of a promotion or even a gold medal dissipating the farther he walked. The human had been rude, obnoxious, and violent, yet he had proven to be honorable. The flash of the sword, the impact of the ground against his back, ran through his mind. The human could’ve killed him. Why hadn’t he? He couldn’t stop wondering. The human, Lucas, had even admitted in the end he didn’t think that the elves were responsible for his land’s sorrows. There had been a chance there that Jarell could’ve proven to Morden he had been right about the humans all along, but Lucas wouldn’t follow him into Raushanka and Jarell didn’t blame him. If he had been in the soldier’s boots, he wouldn’t have gone into foreign territory either. Especially foreign territory where the citizens were likely to cut you down on first sight.

The legend of how the Elf-Human War began was an ancient one that had been passed down by the generations. It was said that once humans and elves had lived together peacefully. Then one day a powerful orb owned by a human Wizard, Jaffa, disappeared, along with the sacred scrolls that explained how to unleash and absorb power with it. The Eye of Jaffa, as it was called, was to be given to his eldest son, but that never happened. What made the Eye dangerous was that if it absorbed enough magical energy it would have the power to destroy entire lands. Some even said that it could link into the thoughts of the one using it and make illusion become reality. The humans had become irate and blamed the elves for its disappearance. The elves, of course, had never stolen it and believed a human was guilty of the crime. What resulted was a war that was waged over centuries, many forgetting what had ever caused it.

What if Lucas was right? What if it hadn’t been either the humans or the elves that had stolen the Eye? What if it had been some other race, like trolls? Jarell wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, shivering a little from the cold. His breath came in little white puffs. He really wanted to be home now. He was cold, hungry, tired, and confused beyond all belief. Could he tell Morden what happened?

A dry, snapping sound tore him from his thoughts. Jarell spun to come face to face with the most horrifying creature he had ever laid eyes upon. It was a tall, hairy savage with pupils that were dull as coal, and a body capable of crushing him in one blow. It was the being from the elven children’s books. Four more of these creatures moved up behind the beast and Jarell staggered back in return. He knew what they were. They were Lucas’s trolls. The beings responsible for the centuries old war between his people and the humans. His jaw worked as he tried to call out for help, knowing that it wouldn’t do any good. Even if Lucas heard him, would he bother to come to his aid?

The troll reached for him and Jarell did the only thing he could think of. He turned the other way and ran.

Lucas hadn’t moved since Jarell left. He stood, surrounded by the dying trees and freezing wind, letting his cloak flap about his body, arms dangling limply by his side. His mind was a torrent of bewilderment.

The elf, Jarell, had been completely unlike the picture he’d ever gathered of elves, twigs, as many were prone to call the slender creatures. He had never actually seen an elf in person as there had been no battle between the two races in many decades; but he had read texts on them. Elves were a pompous race, obsessed with their idea of perfection and beauty. They had no sense of the words justice and honor, thus they could not be trusted.

He didn’t know if this child, Jarell, was any different, but something about him had snared Lucas. Jarell reminded him so much of his son. He wrinkled his brow and reached up a hand to rub it, as if to smooth down the lines. Jarell was just like Jeremy. Both surrounded by treachery and violence, yet seemingly oblivious to it. They were both creatures of curiosity and wonder. Lucas clenched his jaw. His own people had betrayed that aspect in his son. The human raiders had come in a moment of weakness killing both Jeremy and his wife, Emily, leaving no one alive. Lucas squeezed his eyes together, fighting back the images that threatened to flash in his mind. He'd never forgiven himself for not being there. He had failed his family. He opened his eyes and looked off into the direction Jarell had gone.

Lucas shook his head. The boy wasn’t his responsibility. He should fend for himself. The memory of the arrow flashed through his mind and the numbing cold that had set in. He could feel himself dying, the cold ripping away his very soul from his body and he was eager to accept it. He had lost his wife and son. Now he could join them. But that wasn’t to happen. A warmth, so pure and strong that it could’ve come from the heavens, flowed through his body like simmering water. For the first time in nearly ten years, he felt at peace. He had come to, staring at the elf and his defensive training kicked in. He kept the child at a distance, where they were safe to watch and study each other. He shook his head. The elf wasn’t his charge.

Yet, he felt responsible. He could at least track him into the elven land and make sure no harm befell him. He could do at least that. Lucas nodded to himself and took up the path Jarell had taken.

Within the next two minutes he heard shouting coming from over a distance. It was a familiar voice, one he recognized--Jarell. He took off at a sprint, ignoring the skeletal branches whipping his trailing cloak, and scratching his face. His training as a soldier had kicked in fully. The only thing he was aware of were the cries of a person in trouble and the sounds of a struggle. The cries were abruptly cut off and Lucas felt his stomach grow heavy. He drew his sword from the scabbard. He reached the general area where he had heard the scuffle and whirled around in a circle. Had they disappeared into thin air?

He heard crunching footfalls and raised his blade higher, preparing for battle. Out of the clearing, a band of elves in armor approached. Leading at the point was the person Lucas assumed was the leader. His demeanor was one of arrogance, chin held high, obsidian eyes looking down upon him as if he were some strange specimen that had creeped out from a rotting stump. His skin was so pale as to be almost translucent and his cheekbones were sunken in, standing out in sharp contrast with his long, black hair. Around his neck hung a shimmering medallion.

"Where is Jarell K'letta?" the elf demanded, striding towards Lucas, unmindful of the sword he held pointed directly at the elf's gut.

"Who?" Lucas replied, concealing his surprise that the elf might have any idea he had been anywhere around Jarell.

"You know who I'm talking about, pig. Now where is he?" The elf took another step closer. Lucas stood his ground defiantly, ready to ram his sword into the arrogant Twig's belly.

"If I knew who you were speaking of, I might be able to answer you."

The elf raised an eyebrow, then a smile formed upon his lips. The only thing more chilling than that grin was the sight of the corpses of his wife and son. "I know you're not telling the truth, heathen. Maybe you would like to take the matter up with the Hierarchy?" The ghastly smile widened. "Heads have been known to roll in the High Council when they're put on a matter."

The human laughed dryly. "And I should willingly accompany you?"

The elf waved his slender sword. "You have two choices. If you follow willingly, you may even have a chance at living. The Elders may be in good spirits."

"No-no," the human sniffed, smiling as if he were not outnumbered by preposterous odds. "I know that if I go with you, I'm a dead man."

The elf stiffly responded, "And if you don't come with us, you're a dead man. That is your second choice."

The other soldiers gathered around, some surreptitiously surrounding him. "Don't even try it!" he called out, then switched back to a casual tone. "I can't win, can I?"

"Surrender," the Mage ordered.

The human did not respond. Without so much as a sound, the Warrior Mage jerked one hand in a circular pattern, the other clasping the golden medallion. The sword fell from the human's hand, clanging on the hard ground. The hand remained clenched in the air.

"I think you'd better come with us."

The human soldier stared at his empty hand, baffled by the magic used against him. It had been a simple parlor trick and he had fallen for it. "I guess I don't have a choice?"

The elf was still grinning. "No. I don't believe you do."

Lorelei, a Healing Mage, rose from her seat when five soldiers, one of which was the Warrior Mage, Tael, and their captive entered the room. "A human."

Ortos leaned forward in shock. Sarina gasped. A human had not been brought before the Hierarchy in nearly four decades, almost the length of time since the last battle between the two races.

The Warrior Mage stepped in front of the small band he had brought with him. He inclined his pointed chin arrogantly. "I have brought you a gift. He claims he does not know the whereabouts of the young Jarell, but my Psychic Mage indicated that we should have found him in that exact area. I thought you might be able to draw information from him before you have him beheaded."

The human's lips remained set in a thin line, his gaze focused on nothing any of them could determine. Morden took in the defiance, pondering the behavior as peculiar for one who should know his fate was sealed.

"Why were you in our territory?" Lorelei asked, lowering herself into the black leather chair.

"We were looking for our missing people in the Kilns. I apologize. I did not know I crossed over the line."

"I'm sure of that," Ortos, Mage of the Elements, sneered.

"He was hiding out," Tael added eagerly. "I think he was staking the area out to prepare for an assault."

The first sign of emotion was drawn from this statement. "We don't have enough money to feed ourselves, let alone prepare for an assault! If you want to destroy our land, now's a good time to do it."

The Hierarchy did not respond. Morden sensed something was off-kilter with what the human was saying. The truth was evident, but he felt that the human was not being completely honest.

"Bring the human closer," he ordered. "I want to touch him."

It took three of the guards to push their captive forward. He dug his heels into the ground, determined not to make things easy on them. The human growled at Morden when he stretched his hand out. Impassive to the nonverbal threats, he placed his hands, dry and wrinkled from eighty years of use, on the smooth forehead. The human jerked violently then stilled as if realizing nothing deadly was about to befall him.

Morden closed his eyes and immediately flashes filled his mind. Lucas of Sorren... piercing agony, dying... pain, so much pain... comforting warmth... Jarell.

The elderly Mage gasped and fell back, staring at his hands as if they had been scorched. He looked at the human. "Lucas of Sorren. You're a warrior. Jarell saved your life. Didn't he?"

Lucas squinted. "How could you possibly...?" Realization sank in. "You're one too. A psychic."

Morden nodded. "Guilty. I'm Morden, Jarell's guardian."

The Warrior Mage looked at Lucas, then Morden, back to Lucas, and Morden again. "You can't be serious! Don't fall for his tricks! He's here to destroy us!"

"Tael,” Morden said quietly, cutting him off more effectively than a shout. "Leave at once. Your insolence will not be tolerated here."

The soldier stiffened, shocked by his superior's reprimand. He worked his jaw, fury overcoming him, his pale face burning pink. He glared at the human, for one minute looking as if he was going to take his sword and run Lucas through with it. Instead, he shut his jaw with an audible snap and stormed out of the council room. Lorelei watched without a hint of emotion, Ortos and Sarina in amusement, and the soldiers in trepidation.

Morden appeared unmoved by Tael's rage, saying calmly, "I can't see Jarell. Something's wrong. He's been blocked from my mind." He rose, the robes sagging off his body, giving the illusion of a smaller stature. His nostrils flared, chest rising with each heavy breath. "Something is wrong." He cast his attentions on the soldiers surrounding the human. "We need to find him."

Lorelei leaned in his direction, placing one hand on the bench's smooth, cherry wood surface. "You can't leave."

"He's the only family I have left!" Morden argued, already making his way down the steps that lead to the floor. He pointed at the human, striding towards him. "You are coming with us. For your sake, you better hope Jarell is alive."

Lucas of Sorren was paying no attention to him, staring at nothing again. The soldiers grabbed their prisoner, steering him around to follow the Hierarchy member out of the High Council room.

Wind whistled through the trees. A strong gust caught several dead leaves in its grasp and threw them into the air. Lucas watched, feeling helpless, though it was not that his arms had been bound behind him. It was the desolation of seeing this spot again, remembering the cries for help, the sounds of fighting against impossible odds, and the fact that when he had shown up there was no one there. He had failed again. Fear gnawed at his stomach like a starving rat, as he thought of Emily and Jeremy.

He watched Morden come to a halt and before Lucas's very eyes his composure dissolved. The folds of the heavy draperies shifted around the slender form, seeming to swallow the old man. Spasms shook him and he began to shout out wordlessly. Two of the soldiers came to his aid, unsure of what to do, except keep their leader on his feet.

"They took him! I saw him..." His voice hitched, but he fought it and continued with the vision that assailed him. "They came out of nowhere. He tried to fight them off, but there were too many. Too strong. He tried to fight them off, but they overpowered him." His eyes, wide and haunted by the living nightmare, found Lucas's. "They were bigger than you. They weren't human."

Lucas kept his expression impassive, but the desire to yell at the elf was taxing. He bit back a vicious retort, but allowed the sting into his tone. "It was trolls. If he's alive then we must search for him immediately. Set me free and I can help. I'm a master swordsman."

Morden gasped as another spasm shook him. He grasped one of the soldiers for support. "No. How do I know I can trust you?"

Lucas rolled his eyes. "He saved my life, old man! I don't know what code you live by, but I live by one of honor. I have a debt to repay. Release me." No one moved. "Please."

The Psychic Mage straightened himself, releasing the soldier he had been hanging onto. Both soldiers backed away, keeping a wary eye on him in case another fit should seize him. He smoothed down the front of his robe in an effort to appear composed. "I don't know if I can trust you."

Trust? Lucas gritted his teeth. His jaw muscle throbbed. "I am not your enemy. You're the psychic. Why can't you see this?"

Morden shook his head, rubbing the entire right side of his face then resting the same hand against his mouth and chin. "I saw him saving your life." He sighed wearily. "The Deities help me. Set him free." The soldier standing behind Lucas gawked at Morden. He opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off by his superior. "Do it."

Lucas felt something slip between his wrists and cut the ropes binding them together. He rubbed them to get rid of the numbing rawness. "Thank you."

Morden waved dismissively and directed himself to the soldier who had just released Lucas. "Go back to Raushanka and gather more troops, including the captain. Tell them I sent you. We will go into the Kilns to search for Jarell."

The soldier nodded and rushed off to carry out his orders. Still rubbing his chafed wrists, Lucas said, "You surprised me."

Morden studied Lucas's face. "I surprised myself."

Ragaitan threw the limp bundle to the floor. It moaned in response, but did not move. Velakis had been summoned upon their approach to the fort. Ragaitan and his troops waited in the room where the Eye of Jaffa was harbored. The other soldiers were fearful of the Eye and maintained their distance. Ragaitan chided them, but he understood their wariness. The Eye's multi-colored pulsations were too much like a living thing. Something about the writhing hues hypnotized him and despite the spidery sensation that would crawl along his skin, he could never resist the Eye's power. He was the only one other than Velakis who would approach it.

The door to the room was flung open and the king entered. The soldiers fell to their knees. Ragaitan remained standing over their latest acquisition. Velakis's face lit up at the sight and strode towards his first in command and the unconscious elf. He grinned like a blood-lusting wolf.

"The Eye of Jaffa told me your name, Jarell K'letta. You are now defenseless," he purred. He turned to his first in command. "The ceremony will commence at sunset. Strap him down. Make sure he cannot get away or use his abilities."

"Yes, m'Lord."

Ragaitan reached down and carelessly gathered the unresisting body into his arms. He carried the elf to the elongated table upon which the Eye of Jaffa rested. The elf moaned again as Ragaitan eased him down. Leather straps were brought across the knees, waist, chest, and forehead. His arms were stretched above his head and the hands were tied to the Eye of Jaffa's copper base, rendering him completely helpless. As the commander finished, the elf's eyes flew open and he began to thrash against the bonds. Ragaitan backed away, unmoved by the piteous cries.

Velakis's teeth were still bared in a twisted grin. Ragaitan thought he should see blood dripping from the incisors. "Sunset," the king said again, then exited the room.

Morden followed an invisible trail no one could detect. Even an experienced tracker like Lucas could not determine what Morden was pursuing. He had asked the old man at one point, but all he received was the cryptically terse response, "The evil is an aura."

That had been too much for Lucas's sensibilities and he had left the answer at that. Whatever Morden was trailing, it proved to be accurate because within two hours, nearing dusk, they found themselves facing a mountainous wall. Only it wasn't just a mountainside. The trained eyes of the soldiers could make out the telltale signs of a massive wooden door and the narrow balcony behind the crawling greenery. The vegetation appeared to be strategically placed, a perfect camouflage. Almost perfect. They weren't fooled by it.

"How are we going to get in?" asked one of the elves, his eyes running the length of the balcony until it disappeared behind the sprawling, verdant trees.

"They must have guards stationed around here somewhere," Lucas observed. "We can't just stroll out into the open. Morden, can you tell how many people are on guard?"

Morden nodded, closing his eyes as he did. Several seconds passed before he spoke. "Ten."

"There are enough of us to take them on in hand to hand combat, if we must," Lucas mused.

"And how do we get in?" asked another.

Lucas's lips quirked to the side as he eyed the fort skeptically. "I haven't reached that part of my plan. If there are any suggestions, don't be shy." There were no suggestions. Either that or everyone was shy. Lucas sighed wearily. "That's what I thought. Any ideas how to bring them out?"

One of the elves stared at him in incredulity. "You don't know that either?"

Lucas shrugged. "I never said I was going in prepared."

Goloth nudged his half-asleep companion. "Hey, wake up."

Delem snorted then stirred, his helmet slipping halfway down his nose. "What?" he grumbled.

"You smell smoke?" Goloth peered over the balcony wall, trying to remain inconspicuous to any outside observers. He dove back down. "There's a fire down there!"

"Fire?" Delem's brow wrinkled. "How could there be a fire?"

"I don't know! We can't let it get out of control though."

"Well," Delem said, still not fully awake. "What do you propose we do about it? Get Ragaitan or Velakis?"

"They're preparing for the ceremony. We can't interrupt them. Velakis would have our heads on a stick."

Delem nodded, rubbing his eyes, banging his fingers against the hard helmet as he did. He rubbed his hand against his cloak. "Okay. Let's go down and see if we can't take care of it."

"Shouldn't we get some of the others to help us?"

Delem leaned forward to get a view of the fire Goloth had spotted. "It's not that big. We can take care of it ourselves."

Goloth looked nervously at the fire burning below and reluctantly agreed. They stood up and slid through a door that had been chiseled out from the gray rock. They descended the staircase that led to the fort's only entrance. They opened the doors, standing in the middle of the open space feeling peculiarly vulnerable. Goloth looked up to where he knew the other sentries were watching. He couldn't see them. Delem prodded him forward. "It was your idea," he complained.

Goloth swallowed convulsively. "We can't let the fire catch."

They jogged towards the scorching heat that was beginning to eat across the vegetation towards the fort. Signaling Delem, Goloth removed his thick cloak and began beating the blaze with it. Together they worked their way into the dense mass of trees that obstructed their view of the fort.

Neither saw the shadowy forms sneak up behind them, nor did they hear the crunching of footsteps over the fire's intense crackling. The hilt of a sword swung down and Delem immediately toppled. Goloth gasped and whirled around, fumbling to draw his sword at the same time. He never knew what hit him.

The small band of warriors circled the unconscious trolls.

"There are only two outfits," someone observed.

"Then only two of us will be able to go in," said Lucas in a matter-of-fact tone.

"What about the rest of us?" asked another soldier.

"Keep guard. Wait for the other troops to arrive."

Several of the soldiers grunted their dissatisfaction, but no one objected.

"I'll go in. Who else will go with me?"

Silence.

"Not all at once now." Lucas's eyes shifted from person to person. No one met his gaze.

"I will go." Everyone looked up in unison.

"Morden?" said one skeptically.

The man in question gave the soldier a disdainful glare. "Is there a problem with that? I think it is wisest that I go in. I may not be young and as able-bodied as the rest of you, but I am a Psychic Mage of the tenth circle. In that regard, I am the strongest here."

Lucas bit his bottom lip. Whether it was wise to take an old man into such a dangerous situation didn't seem to matter right now. No one else was volunteering. It didn't look like he had much choice. Besides, he had enough confidence in his swordsmanship to protect them both if need be. He hoped. "Okay. You're with me." He knelt down and began stripping one of the trolls. He wrinkled his nose at the repugnant smell. "Have they ever heard of baths?" The troll's entire body was covered in thick, coarse hair. "Put the clothes on. If we wrap the cloak around our heads they won't be able to tell the difference."

"Do you think so?" Morden asked. Lucas wasn't sure if the tone was sincere or derisive.

"I really do hope so. If we don't pass for trolls, Jarell won't be the only one in need of saving."

Only a few short moments later two figures emerged from the smoking woods. The wisps parted around them, giving a picture of two heroes emerging from a death-defying feat. The cloaks had been wrapped around their faces.

A guard called out from his perch, "Did you take care of the problem?"

"Yes, it's taken care of," the tallest answered, his voice muffled.

They walked through the open doorway and closed it behind them. Murky darkness loomed before them and Lucas felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. "They'll kill him before we find him."

"No," said Morden resolutely. "I will not allow it. I can find him. Follow me."

Wordlessly, Lucas did. Walking through the fortress was like walking through a maze. Some corridors divided into other corridors, and some resulted in dead ends. He and Morden turned around one corner, coming face to face with a sentry. The troll's eyes widened as he recognized them as invaders. He opened his mouth to call out a warning, but Morden had a dagger in his hand and threw it at the troll before Lucas could even swing his sword. The troll crumpled to the ground, his warning shout dead in his throat. Lucas gave Morden an impressed nod. He hadn't expected the old man to hold his own nearly so well.

They continued through the corridors, twisting and turning in every direction, Lucas following Morden's lead. The Psychic Mage was following an imperceptible path that was surely leading them to Jarell. Lucas didn't quite understand it and he didn't think he really wanted to. Magic was something he had always stayed away from, even in the cases of Wizards.

Morden cried out weakly. Lucas whirled about to turn on his attackers and saw no one. The Psychic Mage collapsed onto the floor, his body writhing in agony. Lucas knelt down and gathered the older man into his arms, feeling his own body tense with the fear the sudden seizure had elicited. Sweat trickled onto his nose and dripped off.

"What happened?" he demanded. "Was it Jarell? Did something happen to Jarell?" He tried to temper his words, to control them, but he found he was way beyond his own barriers. The foreboding was pounding into his brain like a sledgehammer. This had gone far beyond Jarell, he knew. This was about the fate of Duranee and Raushanka.

"No," Morden moaned, tremors wracking his body. "I sense a power. I have never felt it before."

"An evil aura?" Lucas asked, remembering Morden's earlier remarks when they had been tracking down Jarell.

"Not . . . evil," he gasped. "Powerful. Almost omnipotent."

"What is it?" Lucas pushed frantically, eyes roving the desolate hallways in case one of the sentries should pick this opportune time to show up.

"I don't know what it is. Lift me up. I think . . . they took Jarell to unleash the energy."

Lucas grasped Morden carefully, as if the Mage would crumble in his hands. Morden clasped his arm, his breath coming in heaving gasps.

"We will make it," the Mage assured him.

Lucas nodded, keeping a desperate grip on his only key to finding Jarell. His intuition had been correct, he was certain of that now. He could only hope they would find Jarell in time.

Terror would not let Jarell slip into unconsciousness. He knew what his fate was and he did not want to be awake when it happened. He remembered the stories of the Mages coming into the mountains and disappearing, only to be found dead. Lucas had said the same thing about the Wizards. Jarell's eyes closed in despair. Now it would happen to him. He was going to die.

Coming to, he had felt the ominous presence floating above him and the pressure against his body, holding him down. The image of the arms subduing him flared up in his mind like a nasty disease and he immediately began struggling. He screamed for help and when he saw the troll standing over him, his cries had increased in desperation.

Eventually he had been left alone, save for the guards he had heard talking by the door. Worries tumbled about in his head for a length of time--he could not determine how long, though he supposed it had been a couple hours at least--and he received no inspiration that would set him free. Healing Mages did not have the ability to manipulate inanimate matter, only living. Jarell cursed himself for the day he had chosen to become a healer as opposed to a warrior or a psychic. Even the ability to manipulate the elements would've suited him better at this moment. None of that mattered anymore. He had chosen the path of the Healing Mage and for that, he would lose his life.

The door to the room opened. Unconsciously he turned to see who had come in, momentarily forgetting that his head had been restrained as well. Clomping footsteps headed towards him and a small trickle of icy fear ran down his spine and melted into his stomach. He made an acute effort to moderate his breathing. He felt an overwhelming urge to hyperventilate.

The footsteps stopped at the edge of the table he was strapped to and his eyes wandered warily in that direction. He did not recognize the troll. He was dressed in the same black attire as the other trolls and had the same heavy beard, but he held himself differently. And there was something in his eyes that was even more callous than the man he awoke to earlier. Jarell knew instantly that this was the leader--the one who would kill him. Memories of his parents flashed to mind and he thought about their murder.

"You killed my parents." The calmness of his voice surprised himself.

The troll's eyebrows arched at the accusation. "I suppose I did." He placed a rough and clammy hand on Jarell's cheek. His skin crawled at the abhorrent touch. "I guess you would be keeping the family tradition alive."

Jarell tried wrenching away from the hand. His lips pressed together. He imagined himself somewhere else, anywhere else but here, with this beast standing over him, touching him.

"Ragaitan's on his way. When he arrives we'll begin." The hand patted his cheek tenderly, as one might a child.

Jarell clenched his hands into fists, feeling his nails dig into the tender flesh of his palms. He tried to draw blood, to feel some pain to cover the sense of hopelessness that raged in him. The orb's cool glass pressed against his knuckles. He tried to ignore the sensation, but it was like trying to ignore a mosquito. He thought he could feel the glass move against his hands, as if it were a living thing.

The troll grinned and leaned closer to Jarell's face. "Your death will be our triumph."

"We are close," Morden announced. He had gained most of his strength back and was walking without Lucas's assistance, but his face was etched with tight lines.

"Can you tell if Jarell is all right?" Lucas asked.

"He is alive. I do not think he is hurt. But I feel that our time is running out." He nodded and pointed to a corridor to their right. "This way."

A scream reverberated throughout the halls. They froze.

"Jarell," Lucas whispered. "No."

"Hurry!" Morden exclaimed and with renewed strength, ran the length of the corridor.

The door groaned as it was pushed open and Ragaitan entered. "I have the herbs, m'Lord. The sun has fallen. We can now begin."

Velakis caressed Jarell's cheek, delighting in the fear that radiated from the young man. The Eye did not care whether its victims were brave or fearful in the face of death, but Velakis fed off the horror. The Healing Mage was attempting to put up a brave front, but failing miserably. "Administer the herbs now. I don't want to wait any longer."

Ragaitan strode towards their victim, holding a clear jar filled with a yellowish sludge. "This is for you."

Ragaitan clasped the Mage's jaws and pressed his thumb and index finger into two pressure points. Jarell gasped and unwillingly his mouth opened. Ragaitan tilted the jar and the sludge oozed down and poured into the elf's mouth. Jarell gagged, trying to spit out the vile concoction. Some of the sludge escaped his mouth, sliding down the sides of his face. Ragaitan clamped his mouth shut with one hand and used the other to rub his throat so the elf would swallow the mixture. Inevitably, Jarell lost the battle and the slimy composition slid down his throat. Ragaitan then turned to the Eye and poured the remaining mixture on it, the yellowish substance staining the glass and slipping down over it like heated candle wax. Ragaitan stepped back. "The bond has been initiated."

As soon as the words passed his lips the Eye of Jaffa sparked and the mixture coating it began to sizzle. Tendrils of smoke floated away from the orb, wafting into the air with a saccharine smell. Jarell tugged at his bonds. A spark of brilliant blue energy jolted from the Eye and collided with the Mage. Jarell's eyes flew wide, his mouth opening in a silent scream, his body arching as the electricity burned across him in bursts of color. Blue, yellow, purple, red, orange, green flared across his skin in a display of brilliance. Velakis and Ragaitan watched spellbound. Never had they seen such magnificent beauty.

Jarell screamed. It filled the entire room and Velakis thought he saw the Eye's glow intensify at the stricken cry. The colors sparking across Jarell's body lashed back into the orb. The cycle continued. Jarell screamed again as his energy was ripped from him.

Two sentries stood outside the door. Casually, Morden and Lucas approached them, still hidden by their borrowed clothing. The guards watched them suspiciously, but Morden and Lucas continued walking past them. Lucas spun around, a dagger clasped in his hand, and threw it at one guard who toppled instantly, clutching the weapon in his chest as he fell. The other guard drew his sword, but before he even had the chance to use it, it flew from his hand, bouncing off the opposite wall with a clatter. He clutched at his throat, fighting to breathe, then collapsed. Lucas turned to Morden in surprise.

"Mind trick," the Psychic Mage said.

Another scream ripped through the door and both men froze. "How many inside?" Lucas asked as calmly as he could.

"Four . . . no five." Morden nodded, staring at their only barrier to the room. "Five, including Jarell."

"Okay. Odds we can take."

He reached for the door, but it didn't budge under his grasp. He looked to Morden for help. Morden waved his arms in intricate patterns, humming quietly as he did. The door unlocked and opened. They entered the room, bracing themselves for what they might find. Neither expected what they did see.

Jarell was bound to the base of a multicolored orb twice the size of a human head. Colors writhed about its surface and jumped from it to the now-semiconscious elf. A blazing string of electricity connected the two. The electric colors danced across Jarell, as if picking up bits and pieces of his energy to give to the orb.

The two men standing closest to the orb did not see or hear them barge into the room, but the guards did. Morden relieved them of their weapons and Lucas knocked them unconscious with his bare fists, all within five seconds. Lucas drew his sword and with a roar of rage, swung at the closer of the two figures near the orb. However, the man was now aware of his presence. His adversary spun around and ducked beneath the swinging weapon, the sharp blade missing his scalp by centimeters. Behind him, Lucas could see the straps falling from Jarell and his hands sliding off the orb's base. Then his opponent had his own sword unsheathed, and their blades clashed together. They swung at each other, the metal sliding across each other with sharp clangs. While the other had his guard down, Lucas thrust his weapon into the other man's chest. Blood seeped from the wound and Lucas drew back, the sword sliding out wetly.

The entire time the other troll had not moved, riveted by the brilliantly glowing orb and the dying Mage. Morden ran to Jarell's aid, pulling the young man from the orb's deadly grip. Jarell moaned in his arms, lashes fluttering rapidly. Morden settled his ward onto the floor, cradling him in his arms.

Velakis had pulled himself from the picture of the dying elf surrounded by the vibrant flashes of color in time to see his first in command fall to the stone ground with a dull thump. Someone ran past him, towards the Eye, but he ignored him, focusing only on the man that had slain Ragaitan. Their eyes met and both men let out a resounding roar, rushing at each other with weapons drawn. They thrust back and forth. Velakis knocked the human away long enough to draw a dagger from his belt and throw it at him. The human blanched as the knife sliced into his shoulder. He gasped and his sword toppled to the ground, his body following. Velakis grinned savagely, but the grin froze when he felt a sudden constriction on his throat.

Both hands lifted to his throat as he felt his airway being blocked off by some unknown source. He turned to see the old man that had removed Jarell from the table staring at him with piercing blue eyes. Velakis fell to his knees, gasping for breath that would not come. He thought this would be his end, when a knife flew through the air, meeting its mark in the old man's chest. The constriction eased away and oxygen flowed into his lungs. He looked behind him and saw Ragaitan lying on the ground, one arm stretched in front of him. His loyal soldier's last deed before death claimed him.

The human was on the ground, not dead, he thought, but unconscious. He wouldn't be able to move for quite some time either, Velakis judged by the blood now seeping around the knife. The troll king had more important things to worry about. The Eye of Jaffa still awaited that last bit of energy to fulfill the prophecy of omnipotence to defeat all lands. He strode over to the young Mage. The eyes were narrow slits. He didn’t think the elf could be very coherent after the energy letting he had just experienced. Velakis lifted Jarell into his arms and laid him on the table. What he didn't expect was the eyes to open and the slender body to leap off the table at him with an enraged shout.

"You killed Morden and Lucas!" Jarell cried, fury burning deep in his words.

"I had no other choice," Velakis said coolly. "And you were supposed to be dead as well."

Jarell swayed. Velakis could see that the Eye had truly sapped the boy's strength and he was now only running on adrenaline. "I am not giving up."

"Child, you have already lost."

Jarell shook his head, but Velakis could see the sag of the shoulders and the weariness pulling at the features. Jarell pounced at him. Velakis hadn't seen the move coming and together they fell to the floor. The young elf rolled free and Velakis pounced back to his feet. Jarell was still on the ground, hunched over, presumably in pain.

"Give up, Jarell," Velakis said, advancing on his victim. He swooped down on the boy and received the greatest shock of his life. And the last.

In Jarell's hand was a knife and Velakis had thrown himself on it. He stumbled backwards, reeling in surprise, and collapsed to the ground. Jarell watched him coldly, no emotions betrayed in the youthful face. Velakis's dying thought was that he had underestimated the one person on which he had placed his victory.

Trembling from a lack of energy, Jarell crawled toward Morden, already feeling hot tears trickle down his cheeks. He reached his guardian and gathered the lifeless body into his arms, overwhelmed with wracking, merciless sobs. He clutched at the man that had been his father and teacher, sinking into the warmth that was quickly draining away.

"Why, Morden?" he managed. His face was wet with tears and his nose had begun to run. He wiped at it and sniffled. He almost missed the moan over his own crying.

It was a familiar sound, one he had heard earlier that day. Earlier when he had found Lucas struck by an arrow. Tenderly, he laid Morden back onto the floor, running a gentle hand over the eyelids, to close them in eternal slumber. He dragged himself to his feet and stumbled toward the form that he immediately recognized as Lucas. He knelt down, leaning over the human.

"Lucas, are you okay?"

Lucas's eyelids fluttered, then opened gradually. He winced. "I have a knife buried in my shoulder the exact same place the arrow hit me." He groaned mournfully. "I'm cursed."

Jarell offered him a small smile. "You're gonna live, though."

Lucas raised his head slightly; his eyes captured Jarell's, all humor gone. "Morden...?"

Jarell shook his head.

Lucas sighed, his head thumping back against the ground. "I'm sorry, kid. I really am. The old man was all right."

"Yeah. He was."

An awkward silence followed the admission. Lucas finally found his voice and a change of subject. "Help should be here anytime soon. I guess we just have to wait for them to show up."

Jarell looked pointedly at the Eye. "And what about that?"

"I don't know. It almost killed you."

"I know. They'll probably lock it away in Duranee and make sure no one else can ever get their hands on it." Jarell licked his lips nervously. "Lucas... I want to thank you for saving my life. You had no reason to come to my rescue."

Lucas shook his head. "I owed you." He smiled faintly through his pain.

"So I guess we're even?"

"Yeah. I guess we are."

The door to the room opened. Jarell drew up, ready to fight again if need be, though he knew that he did not have the energy to do so. Everything he had, had gone into his standoff with Velakis. Fortunately, instead of the trolls he feared, elves came into the room. Two headed straight for them.

Jarell blinked as a sudden wave of dizziness poured over him.

Lucas lifted himself up with his good hand. "Hey, kid. You okay?"

Jarell blinked again, trying to clear his blurry vision. He yawned abruptly. "Tired."

"Go ahead and get some rest. We'll wake you when we get a healer here."

Jarell nodded. He didn't even try to fend off the exhaustion that claimed him. He collapsed against Lucas and he could feel the arms supporting him as he floated into a comforting oblivion.

Three days later, Morden's funeral was held. Jarell had been given the honor of lighting the pyre. Lucas had been allowed to attend, though the only elf other than Jarell who would acknowledge his presence was Lorelei. Jarell was pale, but even so was willing to chat with Lucas, despite the strange looks he received from the other elves. He didn't care anymore what they thought of the situation. Lorelei was giving him her blessing to do what he felt necessary around the human and as she was the only one closest to him other than Morden, that was all that mattered to him.

Lucas and Jarell stood behind the crowd of mourners. Jarell because he couldn't stand to see anymore pitying gazes at the moment, and Lucas because he couldn't stand to see anymore hateful glares. Lucas didn't even appear completely comfortable around him and Jarell guessed the only reason he had come was out of common courtesy. Morden had accepted the human in the end and together they had both saved Jarell's life.

"They're passing me to the seventh circle," Jarell said quietly, the first to break the silence that had stretched between them since the lighting of the pyre. "Next week."

"Congratulations," Lucas said sincerely. "Morden would have been proud."

Jarell nodded, and tilted his head to the ground. He had thought of that often since Lorelei had announced his coming promotion yesterday morning. Morden should have been the one to direct the ceremony, but Lorelei said she would gladly fill in her late friend's place. Jarell was, also, in many ways like a grandchild to her. "What are you doing now? Going back to Duranee and returning to your battles?"

"Nothing else for me to do. I have the Eye now. Maybe there will be less need for me to protect." Lucas stared at the flickering flames devouring the wood and cloth-wrapped body. "But somehow I doubt Duranee will ever see true peace. They need me there."

"Then this is it. We say goodbye."

Lucas nodded. Jarell glanced at him and for a second he thought he saw something akin to remorse flicker through the light blue eyes. "I'll be leaving tonight, so as not to make my men worry too much about me. They're probably already going through the Kilns scouting for me." He smiled wryly. "I'll have to make up a really good story to satisfy them. Going to be a heck of a time just trying to explain what I'm doing with the Eye of Jaffa."

"Why not tell them the truth?" Jarell asked sincerely, wishing it was possible. Knowing it wasn't.

"If I thought it'd gain me anything, I would, but you and I both know that elves are no more welcome in Duranee than I am here." He shrugged. "But maybe it'd do good. I don't know. I'll test the waters and see what reactions I get. I just don't think too many will be accepting of me risking my life to save an elf's."

"Maybe one of these days that'll change," Jarell said thoughtfully, watching the glowing orange flames leap towards the heavens.

"Maybe," Lucas murmured, crossing his arms over his chest. "And maybe one day we won't be killed for just thinking such thoughts."

Jarell closed his eyes, spots floating behind his eyelids from watching the bright fire too long. He had heard Lucas clearly and the human knew it too. And what could he say to that? Nothing, he knew. Absolutely nothing. But that didn't mean he couldn't change things. If Morden had survived, that was what he would've done. This was the path Jarell would follow.

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