Chapter 1: Trial By Fire (pt. 1)

It seemed so long ago that Jarthen had been carousing about his hometown of West Fethil as carefree as any 12 year could be in those troubled times. In a matter of a few short weeks, he had gone from a simple kitchen’s apprentice at the local pub to a prisoner of war, to a member of the army against which he had enlisted to fight. He could never look at the world in the same way, after having found out that the queen he had been taught since birth to revere, was nothing more than a power-hungry witch, bent upon the domination of the entire land of Elothnin and all those creatures that dwelt within it. “Now,” he thought “I’ll have the chance to really make a difference in the world! I’m finally doing something-“ but his train of thought was abruptly broken by the harsh, deep voice of Glothnafar.

“Have you finished with that scullery, knave of a man-child,” he asked with an air of condescension.

“Uh, not quite,” Jarthen said, unable to meet the eyes of his inquisitor while engaged in so menial a task.

“Well, be quick about it then, an army travels on its stomach,” the centaur responded before galloping off to see to his battalion of centaurs.

Glothnafar was a powerfully constructed centaur with piercing blue eyes that contrasted sharply with his gleaming chestnut haunches, and had a swarthy complexion. Despite the vast range of strange and alien creatures in the rebel army, Jarthen considered Glothnafar to be easily the most intimidating, and it had little to do with the fact that his lower half belonged to a sturdily built equine. Glothnafar looked prepared to kill any creature that excited in him the merest amount of displeasure, and he was known to harbor a deep distrust verging on hatred of all humans, particularly Elothninians. In spite of his stern ways, Glothnafar commanded a deep level of respect among the rebels that neared reverence, particularly with the elves. This respect allowed him to exert a great deal of influence on the inter-ethnic council that commanded the rebel army. The council would meet regularly to decide what course of action the army should follow, which allowed each race to fight as a part of a greater war-machine in battle.

As he resumed his labors, Jarthen could have sworn that he heard Glothnafar mutter something insulting under his breath. The lad felt his hackles raise at the constant disrespect he received from the centaur; however, knowing better than to respond, he held his tongue. Jarthen believed that he would have to prove himself on the field of battle in order to gain the respect of Glothnafar and the rest of the rebel army, but how would he be able to do this if he was perpetually relegated to such mundane responsibilities?

Jarthen, surrounded yet alone in the rebel camp

He dearly wished that he could speak to the Old Man, who had so kindly related the true nature of the Evil Queen and the mission of the Rebel Army, but he already had left carrying an urgent message to another band of free northern fighters. It turned out, that the Old Man was, in fact, an aged mage, who utilized his ability to conjure a roiling fog that cloaked him while he passed through enemy territory. Although his powers had waned significantly as he approached his 2500th year, he continued to possess considerable magic abilities, particularly with regard to controlling the elements.

Magick, according to the reckoning of leading Elothninian philosophers, is an alternate life force that only certain creatures with a particular inborn faculty can perceive and manipulate. Humans and giants (or ogres, if you like) are unable to sense and utilize magick, making them mundayne. Dwarves, centaurs, felintarks, and satyrs, like humans, cannot use magic, but developed their strange forms as a result of having evolved in areas with particularly high levels of magick - for reasons unknown to even the wisest of sages, it seems that some areas, like the Erkenheld Forest and Klevarcht Mountains, emanate vast amounts of magick. The only creatures able to harness magic are gnomes, elves and mages, granting them a considerably longer lifespan than mundayne creatures.

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“I can’t believe that any knight of the Queen, let alone one so well-regarded as Ractor would ever comport himself with such utter disregard for established precedents and principles!” exclaimed an erudite, but clearly agitated gentleman.

“Indeed,” replied his companion. He wore long black robes and a purple beret emblazoned with a silver diamond, as such his garments marked him as a member of the Queen’s civil service. “I agree completely. Though, I must say I do not find his actions nearly so deplorable as those of Mr. Furblog: Larthon Ractor’s actions at least were born of greed, while the former acted purely out of cowardice. I suppose it shouldn’t come as any surprise, however, given that young Jarthen’s father himself once served in her Majesty’s military, but left the service before he had fulfilled his obligation because of a severe case of ‘nerves.’ Nevertheless, I must say I was shocked to hear that he had bribed Ractor to take his own son instead of himself.”

The other murmured an agreement, and exchanged a look of disappointment over the actions of their fellow men with his companion. The two were seated in a richly appointed parlor in the finest home in all of West Fethil. There was not a house within a day’s walking distance that bore comparison to its three floors, thirty odd rooms, and lavish furnishings. This home, along with a truly extensive quantity of land, paintings, sculptures and other fine objects belonged to the town’s most respected family, the Worthis clan¹. The aforementioned gentleman was Delando Worthis, the owner of this house, and the civil servant was a local functionary who had come to pay his respects to the eminent personage.

“What have they done with Ractor and the boy’s father?” Delando asked.

“I am told that he too has been dispatched to one of the army’s camps near the Erkenheld Forest, perhaps the very same from which Jarthen was taken. We’ve tried to level charges against him, exact some sort of punishment for his pernicious deeds, but the army has made certain that he is beyond the reach of any civil prosecution. With regard to Mr. Furblog despite the moral repugnance of his actions, he has not done anything that is technically illegal: without Ractor’s corroboration we cannot prove that he offered a bribe, or even that the boy was underage.”

“I fear that my son will not take this news well. He was already so deeply aggrieved by the loss of his best friend: I can’t imagine that he will be consoled by the fact that Jarthen’s death was the result of such insidious calculations as these. Perhaps I will be able to keep it from him,” Delando mused.

However, Delando would have no opportunity to put this plan into action, as its primary target, his son Bertronius, had heard the entirety of the conversation from underneath the awning of a nearby open window. The news of how his best friend, Jarthen, had been the victim of such a cruel and vile plot transformed the sadness he had felt in the three days since hearing of Jarthen’s death into a deep, seething rage. He was too angry to listen anymore. Bertronius crawled stealthily under the windowsills, until he reached the opposite corner of the house, before standing up.

After he stood up, he grabbed a handful of his rich, auburn hair with one hand, while biting down so hard on the other arm that it was quite painful: he just wanted to feel something external so he wouldn’t have to think about how bad he was feeling on the inside. It had been almost three months since Jarthen had departed for the army, without even having a chance to say farewell to his best friend. Bertronius only discovered his friend’s fate when he visited the Furblog’s home after Jarthen had been dispatched to the front.

Bertronius was about average height for a thirteen year old, fairly broad shouldered, with a pleasant, intelligent face. He had envied Jarthen’s dashing good looks, easy charm, and confidence, but had never begrudged him these positive qualities. He was a very bright young man, and his high social standing had given him the confidence both to know how to talk to anyone, and also when it behooved him to keep his opinions to himself.

Although he was not prone to rash action, it only took him a few moments of pacing around behind his family’s stately manor before he had decided what he must do. He entered the house through the servants’ entrance in back so as not to be noticed by his parents or three other siblings. After climbing up the house’s back staircase, he strode silently through the stonewalled passageways until he reached his own room. There he quickly gathered some clothes, a small pouch of gold, and a hunting knife that had belonged to his great-great-grandfather, Prabil Worthis. With his traveling cloak draped around his shoulders, he quickly scrawled a note to his parents:

Dear Mother and Father,

I find myself compelled by the overwhelming grief I feel at the loss of my beloved friend Jarthen to commemorate his heroic death in silothil². I have hastened myself to Opleneer, the only place I am certain to have access to the proper materials. I beg that you do not follow me: despite my immaturity I feel that this is a task I can only undertake alone. Fear not, I will travel only on the safest of highways, and utilize, as far as is possible, the royal carriage route. Once I have arrived in Opleneer, I will put myself under the power of my dear Aunt Lendnisa. I promise that I shall send word to you directly, telling of my safe arrival in the city.

I am,

Your faithful son,

Bertronius

Bertonius desperately hoped that his parents would respect his wishes: both of them prized honor and independence above all else, and often spoke proudly of how his revered great-great-grandfather Prabil had left home at a similar age to make his fortune. In addition, he banked on the excellent reputation for safety of the Queen’s intercity road system and carriage routes, which he hoped would assuage any fear they might have about him traveling unescorted.

He left the finished note folded on his father’s desk in the room next to Bertronius’s that he used as an office. His small rucksack packed, Bertronius again left through his home’s back door, and started off towards the West Fethil garrison, which happened to be the opposite direction of Opleneer.

Bertronius, remembering better times in the Fethil

As he walked towards the main street of West Fethil, Betronious meditated on the many good times he had shared with Jarthen. They had shared so much: so many memories! The watermelon seed-spitting contest at the West Fethil Bazaar, an annual accompaniment to the much-anticipated, perpetually-pleasing, West Fethil Strawberry Harvest, their adolescent pranks against Madame Slomp: their aged, matronly schoolmarm. The myopic matron had many a time the unfortunate pleasure of making the acquaintance of a well-hidden lizard in her lunch pail as a younger Jarthen and Bertronious snickered nearby in sweet, sweet anticipation. To think: these innocent, carefree days were now a thing of the past: their future good times cruelly wrenched away by the cold hands of an unfeeling, inhuman monster of the north.

Bertronious found himself in the grips of a nostalgia-tinted rage when he discovered that he now stood in front of the place Jarthen had once lived. He gazed at the small house, and thought of the good times he had had there, and how they were now a thing of the past. He could see Jarthen’s mother stirring a large cauldron over the kitchen fire: she was still crying for the loss of her only son. Then Bertronius saw him, the man whose cowardice had resulted in the death of his best friend, Jarthen’s father.

Possessed by that same unfathomable anger he experienced when he had first heard of Jarthen’s betrayal, Bertronius nearly sprinted towards the house, and opened the door with a crash, stunning Jarthen’s father and shocking his mother out of her tearful reflections.

“You! You are an unworthy, cowardly rascal!” Bertronius screamed at Jarthen’s father, who cowered next to the kitchen table. “You do not deserve to live, and if I were not an honorable man I should strike you down where you stand! What defense can you offer for your evil deeds, knave?”

Bertronius had never seen Jarthen’s father look so small and weak. He had always comported himself towards Bertronius in a meek, deferential fashion, but the lad had simply attributed it to his own privileged social standing, but now something more was clearly at work in the man’s mind.

“I…I couldn’t go back there,” Jarthen’s father stuttered after a pause. He seemed unable to meet Bertronius’s eyes. “You have no idea what it’s like out there…on the front. A man gets to seeing things…things he should never have to see…things too terrible for me to tell you now. I know what I did was wrong…I know it better than you ever can. I didn’t want to do it! I swear it! I’d rather have died than go back there, and I never thought that poor Jarthen would be lost!” The man let out a moan of tremendous grief, and hid his face in his hands.

Bertronius glared at the shrunken form of his dear friend’s father, and despite the deep hatred he felt towards the man, he could not help feeling a sense of pity for the him as well: he was clearly tormented by something more terrible than Bertronius could imagine in his worst nightmares. Although his anger still burned inside him, he knew that he could no longer direct it towards this shell of a man.

This understanding reached, he quit the house, leaving Jarthen’s father to be tortured by his own recollections, while his mother was left to cry into her mush once again. He reached the West Fethil garrison a short time later, knowing that a new chapter in his life was about to begin.

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¹The Worthis clan is a family of great import to the history and habitation of the Fethil lands.

²Silothil is the Elothinan construction of fountains. By seeking to commemorate Jarthen’s heroic sacrifice in fountain-form, Bertronius sought to take part in a long Elothninian tradition of heroic sculpting. The deep respect this tradition commands would undoubtedly appeal to individuals so upstanding as Bertronius’s parents.