The Saga of Tron Malkavar

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"Kill me that elf!"  The cry echoed over the winter forest.  A dozen
armed men closed in on a small group of figures.  Two of their number
already lay dead at the feet of an enraged elf.  His buckskin
clothing, wild blond hair, and dark eyes marked him as a wild elf.
Behind him stood an elf woman, with flowing dark hair and green eyes.
Clinging to her skirts was an elf-child, his eyes wide but making no
sound.

"The woman will fetch a good price in the markets of the Sea Princes!
A bag of gold to the man who takes her!"

The speaker was a well-dressed man on horseback.  The ruffians
hesitated.  One, braver or more foolhardy than the rest, sprang in.
Steel flashed and he fell with a cloven head.  But the man had struck
before he died.  The wild elf breathed deeply as he pulled the man's
falchion from his chest.  Blood bubbled in the wound.

"Nick got him good, Lord Scarvo.  He'll fall soon, then we'll take the
woman and child."

The elves looked at each other and spoke in their secret language:

"Ehlissa, I will die today.  You and Tron flee to the woods.  I am
sorry I brought you from your fathers house to this.  Had I truly
loved you, I would have left you there in peace.  It was a sad day
that you swore to share my fate!"

The elf woman spoke:

"Toran, when I said I would follow you everywhere, I meant it.  If
this is the day fated for you to die, then it is the day I die as
well.  Our deaths are ordered by fate, not by whether we go or stay.
But I feel in my heart that Tron will live."

The elf woman turned to her child and spoke:

"Tron, you must flee into the woods now.  Do not look back.  Go, now!"

The elf child fled.  As he ran, Toran leaped forwards and charged Lord
Scarvo.

"Protect the lord!"  The ruffians closed in around their leader.  Only
one of them ran towards the child.  As the blade leaped forwards,
Ehlissa flung herself on it, taking a mortal wound and bearing the man
to the ground.

"Run, Tron!  Run!"  Tron ran.

********************

Brak Jenkins was whistling to himself as he rode along the trail.  The
old miser of Crownford had tried to put up a fight, but after Jenkins
bludgeoned him a few times, he had stopped being a problem and Jenkins
had helped himself to a substantial, interest free "loan".  His head
filled with visions of wine, women, song, and women, he failed to
notice the scene being played in front of him until he was almost on
the stage.  He reigned in his horse and watched.

Standing in the middle of the trail was a young elf.  Facing him was a
full-grown mountain lion.  Their eyes were locked, and both of them
were snarling.  The elf's clothing was ragged and he was bone thin,
but his eyes blazed, fully as mad as those of the animal he faced.

Suddenly the catamount lashed out with its paw.  Blood gushed from the
elf-child's face.  Almost as quickly he swung the rock in his fist and
struck the animal on the head.  Stung, it roared and leaped, but the
elf leaped aside and struck again and again.  He should have died
then, but the catamount hesitated.  Perhaps it was daunted by the
spirit showing in the elf's eyes, or perhaps it was simply not used to
being faced down by anything so small.  Whatever the reason, it turned
and disappeared into the forest.

"Well if that don't beat all!"  Jenkins swung down from the saddle.
The elf turned to face him.  For a long time they looked at each
other.  The elf-child shifted his grip on the rock.  Blood ran freely
from the deep cuts across his face.  He held out his other hand, palm
upwards and spoke in Aerdi:

"Gimme food or I'll kill you."

Jenkins laughed.

********************

Brak Jenkins was dying.  The plague had swept through the area,
following the armies.  The old, the young, the weak and the unlucky
fell before it.  Brak was old and unlucky.

"Tron...lad...we were a good team.  I'll never forget that time we
robbed the Greenfields Inn...that damned paladin came in and I thought
we were goners, till you tripped him up and hit him with the
table...gods, those were the good times...gimme water."

Tron gave him a drink from his canteen.

"Heh...it's been forty years...I've had a longer life than I deserve,
I guess.  But you...you should be grey haired by now, but instead,
you're just starting your life.  The plague doesn't even affect you.
I never envied you, Tron, until now.  When I'm dead you'll be walking
the earth.  I hate you for that.  I can't forgive you that..."

"I don't need your forgiveness, old man."

Jenkins laughed.

********************

Tron ran across the hills with the loping stride of an experienced
runner.  Every now and then he stopped to listen.  He had shaken the
pursuit.  Those blasted bloodhounds!  But crossing the stream had
fooled them.  In his pouch were three diamonds of the first water,
each worth easily a thousand gold coins.  Tron could almost feel the
money in his hands now.  He wanted to laugh at Jenkins, bullying
peasants and commoners, never daring to reach for the real prize!  The
noble family had oppressed this land for generations and amassed vast
quantities of wealth.  Three diamonds was not even a tithe of it, but
the stones represented more money than Tron had ever had.  Yes,
robbing the rich was the way of the future.

This pleasant chain of thoughts was cut short when a slingstone flew
from behind a rock and clipped the elf behind the ear.  He fell
stunned.  Shadowy figures stepped out.  They spoke.

"That was easy."
"Eh, he was stupid.  They always are."
"Whaddya think the lord will do to him?  The galleys?"
"Naw, it'll be the coal mines.  You know the place, in the Bone
March.  Nobody ever comes back from there.  Our little elf is going to
have a very short and unpleasant time remaining to him to regret
stealing from Lord Scarvo."

********************

In the darkness of the mine a small splint of light was burning.  It
showed the narrow gallery, barely five feet high, and the packed forms
within.  They came from all over the Flanaess, driven by whips and
clubs, bound with chains and manacles, forced to toil beneath the gaze
of cruel humanoid overseers.  Yet even in these conditions, there were
ranks and a hierarchy.  Now a newcomer had arrived, and it was
necessary that he find himself a place, or be put in one.

"My name is Narak.  I'm the boss of this gallery, and what I say
goes.  Do what I say, and we'll get along fine."

The speaker was a burly dwarf.  His black beard was shot with gray,
but his arms and torso bulged with muscle.

"My name is Tron."

The elf stood two fingers over five feet.  The main distinguishing
feature was his light blond hair, unusual in an elf, and the fearsome
scars across his face.  Despite, or perhaps because of the grimness of
his conditions, his green eyes blazed with an energy that told of a
strong spirit within.

"Hey, Narak, this ones pretty cute, huh?"
"Yeah, elfie-boy.  You'll get along fine with Narak.  He likes elves."

Narak smirked in an unwholesome way and chucked Tron under the chin.
A shadow of lust hung in his eyes, and his lips compressed.

Tron's fist took the dwarf squarely in the nose.  Blood spurted.
There was dead silence in the passage, then a sudden roar from the
crowd.  Narak stood up, wiping his face.  His eyes were flat.

"You'll regret that."  He charged.

Narak was older, stronger, and more skilled at in-fighting, but the
elf was faster.  Narak thought all elves were terrified nobles or
scholars, easily broken to his will.  Like the catamount on the forest
trail almost ninety years ago, he did not realize what he was facing.

As the dwarf rushed in, Tron met him head on.  They grappled in the
tunnel.  Narak's teeth closed on and bit through Tron's ear.  Tron
made no sound, but instead locked his fingers on the dwarf's throat
and squeezed.  Narak's eyes bulged.  He struck at the elf, and his
blows fell like hammers, but still the fingers tightened on his
windpipe.  Narak turned purple.  Finally with a last effort he broke
the elf's grip and staggered back.

Narak shook his head, and glared at the elf.  Something in Tron's
eyes daunted him, but he could not back down now.  The onlookers were
silent, eager for death.  Blood dripped from Tron's ear to the
ground.

Again, Narak charged in.  This time Tron's boot caught him squarely in
the groin.  Narak froze and slowly doubled over.  Tron kicked him in
the face.  The dwarf fell.  Suddenly a halfling clutching a jagged
rock leaped out of the crowd and clubbed him on the head.
Immediately, a wave of bodies covered the dwarf.  Tron was knocked
down and crawled away.  The thud of blows and the crack of breaking
bones resounded in the narrow space.

"Get back to work, you scum!"  A trio of whip-wielding orcs charged
down the gallery, laying about them.  Break was over.  The light was
blown out.  Baskets filled with rock were passed from man to man along
the gallery.

Tron worked with the rest.  His ear still ran bloody and he was dizzy
and tired.  The dwarf's blows had dazed him and he had difficulty
seeing.  Some of the other workers were eating, and Tron felt the
pangs of hunger.  He had not eaten in three days.  Suddenly he felt a
tug at his pants-leg.  A halfling stood there, holding something.

"I save you this."

Tron took it.  It was half of an arm, broken at the elbow and partway
to the shoulder.  It was too short for a human, too burly for an elf.

"Eat.  You want live, eat!  They no feed us this week!  Eat!"

Tron ate.

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