GORALVOR

THE sun began to illuminate the sky showing a bleak landscape in its light. Dust, ashes, remnants of dead animals and some other hawthorn and weed encompassed a considerable expans of land in what, in some was distant, must have been a fertile and beautiful valley, but which was now nothing more than a consumed son-in-man. A small grayish snake slid down the ground until it finally found its refuge under a pile of stones, sissed in the air with its bifida tongue and squeezed frightened among those stones, then kept a sepulchral silence.

The danger was around, the smell of death followed closely.

A cold wind rose through the valley, then known as the Valley of the Ashes, dragging dry grass back and forth. No doubt a new storm of bad weather and rain was approaching. A dark rider suddenly appeared stopping his mount atop a promontory, after several days of advancing down that tortuous path he finally glimpsed his final destination: a small hybrid citadel set among the cliffs and gorges of that deep, dark valley. A drawbridge was the only real access to that small border fortress. With an unworkable whisper the shadowy rider ordered something from his steed, a more than peculiar black horse, and he advanced slowly towards the citadel with a firm pace but without haste.

Something surprising, for as every inhabitant of The Living Land knew, the wild hybrids of the West had a reputation for shooting first and asking later.

Although that didn't worry that shadowy rider in the slightest.

The horse was equipped with a menacing helmet topped with something resembling two antlers, adorned with strange and ancient symbols difficult to interpret, and carried what appeared to be a heavy copper-colored shell, aged and filled with inlays placed in such a way that they seemed to form the creature's very skeleton, as if the body of that cadabridic-looking animal had been forged by hard metal. The mysterious rider adjusted his own helmet and armor, to match those of the animal, and pressed hard an elongated object that he wore wrapped in cracked and worn fabrics, which slipped exposing a small tip of something sharp that emitted a blackish glow when touched by those early rays of light from the astro king.

A nearby hawthorn plant began to scorch at the same time at the same time as the cautious little grayish snake fled at full speed from its makeshift hiding place among the stones. The shadowy rider and his black steed continued to advance towards the hybrid citadel. That was certainly a lucky snake, for it was still alive and without any harm.

Not so our world.

Not like that we.

* * * * *

Far from there, beyond rivers, mountains, meadows and swamps, a young prince was sneaking through high bushes. Armed with a short, golden, double-edged sword, the young prince was restless. The forest he was in, called The Golden Forest1, was not a safe place. Used as a natural defense since time immemorial, it covered the wide expanses between The Fortress, the capital of its people, and the Dominion, whose feared borders were on the other side of the mountains known as The Last. After the last invasion, that mountain range and the Golden Forest had been the best of protections against the hordes in the service of the neldors.

Neldors.

That one word made him shudder.

He stopped alert, his mind and five senses were completely attentive to any abnormal sound. "That" they had gone looking for must have been in the vicinity. Within walking distance of him, a huge, muscular guy, nearly two metres high and strong arms, was advancing following him. It seemed incredible but, despite his corpulence, his accompanying gigantic made almost no noise as he advanced. A flock of birds from paradise lifted the flight suddenly. At a sign from the young man, they both lay completely motionless. Ormul, that's what the other one was called, slowly pulled out a heavy combat axe on his strong back and gradually approached the prince.

–It's close –he said, looking suspiciously left and right– very close. I don't like it, my lord. He knows that we are looking for him.

–I know –he replied. Turning to him, he placed his left hand on his shoulder, and added confidently–: But I want to do it. The time has come, we have to separate.

It was clear that Ormul found that idea horrible. Hunting in the open was his thing, but there, in the middle of the forest, without its mounts... The gigantic stared at his lord and pupil, and he knew instantly that he should be firm.

–That's always been the plan. You make it go out and I hunt it down.

He saw in the eyes of the gigantic warrior a sea of doubts, but the young man knew how to convince him, he had been doing it since he was a child.

–By your side, my faithful friend. Always by your side –he used the typical phrase made used by the riders of the kingdom before going to the fight.

That trick always worked for him.

–To yours, my lord Akar –Ormul replied submissively, giving in at last.

So Ormul walked away disappearing into the thicket of the forest and leaving the young prince completely alone for the first time in several weeks. The giganton was a good soldier and a great mentor, but Akar smiled happily as he was freed from his presence. Ormul was not exactly the funniest travel companion for a young man as young as twenty-three, adulthood in the kingdom of Roühm.

Of course, no one would say that that seventy-tall, curly, reddish, scruffy young man, light little eyes, and with a face full of a lot of freckles, was the greatest hope of an entire nation. Nor is it that the clothes he wore that day, simple fabrics, comfortable and somewhat worn by the days of persecution in the forest, favored him too much. But when you looked at his gaze... then you could see it.

His determination, his strength, his vitality.

His greatness.

Akar was the best of his generation and he knew it.

Rumors had been that a "beast" prowled the Golden Forest for several moons that had got him and his gigantic friend and mentor to start hunting the elusive creature. His idea from the beginning was for Ormul to make the animal flee and then he would catch it from some safe hiding place in the thicket of the forest. And now the time had finally come. Caressing the golden blade of his prized sword, Akar devoted himself to patiently waiting for the "beast" to show up.

"You and I companion," the emboldened young man said to himself. “You and me".

A glow of light pierced the thick layer of the tall light-leafed trees that made up the forest, directly illuminating the red-haired hair of the prince of the roühm. Akar smiled gratefully to heaven.

"Elf light will protect us, my friend."

A scream abruptly interrupted his thoughts.

"No! I'm too far away," he thought at the moment, after which he threw himself at full speed to where that desperate cry came from.

The familiar sound of Ormul's axe creaking something came to him clearly despite the distance. Instantly, a terrifying cry from another world abruptly stopped his career for a few brief moments. The whole forest seemed to be paralyzed after the overwhelming howl. It's been many years since The Golden Forest heard that horrible sound. A new cry awakened Akar from his slumber:

–Akar! Akar! –Ormul was crying desperately–: My lord!!

–Hold on! I'm coming! –Akar shouted, thinking that perhaps this way the creature would be confused.

He leaped through a small bush and hurled his sword at a small branch that stood between him and the screams of his hunting partner. He stormed into the place where Ormul was crying out for help, a small clearing cleared of trees and bushes, and saw his mentor in the center of the clearing, bloodied, with his right arm brutally amputated and a trickle of blood gushing out from his chest hard, piercing through the leather cuirass that should have protected his massive thorax. In fact, the severed hand still clung to the heavy ax just a few steps from where its dying owner stood. Akar lost his fighting instinct for a moment, but it was not for any of that, no, it was when he saw the lost and terrified look of his gigantic friend.

And Akar did not know anyone who was a better warrior than Ormul.

For this reason, and for the first time in his short life, the young prince doubted himself.

“What kind of creature can...?” he asked himself bewilderedly.

It was at that moment of carelessness that the beast, which had remained hidden in a nearby tree after tearing Ormul down, slapped treacherously upon him. With a single blow he threw it several bodies away. Whether by intuition or luck, Akar reacted at the same time by throwing a blind lunge. The golden leaf was nailed to the attacker causing a new howl of pain. As the prince landed violently to the ground, the creature ripped off the nailed sword and fled into the thick forest in droves. Akar rose as fast as he could prepared to pursue the creature, but a new groan of Ormul made him stop. He ran up to his badly wounded companion and, kneeling before him, said to him in a trembling voice:

–Ormul, don't worry... You'll be fine...

–My lord –he rebuked him, making a superhuman effort in speaking–. You are my... my pride... our great prince... –Ormul coughed hard and stirred shaking, then raised his left hand trembling and added proudly–: Always to your... always to...

The giant lost consciousness without being able to finish the sentence.

–Ormul! Ormul! –Akar yelled at him, shaking him–. I will not let you die. Not here. Not like that! –He uttered full of anger and rage as he looked at the dying face of his mentor and friend.

The young prince got up and closed his eyes concentrating as much as he could. He wasn't going to let him die like a nobody. He knew that what he was going to do was forbidden by the oldest and most sacred laws of his people, but that now he didn't care. After all, it was the only thing he could do to save the life of his brave tutor and companion. Still thinking of anything other than what his friend must have been suffering about, he forced his mind to remember the last night he was with his father.

It was the only memory he had of him and often it came to his mind.

It was a memory full of pain.

He could still hear the cries in the background. The city on fire. The roar of battle. Smoke from houses and dead or wounded bodies on fire. His father bowed to embrace one of the fallen, weeping without consolation. Akar then opened his eyes with absolute concentration, little by little, as he began to remember the words of power he heard his father say for the first and last time on that unfortunate night.

Suddenly they came to mind.

–Dornah muitco, dornah muitco –he raised his voice with authority– Ormul, ¡dornah muitco!2

Then the young man began to notice a change within himself. A vigorous force quickly traveled through his body as if it were a fire. A twinkle began to sprout deep in his gaze, until the brightness turned into a flame that expanded through his eyes. Around Akar and Ormul a species of semi-transparent and diffuse haze emerged that distorted the figure of both. Only the reddish flash of the young man's eyes was clearly appreciated, which became more and more colored until they turned entirely red. There was no longer iris or cornea, but only a bright, vivid red that lit the prince's gaze. His skin then also began to emit an easy-to-distinguish reddish flash amid the eerie mist.

Akar could only perceive his surroundings through lights, glitters and shadows, since the rest of his other senses were completely disconnected, non-existent.

No noise, no smells or sensations.

Just light and darkness.

At the very moment when the flame inside dominated his gaze completely, Akar firmly extended the palm of his right hand to Ormul's dying body, from the young man's point of view, a weak, intermittent light that slowly went out. He concentrated all that energy of his on that faint fading light. Only once had he tried to emulate what his father did when he was a child and... He almost died! But no, this time the sensations were different. More intense. Clearer. More powerful... and yet much easier to master.

More sweets.

As he touched Ormul's light with his own undomited energy, he shuddered from top to bottom sighing forcefully and with evident signs of pain. At that time Akar realized that his partner's very existence was in his hands and that he could not fail him. Concentrating even more, and not knowing very well what he was doing, he transferred some of his own light to that of his friend, which glowed back intensely to stabilize at all. A new sense of intense and evil pleasure swept through the young prince's interior. Something frightened by that strange and novel pleasurable feeling, he tremblingly withdrew his hand.

It had worked.

With the certainty that the mystical art of kradparuna3 had succeeded, he turned his face to the place where the cursed "beast" had fled and then perceived its trace: a coppery, dirty, blackened glow that caused him a deep disgust and clearly corresponded to the blood of that unclean being. Aware that he could not continue in that state of concentration for much longer, he focused his gaze on the forest through it quickly thanks to the kradparuna until, with difficulty, he finally managed to reach the entrance of what appeared to be a cave. He closed his eyes, lowered his right hand and, making one last sublime effort, renounced the kradparuna.

The senses returned to him abruptly.

The noise he now felt in the woods seemed deafening. The thousand and one scent he perceived weighed overwhelmingly on him. He began to breathe with difficulty and everything began to spin on his head. Frightened, he ordered himself to calm down and for this he began to think of pleasant memories of his home and childhood: the long walks with his stepmother, Queen Zulaira; the long rides with his mentor on the verdicts of the Royal River; the games on the beautiful King's Lake... Gradually he managed to calm down by remembering who he was and what he should do.

"I'll get you, wherever you are, you'll pay for what you've done to Ormul."

Despite being terribly dizzy, Akar collected his precious golden sword from the ground, wherever the "beast" threw it, and headed to the thick forest through which he had escaped. Taking one last look at Ormul to make sure he was out of danger, he followed the trail he had seen delving into what would have seemed, in anyone's eyes, a grim tunnel through the undergrowth.

Revenge was now his faithful companion. The noise he now felt in the woods seemed deafening. The thousand and one scent he perceived weighed overwhelmingly on him. He began to breathe with difficulty and everything began to spin on his head. Frightened, he ordered himself to calm down and for this he began to think of pleasant memories of his home and childhood: the long walks with his stepmother, Queen Zulaira; the long rides with his mentor on the verdicts of the Royal River; the games on the beautiful King's Lake... Gradually he managed to calm down by remembering who he was and what he should do.

"I'll get you, wherever you are, you'll pay for what you've done to Ormul."

Despite being terribly dizzy, Akar collected his precious golden sword from the ground, wherever the "beast" threw it, and headed to the thick forest through which he had escaped. Taking one last look at Ormul to make sure he was out of danger, he followed the trail he had seen delving into what would have seemed, in anyone's eyes, a grim tunnel through the undergrowth.

Revenge was now his faithful companion.

* * * * *

The young hybrid male looked indifferent to the horizon. He had recently been assigned to the citadel of Aqgrara. Grorg, that's his name, thought that with some luck he wouldn't have to stay much longer on the boring, heavy day shift. The citadel remained silent now after the jolgorio they had enjoyed the night before. A shipment of food, drink and females from the last litter had come from Abyss and everyone, including Grorg, had enjoyed the party and, above all, with the young females eager to be with the males for the first time. The Hybrid Emperor was generous at that time of year and the alliance with the Dominion was giving many more riches to the kingdom than the best augurys had foreseen.

Grorg, like most hybrids of his generation, was happy.

The laden atmosphere of the Valley of Ashes, insufferable to most living beings of Karindor, reminded him of his childhood home, Abyss, where so many good memories he had. Besides, it's been a long time since we knew anything about the other races, or the arrogant men, or the stupid onimods.

Yes, Grorg was a very happy hybrid.

The sound of helmets galloping towards the door he was guarding alerted him. No new visitors were expected within several moons, so the hybrid exercised caution. He didn't want the Head of Aqgrara, a veteran hybrid in the Great War, to humiliate him again. That's why he grabbed the bow tightly and prepared a worn arrow in the direction of the road.

"Shoot first and ask later."

Soon he saw the source of such a stir coming. The strange black horse and his sinister master had already reached their destination. Grorg swallowed saliva without believing what he was seeing. Instantly, he lowered his bow by tilting his submissive head while laying a knee against the ground. The rider stopped the mount some distance from the moat that protected the drawbridge that gave access to that small border citadel. Then he uttered among whispers:

–Come closer, hybrid.

With the speed of the wind, an icy breeze took the words to the ears of the young hybrid male who, despite the distance and the sinister rider had barely moved his lips, heard them rumble in his head. Somewhat undecided, Grorg activated the mechanism that allowed the drawbridge to come down and, before he did, advanced to great strides across the moat as quickly as he was able. When he came to the sinister rider's side, he knelt again. The newcomer, without giving him time to say anything, again uttered something among almost imperceptible whispers:

–Get ready –he told him, barely opening his mouth and not even looking at him.

The hybrid again perceived the icy breeze against his face and the words rumbled even more violently inside his head. Then the dark rider handed him what he wore wrapped in the old fabrics. The hybrid paled with sheer terror by grabbing the mysterious object and feeling its cold weight. Grorg began to feel nauseous without knowing why.

Something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

The black horse became headed on two-legged and snorted, then calmed down. Before leaving, the neldor messenger looked at the frightened hybrid of resent and let out a single word in an extremely rough, hard and malevolent voice:

–War.

* * * * *

The "beast" had not tried to hide its passage. Apparently, it had only run in search of shelter. Broken branches, remnants of smelly blood and large footsteps allowed Akar to quickly find the cave he had managed to see through mystical vision. He took a few minutes hiding to get some air and analyze the surroundings. He wouldn't let him catch him by surprise again. Akar had almost no doubt what he was facing. Even if he had no memory of having seen any before, no one in the whole of the Living Land had forgotten those ruthless creatures.

The ruin of the North, that's what they called them.

Well, he would return them one by one to the hell from which they had arisen.

"You're mine!" he said to himself looking at the cave. "You're scared. You're dying, aren't you? But I have to get your heart. When Murahm and the rest see him, then they'll start to listen to me. cowards! I must hunt you down now," he let out a sigh of frustration. "Do you want me to go into the cave? You're waiting for me, I know..." the boy kept thinking. Meanwhile, he carelessly repositioned the bracelet on his left wrist, a beautiful silver ornament with ruby inlays that generation after generation all the princes of Rohm had worn. He noticed that the terrain in front of the cave was also limestone, hard.

A bad idea came to mind.

"Yes. Ormul, you're not going to like this when I tell you."

–I know what you are and I know why you're here! –He shouted quietly out of his hiding place among the grove. He stood defiant in front of the mouth of the cave entrance with his golden sword pointing at it and added–: Coward! Dirty vermin! Come out if you dare, you cursed beast! Come! What are you waiting for? –Akar seemed to hear movement in the cave, though he was too far away and backlight to see nothing inside.

"Now or never", he thought before vociferously with arrogance:

–I am the prince of Roühm! Lord of Valtra! I order you to go out and... die!

At that very moment he raised his left arm and clenched his fist. The sun illuminated his silver bracelet, appearing to challenge the heavens the very. Suddenly, a huge shadow appeared out of nowhere throwing itself from a spectacular leap against the defiant prince and his brilliant symbol.

But this time Akar was ready.

He had foreseen that the "beast" would pounce against him as soon as he knew who he was and saw the bracelet so, with a training agility, he set aside. The "beast" fell with shudder crashing into the harsh limestone soil of the area. Taking advantage of the brief moments it took it to recover from the blow, and while it was still trying to stand up again, Akar threw a lunge with his back to it by deeply nailing the golden blade, until he fully crossed it. The creature threw its arms into the air in one last gesture of despair while roaring because of the pain. When Akar drew the sword from the body of the "beast", the creature, more than two and a half meters, collapsed inertly and lifelessly against the ground. The young man then did turn around and see what he had hunted.

His worst fears were confirmed.

Disgustedly, the prince watched his fallen rival set foot on him. Huge arms of disproportionate and deformed muscles. Hard, dark skin like charcoal. The spine covered with hard protruding spines, sharp as knives. A slit of about two fingers in the middle of the skull that ran through it from the bottom to the forehead. And the smell. Nauseating as few things were in Karindor. With evident contempt Akar uttered only one word:

–Gonk.

The young man tried to turn the huge mole around, but the gonk weighed too much. He had to leave his gun on the ground and make a huge effort that left him panting, until he was finally able to get it. The forest was still waiting and unusually calm. Akar sat down to regain strength next to the gonk's corpse by looking at the amorphous, scarred face of the violent evil creature of Valruz for the first time. The poor beast was missing one of its two little blackish, malevolent eyes. From the hard forehead ousted a bone of more or less circular shape of a beautiful pale blue color slightly blurred in thousands of shades of gray.

That was the kuhec or heart of the gonk.

As Akar struggled to extract that wonder from nature, he was distracted by observing the gonk's curious and dirty nostrils, noseless or anything like that. He had never seen any similar creatures throughout the kingdom. Nor did he seem to have ears so the young rohm wondered how it was possible for these hateful creatures to have such a good ear. Wrapped in those thoughts he did not realize that something great but stealthy had also approached the cave by hearing Akar's defiant cries slowly sliding through the nearby vegetation. Without making noise he stopped a few steps from the unsuspecting prince, hidden by the thicket of the forest devoted himself to observing him carefully.

Maybe it was just out of curiosity.

Appetizing curiosity.

Oblivious to this, the young man finally managed to get hold of the kuhec and, fascinated, observed its strange form. The sun, which illuminated the entrance of the cave, was covered by a thick cloud leaving the interior of it exposed. A shadow passed swiftly from one side of the cavern to the other. Nearby, a nightingale from the area began broadcasting its varied repertoire. Akar raised the kuhec to observe it better and it had to be recognized that it really was a real marvel.

More than that.

It was beautiful.

The nightingale shut up all of a sudden.

What he was observing to the prince of Roühm saw the shadow come out of the cave and move cautiously to the entrusted prince. At that very moment, Akar also saw reflected in the kuhec that held up the eyes of the shadow behind him.

But it was too late.

He was too tired and perplexed to react.

“It's over. I've been such a fool –he reproached himself–. If only I could –his attacker emitted a soft roar of threat– could warn them that they have returned. Hopefully...”

A powerful arm threw him violently, crashing him against one of the rocky walls of the cave entrance. Stunned, the young prince put his hand to his temple and, startled, saw blood. His own blood. His vision began to fail him and so did his hearing, for he thought he heard the fierce roar of a bear right there, next to him. The shadow approached him slowly, enjoying his agony. Akar tried to stand up and face his new attacker, but his legs no longer obeyed. The blow had been too hard so he, resigned, he dropped to his knees with his hands on the ground and bowed his head. A pool of blood began to form on the ground.

The young prince's thoughts were left in a second place when the shadow slapped running towards him. Proud as he was, Akar raised his head as much as he could waiting for death with the dignity that only a red rider of Roühm could have. He would look death in its eyes, as he had been taught, and his light would travel fast to infinity.

The gonk he had hunted wasn't alone.

Akar should have known that gonks never traveled alone. A second gonk had waited for the human to be trusted to attack him from behind. The first of the gonks, mortally wounded, had sacrificed himself to help its companion. Those creatures were filthy and might seem stupid, but Akar had just checked that they were lethal.

Either they or you, it was always like that.

Mercilessly, this second gonk grabbed the young prince by the neck, lifting him off the ground more than a foot and using only one of its two misshapen and muscular upper limbs. Akar felt the shortness of breath in his lungs at the time, so he tried to get out of the gonk, but neither his arms nor his legs listened to him. As if mocking him, the gonk grabbed its wrist where he wore the silver bracelet and sniffed it with evident contempt, then spat on his face what should be its saliva, a sticky, orange substance. With his face dying and full of his own blood, Akar knew he was delirious as he again heard the enraged roar of a bear next to him.

Then darkness came over him.

...Ekluv 10 of the 20th Eure, Fifth Age4

1 See annex: “About Karindor”.

2 Literally: "Man, don't die"

3 See annex "About the kradparuna". Literally: "The many words."

4 See annexes: "About the Ages and the Times" and "Calendar and Dates".

THE old elphic1 parsimoniously paced the room, weighed down by his painful limp, making sure that each of the twelve windows in the place was tightly closed. The sunset light gave the room a special atmosphere. He, Ulatar, was the Guardian of the Room since he returned from the Great War and by the great ancestor who would faithfully carry out his work until his light made the last journey.

–Bedtime, old friends. Bedtime –over time he had acquired a habit of speaking aloud while doing his work.

The room, called that of The Twelve Thrones, was located in one of the seven towers of the royal palace of Kradovel, the most important city of those controlled by the Golden People in Belfael. Each of these towers had been raised by one of the seven great kings who followed after the legendary Sun-King Elf left. This one in which the room of the Twelve Thrones was located was known as the Tower of Dumara. The twelve thrones had been moved there shortly before the advent of Travaldor, the ancient and enormous capital of what was once the Council -the ruling union that dominated the Fourth Age, the Etherdor-. Thanks to that, the thrones had been spared the looting and destruction that the city suffered during its fall at the hands of the neldor armies.

The thrones from which the hall was named were the symbol of an era of peace lost in the past.

Memories we left behind.

–Tomorrow will be a new day –the old Guardian murmured.

The hall was indeed a place reserved exclusively for kings and rulers, closed to prying eyes. When the Gora, the fragmented moon of the heavens, shone in all its splendor, the dome of the Tower of Dumara reflected its silver rays in a spectacle comparable to little else on the surface of the earth. The great King Dumara, fourth in the line of succession to the Sun-Elf King, had it built as a gift for his beloved after her death. Its reflection had been the beginning of love for many of the young people of Kradovel. Then, after centuries of emptiness, the upper room of the Tower of Dumara was selected to house the twelve thrones from so far away.

–And then the next one will come. Or so they say –the old man smiled with his own joke.

The value of each of the thrones was incalculable. They were made of pure gold, gold that was once mined from the then rich mines located on the great eastern mountain, the Eter-Muna. Each of the twelve thrones was profusely adorned with letters, symbols, and all manner of ornaments slenderly forged in silver, copper, onyx, or diamonds of extraordinary quality, each throne being unique and original in its final form. Many of these symbols were written in forgotten languages that explained the origin of the kingdom they served. In addition, each of them was crowned on its back and on its armrests by wonderful and incomparable precious stones.

–First one day, then another –Ulatar told himself, limping from window to window.

Five star-shaped rubies, almost a span in size, crowned the Red throne of Roühm. Three emeralds of exceptional brilliance sparkled on the Green throne of the sons of Veühm. White, grayish and dark pearls filled the Pearl throne of the heirs of the cruel Ura-Ross. Pure ivory from dragon fangs or glodandro claws, for the White throne of the missing Instructors. Sapphires and compliments filled the throne of the Zula nation. Orange topaz framed the symbol of Kador-Hum.

–Lock those three and it will only be left to reopen them tomorrow –the Guardian repeated to himself as he had done every day for almost three cycles.2

Opals and berylliums were seen on the Translucent throne of the Nador nation. Diamonds and turquoises linked in the form of a thick chain broken in one of its links, for the so-called Gray throne of the sullen Sigrim. The brilliant and magnificent Golden throne of the Elphics was always the most admired, filled as it was with the names of their greatest sovereigns and their most legendary warriors.

–You always the same! –Ulatar complained as he tried to block the last of the windows, the one that always gave him problems. The one that pointed straight to the dark stone throne, the Black throne, the Dominion throne.

On both sides of the Black throne were respectively the Throne of Undying Wood -belonging to the Onimods kings- and the Throne of Fire, that of the hybrid race, named for the peculiar material in which it was carved: a rare extracted steely metal from the depths of the Abyss that at night seemed to glow within them with a light similar to that of the fire of the northern volcanoes.

Forgotten vestiges of another time.

When our world was shining.

–But we haven't forgotten –the Guardian said to himself before heading to the access doors to the Hall.

Unlike the others, the Dominion throne had never been used by anyone. No lord of the Northern Empire had ever claimed it, nor had anyone dared to usurp such a chilling post. Little was known about its forge or its place of origin, although it was believed that it arrived in Travaldor at the end of the Third Era -also called Kradovel Akluev- from beyond the Red Mountains, as a gesture of goodwill and gift from the then apparently defeated Northern Kingdom. For centuries the rest of the thrones were occupied by kings, queens or judges of better or worse heart, but the Black throne always remained foreign to the affairs of the Council.

Empty of purpose.

However, many of the inhabitants of Kradovel now saw it as the greatest proof that peace was possible with the enemy, with the Domain, although Ulatar, who had been observing it closely for so many years, knew that this throne was just another threat of the traitors of the north, yet another mockery against the free races of the Living Land.

–I'm watching you –the old Guardian told him before locking the doors and locking them.

And it is that, sometimes, it seemed to Ulatar that the Black throne had a life of its own. It seemed to change its appearance, although the old Guardian could not be sure of it.

The Black throne had been built with a strange blackish material, unknown in Belfael, full of streaks and cracks even darker still that, as if they were veins, ran through it throughout its rough surface. The name of the neldors was carved in the forbidden language of The First, written with stark symbols of worn silver. Just above the nation's name was carved a single, abominable word: Behej'Ari.

The Immortal.

The darkness that envelops everything.

On the outside of the armrests had been placed a kind of sharp fangs, curved inward, the first of them a little more than half a foot and each subsequent one a little larger. Similar ornaments, although larger, ran the entire back of the throne. Each of its corners was topped with kuhecs of extraordinary size and shape that must have belonged to gonks of unsurpassed strength. At the foot of the throne the profile of thirteen spheres, broken down their center and covered, these yes, of gold and bronze, had been drawn. And inside each sphere were inlaid tiny precious stones similar to those that adorned the rest of the other thrones, although in all cases those precious stones were broken, damaged and torn, or were no more than mere fine dust ugly looking.

Fear.

No one looking at the Black Throne could not help but feel a halo of fear and uncertainty deep in their heart, a sense of inevitable defeat, an agony that could only be stopped in death.

It hurt the soul.

The old Guardian locked each of the three door locks with his master key. Now the room was lit only by the light of a few weak torches that would remain lit all night. Ulatar knew that no one would enter. No one had ever done it since he was appointed Guardian of the Hall. The Council was another dream lost in time. His leg gave him a strong jab, that day it hurt terribly. A new prick made him wince.

–I'm old, like you... I don't have any battles left to fight –complained the sore elphic, leaning on the doors to keep from falling.

It was said that these access gates were actually part of a much larger one, also coming from Travaldor itself, the fallen capital. Some even thought it was one of the sacred gates of the Temple of Raessraw, of which now only a few ruins remained near the roühm stronghold of The Keep.

Maybe they were just legends.

Just as the old Guardian managed to lock the doors, a hand grasped Ulatar firmly by the shoulder, scaring him as no one had done since the time of the Great War. Startled, the old elphic inadvertently dropped the skeleton key to the ground, causing a loud crash as it rumbled and slammed it against the solid marble floor.

–Don't be afraid, I don't want to hurt you –the stranger said amiably–. Are you the Guardian of the Hall? Are you the one they call Ulatar?

–But what...? –He said turning around to see his interlocutor. He instantly recognized the plump, grinning face of the rather short guy who had asked the question. That peculiar way of speaking was unmistakable. He was an important outsider. Despite this, he rebuked him clearly annoyed–: These are not ways, sir! And it is not time! The room is closed. Closed! Foreigners, they are all the same!

Without losing his smile, the other replied:

–Summon the Council, Guardian of the Thrones. I exercise my right to do so.

–Closed! There is nothing more to talk about –Ulatar hadn't paid attention to him, how angry he was.

–Summon the Council, Guardian. I must gather the Council. I bring news that must be heard by all. Go then.

Ulatar went from anger to pure amazement when he finally understood what they were asking of him. The stranger insisted:

–I will not repeat it a third time.

His interlocutor was no longer smiling, no, now he was looking at him with a certain growing impatience.

–Honorable Gladio Tercio –said the confused Guardian changing his tone– nothing like this has ever been done, here in Kradovel, since the thrones arrived. It would take weeks before the rest of the kingdoms could be notified –Ulatar continued to excuse himself–. We elphics don't even have a king to summon... Those are matters from another time...

The look of this Gladio Tercio reminded the old elphic of his oath of service.

–True, true. My duty is to care and warn, nothing more than that for this poor old and lame man, right, sir? –Ulatar replied, not very convinced.

–You'll tell them we found.

–Found, sir? Did you say that? My ears are not what they were. Found what?

–Not what, Guardian, but who. We have finally found him. He has finally appeared. Ulatar, let everyone know that we kadorians have found the emissary of the times.

The old elphic guardian was surprised to hear the title. A laugh escaped him unintentionally. What an idea the foreigner had! The emissary of the times, neither more nor less... But when this Gladio showed him something that he carried safely between his clothes, the laugh became pure astonishment. It was true! That was news! One last battle to fight!

–Remember that you are under oath of secrecy.

Ulatar nodded and bowed solemnly to him. After which he only added in an excited voice:

–So be it, great Gladio. I will call the Council and may Elf's fate have mercy on ours as well.

Gladio saw the old elphic walk away through the corridors of the Tower -very quickly despite his limp-, losing him shortly from sight. With the help of the torch he carried, he found the master key that was still forgotten on the ground. He unlocked the three padlocks, unlocked the access doors, and entered the famous room of the Twelve Thrones.

He stepped forward until he was just a few steps from the platform on which they were standing.

–The thrones –he said aloud as he climbed the three marble and granite steps that led to the platform. He added–: Beautiful, really beautiful.

He respectfully caressed the first of them, the one belonging to the kingdom of Zula, adorned with beautiful lapis lazuli and blue and navy blue gems. He glanced over each of the other eleven thrones, dimly lit by the light of the small torches that Ulatar had purposely left burning, until at last he found what he was looking for: a double dark gold sphere on the back of one of the twelve thrones. Instantly recognizing the symbol of his country and without even thinking about it, he sat on that trone to await the news that the peculiar Guardian of the Hall should bring him shortly.

–You won't win. You will never defeat us –he continued saying aloud as he set his gaze on the empty and dark Black Throne of the Domain. The emperor of Kador-Hum, Gladio Optimus, of the family of the Tercios, repeated angrily–: Never!

Then he took something to eat from a pocket of his pants and began to chew it quietly.

The Black throne seemed to respond to his words by stirring within him as if it had heard the threat of the plump and brave emperor. A new vein was formed sliding through the darkness of the cold blackish stone of the throne out of sight of the man, who did not realize that this new vein was threatening along with all the others that, from distant and forgotten times, roamed the uneven surface of the Black throne biding its time.

Waiting for the call of Death.

* * * * *

The only thing he could see when he opened his eyes was the weak light coming from a small nearby fire. He tried to put his hands to his head but the damage he felt was terribly strong throughout his body, so he could not help but move his neck with great difficulty. It was night, and the stars in the sky were hidden by thick clouds. He felt cold and hungry. But most of all, he felt pain. When his eyes cleared, after a time that seemed eternal, he could look more freely around him, realizing that, in reality, he was lying in the middle of a forest. A few bloody bandages covered various wounds all over his body, especially on his head where, when he moved slightly, he felt a severe sting that left him quite stunned.

Fortunately the puncture was brief.

He noticed some rare greenish three-pointed leaves that he had never seen before, covering an ugly bruise on one of his legs. He could barely remember what had happened to him or why he was at night and in the middle of the forest, lying on his back and covered in wounds, bandages, and strange tree leaves that he had never seen before. The small campfire, which was the only thing that lit up the place, seemed to go out at times, so he wondered if it would survive the cold of the night.

He heard a new sound.

The stealthy noise of the footsteps of some animal in the vicinity unwittingly awakened his survival instinct and, then, brief images appeared one after another in his aching head: the cry of a friend for help; his hand wielding a sword full of blood; the reflection of a look full of hatred... His memories were interrupted by a new dizzy pain that made him feel nauseous to the point of losing consciousness again.

In a little while he woke up again wondering how he was still alive. He couldn't be alive. It was completely impossible and yet there it was. Wounded and lost in the Golden Forest. Now that he remembered most of it, he still had no idea what must have happened to him. As he tried to imagine what could have happened, he heard the steps from before again. The animal was still prowling in the vicinity, but now it was clear that it was heading directly to where he was lying.

"What I lacked", he thought.

The weakened boy tried to stand up without getting it. His eyes were unintentionally closed due to severe pain. The steps advanced without fear surrounding the small campfire without heeding or being frightened of the weakened flames that were still burning inside. Making a great effort he managed to pin his eyes to see what had come up there.

And what he saw left him perplexed.

A huge bear with very dark brown fur had sat directly opposite and seemed to be looking at him with amused curiosity. Just as the bear raised one of its mighty paws towards him, a childish but melodious voice stopped him:

–You are finally awake –the bear withdrew its paw, lying on its back, evidently annoyed by the interruption–. Don't worry about Jubal. He always gets really boring when we meet someone new –the bear snorted at what the voice had just said, then got up and walked away in the direction of the cheerful voice–. You better not move or you will never heal, young man –the voice continued advising him.

–Who are you? What do you want from me?

–Little by little, boy. My name is Hurka –the childish voice replied–. I don't think you know, young man, but you've been very lucky that Jubal found you just in time. That ugly gonk was about to dismember you.

After those words, the owner of the melodious voice came into view. Akar could then finally see him. The figure of what must have been a "child" of no more than twelve or thirteen years approached him. The mysterious "boy" was barely dressed in a simple loincloth and his chest was full of thick and striking fur that covered him to the navel. The veins in his arms, extremely muscular for a boy, were strongly marked, being visible even in the light of the weak fire. Around his neck he wore a striking necklace full of yellowish bear claws and a rare tattoo that he couldn't make out in the dark. The "boy" had stopped right next to the bear, stroking its back vigorously, which seemed to make the huge animal enjoy to the highest degree. Turning to him, he said with a serious face:

–Get well, young prince of the red horsemen. You must do it.

–How do you know who I am? Akar questioned him intriguedly. Without giving him time to answer, he added with contempt–: You are only a child, I have no time to...

–Child? –The other fun one interrupted him–. I see that the young roühm are no longer taught who we are, the true masters of the Golden Forest.

–Masters? –Akar finally managed to lean back to see him better–. King Adkra, my father, is the only master and king of all this forest –hearing those words, Hurka began to laugh out loud–. You shouldn't laugh at the great King of Roühm like that! –Akar got angry when he heard Hurka's laugh–. Even if you're just a... a... a ragged creature and you walk with those looks and that... that kind of trained bear, I will not allow you to make fun of my father a second time! Don't think that...! –he stopped feeling a new prick on one of his shoulders. When the pain passed, he managed to add with total arrogance–: Don't think that because I'm hurt I'll let you make fun of me, you ignorant brat!

–Easy, boy –Hurka told him, still smiling–. You're funny, humans. Ours have always thought that your worst flaw is that you forget the past too easily.

–What do you say? What are you talking about? –Akar repeated, looking more closely at him. The young man realized that something was wrong with him, there was something about Hurka that seemed unnatural–. Who are you? What are you doing here alone? Where are your parents?

–Who am I? Say rather, what are we. You should know us just as your father once did. We are the watchers of life. You, the red horsemen, gave us in these lands a name by which you surely know us... minimums –Akar opened his mouth in disbelief at what he had just heard–. Jubal is my brother from birth. Really you had not noticed?

–Minimums –Akar managed to exclaim, looking at Jubal the bear–. But if they are nothing more than a legend to scare the kids. I don't believe you! Take me to your elders, it's an order! And stop the nonsense!

–Are you sure, young prince? Don't you think? Well, you'll believe. Many things seem impossible, but for our Mother Earth anything is possible. If your father hadn't had to leave, he could have explained it to you –Hurka replied.

–That my father left? What do you know about my father! A moment ago you were laughing at him and now you speak as if he were your friend. You know what I really believe –Akar continued, speaking defiantly– I think you're nothing but another dirty Dominion spy. You're not going to get anything from me, spy! –he said lying down again. Then he added–: I may still be young, a spy, but the Roühm never betray our own. And I am... I'm their prince. You've failed!

–If you don't believe me –Hurka warned him– you'll believe Jubal.

The bear, who until now had been on the sidelines of the conversation, stretched nonchalantly and advanced on Akar.

–I'm not afraid of dying, spy –the young man pronounced– I am the lord of Valtra. Grand prince of ...

–Silence, little human!! –Two voices instantly replicated him. Hurka's childish and melodious voice was fused with another, a powerful voice from, however incredible, Jubal himself–. Only a real minimum can fuse his voice with that of his birth brother. You really knew that, didn't you? –Akar was stunned to see that the bear seemed to speak and move at the same time as Hurka–. I am Hurka-Jubal, watcher of the life of the Golden Forest. So, what are you? –inquired the minimum with a certain natural arrogance that made Akar feel very small–. Jubal and I coexisted in the eyes of mortals as two different beings, but our Mother Earth to which we protect conceived us as a single being both, bear and "child", extended their respective hands and paws to Akar–. This is our true form. That's how the minimums are. Your existence, little human, is brief compared to ours. Our blood flowed alive long before yours came here.

–But that's not...

–Speak only when asked, little human!! –harshly ordered the minimum by raising his voice–. We have met all your great kings and their noble and beautiful steeds –Hurka-Jubal continued–. King Mumka and the beautiful Dubla; Parekna and Gondrak, the mottled; and how many more that we will never forget –Hurka-Jubal sighed stopping his explanation for a brief moment–. Akar, this is our forest, one of our homes and you, the proud red riders, are only travelers passing through this world. Don't ever forget it –warned him.

After that, Jubal the bear walked away again, leaning wearily against a nearby log, Hurka, returning to his normal melodious tone of voice, continued:

–Now, talk if you want, young man.

–I... I just... I can't believe it –Akar answered hesitantly–. Is incredible! But if you're what you claim to be... everything would make sense. Minimums! Minimums on our border... sorry, minimums in The Golden Forest. Uah! –exclaimed astonished the young prince–. I have spoken with a real minimum! If everything that is told about you is true I... wow! I'm sorry I threatened you. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry, I guess.

–Even if you wanted to, you still couldn't be a threat to a minimum. But you will be boy, you will be. You know, you look a lot like Adkra when I met him. I see in you his strength and his determination.

–Yes? Tell me about it. Tell me about my father, Hurka, please. I hardly remember it. What do you know about him?

–I will, young man, but when the time is right. Now you're weak and the only thing you need to worry about is your recovery –Hurka told him urgently. The bear got up to sniff the air with obvious signs of anxiety. Hurka seemed to stiffen at the same time– .They are looking for you, Akar. The rest of the pack of the gonk you killed is in the vicinity and they want your blood, young man. But that is by no means what you should fear the most –Hurka continued in a much more serious voice–. Evil stalks us closely. At the minimum, we will not be able to defend The Golden Forest alone for much longer. The gonk you killed is good proof of that. But there is more, young prince. We are all in great danger –Akar began to notice that his strength was weakening. Hurka's voice became a soft murmur–. The enemy prepares. And just look for one thing, boy.

–What? –Akar inquired, making an effort to continue in the conversation.

–Annihilate us, Akar. The enemy of the North only wants... –Hurka spoke now slowly– annihilate us... all of us.

–Mine will fight... –the wounded young man said almost between dreams.

–That's not the most important thing –Hurka replied, leaning over him, ready to change his bandages.

In pain, Akar was struck by one last doubt. In a muffled voice he asked:

–And Ormul?

–The sleeping giant? –The minimum asked in return–. Jubal found it. Although you should already know that neither your friend is going to be able to leave you nor you are going to be able to leave him ever again. The will of our Mother Earth cannot be changed –said the minimum.

Not knowing what Hurka was referring to by saying that Ormul was never going to leave him or that of changing the will of Mother Earth, Akar finally allowed himself to be carried away by exhaustion, pain and worries. He closed his eyes and, despite himself, fell deeply asleep.

–That's right, Akar –Hurka continued as he carefully removed the bandages one by one–. You regain your strength, you will need it. Valtra's fate is in your blood, young human. You cannot fail.

Hurka continued for a long time to treat Akar's wounds, glancing from time to time at the golden sword at the feet of the young prince of Roühm.

Remembering.

Oblivious to everything, Jubal, the bear, began to snore loudly.

...Ekluv 13 of the 20th Eure, Fifth Age

1 The children or descendants of King Elf. See annex: "About the peoples of the Living Land".

2 A cycle = 7 years.