The Keeper and The Dragons

Chapter 1

Svartalfheim

Erendriel, the Crown Prince of the Dökkálfar Sidhe, a seven-foot, stick-slender elf, stood with his vertical slitted amber eyes downcast in respect as his father, Comyn mac Gaibhne, ruler of the six Dökkálfar Forges, gingerly lowered himself onto the Black Iron Throne. The throne, crafted from an ancient meteorite, stood in the shadow of a massive anvil. The Dökkálfar were the makers of Sidhe society--the anvil and forge were their symbols.

The old Elf had suffered burns over fifty percent of his body in a long-ago accident when a chunk of ceiling ice plunged into molten copper he was pouring and exploded. The copper had been on the cusp of enchantment and the burns were beyond the ability of the healers. Pain still lingered and made him notoriously short-tempered. In a land of breathtakingly beautiful people, he was remarkably ugly.

The Throne Hall was dimly lit and comfortably enclosed by a thousand feet of limestone overhead--an underground river burbled from one side of the hall. One wall was decorated in Dökkálfar fashion, with hangings and ornately carved statues depicting the work of ancient smiths. A seething rainbow-colored mat of glow worms feeding on the fungi-laden rock covered the other two walls, giving the room a dim blue-green glow.

It was Midsummer Court, and the Exarchs of all six Dökkálfar Forges, along with their retainers, were in attendance, each one vying and scheming for leverage to push their Forges' interests to the fore. The trilling of their voices echoed off the glowing limestone walls like the ringing of a hundred silver bells.

As always, the prince watched his father, looking for any sign of weakness. He didn't expect to find any; the patriarch, known to all as "the Crooked One", had ruled for centuries and had buried many a foe who mistook his infirmity for weakness.

"How goes your plan, O Prince," sang the silky soft voice of Ilyrana, the Exarch of Forge Rbhus. Her deep violet feline eyes set in a coldly beautiful face held just the slightest hint of mockery. Her Forge was one of the richest and oldest. That fact granted her just enough leeway to push him and push him--she did.

The singing trills of the Dökkálfar lordlings ceased as all strained to hear how he would respond.

Erendriel struggled to hide the flash of hatred and resentment that welled up. He knew he must stride with care here. Son or no, his father would end him quickly if he thought his son's plans would threaten the realm. He knew the six Exarchs listened avidly for the slightest hint of failure. To live at court was to live balanced on the edge of a sword.

His father had tasked him with finding a solution to a long-standing problem. The Dökkálfar Sidhe had power aplenty to run their factories. Thermal vents that reached deep into Alfheim's mantle had provided cheap geothermal energy for eons. Their problem was finding the labor to work them--the chronic shortage of workers was a problem for all. The vast amount of magic in Alfheim twisted the DNA of all hominids, drastically lowering their birth rates. The Dökkálfar's forges needed a constant influx of new workers, or the factories would soon stand idle. Since the only hominids left on Earth were homo sapiens, humans were the slaves who were the lifeblood of their economy.

Lately, a more serious shortage caused by the plague that was sweeping through the slave kennels and decimating the population had heightened the struggle. Unlike their ancestors' advantages, with unlimited access to mundane Earth's teeming population of hominids, in these last few decades replacements were increasingly difficult to acquire. Breeding was out as well. Any sort of human husbandry was strictly against the Accord. That was the law. Uonaidh, Queen of the Daoine, was insane in her fear that humans, who all knew bred like rabbits, would overwhelm Alfheim just as they had overwhelmed Earth and drove out the true race. The cursed Accord they'd been forced to sign was a constant thorn in the side of Dökkálfar, whose forges and factories needed laborers to work them.

All knew the dangers of breaking the Accord. The Daoine Sidhe would go to war at the slightest hint of any Dökkálfar breeding programs.

"My Lady Ilyrana, I admit we have suffered a temporary interruption in our supply chain out of Oldtown, but that was always a short-term solution--a stop-gap, really, but my original plan still unfolds. The Keeper did us a favor by removing the Leprechaun and the Druid. That has upset the status quo in Oldtown and troubles there always favor us. We are much closer to control there than ever before. The chaos coming from Opari's Manna Surge can only help our efforts. You might recall that during the last surge, we had an influx of slaves from the three centuries of war on Earth. I predict we will be well placed to take advantage of the upcoming surge."

"Unless the chaos spills over here, Prince," someone else spoke up. "The Daoine must suspect nothing."

"Hold," his father demanded, "what are you talking about? You informed us the Keeper had gone to the Goddess."

"His ward has taken over," the prince said reluctantly. He silently cursed his careless tongue. He was allowing Ilyrana to get under his skin.

"We did not know that," the patriarch rasped. "You left that out of your briefing. Who is this ward you speak of? I wasn't aware the old human even had a mate."

"The old Keeper's ward is Lachlan Quinn," sang the Ilyrana of House Rbhus.

The name Lachlan Quinn dropped into the Court like a stone in a still pool. The bell-like trill of voices stopped--then burst forth.

"The Shadow Walker!" someone shrieked from the group.

"Are you saying that the Grendel is Opari's new keeper?" someone asked.

"Unfortunately, yes," answered the Prince, "but he is gone now from the Murk. He has broken from the Vísdómur and walked away from his duties. He is damaged. A nithling. A poor substitute for the old Keeper and an unwilling substitute from all reports."

"O Prince, you might remember," Ilyrana spoke again. "Once there were seven Forges among the Dökkálfar folk. The Ashanti thought Lachlan Quinn a nithling as well. Do you remember, O Prince? They said so in this very court when they boasted about capturing him. They ignored my warning. I remind you that the Ashanti Forge is no more. That nithling - as you call him - slaughtered them all, root and branch, in a single winter's night."

A sudden silence blanketed the throne room. If one ever mentioned the fate of Ashanti in polite society, it was with hushed whispers. The Ashanti were the shame of the Dökkálfar. The ultimate black sheep. They had crossed into the Niflheimr Realm to strike a deal with the soul-eaters, Daemon-kind and broken the Sidhe's biggest taboo. Most felt the Ashanti got what they deserved. Nobody said so, of course. Criminal or not, the Ashanti were Dökkálfar.

The Prince spoke again. "He is a broken vessel. The Troll Women used him until they broke him, then discarded him. He lasted longer than most."

Muttered whispers filled the room.

The old patriarch motioned for quiet. He pointed to a group of Daoine healers who stood quietly watching.

"Healers, how goes your work?"

"The plague still rages among the round ears," the lead physician answered. "We have finally discovered the cause and have successfully cured a portion of the sick ones. Unfortunately, the death rate has been horrific. Humans are such fragile creatures."

"How bad?" the old Patriarch asked.

"We estimate that three-quarters of the population have died," he sang sadly.

That statement utterly silenced the court.

Voices burst out. "Comyn mac Gaibhne, that is most dire. We must have replacements quickly. "

The patriarch nodded in agreement, then turned to the Prince.

"You have your task, my son. I hope, for our sake and yours, you succeed. But stay away from the boy." The patriarch's voice was the coldest iron. "We have enough problems without awakening the Vísdómur's Grendel. Despite your words, I seriously doubt he is a nithling."

"I hear and obey, Father," the prince carefully kept his expression bland and obedient. He bowed and walked out.

The Prince found the Patriarch of the Drygioni Brotherhood lounging in a chair in his suite. He still stung after his embarrassment at court. As usual, a cowl shrouded the Patriarch's features. While the Prince had known him all his life, he still did not know his identity--the Brotherhood guarded its secrets well.

"Why have you asked me here, O Prince?" a sibilant hiss issued from the shadowed hood.

The Prince walked over to a sideboard, grabbed a dusty bottle and poured a measure of amber brandy into a thousand-year-old crystal glass.

"Two things. First, I would ask you once again to reconsider your refusal to pursue the elimination of Lachlan Quinn."

"You waste my time, O Prince. As I told you that task, we will not do," the being said firmly. "The Shadow Walker is on guard now and far too dangerous to rouse further. We tried once and failed. To try again is not good business. Were I you, I would do the same. I am not at all certain that the Vísdómur still do not have their hands on this boy's shoulders. They take the long view and so should you. I would advise caution, but do what you will. We will not be a part of it. You have started on a path that has no return. Any path has unforeseen consequences, but I sense this one has more twists than most."

The Prince clenched his teeth in frustration. Beings rarely told him no. He took a deep breath. He could not afford to offend this being. "As you wish. I will still need your Wraith for more tasks. She has proven to be singularly effective."

"She will be at your disposal."

"Done then. Safe journey, Patriarch."

After the cowled figure left, the prince reviewed his planning, searching for flaws. It was a risky plan, to be sure, but time was running out. Lachlan Quinn's actions forced his hand when he ruined years of work by ending the Leprechaun and the Druid.

He called out to the warrior orcs guarding his door, "Send in Venwraek."

A tall Daoine Sidhe entered the room. Green eyes glittered with an anger that bordered on madness through a mass of keloid burn scarring that lined most of his face and throat.

"I heard the Shadow Walker mentioned," he croaked hoarsely. "Heed my words, Dökkálfar; I remind you of our bargain. He is mine."

"You and your brother had him once and failed," the Prince said mildly. The Daoine was temperamental in the best of times, but the mention of the Shadow Walker turned him borderline insane.

"My brother, damn his soul, got careless and ruined everything."

"Enough of that. Let us get back to my requirements. Have you set and loosed the hex?"

"Yes, Prince. The scroll is in shabby condition and the language is archaic, but I am working on deciphering it. I have mastered one spell--the hex trap. It is in place and being tripped as we speak."

"What of our allies?" The Prince's lip curled in disgust. It still rankled that he'd had to go hat in hand to beg for their help. The rule should be that the Sidhe commanded--the lesser races obeyed. But he had no choice. He had to work behind the scenes with flawed tools.

"So far, they seem to cooperate, but Oldtown is a powder keg with the leprechaun and the druid gone. Now, back to our plan. Have you gained the shifter bitch's whelp?"

"Soon. The wolves are in place."

"She is the key to my vengeance."