Prologue

Jerethor Vale sighed as he took a long pull from his clay mug of chilled wine; the cool, relaxing drink was just what he needed after a hard day’s work at the busy docks that were at the center of life in Azi-Taz.

As he took another breathe Jerethor coughed out the smoke that filled the tavern he sat in along with other workers who he had sweated and worked beside; it was just one of many in Azi-Taz where workers rested after doing various jobs over the city. All of the workers sat around their tables jammed together with as many people as could fit, laughing and telling each other about the happenings of the day. Every table was full to the breaking point with men and elves drinking up the tavern’s drink supply.

Jerethor’s table was the only exception which was deprived of occupants other than him.

Jerethor was being avoided out of fear, but at the same time it was out of hate, hate for the blood of his ancestors that flowed in his veins. His great-grandfather was a drow, one of the dark elves that were equally feared and hated by most people; however, you could never see Jerethor’s heritage by looking at him.

However, it was still that heritage, or more specifically the knowledge of his heritage, that had him one to be shunned by his fellow workers in the city. In fact he was the first member of his family to live within the streets of Azi-Taz, the rest of his family, including his great-grandfather, still defying age even for a drow, lived outside the boarders of the city’s influence, near the foothills of the Ozzel Mountains.

Jerethor glanced down into the surface of his wine, looking at his reflection staring back at him, in comparison to the rest of his family and his other siblings he looked similar to a normal human, with most of his drow heritage surfacing in his abilities rather than his appearance.

At least that was until you saw his eyes, Jerethor’s eyes were mostly a normal hazel color, but they had streaks of the lavender that colored most drow’s eyes, however, when Jerethor was angry his eyes would flash lavender so brilliant that it would almost glow.

His drow ancestry also gave him other interesting features that were less noticeable than his eyes. His hair, which he wore, gathered in a loose ponytail by a traditional leather cord worn by drow warriors, was a dark gray that was common of the color most men would have in their hair when they reached their fifties, though Jerethor was only thirty-three, however his drow blood left him looking closer to his mid-twenties. His skin also had the faint coloring of the drow, only instead of the dark skin that made drow so terrifying it gave Jerethor the look of being well tanned. Finally, Jerethor also had the faint presence of a drow’s ears, but the point of a drow was only a small bump that was easily hidden under his hair.

Aside from the physical characteristics that spoke of his unique ancestry Jerethor also had a drow’s keen eye sight and was able to see farther than any human day or night, plus he also had the natural speed, grace and endurance that was found in both elves and drow alike; he even had an immune system that could laugh of a disease or poison that would kill a human outright.

Tonight, however, a group of human workers had targeted Jerethor with pranks, as usual, ranging from moving his tools to pouring mud into his lunch, all in the effort to try and provoke him into a fight so he would be kicked out of Azi-Taz. But with their efforts having failed, and with a goodly portion of the tavern’s ale supply sloshing in the gullets, they had decided to try and force him out of Azi-Taz by challenging him directly.

The four men stepped up to Jerethor’s table, with some scattered shouts of encouragement from others in the tavern and sneered their noses down Jerethor as he calmly took another drink from his mug, while shifting his legs to rest his boots on the table, which also displayed the short working knife he wore on the leather belt that surrounded Jerethor’s waist.

The leader of the group, a bearded brute of a man who worked in one of Azi-Taz’s deep copper mines, rapped loudly on the edge of the table and spoke in a loud, alcohol-induced voice, “Hey you, man-drow! You finished with your drink? Me and the boys want to talk to you outside.”

Jerethor looked down into his mug then tilled it so the miner could see the half full mug, “Well I guess I’ll need to take a rain-check gentlemen until later, or at least until I’m finished.” Without pausing to hear the man’s reaction Jerethor started to take another drink.

The miner growled and slapped the mug from Jerethor’s hand sending it flying to the floor where the clay mug shattered, spilling the wine over the floor and spreading clay shards around it like miniature brown islands amidst a blood red sea. The man cracked a smile as a silence of sorts settled over the tavern to watch Jerethor’s response, “Well it looks like your done now, let’s go outside man-drow.” Before Jerethor could respond two of the miner’s buddies rushed past him a hauled Jerethor to his feet as they dragged him outside. Behind them the rest of the tavern’s occupants seemed torn between watching the obvious fight and being afraid of what Jerethor might be capable of; in the end everyone returned to their drinks as the tavern door closed behind Jerethor and his “escorts.”

Once they were outside the two men holding Jerethor dumped him in the dirt street that ran before the tavern, but not before relieved him of his working knife and throwing it in the mud next to the tavern’s front door. While Jerethor picked himself up the four promptly surrounded him and each produced a club of some type as they closed in on him. Jerethor tensed slightly, letting his hands come up in non-aggressive way, “I thought you only wanted to talk?”

The miner chuckled as he took another step forward, “You can do all the talking you want when you’re back with your own kind, you and your whole family, back where you belong.” On his last word the miner surged forward, his heavy stick of wood raised to smash Jerethor over the head.

Jerethor gave a mental sight as the thick piece of wood whistled through the air toward his head, waiting for the last possible moment to react. Mere moments before the club hit him Jerethor ducked to the right and his hands lashed out, striking the miner’s elbow and wrist with enough force to numb the man’s entire arm, while his left foot darted forward and dumped the man forward as his legs went out from under him. The miner gave a grunt as he landed, his powerless arm lying uselessly at his side, his club lying inches away from his now inoperable hand.

For a moment the miner tried to reach the club with his other hand, but Jerethor pressed his heel between the man’s shoulder blades, which persuaded the man to lie still for the moment.

The other three men froze for a moment, unsure what to do next, until the man behind Jerethor tried to hit him in the back. Jerethor put his entire weight on the miner for a moment, bring a groan from him, as his other foot darted out and flipped the man’s fallen club into the air where Jerethor grabbed it. No sooner than his fingers closed around the wood Jerethor turned and threw the club like a spear and hit the charging man square in the nose, knocking the man out cold as his nose broke under the impact.

With their leader unable to do much leading from his current location and their target obviously more of a challenge than the remaining drunk men had thought they hurriedly grabbed their unconscious comrade and ran off into the city, leaving their once-leader to Jerethor’s mercy.

Jerethor shook his head as he looked down to inspect the miner, he flipped him over and gave a slow chuckle, the fool man had passed out, either from pain, fear or a mixture of both Jerethor didn’t know, but what really made him chuckle was a large wet spot between his legs, which indicated that the reason he’d fainted had most likely been fear.

Jerethor walked over retrieved his working knife from the mud and wiped the blade and his hands off on the miner shirt before returning it to his belt and trying to wake the man up.

Jerethor tapped the miner’s side with his toe, but when he showed no signs of waking he gave an exasperated sigh and grabbed the man by the shoulders to drag him into the tavern’s kitchen where a plump middle-aged woman looked up from the pot she’d been stirring to give Jerethor a skeptical look, “For goodness sake Jerethor not another one; I sweat if I hadn’t witnessed first hand what these brutes do to try and provoke you I’d think you were starting fights with them just for fun.”

Jerethor sighed as he set the miner down, “Well it sure isn’t any fun for me Jain, but until they wizen up what choice do I have?” Jerethor dipped his head toward the unconscious miner, “Could you make sure that he wakes up in one piece and with most of his goods intact; it wouldn’t do me any good to be accused of stealing?”

Jain nodded, “I’ll see he leaves alright, but not before I give him a piece of my mind for bothering you and breaking one of my clay mugs.” The tavern’s owner and cook paused and her face became one of open concern, “Why don’t you just go home Jerethor, back with your family? I know they must miss you and one of these days these ruffians are going to bring something much more deadly than just barroom brawling weapons, then how will you deal with them?”

“I’m not going to let them run me out of Azi-Taz like they did to the rest of my family Jain.” Jerethor touched his work knife, then pulled his jacket open to reveal a large hunting knife that came closer to the size of a small War Knife that hung under his left arm, “Besides if these brutes try something foolish they’ll learn to regret it real quick.”

Jerethor nodded to Jain and started to leave the kitchen when she grabbed his arm with the end of her large wooden spoon, “Just promise me that you won’t go looking for trouble, please.”

Jerethor chuckled and gave her a bright smile, “Come on Jain, when do I ever look for trouble?”

With the same confident smile Jerethor left Jain in the kitchen, so he never heard her reply, “That’s what worries me.”

Jerethor crossed the darken courtyard behind the tavern to the stables that Jain kept for her visitor’s animals, he entered them quietly and made for the ladder that lead to the hay loft where Jerethor rented a room from Jain.

As soon as Jerethor reach the blanket covered pile of hay that was his bed and laid down on top of it, he quickly removed his jacket, work belt and tucked his hunting knife where he could reach it easily before he settled down to fall asleep. Yet, despite the fact that he was exhausted from the day’s work sleep would not come, his mind was working to fast to allow any sleep to come after the evening’s excitement.

Deep down Jerethor knew what he told Jain had been a lie, he was worried about how often he was being harassed, for starts the number of occurrences had increased from a rare event to something that happen two or three times a week. The violent intent of those who harassed him had increased too, though he hadn’t told Jain, where the fights had started with only fists tonight clubs had become a new weapon to be added into the mix.

Right now Jerethor was fairly certain he could handle any more groups that tried to harass him, if things didn’t get worse, but he knew that until he was gone each new group would get progressively more hostile.

It wasn’t the threat of a fight or injury that worried Jerethor, since he had been five his great-grandfather, Zipht-Nali Vale, had trained him in the drow martial arts and swordplay and his grandfather, Hernoth Vale, had taught him how to use the short elf bow he’d bought for him from the elves of Azi-Taz, they both agreed that he need to ready to defend himself at any time, since everyone was always eager to test the legend of the drow’s combat ferocity against the real thing to prove themselves, though it was hopelessly foolish, to some other fool as a way of showing their courage.

Jerethor had been named a master swordsman with the two elf-crafted longswords that he chosen, a martial arts expert by his great-grandfather, and an expert with the elf-crafted short bow by his grandfather by the time he had turned twenty-five, which was the traditional age of for a drow to be recognized as an adult. In honor of this occasion his father, Izza Vale, who had learned the skills of a blacksmith and leather craftsman had crafted Jerethor a beautiful suit of leather armor that had steel studs on the surface and steel rods inside the leather to provide additional protection, while protecting the steel from rust and allowing the legendary agility that made the drow so lethal in battle.

Of course he had none of those items with him, they were all safely stored in a hidden crate under a dead tree near his family’s house and there it would stay as long as he lived within Azi-Taz; after all the people of Azi-Taz might be able to allow a part-drow man to live in their city, but they would never allow on who came equipped with such a deadly assortment of weapons, they would be more likely to kill him on sight instead.

No, what worried him so was when those bent on kicking him out of Azi-Taz tried to strike around him rather than at him directly, he knew he could handle himself and it was his choice to risk his life for what he believed, but how could he risk the lives of his friends? How could he risk Jain and her tavern or even his family and their home outside the city? Jerethor knew that he would need to come to some decision about these things soon, or else they would be forced on him instead.

With those thoughts filling his head Jerethor finally became too exhausted to stay awake any longer and after pulling a woolen blanket over himself he fell into a fitful sleep, one filled with nightmares of everyone close to him being killed while he remained untouched and powerless to defend them.