Sleighed

Prologue

One-hundred-fifty, or so, elves crowded their chairs into a rough semicircle facing the gaunt elfish frame of Di'anlor, the Visirator. The noisy hubbub of excited anticipation in the air was due to the fact that Di'anlor was no ordinary Visirator, Di'anlor was the Visirator. Di'anlor traveled far and wide plying his trade, traveling all over the Kingdom of Erethielle to entertain with his magically animated stories. Even a great city such as A’reth was only graced with Di'anlor's gift at most ten times per year, making each and every appearance a sold out event. Di'anlor was accustomed to performing before crowds of thousands in the greatest theaters and concert halls in the land, but this particular performance was taking place in a small, dirty tavern on the wrong side of town, for an audience of elves who normally wouldn't be allowed to dream of attending one of his productions. No tickets were required; the only requirement for admission was a willingness to be seen in this especially nasty neighborhood after the sun went down. Every now and then Di'anlor liked to conduct performances in places like this because he was an elf who never forgot where he came from.

Dim points of dirty yellow light floated near the low ceiling and cast a feeble glow in the long, low room. One could just make out Di'anlor's long form folded into a solitary, plain wooden chair that was a hair too small for his lanky body. Chairs scraped and squeaked along the rough wood floor around him as the bustle and rumble of elves taking their seats slowly subsided. Satisfied that his audience was at last ready, Di'anlor languorously rose to his feet, smoothed back his mane of bushy white hair, and tugged at his green silken coat. What little light there was faded into pitch darkness as his long fingers reached delicately into the red velvet pouch hanging from his side and plucked out a solitary Therengaile with a flourish.

Long ago the elves of Erethielle had learned how to package the magic that roamed free in their world into tiny orbs of pure magic, known as Therengaile. Once punctured, or crushed, the magic stored inside the Therengaile was released to be used in any number of magical spells. The small sphere measured just two inches in diameter and glowed with a soft, bluish-white light that lit Di'anlor's face from beneath. The Therengaile gave off a pure sound like a bell as it bobbed on his fingertips, as if the magic contained within it were singing to the Visirator. The silence from the crowd was palpable. Di'anlor delicately held the tinkling sphere in the fingers of his right hand and made a great show of slowly slicing a gash in the orb with the long, pointy index fingernail of his left hand before letting the Therengaile float up to hover just beneath the rough, exposed rafters of the ceiling.

His smooth, powerful voice entranced all within its reach. This evening, my good elves, I will delight and amaze you with a tale of intrigue and power, heroes and peril. It is a truly wondrous tale and, best of all, my simple story is completely true. You may laugh, you may cry, but you will certainly not be subject to boredom!

A roar of applause swelled up from the crowd and he took a deep bow. As you may or may not know, our very King, Sinter Ni'Klas, is not only revered on our own world, but on another world as well. Tonight, in our brief time together, I will unfold for you exactly how this came to be. Ladies and gentle-elves, I humbly present to you 'Santa Claus'! At this he waved his hand toward the Therengaile softly floating over his head and a life sized image of a young Sinter Ni'Klas materialized in the air above Di'anlor. The crowd let out a long oooooooooh in unison, awed by the colorful vibrancy and absolute life-likeness of the image. The Visirators they were accustomed to seeing were scarcely capable of producing much more than grainy black and white images that resembled lumps of mush more than any recognizable object.

Di'anlor's dramatic voice flowed on. In the year Zero our humble world was caught up in a tragic affair of cosmic proportions. Now, every elf knows that each and every world in our universe has a magical twin and that the sole purpose of that twin is to provide the magic that both worlds need to maintain their existence. Our fair world of Erethielle is the magical twin to a world known as Earth, and for countless millennia the magic produced naturally in Erethielle had flowed unimpeded to Earth. Unhappily, however, unwise meddling in magic severed this natural bond between Earth and Erethielle. The image of Sinter faded, replaced with images of the planetary orbs of Erethielle and the Earth slowly rotating in the air. The result of this magical separation was equally devastating for both worlds, for Erethielle's magic stopped pouring into Earth and, with nowhere to go, caused a dangerous build up of magic here. It is common knowledge that without its magic a world will die, for magic is what makes everything run, from the rising of the sun, to the flowering of the plants, to the sustaining of the complex web of life. A world without its magic will wither on the vine! The image of Earth slowly wilted above Di'anlor's head into a form resembling a giant prune. But it's not all sunshine and roses for the world on the production end of this magical flow, oh no! Too much magic will burn out a world as surely as a lack of magic will shrivel it up. The Erethiellian globe gradually brightened to a white hot mass, causing the audience to shrink back and shield their eyes from the brilliant light, before it faded to a great lump of spherical coal.

We join our hero, Sinter, on a cool, fall day in the... A rumble sprang up from the rear of the room. Di'anlor paused and glared towards the back of the audience, where the disturbance had erupted. Di'anlor cleared his throat loudly and tried again, We join our hero on a cool, fall day... The commotion did not abate, becoming, if anything, louder. Di'anlor's annoyed gaze settled on a rather burly elf who was muttering quite vociferously to himself while a number of his neighbors hissed at him to be quiet. Di'anlor shook his head in disgust and let out a long sigh. These disturbances never happened in the opulent concert halls to which he was accustomed.

The images above Di'anlor's head disappeared with an audible pop and were replaced with a brilliant spotlight that lit up the crowd. You sir, in the back. What seems to be the trouble? Di'anlor's voice was sharp and his bright blue eyes flashed fire. No one interrupted his performances. No one!

The elf at the back stood up trepidatiously, but still managed to call out in a strong, rough voice, That never happened! He wore the threadbare clothes of a working class elf and the scars and muscles of a brawler. Di'anlor would have to tread cautiously.

Di'anlor calmly asked, My good elf, what never happened?

The Severing, the flow of magic from Erethielle to Earth stopping, Erethielle being Earth's magical twin. All of it. It never happened!

A few members of the audience raised voices of protestation at this comment, while another handful greeted it with loud cheers.

Di'anlor raised his hands, gesturing to the crowd to let him speak. And what makes you say that? I assure you that I speak the truth.

The disruptive elf's voice took on a tone to match the sneer on his face, "You expect us to believe that King Sinter takes a load - a huge load, mind you - of our magic to Earth once a year and that this somehow restores the magical balance between our two worlds?"

I am not asking you to believe, I am only stating a simple fact. Now please be quiet and let me continue. Di'anlor turned his back in a huff. Now where was I?... Of course, Di'anlor assumed his smooth, strong performance voice and continued, It was a cool fall...

The troublesome elf at the back would not be put off so easily, And they call him Santa Claus and think he's fat and jolly? What kind of rubbish is that?! A small roar of approval erupted at this comment, accompanied just as loudly by a cacophony of boos and hisses.

Another elf in the crowd stood up and yelled at the rabble-rouser, If you don't believe it, why don't you shut up and get out of here, you dull-eared troll? We want to hear the story!

Di'anlor carefully gauged the reaction of his audience. Some of A’reth's denizens, especially its poorer ones, had been questioning the reality of the Severing and particularly the necessity of their king's delivery of magic to Earth each year. It was a telling sign of the furor that was mounting in the nation that a simple story would arouse such passions.

Another elf in the crowd yelled out, And just what do you think the King does with all that magic?

The troublemaker addressed himself to the crowd in a loud, rough voice: He sells it, of course. How do you think he affords that big palace and everything inside it? He says if he doesn't take it to Earth that two entire worlds will be destroyed. Now that's a likely story. He's taking you all for a ride but you're too stupid to see it!

That was the last thing that particular elf would say for a while, as his neighbor smashed a chair over his head. As he crumpled to the ground, utter pandemonium broke out and a good old-fashioned rumble ensued. Screams, roars, breaking furniture, incoherent words, shattering tableware, and flesh pounding on flesh provided the soundtrack for the melée.

Di'anlor stood gazing at the sight for a long second, shrugged his shoulders and gently removed his silk coat, taking care to carefully lay it over his seatback just so to prevent wrinkles. Then, rolling up his sleeves, he waded into the fracas, arms swinging. After all, Di'anlor was an elf who never forgot where he came from.

Chapter One

Sinter crouched low to the ground, every muscle tense. Though his left leg was buried to the knee in a thick patch of Horry's Razorbush and his rope was resting uselessly on the ground just out of reach he wouldn't avert his eyes for an instant. Sinter's eyes were locked on the eighteen inches of decidedly pointy horn that was attached to six thousand pounds of decidedly upset unicorn snorting and blowing its rage just a few feet from his face.

The massive creature's eyes glowed with hatred, its skin stretched taut over muscles that quivered and shook in anticipation of spearing the skinny elf that had dared try to throw a rope around its neck.

I'm shooting, Sire!, bellowed a voice behind Sinter.

No! No! I'm OK, Ro'nelle, put that bow down, whispered Sinter, not removing his gaze from the crazed eyes of the unicorn. And please lower your voice, will you? Do you want to see me spitted?

Ro'nelle was an extremely large specimen of an elf. He was at least a full head taller than Sinter, who was on the taller end of the spectrum himself, and he had a massive chest, legs, and arms that made him almost as wide as he was tall.

A roaring wind of a whisper replied, Sorry, Sire. Didn't mean to spook him. It's just that, well, you probably shouldn't get too close to one of them. Unicorns can be dangerous.

Dangerous? You don't say? Really? Dangerous? Well I'll be, dangerous...fellow could get himself killed messing around with things that are dangerous. And then, feeling ashamed at his tone Sinter added in as bright a voice as he could muster under the circumstances, Thank you for your concern, Ro'nelle, I'm sure that I will be just fine.

Just then the unicorn snorted, pawing at the ground with its gargantuan hooves, and screamed at Sinter and Ro'nelle. Sinter was beginning to suspect that he would most definitely not be just fine in a few moments. Maybe trying to lasso three tons of pure hatred hadn't been one of his better ideas.

Ro'nelle?

Yes, Sire?

You wouldn't perchance be a fast runner would you?

I'm the fastest elf in the King's guard, hissed Ro'nelle, his booming whisper carrying just a touch of pride. Why?

Oh, I just have a feeling that you're going to want to be running very far from here, very fast.

Why's that Sire? Ro'nelle asked. You mean run from the unicorn?

Yes, Ro'nelle. I mean run from the unicorn.

Well why would we want to do that? Begging your pardon, Sire. I don't mean to be second guessing you or nothin', but I'll just plop this Therengaile arrow in him and that'll be that, if you get my drift.

You don't have much experience with unicorns do you Ro'nelle?

Ro'nelle's airy roar carried an offended note this time. Well, I certainly know one when I see one.

That's a good start, Ro'nelle ... but do you have any idea what would happen if you were to actually shoot the unicorn?

Ro'nelle had taken note of Sinter's tone and was growing more and more unsure of himself by the minute. He tentatively responded, Uh, he'd die, Sire?

You would think so, wouldn't you Ro'nelle? But, you see, Unicorns are impervious to magic; they actually feed on it, which is what our large friend was doing here. All your little arrow is going to do is make him more angry, and a bit more gastronomically satisfied, than he already is.

Oh, murmured Ro'nelle, completely deflated. He simply wasn't sure how to deal with a situation that he couldn't fight, poke, gouge, or maim his way out of. So we run, Sire?

We run, Ro'nelle. On the count of three you run west and I'll run east. OK?

West, Sire?

That would be to your left, Ro'nelle, whispered Sinter, the slightest bit impatiently.

I knew that.

Of course you did, Ro'nelle. Ready? One, two, three!

Ro'nelle bolted to his left. Sinter, on the other hand, didn't move a muscle, he remained in the Razorbush, staring right into the unicorn's eyes. He had never intended to run, he simply wanted to make sure that Ro'nelle extricated himself from the situation. No sense having Ro'nelle killed for Sinter's foolishness. Ah, Sinter, thought the price you sometimes pay for having scruples.

With one elf running away, Sinter was now the most convenient target for the Unicorn, and so, with a bellow of fury, it launched itself at the elf, aiming its wicked horn directly for the center of his chest.

Sinter's eyes bugged out just a little as the unicorn's horn came speeding at him and he was just able to twist out of the way in time to avoid being impaled by the bleached white ivory, though this movement lined him up chest to chest with the unicorn. The collision was terrific, knocking Sinter right off his feet. He tumbled to a stop ten feet away where he lay sprawled on his back, unmoving and unable to hear or remember anything. Bright points of light flashed before his eyes as he lay immobile, staring at the cloudless sky and gasping for breath that wouldn't come.

Sinter was frankly perplexed as to what he might be doing laying in the grass on such a lovely, unseasonably warm fall day, when the terror of pain, sound, and memory flooded back and he knew that he was going to die. Sinter scrabbled weakly at the loose soil trying to escape from the beast that had reared on its hind legs above him in preparation for spitting the elf with its horn.

Time slowed to a crawl for Sinter. From the apex of its pose the unicorn tilted its head down and to the side, perfectly lining up its horn with the center of Sinter's chest. And then slowly, slowly it sat down on its haunches preparing for the leap that would end Sinter's existence. Sinter was focused squarely on the rapidly descending horn of the beast when a blinding square of purple light erupted directly in front of the unicorn, swallowing the beast whole. The flash of light vanished along with the unicorn, leaving the purple after-image of a giant square of light swimming in the sky where the unicorn had been.

All of this excitement was simply too much for Sinter who fainted dead away.

Chapter Two

Sinter slowly regained consciousness and feeling returned with a vengeance. His body throbbed with pain and he could feel blood oozing down his leg, compliments of the Razorbush. His face was wet with... his face was wet? Why was his face wet? Sinter considered this for a moment and then the truth dawned on him.

He opened his eyes a crack and found himself staring down the barrel of a long, narrow canine snout. Upset that the unicorn hadn't finished his master off, Sinter's dog Bo was trying to lick his master to death.

Would... blech!... someone... ack!... get... thppth!... this... argh!... dog... ick!... off... ughh!... of... thpltt!... me?!, sputtered Sinter as Bo licked his mouth three times for every word he tried to speak.

Sinter tried to shake the dog off of him, but his weakened condition and Bo's front paws planted firmly in his chest ensured that he remained solidly pinned to the ground. He resorted to jerking his head from side to side in an effort to stem the slobbery onslaught.

Bo! Heel! barked a voice and the long, skinny, gray dog immediately bounded off of Sinter in obedience to the command.

Sinter's breath hadn't quite returned and he spoke in a hoarse whisper. Now, why does that fleabag always obey you and not me, Fewler? Are you sure you don't want to keep him? I'd be happy to pay whatever price you name if you'll just take him off of my hands. Please?

Gasping out that many words in a row exhausted his strength and with an anguished sigh Sinter gingerly laid his head back on the ground and resumed lying motionless. As he stared at the brilliant sky, a face painted with concern positioned itself in Sinter's line of sight. Objects more than a few inches from his nose were still blurry, but Sinter could just make out the large black eyes that were staring back at him. Those eyes belonged to the ruggedly handsome face of Fewler, the Prime Advocate.

Centuries earlier, soon after the Elfish kingdom of Erethielle was formed, the wise king Krisman Ni'Klas created the Namensbiorn and the position of Prime Advocate. Whereas Kings inherit their thrones, the Prime Advocate and the members of the Namensbiorn were voted into office by the citizens of the Kingdom. The role of the Namensbiorn was to counsel the King and aid in the governance of the Kingdom; the Prime Advocate, as head of the Namensbiorn, represented the Kingdom's subjects before the king. This form of government was designed to protect the citizens of the kingdom from the really bad things that kings can do, such as taking land without paying for it or raising taxes through the roof to support a habit of food, drink, and jewelry. The theory was that the king would be so busy arguing with the Prime Advocate and the Namensbiorn that he simply wouldn't have the time to indulge himself in such excesses.

The Prime Advocate responded with an irritatingly soothing voice - did he think Sinter was a fifty-year-old? - Now is hardly the time for that discussion, Sire. Besides, you know as well as I do that your wife would kill you if you ever gave that dog away. Now just hold still and we'll have you all mended up in a minute.

Sinter really panicked this time. No! No! No, need for Healing, I'll be fine. See? If you'll just give me a hand here, I'll stand up and we can all be on our way. It took all of Sinter's remaining strength to prop himself up on his elbows. Through his grimace he could see the thirty or so concerned faces of the hunting party in a circle around them. With his vision still blurry he could just make out Ro'nelle's head and shoulders towering at the outside of the circle of elves, staring resolutely at the ground. Sinter felt a twinge of guilt for having tricked Ro'nelle into running from the unicorn. Ro'nelle surely felt greatly ashamed for having run away, leaving his King in mortal danger. Sinter would have to make sure to apologize to his bodyguard.

Sinter was now face to face with the kneeling Fewler and he could see that Fewler had the small glowing orb of a Therengaile in his hand. Before Sinter could say or do anything to stop him, Fewler reached out and crushed the bluish-white sphere of the Therengaile against Sinter's forehead. It felt like Fewler had pressed a white hot branding iron against his skin, and that fire quickly flowed through the rest of his body, until Sinter was sure that he was going to be cooked from the inside out. Sinter's body stiffened in response to the tempest that was raging within it and he let out a low moan. After what Sinter was sure had been at least five and a half hours, but was really only a few seconds, the fires receded and left Sinter to soak in his own sweat. Magically, Sinter's injuries were completely gone and he felt as if he had just woken up from a long, restful, mid-day nap - though the memory of the burning agony that accompanies Healing was still fresh in his mind. As far as Sinter was concerned, Healing was far worse than just letting the body mend itself when it was good and ready. He preferred his pain to be spread over several days, rather than bottled up and delivered in one fell swoop.

Fewler sat back on his heels, his face glowing with pride. There, isn't that better? he cooed.

Fewler's supercilious air made Sinter feel grumpy. Yeah, just great, he grumbled as he hauled himself to his feet.

Though his injuries were Healed, outwardly Sinter was a bit of a wreck. His straw colored hair was festooned with the sticks and blades of a wide variety of grasses and bushes and he was covered head to foot with a fine dusting of dirt. His clothing was correspondingly filthy and his lower left trouser leg had been ripped into fine ribbons by the Razorbush. To top it all off, one of his boots was missing and a quick survey of the ground found it laying back at the point of impact with the unicorn. A young page, alertly following the King's eyes, hustled to retrieve the boot for Sinter. Sinter thanked the young elf and hopped around on one foot while pulling the boot on. As he struggled with his boot, he was acutely aware of the sixty plus eyes of the hunting party locked firmly on him, taking in his every move. He wanted to scream.

Would someone get my sledge ready? barked Sinter. He knew that he was acting childish, indulging his foul mood so, but he resolutely shoved reason aside. It's getting late and I want to get back to A’reth before nightfall. Ro'nelle? I want everyone mounted and ready to leave in five minutes. Make it happen!

Sinter felt much better as his retinue scattered in every direction to scoop up supplies, weapons, and mounts and prepare for the trek home. His mood soured even more as Fewler sidled up beside him.

You really shouldn't be traveling so soon after Healing, Sire, purred Fewler, his perfect teeth gleaming in the fading sunlight, You need to let your body rest. Why don't I have the tents erected? We can stay the night here and return to A’reth in the morning.

You want me to sleep outside in a tent when I could be in my nice warm bed at the palace? Sinter said. I don't think so. Besides, I feel fine.

Fewler pressed the issue, I really think that you should reconsider, Sire, Healing can leave the body in a weakened state. I would hate for anything to happen on the journey.

We're leaving right now, Fewler and I'll be fine! You know I detest being Healed. Why do you insist on doing that? Sinter demanded.

Fewler was unperturbed. And should I have just left you there to die in the dirt? What sort of Prime Advocate lets his King die in a field like that? Hardly a noble way to go, Sire.

Leave it to Fewler to actually be concerned about how he dies, Sinter thought to himself, mentally rolling his eyes. Dead is dead.

Fewler was likely convinced that he would be the first elf to attain immortality, but if he ever did succumb to death, Sinter was sure that Fewler's demise would be a spectacular affair. Something on the order of single-handedly fighting off a small army of Rock trolls while a traitor's javelin poked out of the mortal wound in his side. Fewler probably even had a final hero's speech prepared that he would nobly and dramatically deliver with his final breaths, a speech that would immediately be added to the history books and engraved on memorial plaques throughout the land. Sinter, on the other hand, was less concerned with how his own death would unfold than he was with staving it off until the last possible moment.

Fewler continued, It was fortunate that the unicorn knocked you far enough away to allow me to create a Window between you and it. That saved your life.

Fewler, in addition to being extremely handsome, extremely conniving, and extremely vain was also, even Sinter had to admit, extremely resourceful with Therengaile. While anyone could crush, smash, rip open, or gouge a Therengaile - thus releasing the pure magic stored inside - it took a well trained mind, or a well designed piece of machinery, to actually harness that magic to do something useful. As with all skills and talents, more complex magical effects required a corresponding increase in ability and practice time. While even a child could manage to use a Therengaile to light or heat a room, only a few people were capable of using Therengaile to Heal and, of all the elves in Sinter's kingdom, only Fewler was known to be able to rip a hole in space-time with one.

Fewler called these rips Windows. The technique wasn't perfect, however. While a Window seemed to connect two places - anything passing through a Window disappeared as if it had gone through a doorway standing in the air - even Fewler couldn't say where the object went, he couldn't make it come back, nor could he even declare if it made it there in one piece. As such, the Windows - though quite impressive demonstrations of magical skill- weren't terribly useful in day-to-day life, a fact that ate at Fewler like a canker.

Sinter, feeling like wallowing a bit in his sourness, took the rare opportunity to deflate Fewler's bloated pride, So, where did you send the unicorn? he asked.

Fewler visibly bristled. Somewhere where he wouldn't be able to spit you like a piece of meat. Sire, he added belatedly.

Sinter could feel his mood improving already. For which I am sincerely grateful, but where exactly is the unicorn right now?

Fewler's perfect jaw muscles flexed and relaxed as he subconsciously ground his teeth. He stared determinedly into nothingness and didn't answer the question.

Sinter wasn't about to let him off that easily. So, the unicorn could, right at this instant, be ripping some poor child's bedroom to shreds? Or smashing its way through a crowded market? Or its head could be on someone's roof while the rest of its body is across town in another elf's cellar? Sinter was really grinning now.

You know that I haven't perfected the Windows yet, muttered Fewler, turning his inky black eyes on Sinter. But there is simply no better way to deal with unicorns, they're impervious to any direct use of magic and far too dangerous to deal with up close - as evidenced by your little trick with that rope. Did you really think that a creature as mean and nasty as a unicorn would let you lead it off the mountain like a pony? Besides, we've had no reports of objects passing through Windows and reappearing anywhere else on this world. For all we know anything that passes through a Window is instantly vaporized. We can't just let any unicorn that wanders up here soak up all of the magic that it wants and compromise the production of Therengaile.

Something about the sullen fire in Fewler's eyes made Sinter want to burst out laughing - he greatly enjoyed slipping a knife into the rare gap in Fewler's iron-armored ego from time to time. Of course, twisting that knife too much could be just as dangerous as playing with unicorns. Sinter spoke in as conciliatory a voice as he could muster, Of course not Fewler. I just wish that we could take care of the unicorns in a way that we knew didn't destroy them, that's all.

Your bleeding heart is going to kill you one day, Sire, replied Fewler gravely as he turned and walked in the direction of his sledge which had just been brought over by a page. To Fewler, compassion of any sort was a weakness of the most profound type.

Sinter permitted himself the briefest of chuckles as he watched Fewler march off to his sledge. He heard a faint rasping sound coming from the area of his feet and felt the warm, wet sandpaper of Bo's tongue against his leg. He looked down and the dog was quietly licking the dried blood from his leg. He shook his leg violently to get Bo away, What's wrong with this dog? he bellowed, at no one in particular, causing the young page who was just leading Sinter's sledge up to him to flinch.

Sinter's heart skipped a beat as his sledge was brought near. He really wasn't too keen on the trappings that came with the monarchy. Sure, living in a palace and never wanting for anything was nice, but it just barely balanced out the boredom and lack of privacy, time, and comfortable clothes that came with the big house and fancy wardrobe. There was, however, one thing that Sinter loved about being King and that he would actually miss should his subjects ever revolt and send him into exile - that one thing was his sledge.

Chapter Three

A sledge, in broad terms, was a horse drawn carriage without wheels. Wheels were unnecessary because Therengaile were used to make the sledge and the horse fly. Though they tended to be the animal best suited for the job, horses weren't the only animals used to draw sledges. Any animal that could pull a wagon on the ground could be used to propel a sledge through the air – it was all the same to the Therengaile. Sledges came in all shapes and sizes. There were giant wagons drawn by eight or more animals as well as tiny one-elf runabouts pulled by a single beast. Though there were a few private owners of sledges, the vast majority were owned and operated by the crown. The inner magical machinery of a sledge was quite complex and difficult to manufacture, making a sledge expensive to create and expensive to maintain. They were also quite thirsty, in a magical sense - it took a whole lot of Therengaile to go any useful distance, and Therengaile weren't that easy to come by for common elves.

Sinter actually owned a number of sledges: a four-horse formal sledge used for important state affairs, a smaller, less opulent model, that he used to make visits around the kingdom and, of course, the reindeer-powered model that he used once a year for his trip across the Orenthian Barrier to conduct his business on Earth. But his favorite sledge was the one he had brought on this particular trip, a battle sledge that had been highly modified for speed, agility, and style.

Battle sledges were similar in appearance to traditional land-based chariots, minus the wheels. They tended to be wider and longer to adequately house the flight machinery that sat behind the driver, and, of course, more aerodynamic. Sinter's battle sledge had started from these humble origins and been ratcheted up several levels. While the army's battle sledges were painted a boring gray, his sledge was a resplendent white, with ornately carved and polished silver trim lining the edges of the vehicle. The interior was decorated in the same motif, and included finely worked leather and gold edged foot harnesses that prevented His Royal Highness from tumbling out of the sledge at high speeds. What Sinter was most proud of, though, was the custom-built Therengaile flight machinery. It was capable of more power and more agility than a typical battle sledge, though it required even more Therengaile to remain aloft.

Feeling much more cheery, Sinter vaulted over the side of his sledge, which bounced in the air lightly in response to his weight, and snugged his feet into the harness. How ya doin' Thain? Ready to go home? he called out to the massive chestnut-colored horse harnessed to the sledge.

Thain shook his head, snorted, and strained against his leads, pulling the sledge a few feet forward. Thain loved to fly almost as much as Sinter.

Hold on there buddy, I need to load the Therengaile if we're going to do this, said Sinter pulling back gently on the reins.

Sinter reached into a leather pouch attached to his belt and pulled out three Therengaile. He could just fit the three spheres in one hand and they tinkled sonorously as they jostled against each other with a clear, pure sound similar to that of a crystal glass being struck with a spoon. Sinter swiftly thumbed the faintly glowing bluish-white spheres into the clear Therengaile chamber and, as he waved his hand over the sledges controls, the air itself seemed to vibrate as the flight machinery rapidly charged to full power. Sinter grabbed the leather goggles from a hook in the sledge and pulled them over his eyes. He grasped the reins in both hands and was about to snap them down on Thain's rump when a gray streak came soaring over the lip of the sledge and bounded to a stop at Sinter's feet. Bo raised up on his hind legs and draped his head and front legs over the front of the sledge, barking madly, his silky ears pointing straight up into the air and his tail whipping Sinter's leg in excitement. If Sinter and Thain loved to fly, then Bo absolutely lived for it. Bo was never strapped in and no matter how madly Sinter banked, rose, dropped, or flipped Bo always remained firmly attached to the sledge.

Oh, good, we almost forgot you Bo, Sinter mumbled half-heartedly.

With Bo secured in the sledge, Sinter brought the reins down on Thain's hindquarters and the horse launched itself into the air like a bullet, rising almost vertically off of the ground, feet running furiously in thin air, dragging Sinter and the sledge mercilessly behind him. Sinter leaned forward in the harnesses, trying his best to avoid dangling headfirst out of the sledge by his feet. In the blink of an eye Sinter leveled Thain out one thousand feet above the sparse mountaintop from whence they came and started into a series of long lazy circles as he waited for the rest of the group to catch up.

The Northern mountains were the tallest mountain range in Erethielle and they dominated the geography of the kingdom. The range, and indeed the kingdom of Erethielle itself, was actually located in the Southern hemisphere of the world, but a combination of a not-so bright explorer and a highly humorous practical joke involving a gag compass that had North and South reversed, resulted in the wrong direction being used to name the towering peaks. In the end, no one had the heart to rub salt in the wounds of the intrepid Johann Wrong Way Leipelwitz and so the name stuck.

Though the broad swath of mountain where Sinter had his unfortunate encounter with the unicorn was well above the tree-line, it was far from the tallest point of the mountain. Giant peaks towered over the sledge on all sides with only a small gap opening out towards the foothills far in the distance to the North, where the capital city of A’reth was located. Sinter could see between the peaks to the North that dark storm clouds were piling up against the sheer faces of