“But what if the elves decide they want it for themselves?
It’s sorcery, and they’re sorcerers!
What more proof do you need?” insisted the man who had first spoken of a trap.
“This isn’t the way of our ancestors…”
“If we’d followed nothing but the old ways, we’d have frozen to death back in Atmora long ago!”
“That’s completely different, Harald!”
“No, it isn’t, Ignusson!”
“Do you have any idea what—”
“I say that—”
“Who are you trying to fool, Wifdir?!”
The gathering of Saarthal’s leading figures gradually descended into the sort of farce common to tribal democracies, where there were more than enough stubborn men to keep the argument raging until dawn—or perhaps until it ended in bloodshed.
Fortunately, the Atmorans had one unquestioned leader.
At last, he decided to intervene with a thunderous roar.
“Sile-e-e-ence!” the voice of the mighty warrior seated at the head of the table upon a stone throne boomed through the hall.
“Why are you snarling at one another like a pack of mangy dogs?
This bickering does us no good!
Strife like this is exactly why our people are at war with one another back in our homeland of Atmora… We should be thinking on the matter before us, not settling old grudges and seeing whose lungs are the stronger!
I’ve heard all of you, my trusted companions…
Now I would think in silence.
Give your King but a minute to pray to the Wise Owl and seek an answer.”
King Ysgramor was neither young nor old, though his towering stature made him stand above everyone present.
Despite his fearsome appearance, he was not, at heart, a bloodthirsty warrior eager for slaughter.
Violence was never what he sought.
Above all else, he was a peaceful settler who wished to explore these new lands.
He was certainly capable of defending himself—and quite well, or he would never have remained king for so long—but he had never been one to start a fight.
And so, even now, he found no reason to suspect the mysterious mer, also known as the elves of the snow, of setting any sort of trap.
How could they possibly have known, even through sorcery, where the city would be built?
There had been several possible locations, and if the mer had truly hidden the sphere there, they would have needed to know Ysgramor’s choice beforehand.
No.
Impossible.
But even if it were possible…
then neighbors with such power would have no need for tricks like this.
They could simply wipe them out in a direct assault.
Ysgramor had met with their envoys many times and had seen the condescending way they regarded both him and his people.
The elves of the snow were utterly convinced of their own superiority, and Ysgramor reluctantly admitted that they had reason to be.
After all, his people were refugees fleeing cold and war, while those long-eared folk had lived upon Mereth for countless generations and possessed far more cities than the Atmorans.
Not to mention their sorcery.
His people could not conjure lightning from thin air, nor command blazing fire or freezing cold.
“I believe we should make use of this thing,” Ysgramor finally said, carefully studying each of his companions in turn.
“I see no evil in it.
I understand the ways of our forefathers.
They have guided us for many years, and they carry great weight.
But tell me, what is this if not a gift from Kyne, the Hawk, Goddess of Storms?
She brings the spring, and the warmth that comes with it…
and this ancient sphere also gives forth life-giving warmth.
Think on it, wise elders who stand for the old ways.
What is it, if not a revelation from above?”
“Wise as ever, Ysgramor,” one of the oldest men present at the council replied without hesitation.
“The wisest king I have known in all my years.”
“Enough flattery.
We must—” he began, only to be interrupted as a warrior came bursting into the chamber, gasping for breath.
“Disaster!
Disaster has struck!” he cried, barely able to force the words from his lungs.
Even so, every eye in the chamber turned to him at once.
“Explain yourself, Halfdi…” the king began, only to be cut off by the wild-eyed messenger.
“The Mer!
The elves of the snow!
They’ve used all our secret passages!
My King, save us!
They’re slaughtering everyone without mercy or hesitation—even our wives and little children!” he cried.
At that very moment, those gathered finally heard the sounds of battle raging beyond the hall, sounds that had until then been drowned out by their own arguing.
Ysgramor wasted no time.
His decisiveness had once allowed him to escape the bloody conflicts consuming his people back in Atmora, and it served him just as well now.
“Take up your axes and your swords!” the towering man, standing well over seven feet tall, shouted as he surged to his feet, raising his great blade toward the ceiling.
“Whoever has attacked our families, we will destroy them all!
They shall answer for this!”
“For our families!
For Saarthal!”
“For the Gods!
For Atmora!”
“For our new home!”
The warriors reacted instantly.
The settlement’s finest fighters poured outside, rushing toward the clash of steel and the bitter cold of sorcery spreading from the houses nearest the walls.
The messenger’s words were confirmed almost immediately.
The snow-white elves were impossible to mistake.
Their pale figures moved swiftly from house to house, and wherever they went, the screams of men, women, and children soon followed.
To say that Ysgramor was consumed by fury would have been an understatement.
The sight before him was so horrifying that it could have driven even a man as peaceable as he into a blind rage.
May Auri-El watch over your path, and may your support keep this tale alive.