"I was promised nothin' would hap'en to them. They would wed and ne'er be sold."
"Not by me, Master Groupon made that business transaction,"
"An' he broke his vow," the father interrupted.
"They were his property," the soldier said matter-of-factly, "He had the right, by law."
The father looked at Faeranduil, who was ready for anything. "Ye killed Master Groupon," he asked. Faeranduil nodded, never taking his eyes off the soldiers that encircled them. Lidya's father took a step closer to the elf and whispered to him. "Finish the job."
The rage in the father's voice was clear. Faeranduil looked him in the eyes, then scanned the soldiers, and back to the father.
The negotiator was the first one to die, as Faeranduil drew a red line across his throat with the tip of the sword. The soldier to the left of the negotiator also met the same fate. Faeranduil flipped the sword, as he did a half pivot, and cleaved into the head of the soldier next to Lidya. Continuing the pivot, freed the head of a fourth soldier of Kreal from his shoulders.
A spray of blood hit Faeranduil's face as he heard Lidya scream. He turned to see her father fall onto his knees, the inside of his throat now open. He pushed the sword into the chest of the man who killed the girl's father. The soldiers who held the hounds at bay released the leashes. One of them bit into Faeranduil's left arm below his elbow as the other tackled and mauled Lidya's mother. He yelled in pain from the firm grip of the hound's jaws, pulled his arm in front of him, with the dog still attached, and cut its head off.
Faeranduil then pushed the blade through the hound that was over Lidya's screaming mother and into her, releasing her from misery. A blade came across his back, cutting into his flesh. He turned and drove his sword into that soldier's heart.
The front and back doors opened and the remaining men and hounds came in like a flood. Faeranduil grabbed Lidya by the arm as he rushed towards the men coming through the back door. He blocked a strike from one of the swords with the flat of his blade, spun and cut the arm of the soldier off. He finished the spin as he cut into the neck of another Kreal soldier and pushed a third through the door.
Faeranduil fell on top of the soldier on the grass as he tossed Lidya forward. He picked the guard up and slammed him against the door, closing it in the process. The blade of a sword came through the wooden door and out the face of the attacker against the door.
"Hand me that log," he told Lidya. She hesitated still in shock from witnessing the murder of her parents. "The log," he yelled at her and she picked up a long heavy limb from a tree.
Another soldier came around the corner at that moment and lunged his blade towards Faeranduil's back. The elf spun with the log in hand and crushed the end of it into the throat of the attacker. He then wedged it behind the door handle and into the ground, holding the door shut. The guard collapsed onto the ground gasping for air with his hands on his neck.
"Follow me," Faeranduil said as he circled around the house to the front door.
Two soldiers were already out the front door, with another close behind. The hounds growled and barked angrily, from inside, as Faeranduil leaped towards the soldier by the door, impaling him through the side of his head. He slammed the door, hitting the other soldier in the face, breaking his nose. With a kick, the bronze skinned elf pushed the body off his blade and into the guard in the street. After barring the front door much like he did the back, and swung his sword up severing an arm from the soldier. Blood sprayed the near by houses and villagers who gathered to watch the commotion.
Faeranduil quickly searched the one armed corpse on the ground, and removed flint and steel, aimed it at one of the torches that was mounted on either side of the door and flicked a spark onto it. Faeranduil blew on to the small flame to make it grow, then pulled both torches, lighting the second off the first.
"Burn them," he said to Lidya as he handed a torch to her. The soldiers and hounds yelled and pounded on the door in an attempt to be free.
"But m' parents are in 'ere," Lidya protested.
"They are already dead, we cannot help them. Avenge them. Avenge your body. Avenge Ashly and burn them all." His cold eyes studied hers as she took the torch from him.
Faeranduil held his torch to the thatched roof, igniting it. Lidya held hers to another spot on the roof, and it also caught fire. Once the flames on the roof spread so they could not reach any other place without being burned themselves, Faeranduil tossed both torches onto the roof. The chaos within the house turned from rage to fear and the elf knew they saw the flames.
Faeranduil finished stripping the bodies of the dead soldiers, gathering whatever gear they would need for their journey north. He looked at Lidya, who was staring at her burning childhood home. The screams from inside turned shrill. There were no words to describe the pain heard in those screams. The bitter sweet stench of the burning soldiers lifted up into the air, coppery and clinging to their nostrils.
The elf looked around at the villagers who were watching the chaos and burning hut. Many of the large crowd that gathered had left to get water before the inferno spread to the rest of the village. He tied a large cloth over his head, hiding his pointed ears.
"Time to go, Lidya," he said to her, but she did not move. "We must leave now," he repeated even more urgently.
Lidya slowly turned to look at him, pure anguish on her tear struck face. Faeranduil's heart sunk to the pit of his stomach upon seeing her like that.
"Come," he said gentler as he handed the soldier's pack to her. Her chest heaved and what little she had in her stomach came up violently and sprayed the ground from the burning boar like smell. After wiping her face, she hesitantly took the pack from him and followed him out of the village as the bucket brigade rushed to the house. Faeranduil turned one last time, the screams, from within the hut, stopped when the flaming roof collapsed into itself.
The rest of the evening was spent in somber silence as they walked north. They crossed the two rivers they forded earlier that day and made camp north of Kreal, out of sight from any patrols and lookouts. There they washed the blood off them by the river and the elf bandaged his wounds as best he could. The second day of the festival of Doba Agste had ended.
Faeranduil awoke the next morning to screams and saw Lidya thrashing in her sleep. He rushed over to her and shook her fervently calling her name. Lidya's eyes snapped open and looked into his.
"It was just a dream," he said.
"No," she replied as she started to cry. "'Tis no dream. They're dead."
Faeranduil sighed, for he knew she dreamt about her parents and their camp. In silence he spread the ashes from there fire the night before and gathered their gear. He offered his hand to help her up, yet she refused to take it.
"We need to continue on," he told her. Lidya stood, without a word, and followed him. He strained his sight to see if he could spy the four who gave him up to be a slave and could not. They were a day and a half, on horses, ahead and Faeranduil knew they needed to catch them before the thieves reached Bristork again. There were few words spoken between the two that day, Faeranduil kept a constant ear and eye out for any who may be trying to track them, while Lidya hung her head and wept.
At one point he spied a small caravan heading south and they stepped into a bush to watch them on the road. There was a caged wagon leading the convoy. Inside Faeranduil could make out a beaten skeleton like man chained up. On the cart that followed, the elf could clearly see the red haired woman that served him at The Lotus in Bristork along with three others, one of which was career military. Once the convoy had passed they continued north while Faeranduil questioned to himself the meaning behind the strange sight of the caravan.
"Why would a tavern maiden travel with a prisoner," he thought, "Could it be that she is, in fact, one of the unnamed protectors?" His mind went back to the brief conversation between the two, and what he heard that night, as the two climbed out of the back of the bush. They continued north, walking parallel t
o the road as they have been since leaving Kreal.
"Na medi- i perian aran plural erain or erein's -iel," Faeranduil sang softly to himself to ease his journey. A joyous sounding song written in a major key.
"Name o' death, wha' are ye singin'," Lidya snapped.
"Lord Sire Rathal and the Wyvern," Faeranduil told her.
Lidya glared at him through her tear stained eyes.
"The song is about an ancestor of mine who formed an alliance between the elves of Okeawodal and the Halflings to the east." He paused to think of his current position. "Northeast from here. Rathal killed a large beast, saving the princess from being eaten."
"'ow 'an ye sing a hap'y song now," the anguish muddled with hatred for the elf spilled across her face.
"It reminds me of my oaths, my people, and how I am expected to act as a Lord Sire."
"Like killin' m' mama," anger filled her voice.
Faeranduil stopped and turned to her. Placing a hand on her shoulder and kneeling he said, "yes, I killed your mother. I pushed my sword through the hound that was eating her face and into her. Would you rather see your mother without a face and drowning in her own blood, or give her the mercy of a quick death?"
Lidya stared at him for a while. Faeranduil saw she was thinking through the day before, and the hatred melted away as she began to weep heavily. Lidya wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him. His arms wrapped around her, supporting her through the dark days.
His thoughts turned to home, before being knighted yet after he came back from the war, to his wife and saw his son, Faerainal, for the first time. After a moment, Faeranduil told her they needed to continue. Lidya sighed and wearily agreed. The sun had begun its descent and Faeranduil attempted to quicken their pace, but it did not improve much.
"Where are we goin'," Lidya asked.
"To my kingdom, the land of eternal summer," he replied.
"Wha' 'bout Ashly?"
"I apologize, but we will have to come back for her later."
"Why?"
"I gave a solemn and holy vow to your mother that I shall see you safe. There is no better place I can think of. Then," he emphasized, "I shall gather a squad of our best to find your sister. This I swear by the gods of creation."
Lidya was silent for a moment, as Faeranduil deliberated on how to best find Ashly while avoiding all out war. "Do ye have a fam'ly in the Summerland," Lidya asked innocently.
"I do. A beautiful wife, Raechel, and a young son, Faerainal."
"How ol' is he?"
"Fifty."
"Fif'y," she asked in disbelief, "That's ol'."
Faeranduil laughed, forgetting she did not know any of the world beyond her chains. "I am two hundred; we elves can live for hundreds of years. The oldest and wisest may live to see one thousand."
"Thousan'," Lidya fell silent again and stayed that way until the sun began to disappear over the eastern horizon, spilling the many shades of blues across the sky.
Faeranduil shot and killed an eagle that flew overhead, and was plucking it, putting the feathers into a bag he hand tied onto the belt stolen from one of the Kreal soldiers. Once the bird was bare he handed it to Lidya so he could start a camp fire. She refused to touch the naked bird, and moved away from the sparks he made from the flit and steel.
She sat back from the fire, far enough so she could not feel any warmth, and refused the food Faeranduil offered.
"You must eat to keep your strength up," he told her yet she did not reply. Lidya just sat there staring into the void between her and the small camp fire. Once Faeranduil ate his fill, he wrapped what remained of the majestic bird in a cloth and set it far away from the heat so the cold southern air would prevent it from turning overnight.
Faeranduil reclined on the ground and stared into the flames. Across from him, on the other side of the fire, Lidya sat, hunched over. At that moment all Faeranduil could think of was not that she lost all she knew the day before, but that the way she was sitting is improper and would only hurt her back.
"Do ye 'ave regrets," the little girl asked.
"Of course I do," Faeranduil replied looking at her through the tops of the flames.
"I miss m' mother. I wish... I wish I could've done t'ings differ'ntly. I wish I did anyt'ing." There was a pause that hung in the cold air of the night. Sorrow and remorse saturated their camp, emphasized by Lidya's weeping.
"Those who have no regrets," Faeranduil said at last, breaking the silence, "have lived dull and boring lives and, unless that is what you aspire towards, they are not necessarily the ones to idolize. However, those full of regrets feel they made too many bad decisions and no matter how hard they wish, how many times they pray or sacrifice, they will never be able to go back and fix what they've done wrong. They too are not to be idolized. You must choose for yourself and be able to live with your decision."
"Do not let the choices be made for you, however," he continued. "Do not just lie down and let it rape you anyway it wants." Lidya looked at him sharply, through the fire, then, just as quickly looked away. "Rebel against the Fates. Fight until you have no fight left, until all the strength in your mind, body and spirit has been wiped away. That is what I shall do to see my son again. The gods themselves will not hinder me."
He paused and looked into the flames. "At that moment, when you feel this way, you would be able to say, win or lose, right or wrong, that you do not regret trying." He looked at her, the fire burning bright between them in the starry night. "If you still wish to learn from me, then the only easy day you will face from here on out was yesterday."
"The only easy day was yesterday," she repeated under her breath. The coppery, charred pork stench still clung to their nostrils.
"Come, let us sleep. We set out early tomorrow." He stirred the fire so it would burn bright and hot before he closed his eyes for the night. Across Ashra, in all the corners of all the lands, the people celebrated the final eve of the blossoms, knowing that the next morn would be the first normal day of the new sun cycle.
Faeranduil awoke before the sun showed its first rays, and felt sad eyes upon him. The coals from the fire the night before glowed dimly. He prodded them with the tip of his sword to break them apart into smaller pieces. He put the sod, he cut from the ground the night before, over the wood and patted and tucked it in place.
"There must be no sign of our passing," he thought. He looked over at Lidya, who sat there watching him. He sighed, taking pity on her.
"Have you not slept this eve past," he asked her.
"No," she said hollowly.
"Come, eat. We have a hard four blossoms ahead of us."
"No," she repeated.
"You must eat," Faeranduil handed the rest of the eagle to her.
"I'll ne'er eat anythin' that needs fire again."
Faeranduil sighed as he bit into the bird. He stood and grabbed up his gear. Lidya did the same and they continued north. When the sun began to show its face, they were near a small patch of trees and Faeranduil stopped.
He walked up to one of the trees and pulled several small green apples from it. Faeranduil handed the apples to Lidya, and told her to eat. She tore into the apples feverishly. Dropping the cores to the ground. Faeranduil stooped to pick them up.
"Never leave a trace," he said, showing her the core as he put it in the bag that had the down feathers from the eagle. He had separated the down from the ones he would need for fletching the night before.
They continued on through another announcement of the Festival of Flowers. Every day now Faeranduil told her about the land, the flowers of the Kadelaka trees that bloom once every thirty days for three days. A golden crowned flower ringed with white petals, over silver fibers, all neatly wrapped in green leaves, not much bigger than the palm of his hand. He taught her the animals they heard, the ones he could sense but we're unseen, as well as how to clean and bandage different wounds, for Faeranduil could not reach the wound on his back.
Every day he would search t
he northern horizon for sign of the horse thieves, and found none. Faeranduil taught her the basics of survival, foraging and tracking, even though Lidya had no interest in learning the latter, asking why she needed to learn how to track something she is never going to eat.
"So you can learn to think like the animals," he told her. "If you cannot think or move, or see or hear like your prey, then you shall never catch your prey." There was a hellish scream that echoed off in the distance, the two slaves looked and saw the black-grey wisp of smoke from a great fire far off west northwest.
After many more days travel, and the subsequent announcements of the festivals, the crossroads just southeast of Fynstork was in view. Faeranduil could see two hooded riders approaching. "This is where learning to move like the animals is important," he told her as they hid in the sparsely wooded intersection, nestled in the middle where the south and east roads met.
"Stay low, listen," he said in a hushed voice. The riders drew closer and Faeranduil confirmed it was two of the four who delivered him to Groupon. He would not let himself forget the voices he heard for the four festivals he traveled south, nor the tattoo on the side the ones head.
"Do not move, only watch for now," he told Lidya and she nodded nervously. Faeranduil removed the belt that held his sword and left it with her before creeping around the tree they were behind.
Faeranduil watched as the riders drew closer, he could make out them saying something about Shadeville to the east and someone survived being burnt alive. He opened his quiver and readied an arrow. The riders entered the intersection and Faeranduil aimed his bow. There was a sound from behind him of metal hitting a rock and the rustling of leaves. The riders stopped and called.
"Oye, who's there," the tattooed man asked. Faeranduil sat quietly against a tree looking at Lidya. She mouthed "sorry" and he rolled his eyes back to the riders.
They had dismounted and we're loosely tying the reigns of the horses to a tree while scanning the area, the shaved head man had his hand on the hilt of his short sword. The other armed with a crossbow. They moved closer to where Faeranduil sat, he drew the arrow and fired it pinning the hand of the one to the hilt of his sword and into his thigh.
A Baptism by Fire Page 4