“The Higher of Olian,” Andarken informed, “has commissioned that I solve the mystery of this diabolical evil, this new darkness that has announced itself here in the glades.” Andarken slammed the cane onto the floor in anger, his voice so implacably laced with malice that it was hard not to feel how affronted he was by the news circling around the entire Realm. News that Paraden expected would be on the tongue of every elf in Alepion.
“His little one has been abducted. The Higher of Olian’s beloved daughter. And now, the Higher summons me to find those responsible.” Andarken paused before continuing, watching his shadowa with a measured look of displeasure. “And while I seek to be on my way already, you haggle with this… this… elvess,” gesturing dismissively to Vara with a flick of his hand. “Well?” he said to Paraden.
When Paraden failed to offer an immediate reply, stammering in the process to comply with his master’s enquiring remark, Andarken’s expression receded from scowl to a tight look that told Paraden his master was failing in his effort to hold back all inclination to, at last, erupt in full velocity. And so, suddenly, the storm hit!
The Old Way Hunter lunged with surprising vigour and suddenness, his cane raised high with intention to inflict harm.
“GET YOUR SOULESS HIDE OUT OF HERE!” screamed Paraden’s master, his voice a terrifyingly loud shriek. “GET TO PACKING, YOU WORTHLESS SHADOWA!”
Paraden scrambled frantically to evade the brunt of his master’s looming cane, losing his balance in the process and slipping in his urgency and fright.
Falling on the floor at the door, Paraden got to his feet while simultaneously reaching the knob of the door, pulling it open. Once safely behind it, Paraden stood still for a time, trying to catch his breath but after a soft sigh, he drew himself up and headed back down stairs.
Chapter 2
It was late - very late - and while she sat behind her desk, alone and pensive, Revara listened to the banging shutters from outside that were being harassed by the restless winds; a prelude to a magnificent storm that was presently brewing over the forest.
It was indeed late, Revara mused. All had left the building. All but her. It was her own fault, she conceded, for she had decided to hang back when the day had ended so that she might apply herself to finishing up overdue admin that, to her discredit, had begun building unchecked over the past couple of days.
Admittedly, though to no one but herself, her neglect was due to her own personal struggle with procrastination that came as a result of her vigorous daydreaming tendencies. But, as if her conscience was preparing for a direct berate, Revara reminded herself that it wasn’t her fault her service to the Realm remained, in its essence, momentously boring.
Nonetheless, she had needed to complete it all and so she had chosen today to do so. Luckily, today had been a good day - a motivating one. She had discovered that she had the mind to focus and not because of any internal incentive, mustered up by her own sense of diligence, but rather because her master was gone.
Andarken Sourleaf had left Lightmarsh to begin yet another investigation - one which had left Revara alone and with the entire office to herself. She found herself hoping that the investigation would be a lengthy one, for she liked it when her master was away, even though there was a sense of pity she felt for poor Paraden, who would be stuck with him every day until they solved the case.
Revara smiled at the memory of the diffident shadowa when he had walked into the office this morning. She had grown to like him tremendously since first arriving here, discovering that his was a personality that was a relieving contrast to the erratic and sometimes violent one of the old and grumpy piece of crust, Andarken. She recalled now how flushed the shadowa had become when she had stood close to him, a tendency she did often for she quite enjoyed how she affected him, enjoyed too how the shadowa flared her secret vanity whenever she cast but a glance in his direction.
Revara was still smiling when she glanced down aimlessly at her desk, where she had neatly stacked the completed documents. It was but a quick moment later when Paraden was gone from thought and this evening’s delegations were drawn to her attention.
“It hadn’t taken that long,” she whispered to herself.
She had planned to have it all done by week’s end, yet instead, had done it all this evening and so the sigh that escaped her lips was one of satisfaction that came with the feeling of accomplishment.
Revara looked up towards the window on the other end of the room. Outside, wind chimes sang to the chorus of the winds. There was something quite peaceful about being here alone, even though the weather outside alluded to pending chaos.
She slouched in her chair and folded her arms, contentment washing over her while she waited. She was tired. Being cooped up in here all day would do that to any elvess, but she could remain a little longer. Not too long. She hoped the storm would start and cease soon. She hoped the streets outside would not be too muddy, for she hated getting her boots dirty.
Revara sat up and leaned forward over her desk and sighed, eyes set upon the window across the room, could already feel her contentment recede steadily. The peace and bliss of solitude with nature’s wrathful sounds as background noise was slowly losing its initial serenity and appeal, inspiring in her, an exasperation over the powerlessness of her situation.
She threw her face into her arms that were now spread upon the surface of her desk and began comprehending the long night she was in for.
It would be a good lengthy walk home from the Lightmarsh building. Then there was the lengthy routine she practised before bed; undressing, dressing, then washing her face - the thought of applying cold water to her skin on an already chilling evening sent shivers reverberating through her entire body. And then there was still her journal entry ----
Revara perked her head up quickly in sudden realisation, was tempted to laugh at her own forgetfulness. She could journal now, she realised, shaking her head at herself, even whilst she sought her ink pot and quill.
Filling in her journal was what she looked forward to doing at the end of every evening. She just couldn’t go to sleep without recording her day. Now, not only would she save herself time when she at last returned home, but while the storm kept, she now had something with which to occupy herself.
Readying her pen, the point poised inches above the clean sheet of new parchment found in the draw of her desk, Revara exhaled a breath of anticipation and got to her scratching.
It is the year 5720.AL and, as it now stands, is the ninth year since Tree Skysinger presided over the Moon.
The Golden Elders are gone but have not been forgotten, do remain a popular topic of conversation amidst the elves of Asher Rise. Every now and then, the mindfinders feature the Lightmarshes in the Headlines, reminding the people of their greatness, their legacy. And so, it begs the question: does our new Great Servant, as fierce as he may be, have big boots to fill? In light of his golden predecessors, will he be able to lead the Moon into the horizon?
Here Revara’s pen took reprieve while she considered a possible extension to that last line. She thought now that it could indeed have an afterthought, one she felt to be relevant, though remained unsure of its criticising nature. This was what gave her pause, the potential danger of writing something that bore treason in its implication. But she dismissed the futile hesitation and resumed with this thought:
The ‘horizon’ it seems, is resting in the east where the Moon now struggles against the Sun for dominion over the Middle Islands. Is this how the Elder plans to outshine the Golden Elders that came before him? By giving the Moon back an island that the Last Golden Elder lost to the Highborns of Kaan Fulas?
Pausing, going over the last two lines, she nodded in compliance with the entry and again, her pen pressed into the parchment.
Storms brew above the trees of the Borderland Forest and, as can be expected, the Asher-elves beneath its boughs keep to themselves. We’re a remote bunch, unified for the most part by the belief in
Adonai the Whispering God, and, of course, the staunch rancour indoctrinated into us towards the Sand Elves of Aminiouse Glare.
Paraden returned today but he was in the office only briefly before being thrown out by Andarken. Alone with the Master of the Hunt, falling victim to his outbursts of wrath - his cursing and inconsiderate demands having always been reserved for his shadowa - I have found myself unconsciously weighed down whenever I come into service each morning. Today, moments before Paraden walked through the door, the Old Way Hunter decided that the tea I had made for him was lukewarm. I never once doubted the efficiency of his taste buds, rather I questioned the efficiency of his mind to have not realised that hot usually yielded to lukewarm before cold, if left to the cooling air of the office. The Master had waited an obvious half hour before he decided to sip his cup! So of course he would find the temperature beneath the line of his cursed liking!
Nonetheless, I was to pay the coin for his witlessness. His looming reprimand that in all honesty, I do find terrible to withstand, was indicated first by the sound of him spitting out his first sip. Then I heard that cup shatter when hurled against the wall. Following were the heavy steps of his advance, mingled incongruously by his ominous walking stick that in both mine and Paraden’s opinion, completed his profound profile of dark, ominous terror.
The door leading into his chamber then flew open, giving me a fright despite how aware I was of what was coming for me. I couldn’t register the words thrown at me when eventually the limping elf begun his verbal onslaught, but I knew I was being belittled, insulted and bombarded with verbal abuse.
The Master of the Hunt eventually ran out of breath and I watched him stalk back inside his chamber, fighting a great desire to retrieve one of my blades and run it through his chest so that I could watch his blood spill from his dead corpse. But after a moment of catching my own breath and calming my nerves, Paraden suddenly entered and with him came a relief, a reassurance; for the next few days, perhaps weeks, Andarken and Paraden would be away, leaving me to my own devices.
Again, Revara paused in thought over what she had written, approving of that last line; her own devices. She nodded and was about to continue, when a curious and independent sound was heard - one that made her head perk up towards the main door.
The door was closed, but Revara hadn’t thought it had been opened. Instead, the sound was more discreet, more fleeting, like paper slid over the tile of the floor. That was when she lifted herself in her chair to peer over her desk. There, she saw something that had her on her feet and walking towards the end of the room. Standing before the door, she bent down to pick up the folded parchment. She frowned at the letter, wondered who had slipped it though the crack at this hour… She had thought that everyone was gone… And yet… what if it is…
Revara opened the letter and saw the brief relay of its contents, it simply reading:
My Lady,
With urgency and in Adonai’s name, come to this address:
Corner of Loved Street, across Baker’s Valley, to the Whitesong Art Gallery.
Come alone and tread carefully, for the Old Way have begun to stir.
The letter tickled her intrigue but by principle alone - it was late and there was a storm coming - she crumpled the letter in a tight fist and chucked it in the nearby bin.
The storm hit at a violent rate and the meticulous waves of the Eleavor Sea had become estranged to us.
The Sea Storm; greatest of the Elder’s wardomes, pitched and rolled on waves that were as high as mountains in the black starless sky. Bright and vicious lightning cracked angrily, illuminating a dark world that had been hidden since the torches aboard had become snuffed out by the raging winds. Only the blinking eyes of those who possessed the First Sign of Adonai were easily seen.
“Pray to Adonai!” a sailor cried, hysterically. “Pray to the Whispering God!”
All I could do was watch. I stood on the bridge, my eyes beholding the stark panic of those sailors scurrying frantically on deck, while the impressively steadfast profiles of the crescents proved true their years of training in which conditioned them to stand firm when faced with imminent death.
The sailors lacked such resolution and at present one of them clawed at his face in horror, crying,
“Where is the Elder? Where is our Great Servant?”
Lightning struck. The sailor went on wailing. I looked beyond the masts, beyond the bow towards the figurehead that pivoted high towards the sky and what I saw was a vastness of daunting ocean. It was in that moment of cognisance that I sucked in my breath, having had noticed shadows in the deep; long, coiling and shifting black movement in the water, now heading towards the Sea Storm.
When suddenly those shadows smashed into the ship’s hull, threatening to tip the wardome over completely, I was not taken unaware like the others were - though indeed I was thrown off balance.
As I began to rise to my feet, the cries of the sailors reached new heights down at the deck. For the first time, I realised my attire; frowning at the discovery. I straightened and became amazed when I looked at my hands and arms, as if I had never once seen them before. I saw that they were clad in dark green steel. I dropped my chin and saw the dark green breastplate that protected my chest and torso and when I looked down at my legs and feet I saw that they too were fitted with armour.
Naturally, my left hand then went to my hip. I touched the long black hilt that stuck out just under my sternum. With my right hand, I gripped the hilt and pulled it up and at length, I held the longblade before me; the elegant steel was lean, was long and when lightning tore open the sky once more, I recognised the blade’s beauty and was unable to halt the smile forming at my mouth, nor the excitement building inside me. I turned my body in reaction and the black cloak that was clipped to the rondels at my shoulders swirled with me.
There before the railing of the bridge, I peered down, my eagerness beckoning me to be down there with blade in hand. I wasted no time. I leaped over the wooden railing and landed with a great crash onto the main deck. I felt empowered. I felt fearless. I rushed to the centre and posed amidst my warrior brothers; my feet rightfully positioned, my focus set on exacting the vigorous training of a crescent.
I wanted to kill something.
Through my peripheral vision, I noticed my brothers in arms lift their heads. I did so too and from the lightning, I recoiled slightly when faced with the long and arched heads of monsters that looked down at us. Their beady eyes were gleaming and smiling, were naroow slits across smooth scales.
Despite my readiness, I couldn’t ignore the sudden dread that came upon me, but my resolve did me credit and I gained the courage I needed to outweigh my fear.
When the darkness of the night returned, the faces of those monsters became dark shapes lined above our heads. Without warning, the monsters expelled a great cry that resonated loudly over the rumbling thunder, crashing waves and screaming sailors. To me, it sounded like a great hissing sound. It was the most terrifying sound I had ever heard, but I stood my ground; my weapon ready.
Again, lightning drew a violent line through the sky and, in a flash, these monsters, these sea serpents, readied themselves. They arched their long necks further, their toothless jaws now expanded over our heads and as the darkness enveloped the world again, the deck of the Sea Storm shook beneath our feet as if great boulders were being dropped onto it.
I heard queer sounds then; a slosh, like wet slithering. Then a sailor cried out again, but this time that cry was made by one who was doomed. A crescent who I had been standing next to, disappeared with a similar cry.
Lightning struck, and I grasped our situation; smaller offspring of the sea monsters were being regurgitated from their parent’s mouths. Upon hitting the deck, they immediately leaped to the attack, slithering with terrifying swiftness towards any elf they were closest too, wrapping their bodies around their victims, silencing them with wide jaws over their heads. My fellow crescents acted, and the war cries resounded
.
“For Adonai!”
“For the Elder!”
“For the Skysingers!”
“Jayrander!”
Lightning struck. I saw three of the vile snakes before me and I charged, aiming for the one that was devouring a limp sailor.
Behind me, I heard more of the snakes fall on deck, which by now, was filled with running sailors and dying crescents.
While I hacked at the sea fiends, my adrenaline numbing my fear, unconscious thoughts began to appear in my mind; when had I learnt how to fight like this? And why did it seem that these coiling serpents appeared more intent on everyone but me, even when I was bringing my blade down on their soft and slimy skin?
It was as if one of the sea serpents vomiting their young on our heads could discern my confusion and decided to oblige me with a challenge. One slithering fiend with red gleaming eyes now shot at me with an open mouth. I sidestepped left and swung my blade right, severing its head from its reeling body. Immediately, I looked forward again as if expecting another attack. My instincts were acute. Two more came at me and I slew them with ease.
“Alepion!” I triumphantly cried, blood drunk, blade risen high, lightning cracking open the black sky so that all could see me during my boast.
The sea monsters ceased their projectile disgorge, did peel back their heads in outrage while their terrifying hissing cry suddenly exploded into hearing more wrathfully than ever.
In my current state of self-assurance, their attempt to quail me was futile. I charged as they brought their heads down on me. I hadn’t the faintest plan of action but to run ahead, but realised once I reached the bow’s end, that I was to leap over the edge of the ship, to project myself far enough in order to run my blade through the long neck of the closest of the sea monsters.
The Missing Page 2