The Missing

by Jeremy Forsyth

  If the Throne was calling for the arrest of their Higher, even sending sentinels of the capital to carry out its will, the sentinels of Olian could do nothing but watch in dismay. Judging by the look on the Higher’s face, he knew this too. He had none to defend him against Andarken’s next words.

  “Seize this Stranger!” the old elf now commanded. “Bind him and let his Dead Gods stop you!”

  The Lowvilla sentinels moved forward in synchronised motion and while Paraden watched the Higher’s expression twist into one of disgust, he felt a sudden heat take hold the hall.

  The Higher of the Olian Glades flipped the great table right off the dais with strained effort. He shot out a finger at Andarken, his eyes ablaze with the fury that at last was about to explode.

  “You’re the Dead God worshipper!” the Higher roared. “By choice or not, you do their bidding. You witless old fool! I am an enemy of the Dead Gods! I oppose their followers and it is they who have manipulated you!”

  The Higher jumped down from the dais, seemingly intent on taking on the sentinels who advanced against him. The Higher stretched out a hand towards them, palm flat against the air as he declared now with raw indignation,

  “I DID NOT ABDUCT MY DAUGHTER! I DID NOT MURDER HER!”

  The sentinels shrunk back in the face of an engulfing fire that shot out of the Higher’s palm, igniting a couple of the sentinels who were too slow to evade its dark and searing touch.

  Elves in the hall screamed, some scramming for the exit while others were frozen in stunned shock. Paraden concentrated on the confrontation and saw how the sentinels who had been blasted by the fire, became assisted by some that had escaped the attack.

  “I DID NOT MURDER MY DAUGHTER!” bellowed the Higher again, unleashing another stretch of fire but this time, at Paraden’s master, who for some reason, stood there and took the flames head on.

  Had he become rigid from fear as some of the spectators in the hall had? Wondered Paraden, or has his arrogance deceived him? Did he think the Higher’s fire would not reach him?

  Either way, Paraden’s master went down with petrified cries of pain while the Higher continued to seethe.

  “YOU HEAR ME OLD WAY HUNTER?!” he shouted, furiously, leering down at Andarken’s reeling body. The Old Way Hunter rolled on the floor, trying to snuff out the flames reaching up his cloak, unaware that his efforts would prove vain, for even as Andarken struggled, the Higher mounted his next and final attack.

  Paraden watched Higher Durasian stretch out both hands, bringing palms together, fingers aimed at the suffering Andarken. With a great cry, a greater velocity of flame exploded from those hands, completely engulfing Andarken in ravenous flame. The screams of Paraden’s master becoming so distorted and uncharacteristically high pitched, that Paraden’s expression became pinched, unsettling him as the volume of his master’s suffering reached impossible levels.

  The Lowvilla sentinels were on the Higher now, all while the ruler of the Olian Glades cried out relentlessly,

  “I DID NOT MURDER MY DAUGHTER! CURSE YOU, ANDARKEN! CURSE YOU!”

  Chapter 10

  Revara’s vantage point was impeccable. She sat on the spine of a roof, above an arched gable while tiles fell past her legs on either side. From here, Olian’s distinctions could be measured by simply one’s capacity to see; and what she saw was vast industry expansion that dated back thousands of years. The Glade’s housing lined the streets with reprieve from monotony coming in the form of impressively architected belfries, temples and then the two stout and broad Crescent Holds.

  Her view was incredible. She could acknowledge that. However, she did not come here to experience Olian’s magnificent characteristics that would have made its founder, the Loved, proud. No. Revara wasn’t here for sightseeing. Rather, she was on a stakeout and the place of interest where her unsuspecting dupe had spent the last remaining hours of his life, was the narrow Whitesong Art gallery.

  It was nearing the Howling Hour when Revara began to grow restless. The temptation to exact her intended plans on another evening threatened to beckon her away from the roof. But without sufficient incentive, her resolve to see tonight through rang truer by her determination not to move. While she kept a vigilant watch on the structure below, her anxiety festered and began mounting inside her until it manifested through the progressive tapping of her heels against the hard tiles.

  Her thoughts turned again to the still unbelievable revelation that she had received from Lardian; that there was a secret organisation sworn to the downfall of the Old Way.

  Surely the Old Way are aware? Revara wondered, not for the first time. Surely it was obvious that the Throne would initiate opposition to the Old Way and so this new piece of information shouldn’t have come as a surprise?

  And yet, it had. Not once before meeting Lardian had Revara considered the possibility of an initiative as the Order of the White Whisperers. Furthermore, that this initiative had begun during the reign of the Brave!

  No! That can’t be so! She decided. The Old Way must know! They must! But, if they were so well informed and organised enough to realise that they were being hunted, their members under surveillance, then surely, they would also know the identity of Black Hood?

  Why was it that I have not been found out by them? Why hadn’t the Old Way approached me, confronted me? Surely they would have if they knew? Surely my rogue ways didn’t correlate well with their plans and methods, their policies? Surely they would be seeking to recruit me, little knowing that I would rather die than be subjected to their laws?

  That was one of the main reasons she covered her face when seeking her next victim to offer to Old Gods. She didn’t want Alepion authorities to identify her just as much as she didn’t want the Old Way to.

  And yet, ever since the Headlines gave her the name the Black Hood, her killing sprees featuring in the Headlines every time one of her victims were found, Revara had begun anticipating that any day now some important associate of the Old Way would approach her. Admittedly, when she started receiving those letters from Lardian’s father, she had first assumed that the day had at last come.

  Discovering that those letters came from sworn enemies of the Old Way, Revara had begun suspecting that just maybe she was wrong. Perhaps the Old Way hadn’t discovered the identity of the Black Hood; implying that they were not as well informed as Revara had once suspected.

  Activity down below whisked Revara away from her thoughts and forced her head. She smiled with relief when someone took their leave from the gallery. This someone walked into the middle of the road and when Revara saw that he would be joined by another, she decided that no other pair seen walking the streets at this hour had ever displayed themselves more conspicuously than those two down there. They were so obvious in their suspicious manner towards the dark alleyways, the windows and balconies above them, that Revara at once feared discovery.

  But while she could commend their fearsome demeanour, contributed to by their identically shabby brown coats, she couldn’t afford them points towards attentiveness. They now forsook their role in procuring a safe passage for whoever they meant to protect, and Revara found herself shaking her head in disappointment, for if they had just kept looking a while longer, craned their necks just a little higher, perhaps they would have noticed two shinning eyes beading down at them from this particular roof.

  Exiting the art gallery now, Revara saw another brown-cloak appear on the road. Like his apparent counterparts, the elf made a quick scan of the night before he turned around to watch yet another brown-cloaked lackey wheel out an old elf in a wheelchair.

  That was when Revara’s gaze narrowed, her heart picking up pace as it always did when locking eyes on her intended prey. The rush of adrenaline was already causing an excitement to surge inside her as equally pungent as the budding fear that drew to her attention the unforeseen possibility that something might go wrong as it nearly had when facing off against Lardian.

  Revara slowly posi
tioned herself to leave the roof. She watched the old elf and his bodyguards head down the road, did linger with the thought that if tonight went as planned, the Black Hood’s latest victim had the potential to cause quite a stir amidst the court of the Elder. That alone brought a smug smile to Revara’s face. It amused her to think that depending on how important this Tegerian Whitesong was, soon, Revara would see the ramifications of her actions filter down from the Nunes to the Olian Glades. Perhaps this one death might just open opportunities for the Old Way to exploit certain weaknesses amidst those of power.

  Revara straightened, pulled the black mask over her nose and then the black hood over her head. She looked upon the night with a hardened gaze, mentally preparing for the confrontation that awaited her. She lifted her head to the sky where she took in a deep breath. When she lowered her head, she willed power to flow through her veins, then leaned forward and was embraced by the night.

  Her prey hadn’t gone far. The old elf was being pushed on the side of the road by one of the four henchelves, while one led the way, another stalking behind, leaving the fourth blending in with the shadows on the other side of the road. Revara glided down, deciding that the latter would be the one she took out first.

  Power vanished within her just as Revara landed on the ground, returning her to her Moon Elf form. She darted quickly towards her target with nimble steps while drawing out a tiny blade from the scabbard she had strapped around her waist. With deft precision, she drove the blade into the unsuspecting elf’s neck and in the exact motion of pulling the weapon out, she ignited power to shoot through her body once more. It was enough to transform her again just in time before the others turned their heads to see their comrade drop to his knees.

  Revara smiled while floating higher and higher into the night. She shut her eyes quickly when the other henchelves looked towards the sky. She didn’t want to be identified by her shining eyes. While her body blended in with the night, her shadowy form taking the colour of black, the First Sign of Adonai would shine through the darkness, rendering her camouflage pointless.

  Keeping her eyes closed, pressing through the air, Revara eventually peeked and saw she was overhead of her targets. The three lackeys remaining were not advancing anymore, instead, did surround the elf in the wheelchair.

  Revara decided to be bold, to forgo all stealth. She landed dramatically onto the street, her veins bereft of power for the moment while she looked up at the elves and their master, who, behind those protecting him, watched Revara with narrowed eyes of suspicion.

  “Fair evening,” said Revara.

  “The Black Hood,” responded one of the henchelves, drawing an impressively designed longblade from beneath his cloak.

  As for Revara, her hands were hidden beneath her cloak and after two steps forward, she shot them out, releasing two well-aimed blades that, like the first one, had been strapped along her waist.

  This attack was meant to test her opponent’s defences; she wanted to see who among them she would need to concern herself with. The lackey who had drawn out the longblade rushed forward, using his weapon to smack away Revara’s hurled blade, didn’t stop in his advance against her. This forced Revara to transform into shadow once more, just as her assailant swung the blade through her body, the steel coming out the other side of her, leaving her totally unharmed.

  As for her other thrown blade, Revara saw that it was lodged in the stomach of its intended target, who collapsed to his knees before falling face first onto the pavement floor.

  “My father once prophesised that there would be a great shadow in the land!” shouted out Tegerian Whitesong from behind his bodyguards.

  Revara was in the sky but returned to her Moon Elf form, throwing another blade while falling. She missed the elf with the longblade and before hitting the ground, she became shadow again, moving quickly around towards the other side of the road.

  Of the two who remained to protect Tegerian, the one with the longblade appeared the more threatening, while the other seemed more concerned with staying close to his charge. He hadn’t moved since Revara appeared, aside from following her with shining eyes that were undistinguished beneath his hood.

  Revara flew past the longblade wielder, his swipe through her proving null and void. She circled back, slightly catching the next words coming from the old elf seated in his wheelchair.

  “It was not you, Shadow,” he shouted. “It couldn’t have been you! No!”

  Again, Revara passed the longblade swinger and transformed back into her Moon Elf form while coming behind him. She jabbed an underhanded blade into the bodyguard’s side before quickly turning back into shadow, whisking off into the air to evaluate the effect of her effort.

  “It was not you!” the Tegerian Whitesong continued. “My father did not prophesy that the shadow was you. No!”

  Revara noticed that the henchelf with the blade staggered in his attempt to face her. She suspected that all that was required of her now was one final attack and the longblade wielder would be removed from the equation entirely.

  Before making her next move, Revara glanced at the elf in the wheelchair, finding his words empty of all pertinence. She didn’t care who had once prophesised that there would be a shadow in Alepion. It didn’t matter. What mattered, is that tonight she was the shadow that this Tegerian Whitesong would need to concern himself over - for it was not going to end well for him if he didn’t.

  Revara soared quickly towards the injured henchelf. While still in mid-air, she transformed back into a Moon Elf and like she had done in the beginning, she hurled two blades at her opponent, already deducing that though he was quick enough to block one blade, he was not quick enough to block two. And yet, given his weakened state, the elf couldn’t even block one. Both blades pierced him and Revara touched ground again at the same time that the elf dropped his weapon and fell back onto the road.

  “I assume you’re an agent of the Old Way?” called out Tegerian.

  Revara glanced at him briefly. She was more focused on the remaining bodyguard who, even now, did not move except to keep his eyes on Revara. There was something about his gaze that made Revara uneasy. She couldn’t shake it. The elf appeared unarmed. He hadn’t taken an offensive stance - all he appeared to do was keep a protective hand on… Throughout the scuffle, the hooded elf’s hand had remained resting on the shoulder of Tegerian Whitesong and when Revara’s eyes looked up again, a thought came to her; one that sent shivers of fear rippling down her body.

  … Lardian…

  “Why do you not answer?” said Tegerian. “Why, my lady Revara?”

  It was as if someone had kicked her directly in the stomach. Revara, for the moment, couldn’t move nor think. Fear made her immobile. But it was only when the henchelf pulled back his hood to reveal the face of Lardian Whitesong, the elf Revara had sacrificed to the Old Gods, that the world truly began spinning and she knew that if she did not kill the two of them this evening, she would be found out. Her identity would be revealed in the Headlines by tomorrow morning.

  Then, another Lardian stepped to the side of Lardian. From him, another Lardian appeared. This happened an additional two more twice, there now being more Lardians than there had been the morning she had faced him inside her home.

  During that fierce encounter Lardian had duplicated himself only twice. All she had had to do was fight three of him. It had been exhausting, especially because she hadn’t anticipated a fight. All she had foreseen was an easy victim, just like all her others had been. Now, however, Lardian had five duplicates standing in line next to him; all watching her with that same steadfast, slightly dismayed gaze, utterly void of fear.

  “You can’t be that shadow,” came Lardian’s father. “No. That shadow was said to one day smother an entire forest and fill it with darkness while elves everywhere fled in terror.”

  “Surrender, Revara,” said Lardian suddenly, seemingly sad for her. “Surrender.”

  All the Lardians now moved to surround
their father and while the lot of them stood in the street, Revara’s world wouldn’t stop spinning.

  “Come quietly and we will take that into consideration when deciding your fate.” Revara shook her head. “Branding and exile. That will be my fate.” She continued to shake her head, while she tried with all her might to conjure up an idea that would save her. “No. I won’t. I can’t,” she kept saying. “Branding and exile. Your Throne will give me nothing less.”

  “Have it your way,” said Lardian.

  It was in that moment that something hard hit her from behind. It was with such a force that Revara flew forward, landing in the dirt of the road, her face hitting the floor with an impact that left her dazed. At length she lay there; able to comprehend only the footsteps of the Lardians that eventually, she figured, were bearing over her.

  “You have taught the White Whisperers a valuable lesson, my lady,” she heard one of the Lardians say. Then she heard wooden wheels engage the dirt on the road. “Call that duplicate of yours down from the balcony, son. Before someone sees him.”

  “Yes father.”

  Revara heard a Lardian leave her proximity, hearing then from the mouth of his father, who remained,

  “And so at last, the reign of the Black Hood comes to an end.”

  Chapter 11

  As one of the prime participants in the case of the missing Presumed Heiress of the Olian Glades, Paraden was allowed to attend the trial of the accused. Paraden’s master however, would not be in attendance, for Andarken Sourleaf remained in critical condition back home. His severe burn injuries being the cause of not only his immobility, but also Paraden’s ongoing euphoric mood. On his way to the trial with the others who had also been permitted to attend, Paraden was practically skipping.