Ashar'an Rising (Nexus Wars Saga)

by Robert Day

  With a hiss they were ignited as he scrubbed them against the oily ground, then he turned back down the defile and began to run. Whatever light it allowed him would not be great, and he needed whatever head start he could get on the Goth. They appeared to have attacked as one group, and there did not seem to be reinforcements, or at least he hoped there were not, as he started down the rough slope.

  Bolts and spears skipped off the ground around him before he was out of their range, and howls of anger sprang up from the trailing Goth. He heard them continue for several moments before there was a thud and scraping of metal, and the sounds of pursuit were heard. They had obviously feared the fire, and had probably used one of their dead companions to throw on it to extinguish it enough for them to pass.

  He was forced to sheathe his sword as he began his desperate flight to safety, the conditions seeing him falling and sliding almost constantly in the darkness. The bolts burnt slowly, and surprisingly for longer than he had thought, though they spluttered into dark embers with the sounds of pursuit some way back but still close enough to make him think the Goth would be upon him at any moment. He could only guess at the time, but did not think it was any later than midnight, for the Goth would presumably not want to make any attacks with the possibility of dawn coming, so it would likely be three or four hours until dawn, at least.

  A louder cry from a Goth close by was cut off, making Andrak hope it had fallen, not difficult to do in these conditions, even for those who could see somewhat. Even as he thought this, a high root tripped him up. He fell, resisting the urge to throw his hands down and brace his fall, not knowing what he would land on. As it was, he rolled over rough rock several times before slamming into the bole of a tree. He considered climbing the tree, despite the burning pain of scrapes and bruises, but knew he would be an easy target for their bowmen if he were found. His only hope lay in evading them long enough for them to turn back or give up the chase.

  Another cry of pain echoed through the night, followed by the sounds of a tumbling body, and he guessed another Goth had fallen. The shouts of the others, sounding like more than a dozen, made him think they were trying to warn each other of the dangers.

  Yet a third crashing came, followed quickly by a fourth, and Andrak could only thank his luck and press on. His luck seemed to run out, however, as another fall wrenched his leg, and his knee would not support him as he struggled to rise. Growling against the pain, he stood, supported by a large boulder, flexing it softly to try and gain some strength, and he was able to hobble slowly, though he knew the Goth would overtake him soon, no matter how cautious they had become.

  Yet more cries from back up the slope made him pause, hearing a confused note in their guttural tones, as if perhaps they had lost him. Then he realized it was not confusion, but more concern, as if they were trying to regain order. Whatever it was, they did not seem to be coming any closer to him, despite their furious barking and yelling.

  “Hurry, man. It will not last long!”

  Andrak spun, or at least he wanted to, but his knee had him straining from his shifting weight and he almost fell, but managed to turn enough to see where the call had come from.

  A slim figure stood at the base of a large rock cluster nearby, pressed against it as if trying to hide. It held in one hand a light, what appeared to be a glowing globe of pale orange. It cast an eerie light on the hooded figure whose clothes were of brown and dark green, and in the other hand was a curved bow easily the figure's height. The outline of a quiver and a sword were also visible at his waist.

  “Run. The Goth will be here soon. Get away while you can!” Funnily enough, Andrak did not see the person as a threat, or even a savior, alone as he was, despite the weapons.

  The figure sighed and turned towards him, the face showing briefly beneath the hood in the dim light. It was a narrow face, and he thought it had appeared striking, though he had only captured it briefly.

  “The Goth are under the impression they are surrounded. Hurry, and we can be away before they realize what has happened.” The voice was obviously that of a male, though soft and musical to the ear. The figure said something else under his breath, loud enough for the Prince to hear. It was in Elvin, however, and Andrak gave a start.

  “You are an Elf!” He made a careful step towards the Elf, having recognized the Elvin words the figure had spoken, and under other circumstances he would have been offended by what the Elf had called him. “I cannot move quickly.” This he spoke in Elvin, letting the Elf know he had heard and understood what he had said. He also looked down to his leg that shook visibly in the dim light, and there were tears in his clothing showing lines of blood.

  “Then perhaps you are not as stupid as I thought,” quipped the Elf, sounding like an apology to the Prince, aware of the lighthearted nature of the Elves. “But we must still be gone. My camp is less than a mile away, and we should be able to avoid the Goth until dawn if we can make it there.”

  Andrak nodded, knowing it was some hope, and he stepped towards the Elf, though he grimaced against the pain. Still, he was determined to show he could do it and forced his steps, albeit painfully.

  “Here. Keep going that way!” ordered the Elf, pressing the glowing globe into his hand and waving off down the hill where Andrak had been heading anyhow. He tentatively took the globe, expecting it to burn his hand or at least feel warm, but instead it was cool and smooth to the touch.

  “Where are you going?” he asked as the Elf stepped past him and drew an arrow from his quiver in a swift motion and nocked it into his bow. With easy steps, the Elf was leaping onto a large boulder where he loosed the arrow into the darkness. Andrak began to frown questioningly at the Elf's action, but the cry of a Goth in pain answered him and he forced himself forward.

  All thoughts of the Elf vanished as he painfully fled, using the inner light of the globe in his hand to focus occasionally as the pain built like the rolling ocean pounding at a rocky shore. It was a miracle he did not trip and fall, though he probably would have soon enough when a supporting hand grasped him under the shoulder.

  “Not far to go now, Kal'blis.” Meaning ‘friend’, this seemed to give Andrak hope as renewed strength came to him, though still the pain seemed unbearable. He felt his vision fading, becoming blurred, and he wondered why he was so tired, considering the pain he was feeling and the rush he should have felt from the blood and adrenalin coursing through his veins. The pain did fade, however, like it had struck a wall, but threatening to break through with renewed intensity. The Goth also seemed to fade from hearing, though the Elf urged him along constantly. Or at least that is what he thought the Elf was saying, the words soon becoming incoherent to his sleepy mind.

  Soon, all feeling began to fade from his body, and he wondered how he was still moving, causing him to marvel at the phenomenon. He thought he might have been dreaming then, the gloom around him appearing non corporeal, and with a sigh he let himself fall into the dream as Darkness surrounded him.

  The smell of cooking (almost as beautiful as that which had filled one of his dreams), woke Andrak slowly to pale light, sleep trying to retain its hold on him as he struggled to shrug it off like a damp cloak.

  He noticed instantly that he was in a small cave, arched at the roof several feet overhead where a crack disappeared upwards and ran along the length of the ten foot grotto. He looked around in confusion, only partially remembering what had happened to him before he had slept, but he remembered his fight and flight from the Goth and the appearance of the Elf who had helped him. There was no sign of this mysterious stranger, though there was a small mound of glowing embers inside a ring of stones nearby, and beside that a pile of gear covered by a blanket. A thin strip of sunlight was visible at the far end of the cave, dampened by what appeared to be a lattice of branches and vines.

  He was stripped of his clothing down to his underclothes and covered by a thick woolen blanket that itched slightly when he moved, though it was warm and snug. He lay o
n a pile of furs, from what animal he could not tell, though they were expertly prepared and cured.

  Rolling to a sitting position, he felt his body protest. Throwing off the heavy blanket, he studied himself in the vague light. His knees, hands, elbows and thighs were all worn with scrapes and bruises, a reminder of his desperate flight, while a wound to his thigh was covered with a press and retaining bandage. He remembered the grazing wound from the crossbow bolt that had not seemed too bad when he was pumped up, but it must have been serious enough to warrant a bandage.

  His left leg was also bandaged from lower thigh to calf, ridged with several straight sticks protruding from the bandage. There was a faint ebbing of pain from the wrenched knee as he moved, and although he was no healer, it felt bad, which probably meant it was.

  A soft shuffling at the cave's entry alerted him then, and he reached for his sword which was nowhere nearby, leaning against a wall well out of reach, but as the wall of foliage parted, it was no Goth that entered but the lanky figure of the Elf, or at least he thought it was the same Elf who had helped him the previous night.

  Dressed in brown shirt and trousers that were striped in a pattern of jagged greens, light and dark, the Elf pushed back a hood of the same hue, revealing his face. Andrak had glimpsed it momentarily the night before, but could remember nothing about it. It was striking, as Elvin features were, but this one appeared even more handsome than those Andrak had seen before, with the possible exclusion of Llewellyn.

  This Elf had pale golden hair, like a sandy beach during a pristine sunrise, long and straight down past his shoulders. His face was narrow, with dominant cheekbones, high forehead and narrow chin. His mouth was thin, and its width did not seem out of place, while his nose was slender and slightly pointed. That which made him without a doubt Elvin, his pointed, lobeless ears, were pierced with several silver and gold rings, some bearing small gems or bars of gleaming silver. Piercing green eyes alighted on Andrak instantly, though they softened as he stepped towards him carrying in his right hand a small bag, while the other carried his strung bow.

  “I did not expect you up so early,” he spoke almost apologetically, shifting to the side of the cave and resting his bow against the wall after unstringing it carefully. His quiver he also removed, though his sword remained at his waist opposite a long knife, and in his left boot protruded the hilt of a small dagger. “I have enough food cooking for two, however.”

  It was spoken in Elvin. Although Andrak was well versed in the language, he had hardly been required to use it in times past, other than some small conversations with Llewellyn, by whom he had been taught, and he had trouble following it.

  “I trust you slept well?”

  Andrak nodded eventually. He was still trying to sort through the jumbled images he was recalling, along with the surprise at having been saved by one of the Treeborn. “Sal. Natara hal.”

  “There is no need for thanks,” smiled the Elf, reverting to the common Language of the North, sensing Andrak's struggle with his language. “How are your wounds?”

  “Well, though I think my leg will be a while in healing.”

  The Elf nodded. “It was not bad, but unless you keep off it, it will take even longer to heal. Two or three days rest and you should be able to walk on it again.”

  “Two or three days?” asked Andrak incredulously. “I would have thought two or three weeks at the least. I do not heal as fast as you, my friend.” He knew Elvenkind were practically immortal, with life spans dwarfing those of the other races, and that for an Elf to die of unnatural causes was unheard of. Battle and old age were the most common causes of Elvin deaths, and their bodies were naturally regenerative.

  “With these, you will,” assured the Elf, holding up the bag he was carrying. He tossed it off to the side with the other equipment.

  “What is in it?” asked the Prince curiously. Whatever it was would have to be highly medicinal if it was to help him recover in a few short days.

  “Herbs and vegetables. I can mix some salves and potions to aid your healing, and although they will taste foul, you will improve rapidly.

  “That is usually the case with anything good for you,” muttered Andrak dryly. “Always the bad with the good.” He thought he noticed the Elf grin slightly as he bent to sift through the circle of embers with a stick.

  “Will we be safe for that long?” he asked, louder this time, though he was sure the Elf would hear him if he whispered.

  “I think so. The Goth are not usually vengeful, and they probably think we are well clear of the area by now. If we lie low, they shouldn't bother us.” The Elf didn't say what would happen if they did, though he did cast a wary glance at the entry, which did nothing to appease Andrak's apprehension. “Besides, they usually go into hiding to lick their wounds after such losses.”

  “Losses? How many did you kill last night?”

  “Seven by my bow, two with my blade, while another broke his neck in a fall. Combine that with the three you killed, and that makes for one unsuccessful Goth raid.”

  “I did not think the Goth were so prevalent at this time of the year,” mused Andrak; though he admitted to himself the extent of his knowledge about such matters was not great.

  “They are usually not, but this year seems to be different for them, somehow. More and more are venturing from their holes, which is why I am here. I am what you would call a scout. I have been assigned to determine the extent of these wanderings and expeditions and report my findings.” He finished with a sigh as he shifted away from the fire and leant back against the wall, facing Andrak. He looked as if that which he had already discovered was not weighing well with him.

  “Well, I must thank you for your intervention last night. My luck seemed to be running out fast on me. I hope showing yourself hasn't compromised your assignment.”

  “I am overdue in returning home, anyhow, but your thanks are not necessary. You are just lucky that I had not left for home yesterday like I had planned.”

  “Maybe it was more than luck,” stated Andrak, thinking of the book his Sister had been reading about the prophecies, but he shook it off, though he did look to see if his pack was present and it was, piled beneath his leaning sword.

  “The food is almost ready, but it should give us enough time to tell me what you are doing passing through these hills alone.”

  Andrak watched him silently, trying to match the unblinking gaze of the Elf. What could he tell this stranger, and what could he leave out that wouldn't offend him?

  “It might help if we were introduced first.” At this, the Elf brought out a fine silver chain from around his neck, on which hung the outline of a golden tree. Its leaves were aureate with silver specks, while the slender bole was interlaced with the same silvery material. “Do you know what this is?”

  Andrak nodded, and a wave of what he could only call foreboding washed over him. What the Elf had brought out was something only a handful of Elves on Kil'Tar could possess lawfully. It was made of pure gold, and the silvery material was Platinum, making it worth a great deal. It also signaled that this was no ordinary Elf to have 'chanced' upon him and saved his life.

  “I am Janantar, Son of Clovinius and Nephew of Solantholas, King of Lloreander.”

  Andrak could only gape with awe for many moments, causing Janantar to chuckle softly. “Come now. You have obviously seen Elves before. Do not worry, there is no need to bow before me or anything like that.”

  Andrak was brought from his shocked silence by this quip, and felt one of his own in the making. “Maybe it is I who should be excusing you from such formalities, Janantar, Son of Clovinius. Recognize you this signet?”

  So saying, Andrak dragged himself the two paces to where his sword rested against the wall. The weapon had been crafted for him after his own design, and where the hilt looked plain with a wooden grip and flared pommel, a careful twist allowed the balled pommel to screw loose, revealing a secret apartment. Inside, a layer of wool was rolled around
a small object.

  Carefully unrolling the sheet, he revealed a gleaming silver and gold ring which he usually wore on his left hand. On it was the Lavender rose and silver diadem insignia of the Royal House of Thorhus.

  Janantar's cool expression made it appear that he did not know the significance of the ring, but he rose slowly. Then, with a flourish, he dropped one knee beneath him in a formal bow, one arm sweeping across him as his head lowered. It was done with such poise that Andrak could not help but break into laughter, somehow sensing the Elf's mocking manner. Janantar finished his bow and dropped back to his seat, a smile played across his youthful face.

  “It seems we are both a long way from home, Prince of Ariakus.”

  “Indeed we are. Truth be told, my tale is long in the telling, and has certain elements which require a certain amount of caution.” It was his way of telling the Elf that some things he knew he could not speak of, at least not yet, but Janantar merely nodded acceptance of this.

  “We all have secrets, do we not, Kal'blis.”

  Andrak could only laugh at this, but found the hand of fate pushing him again, and he sensed it was no coincidence the nephew of the King of Lloreander had saved his life. He told the Elf all that he knew, from when Ka'Varel had arrived at Thorhus, up until the attack and kidnap of Kitara. After all, that was why they had been going to Lloreander in the first place, and if he were to continue his search for Kitara, he would need somebody to carry the news there.

  It was not a tale of great magnitude, but Janantar made him go over every detail, questioning him about Ka'Varel and his knowledge of these Demons, as well as the Ashar'an Assassin who had entered Thorhus and almost killed Kitara. He seemed curious about the young man, Valdieron, whose Dragonsword intrigued him, which led to the telling of the events of the tournament.