by Sean Hinn
He finished bandaging the stallion, who had patiently allowed him to do so. A willful being was Phantom, as Barris had learned on more than one occasion, but his trust in Barris was absolute, as was Barris’ trust in him. So strange, thought Barris, that such a Bond could exist between members of entirely different species, when men and dwarves and even elves so often find themselves facing each other with murderous intent. He thought back to his meeting with Halsen, and the bloodlust of not only the king, but of the crowd, wagering on whether or not he would survive The Game.
“These are terrible times we live in, friend,” he said to Phantom.
They could have ridden off after Phantom had been bandaged, but Barris decided that his companion more than deserved the time to rest and heal. In truth, Barris was not eager to return to the road. There would likely be very little time, if any, for he and the great stallion to simply enjoy one another’s company before the storm the people of Tahr now faced rolled in. If one afternoon of his life should make any difference, Barris considered, it would imply that he was far more important than he knew himself to be. A justification for delay, he knew, but one that satisfied him. Barris and Phantom spent the remainder of the afternoon wandering just off the path, looking for a suitable place to make camp. They found several, but Phantom seemed to also enjoy the walk, so walk they did.
Twilight had fallen when the pair had settled on a campsite, a patch of dry grasses that had been trampled not long before. There was no sign of passage aside from the flattened plant life, leading Barris to conclude that an elven Ranger had camped here recently. “Well that certainly means it is good enough for the likes of you and I, dear Phantom. Let us rest here.” Barris began to make camp, deciding to save the oats he had brought for Phantom, as he had eaten more than his fill of grasses throughout the afternoon. He had just covered Phantom with his blanket, which the stallion accepted this night, when he heard a rustle nearby, coming from the direction of the road. Phantom snuffled and threw his head. “You heard it as well, friend.”
Barris did not delay; he found it unlikely that he and Phantom would be threatened here, certainly not by an ordinary animal, but a wounded creature or a traveler could bear them ill intent, and his instincts told him something was amiss. He bounded towards the sheath on his saddle, withdrew his sword, and silently made his way to the source of the noise.
Reaching the path, he could just make out in the meager light a chestnut horse grazing a few dozen paces south of where he stood. No rider, though the horse was saddled. The horse shifted position to face Barris, revealing a lump of arms, legs, and blond hair in the middle of the narrow trail.
XVII: THORNWOOD
The elven advisors in the council chamber sat and listened attentively as Neral shared much of what he knew about the dangers their people now confronted. Not all, for some truths were too horrifying to yet give voice to. It would take time for even the wisest and most even-tempered among them to accustom themselves to the imminent perils the world now faced. While Neral knew that no amount of preparation would sufficiently prime the elven people for the threats ahead, the gentle nature of his kind would not enable them to easily come to grips with the whole of it too suddenly. We again live in a time for warriors, thought Neral, and the tender among us may not endure long.
Neral was once such a warrior, though centuries had passed since he had wielded a sword or led elves on horseback. This war would be fought by the young.
“All here have studied our histories to some degree,” began the wizened elf. “Do not worry; I will not lead you all to slumber with a recitation of the history of Tahr, though we will return to the subject of the past shortly. It is the future I first wish to discuss with you, not of the people of Tahr, nor of the elves, but of your futures, of your lives beyond this one.” Neral surveyed the hall, his eyes settling for a moment on each of the elves assembled, and addressed the daughter of the queen first.
“Aria. Would you tell me dear, if you will, where will you go when you have drawn your last breath on Tahr?”
Aria blanched, stunned by the inquiry, for the question was the most private of matters, a question reserved for lovers to share before their Joining night, or among closely bonded friends and family, in equally intimate moments. Certainly not publicly, in an assembly.
“It is alright, child,” said Neral kindly. “I will not force your answer, though I would ask you to share this gift with us today, for the good of your people.”
Aria was confused, but pride would not allow her to withhold her answer. “I will answer, Goodfather. On my last day, I shall go before the First Father and ask Him to allow me to continue to serve my people, in the manner He deems fitting.”
Neral nodded his thanks, and measured the expressions of those seated at the table. Queen Evanti’s demeanor was severe, doubtlessly upset by the intrusion into her daughter’s deepest heart. As he eyed the others assembled, it was clear that all were uncomfortable, save Pheonaris, Mistress of the Society.
“Pheonaris,” Neral began…
“Beyond, Goodfather,” Pheonaris interrupted cheerfully, no offense taken at the deeply personal query. “I shall ask the First Father to go Beyond.”
Glances were exchanged at this, and Neral allowed a moment to pass before speaking again.
“Thank you, Pheonaris. I know you are all a bit shocked, but be at peace, I shall not make you each expose your eternal path. I did not wish discomfort to you, Aria, nor you Pheonaris. I did, however, require your candor, for I wish to demonstrate how, even among us, the chosen leaders of a supposedly enlightened people, discussion of Eternity is met with strong emotion. Think of how uncomfortable each of you are feeling right now. We talk of the pain of the land, of impending wars and death, and we feel anger, remorse, pity, grief. Yet when we speak of Eternity, our emotions sharpen even further, and we begin to understand a bit more of what the abstract concept of death truly means. This is unsettling, is it not?”
Nishali spoke. “Goodfather, death is a part of life. It is not to be feared.”
“Ah, brave ranger, but you are mistaken in this.”
Silence rang like a bell. Neral let it ring.
“I do not believe she is, Neral,” this from the queen. “All here know that while our bodies are not immortal, our spirits will persevere. I do not believe any here would fear to lay down their life for another.”
“Of course, my queen. But that is not what Nishali said. She said that death is not to be feared. That is most certainly untrue. I will concede, perhaps those of us here do not fear our own deaths. Perhaps.” Neral glanced along the table. “Nishali, why do you not fear your own death?”
Nishali replied without a hint of discomfort. “I have given my life in service to the land, my people, and the First Father. My place is assured. I made my choice long ago as to the woman I would be, and the life I would live. I have not reconsidered.”
“Or course, of course Nishali. Let me ask you, however, when do you believe you will die?”
Nishali was uncomfortable at this. “I don’t understand, Goodfather.”
“Of course you do, dear. How long do you believe you have left on Tahr, before you are called to the Next?”
“I cannot know that, Goodfather.”
“True. You cannot know. Tell me also please, Nishali, in the days or decades or centuries you have remaining to you, where shall your path take you?”
Nishali began to redden. “I cannot know that, Goodfather.”
“You speak wisely. You cannot, Ranger. So tell me, Nishali, though your life to this day has been in service, who is to say that some tragedy will not befall you in the future that will alter your path, leading you to a place of darkness, where your place in Eternity is no longer so certain?”
The elves in the room all looked to Nishali expectantly, the ranger not known for her patience and tolerance. Her reply, however, was insightful.
“You speak of things I pray about daily, Goodfather. If you wish to as
k if I have yet earned the Mark, you need not do so tentatively. I will tell you truly – I have not. You are right then, I cannot know my path. Yet I can strengthen my nature, and have faith that I will withstand the pressures of my own passions, should such a tragedy come to pass.”
Neral nodded solemnly. “I am proud to know you, Nishali. Your words are thoughtful. I see your confusion, friends, so I will attempt to dispel it now. Millions upon millions of people have lived and died on Tahr. The total number is not known to me, nor is it knowable, for we do not even know when our world was born. We scarcely know anything at all about the lands and peoples living outside Greater Tahr. Only the Stone Elves possess such truths, and they have been silent for an age. The magical gifts of the elven people have blessed us with a great truth: the knowledge that the soul persists beyond death. This knowledge is truly a rare gift, a grace from the First Father, a great and awesome wisdom, one that has not been made available universally among all people of all races. We also know, beyond question, that our choices in life lead to our choices in death. Additionally, we know that an ultimate audience with the First Father is not assured; it is an honor we must earn. We must finally acknowledge that there is wickedness and evil in the hearts of all, and that not all who pass through the Veil will find peace. Pheonaris. What lies Beyond?”
“It is unknowable, Goodfather.”
“It is, child. Yet you wish to go?”
“I do, Goodfather.”
“Why?”
A pause. “Because it is unknowable.”
Neral smiled at this. “Well put, daughter of elves. And when you arrive Beyond, I am sure that you will be welcomed among those who await you. Yet for those who will not remain beside us, in eternal service to the land and our people, nor venture Beyond, what lies Next?”
Kender, Hand of Justice, spoke quickly. “We do not speak of it, Goodfather.”
“No, Kender, we do not. Though today we must.”
Mikallis could hold his tongue no longer. “Why, Goodfather? Why must we speak of this? What matter is the destiny of evil beings? Why do we discuss theology when we face a real threat that must be addressed?”
Neral frowned at the young Captain. “Please be patient, Captain. Am I given to pointless lectures?”
Mikallis lowered his head. “No, Goodfather.”
Neral gentled his expression. “Ah, forgive me, of course I am, Captain Mikallis. I am old, and pointless lectures are my trade. Yet this one is not pointless. Hear me now, elven sons and daughters. I ask you to consider the eternities of evil spirits here today, because it is a matter of simple science that energies do not fade from this world. All things persist, transform, or become sustenance for another. Such is true with the spirits of evil, whose number is unknowable and unfathomable, and it is a concentration of those hateful energies that we now face.
“We must discuss what lies Next for these spirits of wickedness because, though you would wish to not think on them, they are thinking on you, the envy and hatred of ages festering in their dark hearts for millennia. We all know how the cycle of evil progresses; Disorder breeds Evil, and the evil return to Disorder, where they spend their eternities in the depths of Fury, or as some call it, the Mawbottom. Yet we think of the fiery pits of Fury in abstract, for to truly reflect on their reality is too terrible an exercise. I tell you now that Fury is a very real place, and the Hand of Disorder is a very real being. As real as the air we breathe, as real as the Citadel we have assembled in.” Neral allowed the horror of it all to settle, pausing, a slight tremble in his hands as he folded them together, and continued. “The very marrow of Tahr awakens now, fueled by the horror of evils committed ages past, and on through present times. Elves of Thornwood, the Days of Fury are revisiting us. We face the undying restless power of ancient Death, and it is to be feared.”
END OF PART ONE
PART TWO
XVIII: THE MAW
Shyla awoke just as the first shards of sunlight pierced the thick canopy of elms she slept beneath. She could have slept past noon, not merely because she was not naturally inclined to awakening early, but because she was thoroughly exhausted, having spent most of the night swatting away an insatiable armada of tiny biting insects. Her reddened, sunburnt flesh was covered in small welts, not only on her exposed skin but anywhere her clothing was snug. The assault had slowed a few hours past dusk, but did not stop completely, and as soon as she would find herself beginning to doze, another pinprick would startle her, leaving her scratching herself and swiping wildly at the dark, attempting vainly to murder the hungry little demons.
Sleeping late was not an option, however, for she had heard the approach of some sort of animal just behind her. In her three days since leaving G’naath for the Morline, she had managed to evade the attention of predators, but she knew by the measured paces through the leaves behind her that her luck had run out. Shyla lay as still as she could, her head resting on her pack, hoping against hope that the animal would pass her by.
It did not, and suddenly Shyla’s pack was yanked from beneath her head, tearing out wisps of auburn hair in the process. She yelped, scrambling to her knees to face the beast, and saw a hairy black creature backing away on its four legs, her pack in its fangs, growling and shaking her meager belongings loose. Shyla instantly recognized the creature from her grandmother’s descriptions.
This was a wolf.
Quickly the frightened Shyla assessed her options as she knelt, coiled and ready to do…something…and as the wild beast tore through her possessions, she remembered what Cindra had said, that wolves are pack animals, and that more would certainly be about. Quickly she glanced around, searching the forest for movement or eyes or teeth or other evidence that she was about to be set upon by a hungry mob of furry death, but saw nothing. The beast before her had torn free her wrappings of food and was feasting greedily on a dried loaf of meat, when she noticed that this wolf was considerably smaller than the description she had received from Cindra. Terrified as she was of the animal, she was equally terrified of starving, and she could not let this wolf eat her only food.
“Hey! You! Bahhrrggghhh!” She yelled and waved her arms madly at the wolf who jumped back, startled and whimpering, bowing its head between its forepaws. “Get outta here, wolf! I have magic, and I’ll burn yeh to ash! Gaaahhh!” She feinted forward, and the wolf jerked back, unsure, then settled on its haunches, a pitiful whine escaping its throat. It looked across the few paces between it and Shyla, and placed its head on the ground, defeated.
What is this? thought Shyla. These are the fierce wolves that I have been dreading? Bah! Shyla stood then, heartened by the wolf’s timidity, and stepped forward cautiously to gather her scattered belongings. The wolf sat there, panting, its tongue hanging out of its mouth, brown eyes following Shyla’s movements. When she picked up the remainder of the loaf, rewrapping it carefully, the wolf perked up expectantly…then cocked its head in disappointment as she stuffed it back into her bag.
“This here be my food, wolf, and you can’t have any! Now you git, go on now! Go!” She pointed to the forest, and the wolf looked to see what she was pointing at, confused. “I said git!” The wolf slowly rose, its furry tail tucked protectively between its hind legs, and began to walk away. It turned back once, Shyla clapped her hands loudly, and the wolf bounded into the brush, gone.
Mawbottom, but that were close! she thought. She quickly rolled her blanket, tied it to her pack, and made her way back to the trail she had left the night before. Shyla would wait for her breakfast until she had put some distance between herself and the wolf.
By midday, she discovered that she would likely die of hunger before that happened. The animal had been following her the entire morning, carefully maintaining its distance, periodically reminding the little gnome with another pathetic whimper that it had not forgotten her.
Hunger and pity finally got the better of Shyla, and she relented. “Aw for Fury’s sake, wolf! C’mon then.” She cleared the le
aves from a patch of trail, removed her pack, and laid out her blanket. The wolf approached cautiously. “Well, c’mon ya stupid wolf, come eat.” She tossed a piece of the meat loaf towards the animal, who warily sniffed the air as it approached. Its eyes looked to Shyla, then the meat, and in a blur snatched it up from the ground and retreated a few paces away to begin its meal.
“Hmph. Big tough wolf,” Shyla sneered, eating her own loaf and taking a drink from her waterskin. The dry meat was, aside from a mild hint of salt, mostly tasteless, but satisfying nonetheless, and she chewed happily as she considered the past few days. The parting with her family was a sad affair, but a quick one, as she did not wish to satisfy the gnomes who stood nattering at the gates, gawking at her departure. She spent the entire first night walking, and most of the following day, as she was well rested when she left and, as Cindra Sandshingle had helped her discover, she was truly excited for this next phase in her life. She had left G’naath with instructions from her grandmother to go south and west, following a series of clearly marked trails to the Morline. Cindra had assured her that on this path she would meet with assistance. Her ultimate destination was the Grove of the Wood, roughly equidistant between the city of Mor and the elven land of Thornwood. Her grandmother had promised her that if she were careful, and did not despair, and kept moving, she would arrive unscathed in but a few weeks’ time, perhaps sooner. Beyond that, Cindra had said, she would face choices that the sorceress could not foretell, leaving her future unwritten.