by M. M. Whan
“Ef… Efer… Eferath?” She said weakly. Eferath felt the tears streaming down his cheeks but he didn’t care. He reached down and gently brushed the hair from her face.
“Shh,” Eferath stopped her. “Don’t talk, you need to save your strength. MEDIC!” He looked around him, seeing his men running over.
Eferath nearly started as he felt Denara’s hand reach up and gently touch his face. Her palm felt cool against his cheek. He stared into her eyes and her lips widened into the most beautiful smile Eferath had ever seen.
Then her eyes seemed to stare off into the distance, and her hand slowly lowered from his face. By the time Eferath’s wizard got there, it was too late.
Carlisle was the first one to him, and he gently helped Eferath to his feet while the wizard cast spells of healing on him. The whole time, Eferath could not take his eyes away from Denara’s body. He was determined to burn that image into his mind.
By the gods he would make someone pay dearly for her death.
* * * *
It was dark by the time that Eferath was able to move around without needing support, though the spells had severely taxed his wizard. Eferath made to stop him from exerting himself so, but the young man merely pish-poshed and waved his complaints aside.
“We need you up and walking, sir.” The apprentice wizard told him. “And I will hear no more about it. So sit still, you’re making this harder than it needs to be. Sir.” Eferath did as he was told and sat still. He watched as Carlisle directed the more able-bodied of his men to gather stones around Denara’s body.
They erected a cairn over Denara’s body in honor of her sacrifice. For, if not for her intervention, Eferath would surely have been killed, and the wyrm likely would have killed them all. She had saved his life, and this cairn of rocks seemed a paltry memorial to such a heroic deed. During the burial ceremony, Eferath did not hide the tears that streamed down his cheeks, nor was he ashamed of them. Denara was a dear friend, and had accepted him despite his humble origins. The world was definitely a darker, lonelier place without her in it, and so Eferath cried.
Eferath had initially wanted to get moving that night, but overwhelming protests from his soldiers changed his mind. They were all walking wounded, and a good rest after their ordeal would do them some good. Personally, Eferath suspected that they just wanted to explore the cave, after all, the tales of dragon treasure was widely known. It wasn’t long before his suspicions were proven correct, though, as he was practically dragged into the dead wyrm’s lair. Eferath didn’t particularly want to enter this cave - the memories of the all-too-recent battle, and tragic loss of a friend were still painfully fresh in his mind - but reluctantly agreed to it. He owed it to Denara.
The inside of the cave was dank, and reeked a mixture of foul odors that made even the hardiest of his soldiers retch. Eferath did his best to avoid showing how the fetid stench affected him, but the effort paled in comparison to his efforts at keeping his most recent meal down. Torchlight flickered and danced along the gouged walls. Gouges carved by the beast whenever it crawled in and out of its lair, no doubt. The torches cast eerie shadows, and coupled with the annoying drip-drip of an unseen water leak, and skittering, scurrying critters made more than one of them second guess their choice.
Roughly a fifty feet in, the roof of the cave suddenly disappeared from view where even the light of the torches couldn’t reach. It also widened considerably. As they went deeper in, Eferath was acutely aware of the thousands of tons of stone above his head, supported only by a few enormous stone pillars. Eferath felt an unmistakable tingling sensation that enveloped him as they drew near to a particularly large mound of trinkets and gold pieces. Normally, that sensation warned him of a spell being cast, but Eferath did not think that was the case. Stone Wyrms were magical beasts, but possessed only innate abilities, and no capability to cast higher forms of magic. This felt like something else; it was as if this sensation were calling to him.
Climbing the mound halfway, Eferath began pawing his way through the small mountain of baubles, digging down toward the centre as the strange sensation grew stronger. When he had dug down too far for him to see, Eferath stabbed his torch into the gold beside him.
Eferath felt more than saw the source of the aura as his hand clasped brushed against what felt like a cold, hard sheath. It took some more digging before he was able to pull it free, and let out a gasp as the torchlight illuminated his find.
It was a sword and sheath. The sheath itself was black as the hide of the stone wyrm. Patterns and symbols were etched into the finish and were filled with gold. Jewels of many sizes and shapes, and each more beautiful than anything Eferath had ever seen before were set on each gold band that wrapped around the width of the sheath.
Eferath closed his hand around the soft leather grip of the hilt, and marveled at how wonderful it felt in his hand. He had held swords before, but this one felt like it was made for him. The cross guard was silver, and had a large tear-drop shaped diamond was set into the orb-like pommel.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, he felt a strange calming sensation wash over him, like he had been reunited with a long-lost friend. His skin tingled, and he shivered involuntarily, though he certainly was not cold. His aches and pains seemed to fade away. Gently, as if he were handling frozen glass, Eferath slowly drew the blade.
Another gasp escaped his lips as the sheath no longer hid the magnificence of the sword. Long and thin, it was undoubtedly a longsword, but there was something especially different about this particular weapon. Instead of the blade being made of tempered steel, the blade itself was made of pure diamond! A feat Eferath was certain was impossible, but here it was, right in front of his face. His eyes were lost in the twinkling facets of the long, and razor-sharp diamond blade. He shivered at the sight of it – He had been doing that a lot lately, he noticed. But as he passed the palm of his hand over the smoothness of the flat, his skin tingled, and goose bumps raised all over his body. Smiling to himself, Eferath slid the magnificent blade back into its sheath, and promptly belted it to his waist.
Now it was time to go home.
* * * *
Eferath took one last look behind him at the camp where the rest of his patrol group rested. The lair of the stone wyrm was as far as he would travel with them. After everything that had happened, Eferath felt there was no way that he could return to the Academy. Though he had no proof, Eferath was convinced that someone had been behind the ambush that had nearly killed them all. He was also certain that if he should return to the Academy, and search for answers, he just might end up attracting too much attention. In addition, Eferath’s suspicions were treasonous, and would earn him a death sentence if he even so much as breathed a word of his thoughts to anyone else. So what did that leave him?
There was only one person that Eferath could think of, one person that had any chance what so ever of getting word to the right people. And that one person was his father, Eralon. Eferath had a moment of regret as he looked back at the camp. All of his soldiers slept soundly; he could hear their contented snores from where he stood. Before they had bedded down for the night, Eferath had instructed his wizard to cast a spell that would keep them all concealed from the senses of any creature. That assurance was the only reason that Eferath found himself able to leave. He knew that Carlisle would keep them safe, and see them safely home.
With a nod of finality, Eferath took a deep breath, then headed down the main path away from the dead wyrm’s lair. The night was well passed midpoint when Eferath came upon a fork in the main trail. The left path led back to Escoran, and the Academy. The right path would put him on the road home. He stood there staring down the left path for what seemed like several minutes. Was he making a mistake? Would he be putting his men in danger by abandoning them? And what about his family? Eferath was now a deserter; a very serious offense for which there was only one punishment: Death. There was no telling what kind of consequen
ces his family would face if they aided him even in the smallest capacity.
That thought nearly made Eferath change his mind then and there. The risks were too great. How could he, in good conscience, risk the lives of his family for people that treated him like he was less than nothing? The answer to that was simple: Eferath simply couldn’t let this injustice go unnoticed. He could not stand by while some bureaucracy merely concealed what actually happened, and the sacrifices of those soldiers would be forgotten. It went against everything Eferath stood for, and he knew beyond any doubt that his mother and father would agree with his reasons completely.
Eferath lifted the hood of his cloak over his head, made one last check to ensure that he hadn’t been followed, then started down the right path. Eferath had barely made it ten feet along that path when he heard something rustling in the bushes to his right.
“Going somewhere?” A voice asked suddenly from behind him. The young man wheeled around, hand already grasping the hilt of his sword. What he saw was a figure standing on the path where he had stood just moments before. Though the figure was shrouded in darkness, Eferath could see well enough from the starlight that whoever this was, stood facing him with their arms crossed in front of their chest.
“Identify yourself.” Eferath ordered, pulling his new sword up from its sheath an inch.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” The figure replied in what Eferath noticed to be a definitely feminine voice.
“That depends,” Eferath said evenly, tightening his grip on the hilt. “On why someone who claims to be a friend is sneaking up behind me in the dark. Not a very smart idea if you are planning on living to see the morn.”
The lone cloud obscuring the light from the nearly full moon finally slid past, and Eferath’s new friend’s features became visible. He recognized the new comer almost immediately, and the recognition allowed him to relax.
But only a little.
“What do you want?” Eferath demanded coldly, not even bothering to try to hide the suspicion in his voice. Syline was one of the Elite’s, and nearly every time he saw Dorien, the half-elf was never far away. Perhaps it was nothing more than a coincidence that the woman was here, but Eferath didn’t put much belief into coincidence. There was something suspicious about this clandestine meeting, and he was determined to be on his guard.
Syline walked toward him casually, but if her intention was to put him at ease, it only made him grip his sword hilt harder. “I overheard some of your men talking at their campsite you left behind.” She said, her melodic voice giving nothing away. Eferath felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Of course she did, he thought to himself. But she definitely didn’t show herself while he was battling the wyrm. So there was only one alternative; she had been watching them.
“They were talking about some very interesting things.” She went on. “Things that might seem to be… how should I put it? Treasonous?”
“Get to the point!” Eferath barked. He didn’t like where this was going. He would fight if he had to, but only if he had to. His wounds hadn’t quite completely healed yet, and his entire body felt as if it would give out at the slightest exertion. Not to mention the fact that last time he faced Syline, the half-elf had beaten him fairly, and that was when he had been fully rested and uninjured.
“Where are you going?” She asked in a sudden change in topic. “If you’re heading back to the Academy by yourself, you’re heading the wrong way.”
“I don’t see how my destination is any of your business.” Eferath responded darkly. “In point of fact, it isn’t. I will return to the Academy in due time.” With that, Eferath turned on his heel and made to continue down the path.
“Wait.” Syline said resignedly, and Eferath stopped, turning his head to regard her. “I am not permitted to say anything, but I feel that it may be the only way to stop you from doing something stupid.”
“I’m waiting.” Eferath prompted, his suspicions heightening by the second. He didn’t like where this was going, and Syline’s appearance in the middle of the night did nothing to allay those suspicions.
Syline glared at him. Clearly she wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a way. Neither, Eferath figured, was she used to tolerating such behavior. Either way, Eferath squared his shoulders and returned her glare defiantly.
“We have reason to believe that foul play is afoot.” She began cryptically, ignoring Eferath’s “I already knew that” expression. “The night before your patrols were dispatched, the official scribe - the one responsible for scribing your orders - received a bribe to alter the scouting reports that had indicated heavy orc presence along your routes.”
That certainly got Eferath’s full attention. It certainly would explain how highly trained scouts had completely missed mountain orcs, of all creatures. The brutes were about as stealthy as a herd of oxen. If the noise and sign of their passing didn’t alert even a novice scout, their smell definitely would have. But her explanation missed one very critical detail.
“The orcs that had attacked us were lying in ambush.” Eferath pointed out, not even bothering to hide his incredulity. “I may not be an expert, but that seems completely opposite to everything that is known of their tactics. Mountain orcs prefer open combat to ambush tactics, and they certainly do not attack for no reason other than to raid, and to protect their settlements. So why attack us?”
Syline spread her hands apart in a defeated gesture, then pursed her lips in thought. “As I said, we suspect that foul play is involved, and we need your help to find out who is responsible, and why.”
“What do I have to do with any of this?” Eferath asked with a little heat. But then a thought hit him as profoundly as any slap might. “Wait. All of the scouting reports were altered.” Eferath paused in thought, then looked up at Syline. “The other patrols?” He asked, the words catching in his throat as the implications weighed heavily upon him.
Syline seemed to catch his meeting, and slowly shook her head. “They were not as fortunate as your patrol.” She explained heavily. At first, it seemed as though that was all she would say about it, but then she looked upon Eferath’s crushed expression and continued. “There were no survivors.”
Eferath staggered back several steps, his thoughts jumbled. Though he couldn’t count himself as a friend to many of those that had been killed, he felt a kinship with them. Regardless of their origins, their training had been the same. They had all gone through the same hardships. The each learned the limits of their abilities, and how to exceed them. Then there was Edward. He had befriended Eferath despite his noble status, and had become a very dear friend to him. Now he was gone.
Eferath felt a cold rage build inside of him. It wasn’t hot like he would have expected. It didn’t burn like hell-fire deep in his belly. Instead, it felt as though he was being frozen from the inside. It took a great deal of effort for him to suppress that rage, to bottle it back up. He found that even as he looked at Syline, her expression made him want to rush at her and cut her down. She seemed so unbothered with it all, and no more affected by the loss of so many young soldiers than if she were reporting a change in the weather.
Suddenly, Eferath started walking toward Syline and pointedly ignored the fact that she rested her hand on the pommel of her sheathed sword. He almost laughed at that, but he was certainly in no mood for laughter. He brushed past her and strode back the way he came, back to where his patrol group had made camp.
“Where are you going?” Syline demanded sternly. For a moment, Eferath considered ignoring her. After all, she was the one with all the answers, or so it appeared.
He spun back toward her. “I am going to assemble my soldiers, and we’re going to go find the other patrols.”
Syline stared at him as if he had just sprouted another head, and that head suddenly started speaking orc. “That won’t make any difference, Eferath.”
“What do you want me to do, then?” Eferath snapped h
arshly. “You want me to leave my friends, my fellow soldiers to die out here in the wilds?”
“They are already dead!” She shouted at him in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. She collected herself, then her expression took on a helpful, cooperative look. “But you can prevent further deaths! If you come with me back to Escoran, we can get the root of the deception that has been played on us all.”
“What can I do that you can’t?” Eferath asked, throwing his arms out wide to either side in exasperation.
“We have a suspect.” She said simply, clasping her hands behind her back. “You will be filled in with details when we get there, but time is of the essence. We have reason to believe that the perpetrator will attempt to leave the city once news of the tragedy has been made public.”
Eferath stared at her for a long moment. His heart raced in his chest and thoughts raced frantically through his mind. He could trust Syline about as far as he could kick her, and with the smug look on her face, he entertained the thought of just how far that might be. Especially when considering the fact that it was another of Syline’s comrades that had missed so many orcs in the first place. Missed. Eferath scoffed. Just thinking the word nearly filled his mouth with bile. It was at that moment that Eferath made his mind up.
Eferath turned to look at Syline squarely, then took a deep breath in preparation to speak. “No.” He said simply. He watched with no small amount of pleasure as Syline stiffened at his response. Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but Eferath didn’t care. He had just faced down a stone wyrm and came out intact. He was more afraid of not being able to control the urge to laugh in her face at that moment. “It was your people that are responsible for the deaths of so many. Until my last breath I shall see those deaths avenged. Until then, I shall place my trust upon the shoulders of those who have fought beside me, not against me!”