by Ben Marshall
“Do thee remember the Ambassador who came towards the end of the previous month, requesting thy presence at an important meeting? Did thy father tell you of that meeting?”
“He mentioned something about Elves, but nothing in any detail.”
“We need thee, for thou art about the only one of thy nation who maintains the ideal for honour and valour. Thy father fears thou would not succeed in the task that I would have thee undertake, but I know that thee desire the chance for glory and honour that could only be granted by accepting my offer. The war with Berinan has cost thy father many soldiers, and if the Berinain choose to attack thy homeland thee will not succeed in defeating them, and so thou shall never be given such a chance unless thee come with me tonight.”
“My father told me that the Ambassador wished me to be beside Valinians and Berinain, and I know that I would not survive if I did.”
“Thou will, and what is more thy presence may well end this war without further bloodshed. Thou hold a rank that will make thy nation’s remaining force respect thy command, and the same is true of the warrior from Berinan that has been chosen. Thou could save thy people if thee go with me tonight, but if thee do not then thou shall bear the guilt at knowing thee could have prevented the massacre that shall surely be thy people’s fate in this realm. I aided thy nation a decade ago, but I cannot do so again except by ensuring thee accompany me tonight. Thou can come willingly, or I shall use what force I deem necessary.” Katchanga looked deeply into the young Prince’s eyes, his hands coming to rest upon his scimitars as his look implored for Enyatar to show wisdom.
“I shall go with you, but I must tell my parents of my decision.”
“I am afraid that thou cannot, for thy father will oppose thee and would not hesitate to use extreme measures to protect thee from his fears. It shall be explained to them upon the morrow, but we cannot linger for thee to do so personally.”
“I must still make preparations for the journey.”
“I have gathered what weapons I found here, so we need only retrieve thy mount before we set off for the realm of the Fire Elves. The entrance hall shall now be guarded against an attempted exit, so do thee know of an alternative route?”
“A passage leads to the stables, so we can get my horse Ashae as we go.”
“Then lead on, young Prince, and let us hope we can do so before the dawn.”
The passage was entered from behind the tapestry upon the far end of the hallway outside Enyatar’s chamber, and spiralled steeply for many metres beginning a steady descent towards what felt to Katchanga to be the East. Its exit was a cunningly concealed break in the wall of the stable that adjoined the palace, leaving the pair facing the building’s own doors and the faint glow of the lingering moonlight. Ashae was revealed to be a powerfully built stallion of such a shimmering grey colour that he appeared white to the onlookers. He snorted with surprise at their sudden appearance, pawing the ground nervously within his stall, but Katchanga raised his left hand and spoke a few soft words in his own tongue to calm him. He heard a slight commotion behind him, turning sharply to see the young Prince carrying a large set of javelins which he strapped to the saddle after placing it upon his mount’s back.
“Head to the West and make for the coast as soon as thou art beyond thy home’s boundary. I shall meet thee there but first I must retrieve my own mount from the trees upon the other side of the Palace,” the ancient warrior told him as he led the youth to the stable door. “Let thy horse show me the meaning of haste.”
With a nod that was quickened by the adrenaline that had started to flow within the veins of the young fighter, the Prince galloped from the stables, his exit drawing many exclamations of surprise from the guards that saw him. A couple of the sentries bore bows rather than halberds, and they tried to aim at the retreating figure as he faded from view to leave only the white coat of his mount visible, but swift strikes from Katchanga rendered them unconscious as he darted along the wall towards the group of trees that had served as his hideaway for the previous week. His black stallion, its body showing it to be a beast of great strength, speed and stamina, neighed softly at his arrival as he leapt upon its unsaddled back and set off in pursuit of Enyatar, seeming to be nothing more than a shadow as he raced across the land.
***
October 10th, 1190
The past four days had been the most unbelievable and unfathomable Rothil Morambeth could recall, with events within Rinahuil Forest seeming mundane compared to the rumours that had reached him from overheard conversations between the Camentari that dwelled within the nearby town. Two days ago he had heard that a powerful General within the Berinain army had vanished after an ambush by a group of Elves, which was surely absurd since no Elven colony had ever existed within the region and would have no reason to be there after all this time, and now he had heard that young Prince Enyatar had vanished under even more dubious circumstances; No one was seen to enter or exit save by a solitary guard, yet five other soldiers had been incapacitated and two of his personal bodyguards had been found dead right before the entrance to the Prince’s personal quarters. Within the chamber itself there had apparently been no sign of a struggle, and here the conversation had grown all the more confusing to the Half Elf’s reasoning; Enyatar had been seen riding away freely while a shadowy rider had followed soon after, the report having been accompanied by a claim from some fishermen that they had seen a boat docked beside the coast and the Prince voluntarily boarding the vessel. A golden sail had been allowed to fill with the ocean wind and bring the ship sailing to the far North, but no such craft had been seen by anyone when it should have passed the coast of Valinia had it been on such a course. Had the world suddenly been filled with chaos and left bereft of reason, logic and order? Were these events somehow connected to the sightings he had been having of the ancient warrior Ullyssil? If they were what did they mean? Was Katchanga taking extreme measures to ensure representatives attended the meeting?
His mind was so full of wayward questions that had no answers, so consumed by his efforts to rationalise recent events, that the leader of the rebels failed to notice the steady rustling of the trees overhead and the bushes to his right. It was only when he came to the wooden bridge that spanned the twisting river that he felt the sensation of being watched. Gazing into the calm and gently flowing water for but an instant he saw the figure upon an outstretched bough, saw the arrow set against the bowstring as it was drawn back to brush the being’s cheek, then he felt the agonising strike as the head was buried deep within his midriff. Suddenly his muscles tensed and every nerve ending gave the sensation of burning. He staggered upon the bridge, his body lurching as his legs gave way beneath him, sending the Half-Elf pitching into the cool water below. He felt strong arms grip his shoulders as a familiar figure pulled him back onto the wooden planks, could barely acknowledge the twisting pattern in gold across the ridged armour as everything went dark.
“I warned you, Rothil son of Baloran, that I would return for you,” he heard Ullyssil tell him as the light footfalls of a graceful second attacker were heard, a musical voice following the deep tones of the ancient human.
“He shall sleep for a few days. We must hurry to Pathosien and deliver him. We may even beat the Silent Ship to the port.”
Many Arrivals
October 15th, 1190
Several sensations assaulted Morambeth’s mind as he stirred from the sun alighting upon his closed eyelids; the throbbing of his head, the searing heat across the upper half of his torso, and the feel of a soft bed beneath him. Something cast a deep shadow across his closed eyes, causing him to shake his head to avoid an imagined strike, but instead he felt the glistening beads of sweat being removed by a cool, wet cloth held by a strong yet gentle hand. He managed, after several painful efforts, to raise his eyelids partially, but the shining of the sun was agony to behold and he had to turn away from the large window of clear glass before attempting again.
He found himself
to be in one of many luxurious beds within an enormous chamber, all of them empty save for five further along the wall of polished marble. The people within these beds were being attended to by Elves in white robes of what appeared to be finest silk, and by glancing across at the foot of his own he saw three that were similarly clad and deep in conversation with an unidentifiable being.
“He remains feverish, and we have only been able to reduce the tremors after three days. What do those archers place upon their arrowheads?”
“They place nothing upon the head when the arrows must be fired upon beings who do not wear thick armour. My archer applied a weak variation of our poison upon the shaft, and already I sense that the effects are fading naturally. In another day he shall feel nothing that would hint at his experience.” The answer, given in the unmistakeable voice of Katchanga, made Rothil’s eyes spring open; his head spinning as he forced himself to rise a little way from the mattress.
“What did you do to me?” His voice was shaky and the question was delivered through quivering and poorly responsive lips, each word heavily slurred, and the Lord of the Vale looked upon him with sympathy as he answered.
“My warrior warned thee that force would be taken, and we could spare no more time waiting for an opportune moment to take thee, since thou had surrounded thyself with thy men until that point. My archer was sent in case it was necessary to incapacitate thy troops to have thee brought here, but thankfully only thee were attacked. Thou are an important asset to what must be done, and I could not allow thee to stay away from it.” Rothil tried to respond, but the lingering effects of the poison caused a sudden wave of nauseous dizziness to overwhelm him. He couldn’t hear anything save a ringing in his ears as he collapsed back onto the bed, one of the attending female Healers running to see to him.
“Where is the warrior from Berinan? My warrior told me he had fully recovered a couple of days before she left to help bring Rothil,” the ancient Lord asked the Head Healer in a quiet voice, his eyes showing the strain of the many tasks he had been performing over the days before and since his escorting of Enyatar to the realm.
“We felt it wasn’t honourable to hold him here like a prisoner, so we have allowed him to walk within our realm with a couple of our warriors escorting. His nation holds many rumours of your realm, and he knows that he cannot sail safely across the waters now the autumn winds blow so wildly.”
“Good; perhaps his time among thy people will also show him how it is to live an honourable existence, though most of his people seem unable to comprehend such a virtue.”
“The Lady Halarniel is still asking about you. She grows ever more concerned that you cannot bear to be around her, and I cannot continue to tell her you are too busy.”
“Nevertheless that is how it is, but thankfully the wind brings tidings that soon we shall have all the necessary representatives and the meeting shall be able to commence. I bid you farewell, as I must return to the Vale and make the final preparations for what we must do upon the meeting’s conclusion.”
With a bow of farewell to the Head Healer, a tall and powerful Elf in both body and mind, the ancient warrior turned upon his booted heel and walked from the room with his scarlet cape lifted behind him slightly from his swift pace, revealing him to be wearing only his leather leggings in addition to his footwear underneath. Upon his back was a large marking of a white tiger, its fur standing upon edge as it reached out a clawed paw to attack an unseen foe, its jaws opened to unleash an inaudible roar.
***
October 17th, 1190
The people of Pathosien, the Fire Elven capital, were witness to a remarkable sight that simultaneously was both terrifying and awe-inspiring, as the sun began its descent through the onset of the evening; a host of warriors soaring behind the banner of Lord Cecilan and the forest kingdom of secluded Faluvii. Upon mighty wyverns with gleaming scales rode a score of warriors armed with both spears and longbows, the many colours of the sunset reflecting from their chain mail as they rode behind Taleinith, the banner of a moon and sun above a tall yew held aloft by the Head Warden, as he followed the Lord of the Forest towards the fires that held the night at bay within the city. Between the ranks of warriors rode Yanaliel and three of her apprentice Clerics, of which two were male and one was a stunning female totally unlike any of those who rode beside her. Seated upon a winged horse as befitted her role in society, the mare’s golden coat barely lighter than her own tanned body, her strikingly beautiful features were barely concealed beneath the flowing white robes of silk, a dark green cloak of wool that was lined with thick grey fur and drawn tightly about her. Her slender face was framed within the hood of her travelling cloak by shimmering blonde hair, that glistened in the fading light as it cascaded over her shoulders, and her green eyes sparkled with mischievous delight as she felt the eyes of several warriors upon her. In looking at her it was barely discernible that she was of Elven lineage, due in great part to her mother having been of the race of Men, and she appeared as little more than a child at only 175 centimetres in height when compared to the Elven average of over two metres. She also possessed a slightly fuller, more curvaceous figure than her counterparts within the nation, thanks to this human side of her heritage, her body complimented wonderfully by her garments when she was not concealed by the cloak as she now was, and it was this uniqueness of her appearance that first drew the attentions of her male brethren, yet she had also a quick mind and a determination to prevail over challenges that was similarly enthralling. Smiling as she sat upon her mount within the centre of the loose formation she looked cheekily over towards one of her admiring companions, her eyelids fluttering slightly as if to hint that she was interested. This in turn drew a laugh from the warrior, who spoke softly to those gathered around him and made them erupt into laughter as well; for all knew of the games Kerial Stormleaf played. Hearing the uproar behind her Yanaliel could only sigh; she had expected such when Kerial had stepped forward to join the group, but such behaviour was not desirable within one of her Clerics.
“Kerial, how many times must you be warned against such behaviour? You shall never find a husband while you continue to jest with emotions. Yours shall be a lonely life indeed if you cannot learn sense and control over this insidious inner demon. Perhaps seeing the Lord of the Vale shall reveal to you that not everything should be treated with jokes and derision.” The young Cleric reddened at this angry proclamation, her embarrassment serving to increase the laughter and causing her to draw her hood further over her head as she gazed resentfully at the back of the Head Cleric. Glancing over at Cecilan, Yanaliel was surprised to see that his usually stern face was broken by a wide smile beneath his own hood, a marvel of creation that shimmered with subtle hues of brown and green to appear as if it had been cut from an aerial view of their forest home.
“What is so funny?” she asked in a tone of mock anger, drawing a gentle laugh from her Lord as he turned to face her.
“I remember how you were at the tender age of a thousand, and how you always were around me in those years. You were no different to the young maiden then; in more ways than this.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she told him indignantly, causing him to laugh again as he placed his arm across to touch her own.
“You were also a slave to your emotions, though it’s true hers are more potent through her mother’s lineage, and I seem to recall that you were quite lax when it came to other things, such as the study of Nature and Her Order. How often did Manalin catch you avoiding your lessons, praise her memory?”
Now it was Yanaliel’s turn to laugh, her voice sounding sweet upon the calm air.
“It’s not the same. I only had eyes for one Elf, rather than toying with the affections of any who would watch.”
“I know my love, and in time young Kerial shall be the same, but her emotions can’t be controlled as easily as yours. Perhaps this journey shall enlighten her, perhaps it won’t, but regardless the time shall come when she shall
cease in her wild ways. If she is accepted to join the quest then Katchanga shall see to that; I have never known him to tolerate foolishness when it risks compromising things he considers important.”
“Well you’ve changed your tune since Halarniel left,” the Head Cleric told him with great surprise, her hand clasping his tightly as she spoke.
“You were right; I was behaving more like a fickle, stubborn human than the Lord of an Elven realm. I guess I have just been jealous of late that he has so much power and favour with Nature, but She sent me a vision before we left, and told me that the time was coming for me to earn the same as he possesses. I feel as if I have been born again at the prospect, and there is little that could darken my mind at this time.”
As the walled perimeter of Pathosien came before them the entourage from Faluvii halted, the various winged mounts hovering as many of the Fire Elven sentries flew towards them; five of the warriors holding aloft scarlet banners depicting a phoenix rising from the top of a great fire-the ancient symbol of the realm.
“What brings your host to our city, Lord of the Forest?” enquired the lead soldier, his face framed by a stunning winged helmet of gold that was inlaid with rubies, as he recognised the symbol upon the banner Taleinith raised above him as the Warden held his wyvern in place beside his master’s.