by Ben Marshall
“Many days I have known thee to wait for me and have instead ensured we do not meet; my fear at such a conversation as awaits us greater than thee can comprehend. Lonariel told me of thy scar, yet I could not bring myself to believe him. The mention of it reminds me all too strongly of what happened all those years ago, reminds me of a weakness I cannot overcome, and to look upon it now is torment for me. Do not bring such pain to me in such dire hours, for I cannot function as I must while the memories haunt me.”
“Why then did you want me here?”
“Because I could not have stopped thee without using measures Nature could never condone. Now leave me in peace, and ensure all thy preparations have been made. The last of the invited representatives shall arrive shortly, and all our fates shall soon be decided.”
***
October 18th, 1190
“How much further must we travel until I reach your people’s city? I grow more tired with each passing mile and seek to fulfil my orders swiftly, so that I might return to my studies with all possible haste.”
“Relax, Druid Thorengol, for you shall look upon the Citadel of the Council before the moon rises this night,” the Elven diplomat told his charge without impatience, though he could barely conceal the frustration at the human’s foul mood over the past few days. He had known the people of Orthilan to be intelligent, but such was their intellect that they now perceived themselves better than all others; and Thorengol Bellin must surely be the most arrogant of all. A Druid of reportedly great influence within the small island nation, he had been the first considered by the Senate for the role of representative, holding intelligence and skill in his profession’s many crafts both in great proportion, yet he held not the simple respect for life, and the many beings who enjoyed it, with which Arch Druid Leavale existed. Now, clad in garishly red robes and a cloak of forest green, the pale-skinned human had done nothing but bemoan his presence upon the journey from his homeland. His wolf and hawk had accompanied him, never far from his side, and it seemed to the diplomat that they were possibly the only beings that could tolerate him for so long. He could only be thankful that the complaints had been few and far between during the sail from the island, the human having spent his time in constant study within the many leather-bound books he had carried with him.
Thorengol was incredibly young to have the influence he did, being just the tender age of eighteen years, while his black hair was a mass of curls that gave him an almost boyish appearance, and hinted at a sheltered life without such trials as he would face upon the journey, if he accompanied Katchanga. Often the youth had made demands of the group of Elven warriors that had met them at the docks in the northern-most region of Pathos, the small outpost proving to be the safest harbour while the winds blew as wild and unpredictable as they did through every autumn and winter, and few of their escorts willingly lingered within his line of sight for any length of time. The diplomat wondered how Katchanga would react to such requests, for comforts that could not be given within the terrain beyond the cities of civilisations, a smile playing briefly across his lips as he laughed within his mind at the perceived reactions of the warlord, while undertaking what was undoubtedly a dangerous task when this boy made his foolish demands.
“What are you grinning at Elf?” demanded Thorengol, his voice full of disrespect that would never be tolerated under normal circumstances, and many of the warriors glared at him while the diplomat tried to find the kindest possible words to describe the source of his amusement.
“I was wondering, Master Druid, as to how the Lord of the Vale would welcome someone who was…inexperienced in matters of travel and combat upon foreign soil.”
“That demon shall be involved in the task my Senate has asked me to perform?”
Now all the warriors shot looks of utmost hatred at the ignorant youth, each one having grown a lot of respect for Katchanga over the years, and a couple reached to grasp the hilts of their swords as the ambassador tried to stifle his own mounting anger and calmly speak to the boy.
“Lord Katchanga is no demon, Master Druid, and it is neither wise nor intelligent to name him thus while you are within our lands, and especially during any future tasks in his company. His warriors are of unfaltering loyalty to him, and none will tolerate any insult laid upon their master without dealing out a harsh punishment in return. He shall be present at the meeting and shall lead all volunteers for the task that shall follow it. He is the only one with knowledge of what awaits them, and the only one with the experience to overcome the obstacles you may face.”
Now it was Thorengol’s turn to laugh, scorn dripping from each syllable.
“I have learnt enough of what is within Periand to triumph over any dangers, while this Lord has hidden himself away within his Vale for many years. I can deal with the problems without his help.”
“We shall see,” was all the Elf could utter without losing his patience completely, his fists already clenched out of sight from the Druid, the wolf and hawk that travelled in their master’s wake wherever he travelled. It seemed now that the beasts were definitely the only living beings that could tolerate such prolonged company with the youth, and they showed a surprising level of affection to him that could not be imagined, when the deplorable personality of their master was known.
The rest of the journey was completed in silence on the part of the diplomat and his young charge, though a couple of the younger warriors who were escorting them could not refrain from their resentful mutterings about the “folly of human boys”. The wall that bordered the Northern reaches of the city came into view as the party rode over a small incline some five hours later, the beacons upon the watchtowers starting to be set aflame as the sun retreated to the West in a blaze of pinks and oranges, and already the succulent fragrance of roasting meats wafted across the plain to fill the nostrils of the large wolf, his body quivering with eager anticipation beneath his hide of pale grey as he started to push on ahead of the group. Without a comment the warriors and the diplomat quickened their pace to follow the creature, the bay mount of Thorengol cantering in the wake of its winged cousins as the hawk circled effortlessly above the group before gliding to perch upon the leather glove that adorned its master’s right hand; a fine example of the goshawks from Orthilan. Its red eyes, set within plumage of startlingly white feathers, had given the bird the appearance of a wraith as it had flown through the tranquil and cloudless sky, and now added to the effect of its angry glare as it surveyed the Elves, with a look that conveyed its apprehension at being among so many armed strangers. Holding the reins solely within his right hand the Druid ran his left forefinger slowly down the centre of its back, the movement of his arm revealing an ornate crossbow; the butt of the weapon decorated lavishly with a ruby owl’s head that held two gleaming sapphires for eyes.
“The symbol of my class within Druidic society; A Hawkmaster,” he explained as he noticed the curious gaze of the diplomat, his tone mocking the failure of his escort to have known such a fact earlier.
“I was more curious as to why a human would favour a weapon so unwieldy and slow to reload, when the other human factions use the standard design of bow for protection,” the Elf replied, determined that he would not allow this young upstart to make him lose his temper. He could not help but notice the skinny build and pale skin of the youth; two signs that suggested a life away from the elements and, to his way of thinking, away from the life of a Druid. His eyes held great intelligence within their gaze, yet it seemed too that they held cynicism in place of common wisdom, and the Elf wondered all the more at how useful the human would prove during the coming tasks and trials that were rumoured.
The group was approaching the city upon the edge closest to the Citadel of the Council, the beautiful structure standing above all else that could be held within their vision as they approached, and the Council was already gathered at the gate when the travellers entered Pathosien; Aurephian and several other warriors standing respectfully behind the El
ders as they watched the horses canter into the chief site of Fire Elven culture within their realm. Though several small villages graced areas of the plains, offshoots created when bountiful supplies of food were discovered by the hunters in centuries long past, it was only in the city where the citizens could find a place within the Colleges dedicated to the Arts and learn the skills they would require for their long lives. It was only here where warriors could learn from the strongest, swiftest and surest of masters, where Clerics could learn of the tools with which they could heal the sick and wounded, or where Loremasters could learn a fuller view of Ages long faded into obscurity by the passing of time. All the Elders waited for the escorts of the Hawkmaster to reach them, their heads bowed in thought as if all where considering their choice for a question that was in need of answering; a question that would affect them all whichever answer became the decision of the Council.
“Welcome to our city, esteemed Druid of Orthilan,” the Head Councillor spoke into the hushed silence, his aging voice barely noticed as he spread his arms wide in greeting to the youth, the Elf’s body still holding an aura of great power and a lifetime of experience. The Councillors all dipped their heads in bows to their respected guest, the Elven warriors within both groups performing the same action to one another, yet Aurephian Leavale noted as he rose that the youth had refused to return the gesture. Such insolence was not acceptable to the warrior, the perceived importance of this boy all that prevented him from giving a voice to the angry thoughts that now filled his mind, and he turned his blue eyes upon Thorengol in an intense glower of hatred.
“The warriors shall guide you to the quarters we have arranged for you, and the meeting shall hopefully take place after noon tomorrow,” the Head Councillor continued, showing no hint of awareness over the discourtesy of the Hawkmaster, before turning and mounting the waiting black mount, a strong beast that carried him swiftly to the Citadel as the other Elders followed, none of them noticing that the recent addition to Katchanga’s force had mounted his bay steed and flown towards the barracks rather than led their guest towards the nearby inn, his eyes still set into their look of hatred towards the Druid as he became no more than a shadow within the darkening sky.
***
October 19th, 1190
“Mistress! Me no like this land!” the small sprite whined pitifully, as he huddled within the saddlebag upon the left flank of the dappled grey horse, the derisive snort of the beast augmented by the frustrated glare from the beautiful woman, seated within the saddle of worn leather.
“What is not to like, Peon?” she asked with great exhaustion in her voice. This voice was inflected with a hard strength that revealed her harsh life within Arentar, the island cousin of Camentar, and concealed her usually placid nature. Her homeland’s history started in an Age so many aeons ago that it was now more legend than known truth, yet within the obscure and barely legible tablets from that period, it is written that the younger brother of a Camentari King was its founder, upon his exile for a forgotten crime, but a connection with the mainland region of Periand could be seen within all levels of Arentari society. The connection was hidden within this maiden, however, behind garments that were unique to her within the known world. A hooded black cloak wrapped about her slender frame, the dark red tunic and ruby-studded circlet of silver hidden beneath its many heavy folds, she would have been a shadow within the night, save for a red symbol that glowed upon the back of the garment, with a pale, unnatural luminescence. Her green eyes were filled with something that could have been kindness, as she looked upon the grey-skinned and hideous minion that cringed before her gaze, yet the sprite saw nothing as it gripped its bat-like ears and averted its gaze fearfully.
“Me sees no forests or woods where they should be; only the grass. Me wants to see trees like them me call home. Why we leave home Mistress?” As it asked the question the sprite that had been referred to as “Peon” looked up and opened its eyes wide in a gaze of yearning, though many times the answer had been given during the journey across the wide ocean.
“We left because I shall not be kept from something of the importance this meeting is implied to have. We left because I grow tired of having no challenges within Arentar. We left, Peon, because I decided that we should, and that decision is sufficient for you to obey and accept your duties.”
Peon cowered again with a whimper, drawing the covering flap of the fur-lined bag over his over-sized head as the mount snorted again in mocking laughter.
“Do not scorn Peon for how he is,” the maiden scolded the mare, receiving a look from the large brown eyes of the horse that clearly conveyed the creature’s thoughts; I am not your servant like that loathsome fool. I am here willingly and shall not be commanded. A toss of her mane and a whinny of indignation was soon followed by a buck that almost threw Inyentin from her saddle, the huddled form of the sprite bulging within the saddlebag as he was thrown about, breaking the silence of the night with whimpers akin to a beaten dog or a frightened puppy.
The maiden sighed, both with relief at not striking the ground and with exhaustion borne from a day’s hard ride amid the seemingly perpetual moans of Peon, then reached into a second saddlebag to draw out a small pouch sealed by a laced leather cord. She drew from this pouch a small handful of tiny, dark balls before dropping them into the satchel which had become her minion’s home, since leaving the wood that had served as both her shelter and her place of learning in the crafts of war and magic. A series of noisy chews came from the bag, as the decrepit creature within consumed the berries he had been given through his mistress’s perceived benevolence, the red-haired witch turning her face to the Northern sky as two black falcons flew swiftly past, towards the faint light that rose from behind the coming rise in the rolling plains of Pathos. Her curiosity piqued that birds should travel with such apparent purpose in their journey, knowing of no similar occurrence within the world that was not caused by unnatural influences. Were there others within this land of Elves who possessed dominion over the birds that soared amongst the clouds? She had heard tell of one druid of renown, yet he had spoken only with the beasts of the earth, and not with the birds as someone surely must be. Were the rumours true that the Vale Lord now walked once more in lands beyond his forest border? If so, were his powers true to the legends? She did not know the answers to the questions, but instead knew only that all desired proofs of truth or falsehood, lay at the source of that strange light before them.
The maiden tapped her mare’s sleek flank with her heel, signalling her request for speed, but the horse did not respond, its nostrils flared and ears lain flat as if some secret message was being broadcast upon the still night air.
“What do you hear that you do not heed my request?”
A powerful Lord commands me to bear you towards the light. He tells me that he has been waiting for you for many days, and would wait no longer to see the woman who must represent her nation, in a trial that shall force you beyond your limits. His voice is hard and I am afraid of what awaits. The mare pawed the ground with great apprehension and barely mastered fear, her large eyes unable to move from watching a shadow that was blacker even than the starlit sky it flew across. She retreated several paces as the shape gained distinction, until the bat-like wings that held the stallion aloft could be discerned, within a conjured fire that was blue in colour.
“Welcome, Witch of Arentar, to the land of the Fire Elves at last. Thou art the last of the invited people to come to this land, and now at last we can hold the meeting that has been many days in the planning.”
The strange voice of Katchanga washed over her as a warm wave when the blue light faded from his sword’s cold edge, the weapon sliding soundlessly into the waiting scabbard. The deep rumble, virtually a feral growl more molten fury than the rumoured soft melody of the Elven tongue, was surely the voice which commanded her mare. Despite her shock at the power she sensed radiating from the stranger, the maiden felt a deeper spark of defiance overcome her, instil
ling a boldness she had rarely experienced.
“Must I speak to you while your face is hidden, whoever you might be?”
“Indeed not, fair maiden, but I rarely allow my spells to overlap lest mistakes are made and accidents occur,” the Lord of the Vale told her as he appeared soundlessly behind her, his mount hovering a few moments longer before coming to land. Inyentin gasped in surprise as the wings faded away the moment its hooves touched hard earth, to be replaced with thick armour of black metal plates.
“Do not let my shifter’s transformations cause thee distress. I am Katchanga, the Lord who rules in the Vale of Mist, according to Gaia’s will.”
“Then the rumours are true!” she gasped breathlessly, her body trembling with both fear and awe, while her heart beat furiously beneath her breast when she sensed the power that coursed within the Elf standing before her.
“So it would seem, though now is not the time to question whether or not all these rumours can be proven tonight. The meeting shall take place as the sun reaches its zenith, and already it is close to rising. It would be wise to come with me now, to replenish what has been lost upon thy journey.”