A Sea of Cinders

by Adam Bishop

  ***

  Darith felt the heat of the flames on his face as he waited for the first prisoners to scurry out. He was gripping his greatsword impatiently. Finally, the first three prisoners came running out of the forest. The relieved looks on their faces quickly faded as Darith's sword cut open their mid-sections, spewing out their insides, which preceded them as they fell.

  The destruction of Rhan was monstrous. The sound of burning trees echoed throughout the forest as it crackled and burned to the ground at a frightening pace. Dadros' plans were coming to life. Almost a quarter of the forest had been reduced to a glowing pile of ash. Only one thing was overlooked. The Braxi soldiers surrounding the woods stood guard, waiting for the prisoners to come running out of the flames.

  What came next surprised them all.

  ***

  Aric stood guarding the left side of the forest with about five hundred Braxi soldiers flanking him. The sound of crackling branches and quickened footsteps closed in on their position.

  “Get ready, boys! We have some free men ahead!” Aric shouted; the laughter of his men soon followed.

  To their surprise, a frantic herd of stags came raging out of the fire charging straight towards them. Aric was pierced under the jaw and flung through the air like a ragdoll. Blood poured from his mangled face as he hit the ground. His jawbone decorated the antler of the stag leading the herd.

  The Braxi had never seen Elven deer before. They stood between twelve and thirteen feet tall, nearly double the size of common stag. The herd began trampling the soldiers, crushing and breaking their bones with ease as they ravaged through the infantry. The herd charged forth, tearing through the soldiers as if they were running through a placid stream. Many of the Braxi soldiers found themselves crushed under the weight of fallen stags injured by those brave enough to fight back. Countless Braxi were trampled under the hooves of the menacing Elven deer. The wildlife of Rhan was the last thing the Braxi expected to emerge from the burning wood, and the one thing they had overlooked was quickly becoming their worst nightmare.

  ***

  Darith stood his ground on the opposite side of the forest, waiting for the next batch of prisoners he could introduce to his blade. He had no idea what was happening to his fellow brethren, who were caught in the fatal stampede of hooves and horns.

  What came running out of the wood this time was no man, but rather three enormous bears, large enough to make Darith look like a child. His eyes widened at the sight of the beasts, but no fear was in his face. He ran at them with his greatsword raised in the air. Darith thrust his sword into the neck of the first bear, killing it instantly as he stared into its face. The other two ran past him, their fur singed from the flames destroying their home. One of the bears tore the face off of two Braxi soldiers with a single swipe of its paw. The other crushed a soldier into the ground, then devoured his twitching corpse.

  “Kill the beasts!” Darith yelled as he ran back towards his men.

  One of the Braxi soldiers swung at a bear feasting on the man in front of him. His sword merely angered the blood-thirsty creature. The bear tore his arm clean off before stealing the lives of more Braxi soldiers. You could hear necks snapping under the might of each swing. Blood and flesh dipped from the paws of the two remaining bears. You could see the rage in their eyes. This was revenge against the men who had laid waste to their home.

  Darith grabbed a spear from a soldier’s hand and threw it with great force. He managed to pierce one of the bear’s sides, crippling it long enough for the surrounding soldiers to kill the beast.

  “Finish him!” Darith shouted.

  ***

  William and Baldric moved rigorously through the burning forest. Each step left them hoping they wouldn’t be punctured by arrows or crushed by a flaming boulder.

  The smoke from the forest was thick. It blurred their vision as they made their way through the chaos of Rhan. They both witnessed the true power of the Malign oil, as they watched the great forest disintegrate in front of them at a frightening speed. Countless trees reduced to nothing, like waterfalls of ash filling the forest floor.

  “We must hide now, Will! Or the smoke will kill us both.” Baldric insisted, holding his shirt over his face. They were both soaked with sweat. The heat from the forest was unbearable, both of them were exasperated and they couldn’t go on much longer. “Alright my friend, this is it. We must hide here and hope it's safe.”

  William nodded, praying this wasn't the end. He knew he had made it further than any of the other prisoners, and the last thing he wanted was to end up dead in unfamiliar land.

  The ash surrounded them for miles. Most of the forest was gone now, leaving only a field of grey death behind. The two of them began burying themselves underneath the ocean of ash. All they had to protect them now were their blackened shirts, which they wrapped around their faces. Then William and Baldric lay hidden and still beneath the ash.

  All they could do now was wait.

  ***

  The first step of Dadro’s plan was complete. The great forest of Rhan had been reduced to a vast wasteland of ash. The Elven Kingdom was no longer hidden behind the elder trees of old. The Elves’ main line of defense had been eradicated, and the Braxi began to move in. The marching army drew closer and closer, eager to annihilate one of the last remaining Elven Kingdoms of Cellagor.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Messenger

  The sound of thundering wings and eerie caws filled the air, as a murder of crows circled over the Valley of Larin. Their shadows cast over the freshly fallen men below, marking their prey like a veil of death. There were nearly forty lifeless bodies cradled in the valley, accompanied by several horses. Blood-soaked weapons and armour glistened under the rising sun. Death, for once, looked rather beautiful in its light.

  Most of the men were riddled with arrows, many of which had speared them between the eyes. A few corpses were lying in shallow holes with their backs covered in foliage. Still, their leafy disguises couldn't hide them from death. Queerly enough, each of the camouflaged men appeared to be holding the end of a long rope stretching across the battlefield. There were two ropes, with dead men at each end. Many lifeless bodies lay in the Valley of Larin, and as the sun rose further some clarity came to light on the battlefield.

  Not all of the corpses were Men. Four of the bodies cradled in the valley were Elven. Their green cloaks and leather pauldrons stood out against the rest of the fallen. The other dead wore armour crafted by the skilled blacksmiths of Talfryn, which many claimed to be the most beautiful armour in all of Cellagor. Their helmets depicted the heads of eagles, with golden visors shaped like beaks. Their scaled armour draped them in a flowing coat of silver feathers, with both the gauntlets and sabatons taking on the likeness of talons. Although it appeared as though there was no true victor in this battle between Elf and Man, there was but one soul who had yet to pass on.

  ***

  A riderless horse approached the field and began limping through the havoc. One of its legs bandaged, aiding a wound near the base of an ankle. Its shadow crept across the fallen men as it slowly made its way around the cluster of bodies. It came to a stop in the middle of the battlefield, its hooves stained with blood that had soaked into the ground.

  In front of it lay an Elf named Arnion. His long blond hair was covered in blood. He wore beautiful leather armour draped in golden vines. However, a large gouge under the lower right breastplate tainted its beauty. Arnion was badly injured, yet he refused to accept death’s embrace. The horse bent over him and began gently nudging the side of his face, hoping his owner would awaken.

  Arnion’s striking blue eyes slowly opened. His vision was hazy, and every image he attempted to grasp appeared foggy. The breath of his horse warmed the side of his face, and he realized his friend had come back for him. His arm trembled as he raised it to stroke the head of his horse. “Good ... boy ... Thalian.”

  When Arnion attempted to get up, he felt a sharp pain on h
is right side where a sword had torn through him. A pool of blood revealed itself as he rose. Just making it to his knees proved to be a staggering task. He grasped the side of his horse for balance and took in a few deep breaths. He had come face to face with death, and now standing seemed imposable. But he knew how important it was that he reach his destination. Thalian kneeled closer to the ground, assisting Arnion’s attempt to reach his saddle. Arnion grasped the underside of the skirt and gripped the stirrup bar. Finally, he slowly hauled himself up onto his horse. A steady stream of thick blood ran down Thalian’s back leg as Arnion laid across the saddle in a horizontal position. He exhaled heavily following this medial task.

  With the two of them reunited, a faint vision of victory was presented on the battlefield. He reached down to his waist, making sure he still held the scroll his father had given him. The feel of parchment gave him a great sense of relief.

  “Their deaths will not be in vain,” he whispered, saddened by the thought of his dead friends. “I must reach the Veil … I have to!”

  Despite being as stubborn as an old oak’s roots, he knew there was no way he could ride in his current state. His weary mind set to work. He pulled himself into a proper riding position, but the pained effort only proved how incapable he was of making the remainder of his trip. He sat deep in contemplation, time quickly becoming his foe. He fought with the idea of chewing on some cuivie root, but he knew after a short while its effects would surely wear off, especially since he was losing so much blood.

  He fingered through his pockets absently. Just before he was about to give up hope, a small coarse oval found his fingertips. “My tether seed!” he exclaimed, wincing in pain. His mother had gifted him the rarity nearly ten years ago on his sixtieth birthday. However, he had refrained from using it because of its dwindling existence. A tether seed could be used for a great many things: mending a broken wagon wheel, sealing a leak in a ship, patching a stubborn draft ... its uses were endless. But what Arnion had in mind bent the normalcy of the seed’s intentions. He brought it to his lips and whispered the word’s his mother had taught him. Within a few seconds, a mass of vines had grown from the seed and secured Arnion to his horse. The vines didn’t constrict him uncomfortably, but rather held him in place as if they had a mind of their own, easing and tightening their grip as need be.

  Thalian coursed with haste, leaving the valley behind. A trail of dust clouded Arnion’s vision as he peered at the diminishing bodies behind him. Three of his friends had fought and died by his side the day before. His respect for them was endless, and the thought of leaving them behind tore at his soul—but a greater task was at hand. He wouldn't give up until his mission was complete.

  He rode out of the valley, cherishing the loyalty of his horse. Their bond had grown immeasurable throughout their trials and tribulations. Their destination remained a half day’s ride ahead, and Arnion’s wounds were deep. He knew his chance of survival was scarce. But it didn't matter. As long as he made it to the Viridian Veil, the Elves would find the scroll he carried.

  Arnion began drifting in and out of consciousness as they raced across the land. He fell into a dream of happier days, remembering times of music and laughter. The sound of Thalian’s hooves entered his dream, drawing out the memories he had of his horse. Those days where they would ride out to the grove of Bayil.

  The sun always shimmered against Thalian’s black coat. He had won many archery competitions with him. They had trained day and night, maneuvering through the forest, drifting around the trees with ease, shooting each target without hesitation. It was as if Thalian was the one gracefully preparing to shoot an arrow, the way he would position himself. The two of them were very close, and many would even joke by asking Thalian questions about Arnion—how he was doing, or if he was in a bad mood. They were the best of friends and were loved by all.

  ***

  Arnion awoke some hours later. For a moment he wished his dreams could be reality, and his reality his dreams. No man deserved to live through such nightmares.

  The lush Elven forest known as the Viridian Veil was peeking out over the horizon. Thalian had reached their destination, once again proving his worth to Arnion. The sight of the Elven wood brought Arnion some relief, but the unsettling strain in Thalian’s breath worried him a great deal. He prayed his horse would survive the journey. Arnion knew he would surely die, but he didn't want his friend to share the same fate.

  The melodic sound of an Elven lyre whispered through the Viridian Veil as Thalian galloped into the Elven wood. The life of the forest seemed to bloom in response to the melody. Music was one of the many gifts that graced the Elves at birth, along with prolonged life, quickened intuition, heightened senses, and a magical connection to the forest. Within their first years of life, Elves mastered the ability to sing and play music with great aptitude. Their skills far surpassed that of any mortal. There were tales of famous bards lucky enough to hear Elven music, many of whom became obsessed with trying to master the art. Few mortals actually played with the Elves, but it wasn’t unheard of.

  The music came to an abrupt stop shortly after the sound of hooves entered the forest. Five Elves made their way toward Thalian’s location. Their speed was uncanny. They floated through the trees like smoke, absent of any sound. As they approached the bloodied horse, their sense of impending violence faded.

  “It’s an Elf,” one of them said.

  “I can see that,” one of the others replied sarcastically. “Is that ...?” the leader of the group then recognized who the dying Elf was, and immediately realized the importance of the situation. “This is Arnion, son of Lord Brannor from the Kingdom of Rhan. Quickly! We must get him to the infirmary. He cannot die!”

  As the Elves lifted his body, Thalian collapsed to the ground. Arnion’s horse had ridden a great distance without holding back and was now severely dehydrated. His muzzle was masked in dried blood, and his breaths were long and strenuous. One of the Elves bent down beside Thalian and brought his waterskin to the horse’s mouth.

  “Easy now, easy. Drink my friend. You will soon regain your strength.”

  ***

  The Elves rushed Arnion into the infirmary and laid his body across a smooth wooden table. Their main focus was to stop the bleeding, for they knew he would surely die if his wound was not looked after. The Elves of the Viridian Veil were well versed in medicine, yet none possessed the healing powers needed for such an injury. They had many herbs from the forest that could tend to his wound, but the real problem was the amount of blood Arnion had already lost—blood that had to be replaced. He needed the healing powers of those who studied at the University of Ariadin. The Elves sealed his wound using the leaves of Vethrin sage, but this would only prolong his impending demise and ease his pain. Arnion was still unconscious and therefore was unable to explain the meaning behind his arrival.

  As Arnion lay in his slumberous state, the door to the infirmary swung open. Standing in the doorway was Galdrinor, one of the great Elder Elves of the Viridian Veil. He was famously known for his telepathic skillset. Galdrinor was one of the oldest Elves in all of Cellagor. He had seen and accomplished more than most men could ever dream of. He had assisted in the thousands of interrogations, always accompanied by Orrinelmborn—the renowned King of the Elven capital Leof Ealdwin—who had fought in the War of the Fallen. Galdrinor entered the minds of men who would never dare give lead to the plans of their Kings, forcing them into speaking against their will. His skills led to the victory of countless wars, helping the Elven existence to thrive. He had driven men insane, breaking them down so thoroughly that some even tried taking their own lives. Enemy soldiers were known to bite off their tongues to keep from speaking in his presence, but it never did any good. Galdrinor could enter someone's mind with ease and flip through their memories like one would with the pages of a book.

  Galdrinor slowly entered the room, expressionless and fixated on the dying Arnion. His long beard nearly touched the floor, i
ts pointed tip a grey-silver like that of an ancient sword. He was in his fifth lifecycle and was beginning to become one with nature, the life of the forest now flowing through his veins. Thin twigs grew from his beard and brows, sprouting small leaves. The branchlets intertwined in his hair, highlighting his rustic life. His hands were rough and gnarled like the bark of a tree. Roots grew from his skin, wrapping around his wrists and fingers, bending in unison with his joints as he moved. He wore the robes of Orthor, which were bestowed only onto those of great power and mastery. The golden lettering and ruins on his robes glimmered in the infirmary’s candlelight.

  Galdrinor approached the centre of the room and placed his hand over Arnion’s head, anxious to find the meaning behind his arrival. In doing so he was quickly reminded of how different it was to enter the mind of an Elf compared to that of a Man. Their memories stretched to depths no mortal brain could ever hope to imagine.

  Galdrinor encountered an abundance of memories as he searched Arnion’s mind. He saw love, joy, sorrow, and pain—but it was the flames of Rhan that caught his mind’s eye. He had never seen fire that could burn so fast and strong, and he knew almost immediately that this greedy flame had something to do with Arnion’s arrival. As he searched further, he was intent to see who was behind this great act of destruction. However, he soon learned that Arnion had left the forest of Rhan before the opposing army could reach his home. With a quick blink through his memory he found out why: Arnion’s Father, Lord Brannor, had entrusted him with a scroll and told him it must reach the Viridian Veil, for it was their only hope of survival. Galdrinor could feel the pain in Arnion’s heart as he walked away from his father. He heard the poor boy’s thoughts fearing that this was the last time he’d see his father, and that his father’s words were just meant to distract him with the idea of hope. He felt how badly Arnion wanted to stay and fight. But had known better than to disobey his father’s wishes.