A Sea of Cinders

by Adam Bishop

  ***

  Galdrinor entered the council room flanked by the remaining council members. They sat in their designated seats. Moonlight filled the room with shadows from surrounding plants, casting a lush pattern across the torch-lit walls. Lord Thinduill sat at the head of a giant redwood table positioned in the centre of the room. He was holding the scroll Galdrinor had brought him earlier, staring at the bloodstains on the rolled parchment. Galdrinor took his seat at the top right side of the table just below Lord Thinduill. Across from him sat Methron, who was the second eldest in the council after Galdrinor. His navy robes were tattered and peppered with soot. With Methron being a devoted alchemist, he seldom left his laboratory. Many found him to be rather odd. He often kept to himself, which led to many rumours painting him as an old nut. Not all were true, but not all were far from the truth either.

  Avolin sat beside him. The contrast between the two was almost humorous. She had porcelain skin with eyes the same greenish-blue as the forest that housed their Kingdom. Her long auburn hair ran over her shoulders like silk. It appeared finer than the elegant dress she was wearing. Many were taken by her beauty, though her skills in foresight were never overlooked.

  Faron was the youngest of the council members, but he had proven himself on many occasions concerning the art of war. His military knowledge had been well received by all the Elven Lords, particularly his adept knowledge and respect for the opposing human armies’ tactics and strengths, which was often neglected. His attire rarely strayed from the customary armour worn by those of Woodland Watch. His deep green cloak was clean and presentable, though on closer inspection signs of mending and age stood out amongst its shadowed creases. However, the same could not be said about his leather armour. Each overlapping layer looked unscathed by battle—a testament to his skill with both blade and bow.

  “Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Lord Thinduill said as he greeted his council. “As some of you may have heard, an Elf from Rhan has journeyed to our kingdom. His arrival comes with great concern. The Elf is Arnion, son of Lord Brannor, and he came bearing this scroll.” Thinduill held up the bloodied parchment, then continued, “Its words speak of war. Rhan is under siege, and from what I understand the entirety of their forest has been, or will soon be, burnt to the ground.”

  “The entire forest!” Faron exclaimed, baffled by what he had just heard. “I doubt the humans are capable of such a feat. Even I would have a hard time planning such an attack. What fire could burn an entire forest to the ground? Come now. I can’t believe such—”

  “Well … yes, yes. Such fire does exist,” Methron interrupted. “However, the ingredients needed to craft such a foul substance would be near impossible to get your hands on.” He looked off into space and added, “Hmmm … well, no, no, yes.” Methron had a habit of speaking to himself. This proved quite annoying at times, but the council had grown used to it over the years. However, Faron was the least patient of the group.

  “No, yes, no, yes … what is it then!” Faron demanded.

  “The fire I speak of is strong. But I’m not certain it could burn an entire forest to the ground.”

  Faron’s slitted eyes speared Methron. “Right then. It’s like I said, such a fire doesn’t exist … at least not in the hands of the human armies.”

  “The flames I saw burned at a speed that would make a dragon flee in fear. Whole trees fell into piles of ash within seconds. I’m not asking you to figure out if such a fire exists—I’m telling you. Let us not waste any more time on youthful doubt.” Galdrinor said, still loathing the images from Arnion’s mind.

  “Do we know who attacked the forest of Rhan?” Avolin asked. Her voice was soft and pleasant, instantly deflecting the tension of the conversation.

  “Galdrinor believes King Richard is responsible,” Thinduill replied with a reluctant tone. “He entered Arnion’s mind. He saw the Feathered Knights of Talfryn ambush Arnion and his companions on their way through the Valley of Larin.” His tone grew more confident as he continued. “Arnion was the only one to survive, however not without injury. He is badly wounded and may not survive through the night.” He hoped his conclusion would not become a reality.

  “I’ll pray for his recovery,” Avolin responded, bowing her head. “However, I must say I doubt King Richard capable of such atrocities … we have never gone to war with Talfryn, and King Richard is an honourable man … he has a kind heart.”

  “I felt the same way when I heard the news. But many years have passed, and the human mind is capable of much corruption,” Lord Thinduill said.

  “Whoever attacked Rhan is not alone. No, certainly not,” Methron implied. “No human army in Cellagor could ever craft a fire of such proportions.”

  “I must admit, it is unlikely,” Faron agreed. “Though we must accept what has happened and focus on the fact that Rhan’s army is only a thousand strong. Their main line of defense is lost now that the forest has perished. And although the Elves are better fighters than the humans, their kingdom could be overthrown if the opposing army outnumbers their own. Did you see the size of the army, Galdrinor?” Faron asked. There was urgency in his voice.

  “I will not let that happen!” Lord Thinduill shouted. “I’m sending a thousand Elves to Rhan before sunset.”

  “The army behind the flames looked to be at least three, or even five thousand strong,” Galdrinor answered.

  A look of utter devastation fell over Faron. “Rhan is a three-day ride from our kingdom. Two if we want to lose half our horses in the process. Even if their kingdom held an army two thousand strong, our reinforcements would arrive too late … Rhan has fallen. That is the bitter truth. The humans have succeeded in their invasion. Sending more Elves would only weaken our kingdom’s defense.”

  Faron’s words cast a forlorn feeling across the Elven council. Lord Thinduill peered at Faron in silence. He knew what he’d just heard could very well be true, but he couldn’t accept it. He refused to believe that the humans had burned the Kingdom of Rhan to the ground alongside their forest.

  “What kind of leader would I be if I ignored a plea for help from our kin?” Lord Thinduill asked.

  “The human army that attacked Rhan had anticipated their attempt to send for aid. Who’s to say they’re not waiting for us to send a fraction of our own army so they can weaken us, my Lord? Avolin pointed out. “I have predicted the actions of humans for many years, and my senses tell me we are being watched. If we deplete our forces by aiding those who may already be lost, we too may meet the same fate.”

  Lord Thinduill found himself at a crossroads. He didn’t want to abandon Rhan. But he also couldn’t risk the safety of his own kin. He turned to Galdrinor, desperate for a solution. “How long did it take Arnion to reach our forest?”

  “Two and a half days, my Lord. But his horse almost died from the journey,” Galdrinor replied.

  “Three days have passed. At least three to four more before our reinforcements could make it to Rhan. That makes it six days at the least … that’s more than enough time to sack a Kingdom as small as Rhan, even for a human army,” Faron said, cautious of his tone.

  Thinduill sat in silence for some time. Finally, he uttered his decision.

  “We cannot risk the safety of our own Kingdom. I will send three hundred Elves to the unspoken border. A scout will be chosen to the Kingdom of Rhan—”

  “I will go, my Lord,” Faron insisted.

  “Very well,” Thinduill nodded with the utmost respect. “If their walls still stand, we will send further aid. And if the Kingdom is lost, then our soldiers will return. As for the other Elven Kingdoms—we shall send three boats. One to each Kingdom. Everyone needs to be warned. If the humans mean to go to war with us again, we must stop them before things get out of hand. I fear the humans intend to recover The Barthaglonn, known to them as, ‘The Book of No Quarter.’ This cannot happen … I won’t let it!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Aftermath

  D
adro Braxis stood in the brisk night, peering south from his chamber balcony. His calloused hands grasped the stone railing supporting his waist, which helped him from putting any weight on his right leg. Although his wound was not severe, its pain tore at his soul, reminding him of the one who’d given it to him. He could see as far as the fields of Dale, but he was looking past that, at the forest of Rhan. Whether he could see it or not didn’t matter. He could still picture the smoking remains of the forest and hear the cries of those dying Elves he’d left behind in his wake.

  Temperbailen towered over the wooden city of Havilmir. In the evenings, the royal keep would cast an ever-growing shadow over the River of Rams, creating a mountain of pitch-black amongst the stony lands. It was a mammoth Kingdom—a remarkable feat few deemed possible by man. The height of the barbican alone made the surrounding Kingdoms look like mere forts. Many claimed that a single brick from its walls would be heavy enough to sink a warship, and that the mortar holding the bricks in place had been made from the iron sands that used to cover the shores of Ovis Bay. Such a Kingdom only housed the truest of warriors, and being the army’s first night back at their castle, it was no surprise that a boisterous celebration was underway in the Great Hall.

  Due to the great number of Braxi soldiers, the majority of Dadro’s army was celebrating outside in the royal gardens. Large tents and spacious canopies had been set up for the soldiers and squires of lesser rank. A great feast was presented to all the men, though wild venison and boar were only served to the knights and noblemen dining inside the castle walls.

  Darith sat in the Great Hall alongside the other knights of the High Guard. He had already bedded two whores since his return, and he had a third sitting on his lap, filling his cup after every swig. Countless barrels of wine and ale were brought from the castle cellars for the celebration. “May no cup run dry,” Dadro had told his men, some of whom had already drunkenly conceded to the night.

  The smell of ale and charred meat filled the hall, accompanied by the sound of clanging glasses and drunken songs, sung by the celebrating soldiers:

  From Giants we come, we reign we don’t fall.

  A black curtain we march, to break down your walls.

  From Jutonn to Braxi, our name we call, ourselves the rulers of Cellagor.

  From Havilmir to Dale and back, all shall fear the curtain black.

  Like the River of Rams, Abyss, the Nine Tailed too, nothing can stop us, not him, her or you.

  A black curtain we are, made of blood, sweat, and steel.

  A black curtain of war, we’ll break down your door.

  A black curtain of war, we’ll break down your door.

  The shadows we cast will swallow the light, as we march to your Kingdom eager to fight.

  Our hammers and axes will steal the lives of our foes.

  For the rams horns are strong, you’ll be left for the crows.

  A black curtain we are, made of blood, sweat, and steel.

  A black curtain we are, marching to war.

  A black curtain we are, Kings of war!

  Dadro could hear the clamour of his men echoing in the wind as he stood loathing the Elves.

  He held no feelings for celebration. Although he had won the battle of Rhan, his brother Fordro had suffered gravely. All he could think of was the sight of his brother burnt from head to toe, laying in his bed, the hands of death dragging him deeper into the abyss.

  Aleister entered Dadro’s chamber with the softness of a serpent stalking its prey. “Won’t you join us in celebration, Your Grace? ... Your victory holds great honour.”

  “Has there been word from our men in the Valley of Larin?” Dadro asked, ignoring Aleister’s request.

  “We are still absent of any news, Your Grace. I fret you were the only one victorious against the Elves.”

  “Be that as it may, the Elves are now aware they are under attack, and more of my men are dead!”

  Aleister shuffled toward Dadro, meeting him on the balcony. He knew where his King looked, but he directed his vision elsewhere. “Rhan is no more, Your Grace. You should direct your thoughts southeast. The Elves of the Viridian Veil are sure to act on the situation that has presented itself, but they still have no way of knowing who attacked Rhan … we burned all of our dead.”

  “Hmmm, yes ... at least my gold has not gone to waste. The armour our blacksmiths made perfectly replicated that of the Feathered Knights of Talfryn. However, as pretty as it was, it wasn't strong enough to keep them safe in the Valley of Larin.”

  “Yes, war brings much death. But who is killed is just as important as who kills who. The Elves will think that the army who attacked Rhan marched from Talfryn. Not Havelmir.”

  King Dadro grinned hearing Aleister’s words, and for a moment he was able to forget his brother’s dire condition. He knew what he had accomplished, but until he heard it from someone other than himself, he couldn’t truly appreciate the feat. “Your words are well met, my friend. I needn’t linger with hate. Winning the battle of Rhan is but the beginning of my reign. Thank you for bringing that back to my attention.”

  A smile grew on Aleister’s face as he watched Dadro exit the windswept balcony to pour himself a glass of wine. He was glad to see his King abandoning his depressive state of mind. “Winning a war is like climbing a tree, Your Grace. The first battle has been won, yes. But you have only made your way past the stump. The real challenge is choosing which branches to climb on your rise to victory over all.”

  Dadro chuckled at this metaphor, accepting its truth and humour alike. “Then my feet shall never touch the ground as I make the climb,” he replied. “I will join my men in the great hall to honour our victory, as a King should. I trust the wine is rich and flowing till night’s end?”

  “Of course, Your Grace. Tis as you said: no cup shall run dry.”

  ***

  A persistent pounding of pressure filled Dadro’s head as he awoke the next morning—not even a King can escape repercussions from a long night of drinking. Dadro dragged himself out of bed and chugged back the water from his washbasin. Washing his face or any other part of himself seemed useless. He felt like a pile of shit and figured there was no harm in looking like one as well. As he woke up, his mind was freed from the illusion the drunkenness brought on the night before. Once again the image of his burnt and unconscious brother flooded his mind. He rose to his feet and made his way to Fordro’s chambers. He prayed good fortune would greet them both.

  As he opened the wooden door to his brother’s room, he saw Aleister, accompanied by Leech, the head Chiurgeon of Havilmeir. Dadro was puzzled by Aleister’s presence. The pyromancer barely knew his brother. And so, he found it rather odd that he would be present at such an hour.

  “Has his condition worsened?” Dadro asked Leech, with his eyes locked on Aleister.

  “Your brother is strong, Your Grace. He continues to fight against any further corruption … all we can do is wait. I will continue to aid in his recovery, but I can give no estimation on when—or if—he will wake.”

  “He will wake!” Dadro snapped. “My brother will not let a small encounter with fire bring about his demise! Fordro shall take the throne after me and rule these lands as our family has always done.” Dadro wanted to believe what he said to be true, but the sight of his brother brought forth unwanted doubt.

  Fordro lay there, a hardly-breathing, charred carcass. His breaths were short and strenuous. His eyebrows and lashes had burnt off, and his hair was reduced to a straggly patch at the back of his skull. The welts and blisters covering his face and body made him almost unrecognizable. It was a sad sight, and Dadro had to force himself to look past the wounds. He would always remember his brother as the strong-jawed, handsome man he once was. Dadro always knew his brother was the better looking of the two, but now that had changed. “What of his burns? Will they heal ... or will they always burden him?”

  “Well, Your Grace—that is why I made my way here this morning,” Aleister repl
ied. “As a pyromancer, I have much experience concerning burn wounds. I believe I have just the thing to aid in the healing of his wounds. Mind you, he will not look the same. But it will greatly assist with his tissue regeneration.”

  “Very well. If you can heal wounds as well as you kindle flame, any further aid would be much appreciated,” he said, trying to picture his brother free of his foul mutilation.

  “Anything to help the future King of Cellagor,” Aleister replied, nodding. Aleister approached Fordro and pulled back the bandages covering his wounds to get a closer look. He examined the severity of the burns with a steady gentleness. “Yes, yes. I’ve seen such damage before. I’ll return later with a cream that shall comfort the frailness of his skin.”

  Dadro turned his attention back to Leech. “Is there anything I can provide that will further assist in his recovery?”

  “I’ve everything I need for now, Your Grace. I’m confident your brother will fight through his recovery. Braxis blood runs through his veins. Its strength will overcome any challenge that presents itself.”

  Dadro took one last look at his brother before leaving. He prayed that the gods would one day see Fordro healed.

  ***

  It was noon when Dadro realized he’d been aimlessly walking the dim halls of Temperbailen. The thought of his brother festered in his mind, like a hidden wound with no cure. A jolt of pain in his lower right leg then reminded him of his own injury. He had been walking for nearly an hour, and when he reached down and touched the back of his leg, he found it damp with blood. “Bollocks!” he muttered to himself.

  “What ails you, my King?” a shaky voice asked from behind him.

  “Fuckin' ram's skull!” Dadro shouted in a startled tone. “Don’t creep up on me like that, you old fool. I nearly snapped your neck!”

  “My apologies, Your Grace,” Chancellor Raymund said, trying to hide his smile among his wrinkles. “You know what they say—the older one gets, the lighter their steps.”