A Sea of Cinders

by Adam Bishop

  “You needn’t say any more, my friend. I haven’t seen Gregor in some two years. It’s about time I went to visit the frozen bugger.”

  Richard nodded respectfully. “If every King had a friend like you, old age would sit at the bottom of the pond.”

  “Well it’s a good thing I’m not friends with the fish in this lake then,” Durwin said. “Otherwise we’d both go mad trying to figure out where we went wrong.”

  “Maybe you would,” Richard said, letting out a deep-bellied laugh. “I’ve often found a heavy sinker and the right bait has always done the trick for me. But I’ve always been the better fisherman, so I can see where your confusion comes from.”

  ***

  Krea and her brother sat in the kitchen the next morning skinning the fish their father and Durwin had caught the night before. Although she hadn’t said anything, Rowan could tell that his sister was trying to compete with him. There were a few times he was certain she would cut herself, but she never did—her speed only quickened after every fish.

  “You're pretty good at that,” Rowan said. “You get any faster and I’m not sure I'll be able to keep up with you anymore.”

  Krea smiled and continued skinning the rest of her fish. She feared her brother’s kind words were a clever attempt at preventing her from winning the race she was having with herself. She was always very competitive. With her brother being ten years her senior, she felt like she had a lot to live up to.

  “Done!” Krea shouted, dropping her last fish into the bucket between her feet.

  Rowan looked at his sister with a mischievous smile. Then he proceeded to skin his last two fish with a speed that put her to shame. It’s not that he wanted to discourage her, but rather that he wished to hint at the fact that he may have let her win.

  Krea chose to ignore the likelihood of this possibility. She quickly directed the focus elsewhere. “Father said he would ask Elis the Arrow to teach me how to use a bow.”

  “Elis the Arrow!” Rowan repeated. “I’ve seen him pierce a man’s hand before he even had the chance to unsheathe his blade.” Rowan stood and walked over to his sister. He squeezed her right bicep softly and droned with disappointment. “If you want your arrows to reach their mark, you’ll have to strengthen these.”

  “I’m strong enough!” Krea said, shaking her brother’s hand away.

  Rowan laughed and handed her a large pot fit with a handle. “Here, take this,” he said. “Now, hold your arm straight out and see how long you can last.”

  Krea took hold of the heavy iron pot and held out her arm with a fixed gaze. She focused on ignoring its weight, but a minute later her arm began shaking.

  “That’s what it’ll feel like to draw back an arrow. If your arm shakes, you’ll miss the target. Work on that and I’m sure you’ll be the second-best archer in Talfryn.”

  Krea held still, proving her strength. She was strong for her age, and her stubbornness only added to her strength. The weight of the pot grew heavier with each passing second, but still she refused to drop it.

  After about three minutes, Rowan decided to set her free from the torture. “You may be strong enough after all,” he admitted. “I would’ve never thought you’d last as long as you did. Give yourself a break before that pot ruins your day.”

  Krea slowly placed the pot onto the table. Her arm was stiff, like a branch covered in snow, but she refused to let this show. “I told you I was strong enough,” she said, pleased with herself. “Soon I’ll be the second-best archer in Talfryn, just like you said.”

  Her response seemed prophetic, and Rowan couldn’t help but smile. He brushed his hand across the top of her head and left her hair even more tangled than it already was. “I’m sure you will be. Hey, if you practice hard enough you can take part in the autumn tournament. Show us men how it’s done, eh?”

  “Really? Do you think father would let me?” Krea had always wanted to participate in the fall games. It was her favourite week of the year.

  “I'm sure I could persuade father for you. If you get good enough, that is,” Rowan teased.

  “I will, I will! I promise. I’ll practice every day, I will!” Krea bolted off in search of her father. She was ready for her archery lessons.

  ***

  Durwin saddled his horse as the sun peeked out from behind the mountains in the north. The morning air was cold and damp, and steam was rising from his horse’s snout. He wanted to leave Talfryn in the early morning—the less people who knew of his departure the better, he thought.

  He rode down the sharp slope outside the castle gates, where he could feel his horse’s hooves sliding on the damp morning dew. For a moment he was brought back to his youth—memories of when he and Richard went out after a heavy rain and slid down The High Hill of Eagles. They would always challenge one another to see who could make it further before tumbling down to the bottom. He swore one time he saw Richard slide down the entire hill without losing his balance—but no one ever believed him.

  “Easy, boy,” Durwin said, slowing his horse’s pace to make sure he wouldn’t be sent tumbling down like his younger self. “You're no Richard, no need to break the record.”

  As he reached the bottom of the hill, he looked back up at his towering home. Quite some time had passed since he’d last seen Talfryn from this view. Its imposing height and soaring towers made him feel insignificant. He then considered what it must feel like to be a lone soldier approaching its daunting walls.

  Durwin then spotted two eagles staring down at him, curious of his leave. He gave a quick nod and signalled his horse to ride on. Stoneburg was a two day journey at least, and he didn’t want to keep his King waiting.

  ***

  As he rode into the distance, a leering set of eyes studied him from afar. Durwin had done his best to make sure he wasn’t seen leaving Talfryn that morning. But little did he know another had been awaiting his presence outside the castle walls.

  A cloaked man lay in the high grass but a few yards from The High Hill of Eagles. He rested on the ground like a fallen statue, watching Durwin as he rode for Stoneburg. A devilish grin grew on the cloaked man’s face, revealing a vile set of rotting teeth.

  “Off to see Gregor, are we?” he whispered. His voice was sly and sinister, like those ghosts who were said to haunt the Wayward Ruins. He rose and lit a match just as Durwin faded out of sight. His greasy strands of hair hung from both sides of his narrow face, which was half-hidden under a dark tattered hood. He removed a short stubby wooden pipe from his robes and began to smoke as he walked southwest from the kingdom.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thalian’s Grievance

  Six days had passed since Arnion’s arrival at the Viridian Veil. His precarious situation induced quite the bustle of conversation among the townsfolk—stories and speculations revolving around the true meaning behind his arrival, the most prolific being that he had attempted entering the formidable Mount Abyss. It was also rumoured that he was the sole survivor among those he travelled with and that the dark forces surrounding the mountain relentlessly pulled at his soul, refusing his escape from its fiendish grip.

  Even though this was far from the truth, he had yet to awake to prove or disprove any speculation. His condition hadn’t worsened, nor had it improved. Methron was able to keep him alive thus far thanks to his alchemy skills. He had crafted a fluid using the components of the Iar leaf—which quickened the recovery of red blood cells. This treatment seemed to work for the time being, but Arnion’s chances of survival could only fluctuate with each passing day. His still body lay in the infirmary like a corpse refusing to rot.

  While his body was asleep—his intellect was not. Arnion’s mind constantly replayed the deaths of his friends, forcing him to relive the horror of the Valley of Larin. He was haunted by their deaths, suspended in a never-ending nightmare. You could see the pain in his face as he watched each of his friends fall to the ground in agony—twitching, like a fish out of water.

  At ti
mes Methron worried Arnion’s anguish would be what killed him. He hoped Arnion could somehow free himself from his nightmarish depth.

  ***

  Unlike his master, Thalian had recovered handsomely. He overcame his dehydration during his first night spent in the Viridian Veil, and the Elves made sure he was given more than enough food to regain his strength. Even though Thalian had recovered, it was obvious his heart still held a great deal of pain. Not a single day had passed where he hadn’t trotted up to Arnion’s side. From the first light of day to the last, he would slowly circle the solemn stone ward where Arnion slept, leaving a dark trail of hoof-prints on the ground surrounding the infirmary.

  Thalian waited patiently in the hopes that his master—his friend—would walk through the foreboding wooden door which hid him away. None who lived in the Veil had ever seen such loyalty in a horse before, and many felt sympathetic toward the poor stallion. A few Elves took it upon themselves to comfort the sulking steed. They visited him regularly, bringing fresh apples, carrots, and sugar cubes.

  Thalian was grateful for these kind acts. He never shied away from their attention, but it only briefly distracted him from his inescapable sorrow. The absence of a friend was something none looked forward to, but the loss of a brother held a much stronger pain. He had no way of knowing if Arnion was getting better or if he was bound to die, and this unawareness is what brought forth his unrelenting feelings of distress.

  Thalian would die before he gave up the hope he had ... he would continue circling his friend until the clutches of Death pulled him away.

  ***

  Several miles northwest of the Viridian Veil, an Elf by the name of Faron rode out of the Valley of Larin. His olive-green cloak raced behind him, dancing in the strong midday wind. A beautifully carved bow hugged his back, along with a quiver of arrows. His face held a stern look, which could have been mistaken for anger—but the frowning of his brow was merely a result of the wind. His feeling of anger had passed and turned into more of a burning concern, which was the reason for his furious pace. Much like Arnion, he rode for The Veil with vital information concerning Rhan. He thought back to the brief conversation he had had with Thinduil six days ago; his Lord’s words replayed in his head.

  Rhan is under attack, I don’t know how long they have. All I know is that they need our help. You’ll lead three hundred soldiers to the border north of Larin. From there, you make haste for Rhan. If it has yet to fall, I ask that you lead our kin into battle. Be sure to send word for reinforcements beforehand. You have always been a skilled warrior and a dear friend. I look forward to your return.

  At first, he’d felt honoured to be entrusted with such an important task. But now his journey home left him feeling quite the opposite. Upon seeing the thick clouds of smoke rising from the forest of Rhan, he knew the siege had already taken place—but he’d never expected to find what he had. Faron was no stranger to the casualties of war, but nothing could prepare him for the horrors that awaited him in Rhan.

  Thousands of dead Elves littered the ground outside the Kingdom, like fallen autumn leaves. He had never seen so many lifeless bodies in one place, and he prayed that a similar picture wouldn’t greet him inside the castle halls. His prayers went unheeded. The halls were littered with the dead. Having to return home with this news made him feel as if he had failed his mission. He knew there was nothing he could do to erase what had happened, but the thought of returning with such grim truth lodged a thorny weight in his heart.

  A series of strenuous huffs stole Faron away from his thoughts. He quickly realized he had been pushing his horse too hard. He made sure to slow her pace.

  “Easy girl, easy. I was lost in thought,” he said, stroking the side of her neck. Lithuii slowed, but made sure to keep a steady canter. He brushed his fingers through her thick ashen coat and whispered in her ear. “Slow down, Lithuii. Our home is close, and it appears we may have an unwanted visitor.”

  Something, or someone, had caught Faron’s eye. He wasn’t positive, but he thought it could be an enemy spy. He notched an arrow and fired it toward the faint shape in the grass. His arrow pierced the ground not but an inch away from a man who thought himself hidden. As he expected, the man attempted to make a run for it. Faron made sure his next arrow pinned the stranger’s foot to the ground.

  “Stay where you are, lurker!” Faron shouted as he approached the struggling stranger. “Why are you spying on the forest?” he asked with his pale blue eyes locked in an intimidating stare.

  A look of surprise lingered on the man’s dirty, ashen face. He looked like he had been lying in the grass for days, weeks even. His clothes were faded rags with some stitching. There was nothing distinguishing where he came from or who he worked for.

  Before Faron had the chance to speak again, the weary man grinned and hurriedly drank from a small vile. He burst into flames, and in seconds was reduced to embers. Faron quickly dismounted his horse and approached the flakey remains of the unnamed man. All that remained was a pile of ash and the arrow he had shot into the man’s foot. He pulled the arrow from the ground and examined it. Little damage had been done. The wood was blackened near the base, but aside from that, it was unscathed.

  How could fire strong enough to burn a man within seconds leave my arrow intact? he pondered.

  This thought stuck with him for the remainder of his journey.

  ***

  Upon returning home, Faron brought his horse to the Viridian stables. He was met by the forest’s ostler, Hendrin. “She looks tired. And so do you, my friend,” Hendrin said with a welcoming smile. He was short and stout for an Elf, and his disdain for footwear had always been a conversation starter.

  “She’s far more tired than I,” Faron replied. “A full meal and a good night’s rest should see her fit.”

  “Well you brought her to the right place then,” the stable master said, loosening the leather straps around Lithuii’s saddle. “I just took dinner off the flame. You're welcome to join me if you like.”

  “A warm meal with a good friend is very tempting, but I must go speak with Thinduill. I—”

  “No need to explain,” Hendrin interrupted. He knew Faron meant no disrespect. They had been friends longer than most mortals lived. “Thiduill has informed me of the city of Rhan’s … misfortune. As much as I’d like to believe you’ve returned with good news, something tells me it’s the opposite.”

  Faron looked at his feet in an attempt to stall his answer. While doing so, he noticed something that misdirected his train of thought. “You’re still walking around barefoot … at the end of autumn?”

  Hendrin wiggled his toes and chuckled. “I will be through the winter too. We barely get any snow as it is. I’m sure I can build up a tolerance.”

  Faron laughed and shook his head. “And you call me the crazy one.”

  “I’d take cold feet over a sword fight any day.”

  “Fair enough,” Faron replied. “Keep a plate warm for me. I’ll come back later and tell you what I found in Rhan.”

  Hendrin nodded. “Already done, my friend.”

  ***

  Faron noticed an absence of liveliness during his walk through the city streets. He knew this was due to the news of Rhan, but it still bothered him a great deal. The Viridian Veil was his home. He hated seeing its residents hiding in fear. The greed of Man had long baffled him. He never understood their disregard for peace.

  He counted only two vendors in all, and not a single youngster ran through the streets with their typical carefree smiles. The once flourishing city was but a dull reflection of itself, and Faron refused to let this stand. As he reached the main keep, he pushed open a giant pair of wooden doors and aggressively approached the throne room. The hallway he walked through held a striking resemblance to that of Rhan. He did his best to ignore this, but it wasn’t enough to stop his mind from picturing the carnage he had found. The empty hallway slowly filled with imaginary dead Elves. His heart grew heavy with each step.


  He burst into the throne room like a man running from a ghost. This startled both Thinduill and Avolin and diverted their attention.

  “Faron,” Thinduill said in a surprised tone. “I’ve been awaiting your return. Though by the look on your face I fear you come bearing bad news. I’m glad to see you’re in good health … can the same be said for those in Rhan?”

  Faron hung his head in dismay. “I’m sorry, my Lord … Rhan is a pile of ashes. I was met by countless dead when I arrived … all burned, all lost.”

  Avolin’s eye’s filled with tears.

  “King Brannor … he too … is dead?” Thinduill asked.

  “His severed head was burned and … placed atop his throne.”

  Thinduill clenched his fists, his face burning with rage. “Barbarians! Such a lack of respect can only be the result of man! What of the others I sent with you … have any lost their lives?”

  “No. The Kingdom had fallen before I got there. Fifty or sixty stayed behind to create a pyre for the dead, but the rest should return within the next few days.”

  “Very well. They deserve a proper burial, poor souls,” Thinduill spoke with closed eyes, most likely praying for those who died.

  “You encountered someone during your return, did you not?” Avolin asked. “That’s what Thinduill and I were discussing before your arrival.”

  Faron was only mildly surprised by Avolin’s question, fully aware of her clairvoyant gift. “Yes, yes. I was met by a stranger … or rather, he was met by me,” Faron replied. “He was hiding in a patch of tall grass about two hundred feet away from the forest. I assumed he was a spy, so I shot a warning arrow. When he tried to run, I made sure my next arrow pinned his foot to the ground. But before I had the chance to ask him who he was or who had sent him, he burst into flames. Within seconds he was no more than ash. All that remained was this.”

  He removed the blackened arrow from his quiver and handed it to Thinduill.