by Adam Bishop
Thinduill inspected the arrow. “The man’s entire body burned to ash?” he asked.
“Within seconds. The fire that took his life completely ignored the arrow. A strange thing for fire to ignore wood, no? That’s why I brought it back with me.”
“A strange thing indeed,” Thinduill said. “Bring this to Methron. See if he can make sense of the matter.”
Faron nodded, taking back the arrow. Thinduill stood from his throne and approached him firm-postured, his head raised in the air.
“My respect for you is rivalled by few. Not only have you proven yourself a worthy soldier of The Veil, you’ve also demonstrated the intellect of a leader. Such qualities cannot be overlooked. Faron, son of Eldin, I would name you Head Sentry of the Woodland Watch should you accept.”
Faron’s knees went weak. He made sure to quickly feign this brief loss of strength. “I would be honoured, my Lord,” he said bowing. “As Head Sentry, I will proudly defend our Kingdom from the enemy. I promise you we will not meet the same fate as Rhan.”
“I would expect nothing less,” Thinduill responded. “Return after you’ve spoken with Methron. I’m curious to hear what he has to make of this whole … ash and arrow quandary.”
Faron bowed once more before leaving the throne room.
***
Neither Thinduill nor Avolin spoke for some time after Faron’s exit. Both of them felt a great deal of grief for those who had fallen in Rhan. Until now, the small amount of hope they had clung to had not yet slipped away.
“It’s hard to believe they're all gone … everyone. Our Kingdom must not share the same fate as Rhan,” Avolin said.
“No more Elven Kingdom will fall. Not ours, not any,” Thinduill said. “Now that we know the armies of man are in motion once again, we shall stop them in their tracks.”
“But we still don’t know who’s responsible,” Avolin stressed. “How are we going to stop our enemy if we don’t even know who our enemy is?”
“I know you refuse to believe it, but Galdrinor did see Arinfray soldiers attack Arnion and his men. Humans have always been slaves to greed and power. You must consider their weaknesses. Many years have passed since we last spoke of or even heard from Richard as well. Is it not possible that another sits upon his throne? His son, perhaps? A young mind is an easy target for a forked tongue.”
Avolin took a moment to contemplate this before answering. She had never considered the possibility of Richard’s passing until now. “Not every human is as weak-minded as you say. Think of all those who live in the Golden Breast. There are still many who strive to live as we do. I will admit, I haven’t considered the passing of Richard, but I believe he is still alive and I doubt Richard or his son could be capable of such things. The Arinfray would never lay waste to an entire Kingdom without reason or honour.”
“Yes, it is hard to believe. But Galdrinor saw what he saw, and I’ve never doubted his visions.”
“And you’ve never doubted mine,” Avolin shot back. “I’ve known the Arinfray for many years. They are not savages. I hold a close connection with their family. If death or corruption has fallen upon them, I would have felt a change.”
Thinduill found himself at a crossroads. He’d always considered both Galdrinor and Avolin’s council equally. However, this was the first time he felt pressured to choose sides. He tried to find a deciding factor, but neither of them had ever been wrong. Their gifts always delivered certainty. At this point, he decided they had reached a stalemate. “I have always laid my trust in your hands, Avolin. And I always will. If you believe the King of Eagles had nothing to do with the fall of Rhan, then I will hold back my army for the time being. But, we haven’t much time. We must find out who is responsible before the enemy shows up at our doorstep.”
Avolin bowed. “I thank you for your trust, my lord. I assure you Talfryn held no hand in the matter.”
“Be that as it may, I still await word from King Orrinelmborn. His decision will ultimately decide what path we take,” Thinduill added.
Before Avolin could agree, a strong feeling of awareness came over her. Her head jolted in the direction of the infirmary.
“Arnion … he’s awoken!”
***
Faron heard a loud bang upon reaching the entrance to Methron’s laboratory. He noticed green smoke trailing out from under the wooden door in front of him. He hesitated, placing a hand over his mouth as he walked into the smoke-filled room.
“Methron ... I have something that may interest you!” he shouted through his fingers. It was hard to see amid all the smoke. Faron had never seen Methron’s lab before, so he wasn’t quite sure what to expect. He caught glimpses of large beakers and oddly-shaped flasks, all of which were filled with brightly coloured liquids.
As the smoke began to clear, he noticed the room was much larger than he’d thought. The ceilings stretched fifteen feet above the ground, and there was even a winding staircase leading to a golden-balconied upper level. The walls were covered in diagrams and equations scribbled in what looked like different languages. And despite the bookshelves, hundreds of books and papers were scattered about. Faron slowly inched around all the bubbling equipment, finally founding Methron muttering to himself, hunched over a cluster of smoking flasks.
“Methron!” Faron shouted over the many sounds that filled the room.
“Bah! Why would you bother an old man while he’s at work? I could have killed us both. You should know better,” Methron grumbled. He remained fixated on his work.
“Yes … I should,” Faron said unconvincingly. “Thinduill asked me to bring you this. He thought you may be able to gain some information from it.”
Methron finally shot up from his work and peered at the blackened arrow. “A burnt piece of wood! I’m not fond of jokes, especially when I’m working. Off with you now! Get back to your swordplay, or whatever you simpletons trifle with.”
“This arrow pierced the foot of a man who burned to a pile of ash in seconds. The fire merely singed the arrow. It almost ignored it completely.”
“Ah, you don’t say,” Methron replied, grabbing the arrow from Faron. “Very peculiar, very peculiar indeed.” Methron placed the arrow under his nose and took a long, hearty sniff. “Mmmm yes. Yes it has hints of swamp weed and grim leaf … but those only grow in the Far East,” Methron said, followed by a series of mumbled words Faron couldn’t make out. “Very well, very well. I will look into it further,”
Methron often let his curiosity dampen his manners. He never meant anything by it, never intended to be rude. It was just the way his mind worked.
Faron took little offence to the abrupt dismissal. He left without saying goodbye.
***
A sudden deep breath of air filled Arnion’s lungs as he burst awake. His eyes were heavy, and as he took stock of the room everything around him appeared as if it were underwater. He then wondered if he was still dreaming, or if he had passed into the afterlife.
After regaining his vision, he realized he was in a room he had never seen before. Had he been captured by enemy forces? “Where … am … I?” he muttered under his breath.
A door swung open and someone entered the room.
“Arnion! You’re awake,” a voice called from the corner of the room.
Arnion had no memory of this voice. He wanted to turn to see who it was, but he was too weak. As the unknown man approached him he felt an urge to reach for his blade, but his muscles refused to comply. “Easy, my friend. You’re in the company of Elves,” Thinduill said placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve no need for weapons here. I … we are grateful for your recovery.”
Arnion peered at the figure standing beside him. “Thinduill?” he said in a dry tone.
“Yes,” the Elven Lord answered, breaking a smile. “You were successful in reaching our forest. I received your father’s message.”
Relief flowed through him. Until now he had no recollection of reaching the Viridian Veil. For all he knew,
he had bled out in the Valley of Larin.
“Rhan … the fire … what happe—” Arnion fell short of words, his throat singed with dryness. “Thalian! Is he—” A horse cough ended his question.
“You must rest, Arnion. You’re lucky to be alive! All will be answered. One step at a time for now.” Thinduill raised a cup of water to his lips. “Drink, it will help with your struggle.”
Every soothing sip Arnion took brought him closer to reality. The discomfort of his dehydration slowly faded the more he drank.
“Thalian,” Arnion repeated stubbornly.
“He is fine,” Thinduill replied. “He’s outside, no need to worry. Not a day has passed without him joining your side. He saved your life, you know? He was close to death upon your arrival. I’ve never seen such loyalty in an animal before. He must have ridden non-stop before reaching our forest … he’s become quite famous among those in town."
Arnion managed to smile. He loved his horse like a brother, and deep respect washed over him as he pictured his noble companion. “What of Rhan? Were you able to save them?” Arnion asked.
Thinduill lowered his head, looking away from Arnion. “Rhan is lost, along with everyone who lived there.”
They shared a moment of silence. Neither man could find any words. Arnion felt as if his recovery was more of a torture than a blessing. He felt like his entire world had crumbled around him, burned in the fire he watched as he rode from his home. Thinduill saw the pain in his eyes.
“I’m sorry Arnion, I truly am. Let us not talk about it any longer, for now. I think it’s best you regain your strength. Rage and sorrow will only weaken you further.”
Thinduill then opened the door to the infirmary and signalled for Thalian to enter. Excited by Arnion’s voice, Thalian rushed into the infirmary. Arnion found the strength to turn around, and in his mournful state, there was no better sight to witness. His eyes filled with tears and his heart burned with a bittersweet score of emotions. He reached his arms out and wrapped them around Thalian’s neck and thick mane. Once again, they were reunited. Not just as friends—but as family, and as the last two survivors of Rhan.
CHAPTER NINE
A Bloody Brew
“Dead!? How do you mean, dead? Did he fall by the blade or did he take his own life?” Dadro bellowed. “If that spy compromised us, I’ll have his family thrown out of the city!”
“Not to worry, Your Grace. Only ashes were found. He swallowed the vile of liquid Aleister gave him after being spotted,” Chancellor Raymund answered sluggishly. “I received the news this morning. Our involvement with Rhan is still unbeknownst to the Elves.”
Dadro paused for a moment, then nodded “Good. And I’ll have it stay that way!”
Aleister poured his King a glass of wine and brought it to him. “Of course, Your Grace. As I told you, any man who ingests Kindled Rain will burn in an instant.”
Dadro gulped his wine and wiped his beard. “That you did, and so he burned. But now we have no eyes on the Veil. We will need to send another—someone more skilled in the ways of stealth.”
“Vagrin returned late last night. He was seen by none in Talfryn and even managed to escape the eyes of our guard upon entry to the city,” Raymund said. “I don’t know how, but he was waiting outside my chambers without invitation.”
“The cloaked foreigner with the pipe?”
“Yes. He claimed to see a single rider from Talfryn heading toward the reaches of Stoneburg.”
“Ah, yes. Durwin, I’m sure of it,” Dadro surmised. “He and Richard have been friends since childhood. I can’t see him sending any other. Besides Richard himself, Durwin knows Lord Gregor best. I didn’t think Richard would act so quickly. I guess my letter scared him more than I thought it would.” Dadro then lowered his brows in disconcert. “Vagrin has returned … already? That’s not possible. He and Darith left the same day and the crazy bastard even refused a horse. He said 'Those who walk in the footsteps of shadow need no assistance.' How is it a man on foot travelled faster than a man riding a horse?”
“Vagrin comes from the Hallowed Isles,” Aleister began. “Tis said those who live there acquire unnatural powers. He did arrive in your Kingdom in a rowboat with no sign of food or water. At least that’s what I’ve heard. You might ask how a man crossed the Black Sea in a mere rowboat without nourishment.”
Dadro considered this and shook his head. “No man is capable of such things. His arrival was part of an act. He may have fooled those with simple minds, but I will not fall victim to such guile.” Dadro spoke with certainty—however, a tiny part of him toyed with believing the impossibilities surrounding Vagrin. He had seen many oddities in his life. Whether he chose to ignore them or not, deep down he knew there was great magic in the world.
“My thoughts exactly, Your Grace. A mere parlour trick to strengthen his legend,” Raymund said.
“That may very well be. Nonetheless, he still managed to go unseen in Talfryn despite countless eyes in the sky. You must know a thing or two about stealth in order to evade thousands of eagles. Would you not agree?” Aleister said, shrugging as if the answer was obvious.
Dadro sighed. “I suppose you have a point. If we have to send another to spy on the Elves, Vagrin may just be our best candidate.”
“Shall I give him the orders then?” Raymund asked.
“Aye, I won’t lose any more of my men to the Elves. That’s all for now.” Dadro said as he filled his cup.
As Aleister and Raymund began to take their leave, a sudden halting grunt from Dadro stopped them.
“Fordro,” he said in a deep tone.
This single word sent a shiver through Aleister’s bones. He had promised to assist in the recovery of the King’s brother, and if anything had gone wrong he would surely be held accountable. The few seconds that passed before Dadro spoke again seemed to linger far too long. Aleister refrained from showing any concern. The last thing he wanted was his King thinking he doubted his own practices.
“His wounds seem to be healing at a brisk pace. Leech says your medicine has proven to be more than helpful with his recovery.”
Aleister, now relieved by Dadro’s words, turned to speak on the matter. “This I am glad to hear, Your Grace. As I said, I’ve seen such wounds before and someone as strong as your brother shall heal quite nicely … as long as he is tended to, that is. I shall continue my aid in his recovery come the dawn of each day.” Aleister bowed.
“May his recovery be swift,” Raymund added. “I suppose I’ll start my search now. No telling where this mysterious cloaked character could be.”
***
The seas were strong that night, unleashing restless waves onto the dockyards below Temperbailen’s high stone walls. Their rolling crashes could even be heard inside the Maidens Pearl near the southernmost end of the Kingdom. The tavern held few customers compared to most nights—only five men sat drinking under its roof. Four of whom were regulars, all joined around one table.
The fifth sat alone, tucked beneath the shadows at the far end of the room. He sat in near-complete silence, except for the occasional quaint crackle of his pipe, which he had been smoking since his arrival. A stein of ale rested in front of him, which he had yet to take a sip from. Hours had passed since he’d ordered the drink from Gaff, the bartender—though the thin layer of foam atop his brew had not yet diminished. He sat like a statue carved into the back wall, blowing smoke from under the tattered hood hiding his eyes. He was motionless, calm, and clearly sure of himself—making the others in the room feel uncomfortable, although this discomfort only revealed itself during the later hours of the night.
At first, his presence had been ignored. They thought nothing of him. He was just another wanderer resting his legs for the night, according to some patrons. Yet as the hours passed and the judging glances accumulated in their minds—mixed with the fermented courage gained after several pints—a shared feeling of disdain began to develop among the remaining customers. They could no lon
ger ignore this ominous man.
“Who is that bloke sitting in the shadows?” Larid Perry asked.
The other men shook their heads. None of them recognized the cloaked man.
“Hard to say. You can’t even see his face. Stiff fella hasn’t moved an inch since he sat down,” Larid’s brother, Lance Perry, answered. The men then all peered over at the cloaked man in unison, like a bickering group of old ladies judging the new pretty girl in town.
“He’s just—hiccup ...” Barrel, was cut off by his own inebriation. He continued, “… just an old drifter … a drifter that doesn’t drink by the looks of it. Get me his brew will you?” Barrel said to Lance, struggling to keep his eyes open.
“I think you’ve had your share for the night, plank belly. Your face is redder than a whore’s ass!” Lance’s words sent the men into a raucous cacophony of laughter.
Barrel laughed along with them, although he was unsure of what they laughed at. He then shook himself out of his chair and onto the floor, where he instantly passed out. This brought forth another round of laughter between the men. However, it didn’t rid them of their disdain toward the pipe-smoking drifter.
Gill—one of the Kingdom’s many blacksmiths—held a stronger dislike for the drifter. His eyes were locked on him. “I don’t give two shits who he is! That pipe he’s smoking reeks of foreign shite. The whole fuckin' tavern smells like an eastern-world pleasure house,” he snarled. He slammed his stein on the table as he would his hammer on an anvil. “It’s all I can smell! Even my ale tastes like a sand-whore’s twat.”
The other men grew silent. They knew Gill had a bad temper. When it was ramped up, he wouldn’t let up until someone got hurt.
“Calm yourself, Gill. We’ll get you another ale. Gaff has been snoring for the past two hours. You won’t even have to pay,” Larid said. He hoped a free drink would settle Gill's temper.
“We’ll all fill our cups, eh? A fresh round at no cost. We can sit by the window with the fresh ocean air,” Lance added.