Rendering Nirayel-Wayward Fates

by Nathan P. Cardwell

  As she approached, the young Wood-elf pointed to a slightly discolored area below the victim's hairline, just behind his left ear. The discoloration was very faint, but unquestionably of a purple hue, ringed in pale red lines that faded as they dissipated outward. The lines extended into the hairline, near the base of the skull, yet remained within the temporal region where they disappeared altogether.

  "Help me, boy," she ordered, holding her free hand out to indicate she wanted him to assist her to a kneeling position.

  The young Ranger did as he was bid, taking great care with her.

  "Thank you. You've a most steady hand," she offered gratefully.

  She pulled the spectacles from her bodice and placed them on the bridge of her nose. Then, after a long examination of the area, she said, "Methinks you've a keen eye to go with that hand, boy. Still, I believe there may be more here than meets either."

  She withdrew a finely crafted split-bone razor from the Ranger's kit, and then commenced to carefully shave the hairline back, hair by hair. She stopped after no more than two centimeters. "There," she announced, pointing to an almost imperceptive puncture, scarcely penetrating the skin sufficiently to have reached the victim's bloodstream.

  "What's your name, boy?" she asked while returning the razor to its leather pouch.

  "I am Merfee Rainswalker, mistress," replied the Ranger without removing his attention from the shaved area.

  "Well, Merfee, what would your assessment be?"

  He leaned forward, gingerly tapped about the area, and then sniffed the puncture itself. Momentarily, his eyes glimmered with an internal radiance as his perception magnified. He looked again to the puncture, and then all about the body. After a moment, his eyes returned to normal and he knelt beside the Elder, arms folded and eyes closed, as he prepared his report.

  "Well," he began. "I seriously doubt that it was a dart. If it was, it was certainly a very small one, most likely projected through something like a hollow reed, or the like. My compliments to the Assassin, who showed tremendous comprehension of anatomy, accuracy, and wisdom in retrieving the evidence."

  Amara grinned. "You sound skeptical of your own assessment."

  "As for the poison," he continued with an indignant expression. "It's certainly not nightshade. I might have thought it was basilisk bile, due to the lack of odor, though such would not account for the discoloration."

  "Think, boy," she prompted. "For one moment, forget the puncture itself and consider only the facts. Now, what could cause such a pigment?"

  He thought for a long moment, and then exclaimed, "Of course! It has to be drachnid! No, wait. That's not possible. Venom extracted from a deceased drachnid loses potency within an hour's passing. Besides, that mark could not possibly have been produced by a drachnid. It's far too small, and there's no species in this region even remotely resembling…"

  "True enough," she agreed, "but might it not be that a drachnid spider conferred the venom of its own free will? And if it did, could not the deposit of such be sealed in something like a corked mosquito beak, so that it would thereby maintain its potency?"

  "I suppose," he returned doubtfully. "The mark could well have been from the beak of a mosquito, but no creature as vile as a drachnid would cooperate with anyone but…" He paused, his eyes widening. "With anyone but Dark-elves!" he exclaimed, his tone rising as the sudden revelation also served to startle.

  "Very good, Merfee Rainswalker," she praised him, being careful to pronounce his name correctly while among his peers. "You've the makings of a fine Ranger, but you're going to have to learn to trust what you know. Of course it's drachnid. It couldn't possibly be anything else. You knew it as clearly as I, yet you saw that the mark wasn't drachnid, and you allowed that single fact to cloud your view of the whole truth."

  Merfee's mixed expression reflected her appraisal, proffering both gratification, and just a hint of dejection. "Too bad they retrieved the beak, if, in fact, such is what they used," he added with just a hint of indignity. He wasn't yet convinced of the "Beak" theory.

  After regaining her feet with the help of both her walking staff and Merfee, she opened her purse and withdrew a quill-pen and parchment. She quickly finished scribing, rolled the scroll into a tube, and then passed it to her attendant, who had already heated the special wax that held the guardian spell. Once sealed, this would only allow access to the person for whom the writ was addressed. Otherwise the results would be explosive.

  The reddish wax was poured and Amara quickly pressed her wooden signet ring into it, leaving the impression of a wolf's face. This was the mark of The Grove Elders. The ring was sacred, as it was an offering made by one of the few remaining Ancient Treants. The Ancient had shaped the ring itself, and then bestowed it directly to the bearer. Were the ring ever stolen, it would simply turn to dust. In this way, the Council's mark could not be authentically duplicated.

  With her free hand, Amara shielded her eyes as she surveyed the sun's posture. "There is perhaps a two hour jog to Arbitos. Now, off with you, boy. You need not hasten, but neither should you dawdle. There may yet be lives at stake."

  ***

  Merfee raced as fast as possible while tightly gripping the brass tube that housed the Elder's sealed scroll.

  It still bothered him that she kept calling him boy. I have seen seventeen summers, and I am married with a child on the way! he thought irritably. Still, I suppose I'm just a tot to one who has seen over three hundred summers, he consoled himself. Besides, he need not necessarily include that part when he recounted his day to Nefari.

  He and Nefari had come to Spurious for the birth of their first child, though he would have personally preferred the baby be born in Pi'xylem. Arguing this point had proved precarious. A temperamental wife of roughly three times his age didn't help matters. Then again, she also sported the advantage of a previous marriage, which had included a prior pregnancy. Still, he had given his best attempt.

  "Traveling in your condition is daft, Wife," he had argued.

  "No child of mine will be born without a Godparent!" she had pouted.

  Then, when he had attempted to put his foot down, she had simply burst into tears.

  "You care nothing for the baby, or me! If you did, you wouldn't put such effort in vexing me this close to my delivery!" she had wailed.

  This had of course ended the argument, together with Merfee's desperate appeal for absolution. After about half an hour, she had calmed down and was beginning to get hungry again. Suffice it to say, he was at long last allowed atonement by going on something of an extended errand for honey clover, sugar berries, sour goat-head cabbage, and of course, Nefari's favorite dish, turnips.

  As he recalled the events of the last few days, it suddenly occurred to him that what Nefari had told him was quite true. "You can't plan ahead for everything, Merfee," she had said as he packed her things for the trip. "All you can do is pick yourself up, dust yourself off when the Fates are cross, and then relish whatever bounty they see fit to bestow otherwise."

  Now, while running a critically important errand at the personal request of one of the oldest and most revered Rangers to ever live, it all made perfect sense. She even complemented my skills, right there in front of every Ranger in Spurious. I don't deserve someone as patient and wise as Nef, he chided himself. I must remember to tell her how special she …

  Just then, Merfee's foot struck a rock. He tripped and rolled to a dead stop, flat on his back, where he continued to lay still for several moments while considering whether or not he had broken anything, this time.

  In truth, he was very much as the Elder had assessed. His hands were steady as stones and his eyes were keen, but the Elder had not had opportunity to assess his coordination. Two out of three isn't bad, he consoled himself.

  After he was sufficiently convinced that he was all right, he picked himself up, and then dusted himself off. It would appear the Fates are of mixed emotions about me today, he thought, having a good healthy chuck
le before resuming his errand.

  ***

  A tiny dart struck the tree next to Merfee, just as he bolted forward. He was too far away to hear the cry of pain as the author of the wayward dart was cuffed up side the head.

  "You missed, fool!" spat a Dark-elf with an officer's insignia painted above his left brow. As the object of his rage now lay unconscious at his feet, he motioned at two acolytes to bring the Rogue. "The Baron will no doubt wish to complement your accuracy, himself," he addressed the oblivious figure.

  The Rogue was dragged along as the members of the small group carefully made their way back toward the safety of their recently acquired Sanctuary. Their passage was both slow and cautious, for not only were they deep within the lands of their enemies, but upon specific orders, they had ventured away from the lair of their only allies during broad daylight. At night, even the least of them would have moved as silent shadows, but in this accursed intensity of light, they were as conspicuous as Hill giants. As a result, they were forced to return to their haven in much the same fashion they had left it, which is to say, they crawled upon their bellies through the underbrush and gullies.

  Here we are, in a land breeding Rangers and Druids like rabbits, thought Crimsin incredulously as he inched along. What's more, I find myself traveling amidst these vermin while the eye of their light rides high, with hours yet before reaching even its nearest horizon. We are like fish, pulled from the depths to flop about, defenseless and gasping …

  And yet, I've never felt more alive, he thought, suddenly swelling with pride. If I can but survive the incompetence of this Rogue, I shall drink the blood of many Humans and half-breeds. And if I die, then so be it. So long as my life is not wasted. As long as Lord Abhoron bears witness to my black heart, then death be no threat to a Dis'Errant, he thought, smiling.

  ***

  Standing at his balcony, Reginald looked out over the same training arena as he himself had used so very long ago. He could almost hear the others with whom he had trained. Many were dead now. Old chums, old rivals, old ghosts.

  The rank of Captain was his last step before entering those ranks no longer concerned with military operations. Everything from Colonel on up were considered positions held by government officials, with all the rights and privileges such implies.

  In itself, the rank of Colonel presented something of a transitional phase. It was the primary link between all military and administrational operations. On the one hand, this rank literally stood above that of the highest military rank. On the other hand, it was lowest of the governmental positions, almost considered to be an honorary title by both sides of the fence, depending on how one looked at it.

  This is not to say Reginald was without political influence in his capacity of Captain. He had long since learned the power behind that particular tool. Perhaps this was why the Magistrate had already issued several offers of promotion. Of course, Reginald had turned them all down. There was something about stepping into the role of Colonel that just didn't sit well with him.

  So many of those he had known in his youth had already crossed through that barrier. Perhaps he should have followed their example. They seemed happy. They were leading their lives, providing for their families. Perhaps if he had, his son wouldn't have become a soldier at all, and wouldn't be on this ridiculous rite of passage. How could I have let this happen?

  He was drawn away from such thoughts by a knock at his door. "Come in," he offered absently.

  "Reports have come in from all towers, Captain," spoke the guard nervously as she poked her head just inside the door.

  "Yes, of course. Do come in, Private," Reginald offered with more enthusiasm.

  The Private had not personally bore witness, but it was rumored that the Captain had been out of sorts ever since learning his son was overdue. "I'm afraid," she continued, "that there is yet no word on Corporal Krue, milord."

  "BLAST HIS HIDE!" Reginald roared.

  Usually, all the neophyte guards found themselves in awe and admiration of Reginald. His bearing and presence, combined not only with his lofty position as Garrison Captain, but also with his incomparable achievements in battle, had rendered an overall image, which was simply nothing short of legendary. Unfortunately, as he also appeared to be upon the very verge of going berserk, the youth found herself quite abruptly unbalanced. And with her legs suddenly acting as if they were made of rubber, she quickly cast about for anything that might serve as a buttress while the entire room seemed to be spinning in several directions at once. Alas, there was naught but the floor, and of course, the Captain. She opted for the floor.

  Reginald signed and sealed his instructions for watchers in all towers to be doubled. He turned to give the scroll to the Private, but there was no one there. Then he saw the youth lying prostrate on the stone floor.

  "Oh, dear! Medic! Medic!"

  ***

  Immediately upon his entrance to the Captain's reception hall, Merfee heard a thud from the adjoining room. To the ears of most, this almost inaudible sound would not have even registered, but to the ears of a Ranger, the resonance was unmistakable. A body had just hit the stone floor, and if he was not mistaken, it had struck limply. This placed a very specific implication to the sound. It implied that the person who fell was already unconscious, or possibly even deceased, prior to the ensuing thud in question. To make things worse, the thud was quickly followed up by a frantic cry for help. "Medic! Medic!"

  Merfee burst through the Captain's door to see a young Human female lying on the floor at the Captain's feet.

  "You there!" shouted Reginald. "This soldier is not well."

  Merfee was neither Cleric nor Druid, but he did possess some meager healing abilities, and was just about to cast a third-class regeneration spell when upon closer inspection he found the youth apparently uninjured. In fact, she appeared to be simply sleeping.

  He rummaged through a small pouch hanging from a drawstring on his belt. A moment later he withdrew a tiny wax-sealed packet, which contained a concentrated mixture of garlic, stinkweed, skunk extract, and powdered bat guano. The concoction was ordinarily used in hunting rituals. One spreads the scent around the vicinity one hunts in order to mask the scent of the hunter. Under the circumstances, however, Merfee felt it could serve yet another purpose.

  He pulled the sealed flap and waved it under the young soldier's nose.

  "Ahh yes, smelling salts," commented the Captain. "That should bring her round."

  As she inhaled the foul scent, she involuntarily retched, sat bolt upright, and then instinctively recoiled as far from the concoction as possible. She scooted quickly, literally walking backward upon both buttocks until she bounced the back of her head onto the stone wall behind her. As she did so, she screamed in pain, and lost consciousness yet again.

  Now Merfee did cast the healing spell he had originally intended to use. This abated the majority of damage to the guard's skull, reducing her initial concussion to a mere blinding headache.

  As the guard slowly recovered her senses, she looked up at the Captain. "My apologies, milord," she offered with only a minor slur. "I have no excuse for my behavior."

  "Don't be ridiculous," soothed the Captain while helping her to her feet. "It was no fault of yours, but rather my own outburst. Corporal Krue is quite overdue and… No. That is no excuse. I do most humbly beg your pardon, milady."

  While yet disoriented, the young guard continued to hold her head with both hands. Still, the Captain's appeal for her personal clemency had struck some horrifying cord within her that far outpaced her cranial discomfort, as was clearly evident by her ever-widening eyes. Captain Reginald Krue, Captain of the guard, Defender of the people, and Hero to Nations had just begged the pardon of a Peon guard. This was somehow even worse then his previous outrage.

  She made as if to gain her feet, though between her aching head and Reginald's unprecedented behavior, she suddenly found herself thumping the stone floor again, and then again.

&nbs
p; Finally, both Reginald and Merfee decided to assist, each taking one arm until she had regained a solid footing. "I believe it might be prudent if you were to visit the infirmary before you resume your duties, Private," added Reginald with an odd expression of concern. Then he handed her the scroll, bearing his signet.

  "Yes, Captain," the guard replied, snapping to attention. "Right away, milord."

  As she prepared to take her leave, she turned to Merfee. "I must have struck my head when I passed out. I thank you most kindly for healing me, milord," she concluded with great sincerity."

  "No, no, I'm simply glad to be of service," Merfee corrected magnanimously.

  Still holding her pounding head, the guard left the room, yet bearing an oddly quizzical, and perhaps somewhat painful expression. She paused briefly at the door, sniffing the air tentatively, as if attempting to identify something both perplexing and repulsive, and then closed the door to go in search of the infirmary, and perhaps a tavern after that.

  "That was quite the quick response, young man," commended the Captain while clasping Merfee on the shoulder.

  "Umm, no, milord. I think there's been a mistake. I'm no Cleric," Merfee stated correctly. "I was dispatched by Elder Ironwood on a matter of great import," he concluded, handing Reginald the Scroll, bearing the Grove Council Seal.

  The Captain unrolled the document and read its contents, his brow furrowing deeper as he read further. When he finished, he re-rolled the scroll and placed it back within the tube, and then stared at what he held for several moments. After a time, his attention returned to Merfee. "What's your name, boy?" he demanded impatiently.

  For the second time that day, Merfee introduced himself in response to the label of child. If he was perturbed by it, he had the good sense to keep it to himself. Besides, he saw no need to include that particular information when recounting his day to his wife on this night. To his dismay, Merfee found himself rapidly becoming adept at the editing of recounted conversation.