Faeranduil stood and shot another arrow at the second man, who had fired a bolt, narrowly missing him. The arrow sunk deep into his stomach, causing him to drop the crossbow. The men yelled in pain. The one with the gut wound lay on the ground clutching his abdomen, his blood pooling fairly quickly.
"What happened," Faeranduil asked Lidya.
"Ye wanted me to watch, I couldn't see," she explained.
His eyebrows twitched as he reassessed his training approach to something even more basic. "Elves are easier to train in these ways," he thought, "yet in the thirteen years of her life she has had no concept of what is beyond the walls she had seen." He decided to focus on studying the animals more intensely. "At least her speech is improving."
"Where are you headed," Faeranduil asked the man who's right had was nailed to his left thigh.
"Burn ye filth, woodling leach," the man cursed. Faeranduil glanced over at the man on the ground, who was barely clinging to life.
"Are you sure you wish to take that road," he asked pointing to the slow death. A coppery aroma filled the air, light in the breeze, but did not cling like the stench from the village, which hung with them for the full doba. The man spat in Faeranduil's face. The ranger removed the bandana he wore to wipe the spittle off, exposing his long ears that traveled back and up over his skull, but not surpassing it. The wounded man looked at him wide eyed.
"I know ye, we gave ye to Groupon," he said. Faeranduil grabbed the arrow and twisted it. Screams echoed amongst the trees.
"Where are the necklace and ring of Okeawodal?"
"Curse ye, ye burning cuntling horse head!"
Faeranduil pulled his stolen knife from its sheath. "It is fascinating how there are places on the body that can cause a tremendous amount of pain while barely damaging your body." He placed the knife about an inch above and to the right of the man's chest muscle, slightly twisting it. "Likewise, there are places you could be brutalized in and barely flinch more than when that arrow hit." He pushed the knife into the shoulder, slightly twisting as he did. The man fell to his knees, screams lifted into the air.
"Where are they?"
He looked up to Faeranduil, his lips pinched together in defiance. Faeranduil gave the knife a quarter turn and more screams echoed throughout the wooded area.
"Who has them," Faeranduil demanded as he wiggled the knife. The man twisted in pain as the elf drove the knife deeper into the cluster of nerves.
"Stop, stop," the man cried, "Turpin, he stole them for us, for Frost."
"Why, where is he," Faeranduil asked as he slowly twisted the knife.
"Turpin is dead, Jaques captured, no one..." His eyes wide, "no one except Frost, survived..." he stopped.
"Survived what," Faeranduil asked coldly.
"I didn't believe it 'til I saw it myself," the man looked to Faeranduil's right. The interrogator looked over his shoulder to see Lidya slowly walking up, holding the sword and bags.
"Saw what," Faeranduil said as he took a knee. Fear entered the man's face, starting from deep inside his eyes.
"A dragon," the words scarcely left his throat.
Faeranduil stared into his eyes for a moment, and decided the man was too scared to lie, yet not scared of him.
"I ana úr-o Ashra," Faeranduil said, then looked back at him. "Where is Frost headed?"
"East. Then south."
"Shadeville," he asked and the man nodded hastily. "I believe you." He removed the blade from the man's shoulder before he pushed the knife into his heart. Once the one was dead he looked over to the other who lay on the ground, he was still breathing, slowly. Faeranduil walked over to him and shoved the knife into his heart as well.
"What did ye say," Lidya asked as she handed the sword to him.
"I ana úr-o Ashra," he repeated, wiping the blood from the knife and getting a short sword for her, "it means 'the Scorching of Ashra', a prophetic poem I learn when I was a boy."
He led her to the horses and put her on one then mounted the second. "The whole thing, in common, is this:
The screams from the highest mountain,
The Flames from the deepest hell.
Even the Wardens of Ashra,
Burn in those fires as well.
The pyres of men and elves alike,
From Halflings and dwarves to a Giant's height,
Look to the skies for one last time,
Wondrous to see on wings they fly,
The creations of death and Fire,
The Vanguard to cleanse Ashra,
Scorching all that we admire,
Even in the depths of Mon'doha.
Until the Army shall come,
From distant lands unnamed,
Ashra shall rise as one,
And be the avengers of the slain."
"Wha' does it mean," she asked.
"Nothing good," He looked at her posture on the horse. "Straighten your back, keep your knees and feet in firm," he told her and many other tips on riding a horse.
They rode on and the teachings went on. Her sword arm was strengthened by clearing paths for them through the dense woods. When her arm was too tired to even lift, he had her use the other.
"It is no use to train only half of yourself, for you will never be whole that way," he told her when she complained. He also caught her saying to herself "the only easy day was yesterday," when he knew she was tired.
Their travels were slow, yet still faster than taking the road around for miles. Faeranduil figured they could save a day's travel by cutting through the forest. Every sound, smell, slight temperature variation became a teachable moment for him. Above all, honor, living by your word of valor, and doing what is needed to be done, no matter how ugly, dirty or hard it may be.
"Freeze," he said in a hoarse whisper, and she stopped mid swing; only slightly cutting the vine this time, unlike the other random times he called freeze. "Something is wrong. What do you sense," he asked her.
"Nothin'," she said looking into the dark forest. A fine mist floated in the still air.
"What do you hear," he asked, another moment to teach her to think like the wilds.
"Nothin'," her voice more curious.
"No sound..."
"...no birds," she finished.
"No birds..."
"...a predator is nearby."
"This one we best avoid. Head north."
"Why, what's out here?"
"Faeries," Faeranduil said as he led them toward the road.
"Faeries? How bad can they be," she asked.
"Do you smell that," he asked and she did, the smell of rotten flesh drifting in the windless depths of the trees. "That is their meal, after they tie you up into a cocoon and drink your blood, they will feast on your corpse for many Blossoms. I have seen a whole squad fall prey to them." He looked at her, "those cursed things are probably still having an orgy in their skulls."
Lidya looked at him, breathing heavily from chopping the underbrush. He reminded her of the proper way to swing the sword, palm down for outward strikes and palm up for inside. They continued through the small forest until they could see an open field passed the edge of the trees.
They rested against the trees looking over the field. Faeranduil quizzed her about the trees, and plants there, as well as the animals seen or heard. He asked her about the time of day and how far they traveled. Suddenly, Faeranduil stood and looked northeast across the field; he could see the road to the east, and the mountains to the north, looming over an intersection of roads by a large roofed bridge.
"What do you see," he asked, Lidya looked into the field, without standing, and told him nothing more than the field and mountains. "Come, look here," he beckoned and she was able to make out the road and bridge.
"My target is near," Faeranduil said as he pointed northeast. "Can you see?"
Lidya could not, until she mounted her stolen horse. "I can see a rider."
"Very good," he said, "robed in a fiery cloak." He looked to the east again. "W
e move on. We can catch him further up the road." Faeranduil mounted his horse, and nudged him into a trop.
They rode ahead, across the field, pocketed with beds of dandelions, half dead and seeded. The road rose up ahead of them and, at the bottom of the small man made hill, Faeranduil dismounted and told Lidya to hold the horses' reigns and stay back. He walked up to the center of the road and waited.
He held his bow, standing up, under the cloak of the Shadow Claw man he questioned as the rider in the fire like cloak rode up to him.
"Why are you not heading south," the rider asked, deep and like the crackle of fire. Faeranduil lifted his hooded head and looked at the inhuman eyes hidden beneath the flame like cloak of the rider. "Speak," the rider demanded.
"I am Lord Sire Faeranduil Brywarin, First Sword to King Ianhorn and Protector of the Kingdom of Okeawodal," Faeranduil said as he pulled his hood down. "And who might you be?"
The rider hissed draconically. "Step aside, elfling," he demanded.
Faeranduil pulled the lid off his quiver, drew an arrow and fired it at the rider, hitting him in the chest. The rider flew back and onto the ground. Faeranduil walked up to him. The glitter of the Elven necklace shined in the waning red sun. The elf knelt next to the rider. His neck was long and thin, supporting a tight skinned skull. His flesh was horribly scared, like he was burnt alive.
"Lidya must not see this," he thought as he took the necklace off of him. "This is not yours, nor this," he said taking the ring. He stood and removed the arrow that stuck out of the center of burnt man's chest, blood spit out from the wound after the arrow was removed. "I need the arrows, Frost."
Frost coughed blood up as he stared at the elf standing over him. Faeranduil watched until the burnt man's eyes glazed over with the look of death. He put the jewelry in a small bag that hung on his hip as he walked back to Lidya.
"Time to go," he said.
"Where," Lidya asked.
"North, to the Gate of Har'nok. We shall pass under the mountains to enter my lands."
"The Summerland?"
"Yes, but first we shall rest with the dwarves who live there. I must speak with them and they shall teach you of their ways, and you shall begin to learn to read and write."
Lidya's face lit up like he had never seen, not even when she hugged her parents for the last time. His heart warmed under her glow and a smile forced its way on his face for the first time in about a year and a half, when he left home. It was an uncontrolled true smile. They rode north as they sang the common tongue translation of "Lord Sire Rathal and the Wyvern."
"There was a wyvern, a wyvern.
Who caused all kinds of grief.
There was a wyvern, a wyvern.
A bully and a thief.
He roared for food from the city,
The best young girls for him to slaughter.
And then one day he demanded,
To eat the Halfling King's Daughter.
Imagine the scene if you care to,
The ground was covered with bodies and blood,
The wyvern lifted his scaly head,
An ear-splitting cry came forth like a flood.
Then an armored Lord sire came riding by,
On a horse as white as the snow,
The golden leaves on his chest did shine,
And his spear with a silver glow.
The wyvern moved to face Rathal,
Who turned and leapt from his horse,
Plunged his spear into the wyverns chest,
With great strength and force.
The wyvern fell with a terrible roar,
The Maiden Fair she doth did swoon,
The city freed from the wyverns reign,
And Rathal, without pay, left that noon."
Their voices lifting merrily into the air, not caring who may hear the song.
Before long they approached the bridge at the crossroads and continued north, around the large, long steep cliff. The water that formed the small river fell with the sound like thunder. Behind the waterfall was the sheer grey stone cliff like door to Har'nok. They rode up to the wall of stone and Faeranduil dismounted.
"I am Lord Sire Faeranduil Brywarin," he yelled, "and I request passage through your ancient and great kingdom of Har'nok."
A moment later the stone rumbled and slowly opened. A short man, no taller than the stomachs of the horses were from the ground, came through. He wore blackened plate armor, and his long beard was braided into one rope, that had a hidden blade at the end.
"Lord Brywarin," the dwarf said in a deep husky voice, "what brings you to the central human gate?"
"As I declared," Faeranduil said greatously with a bow, "we seek safe passage."
"We," he asked, "a moment ago you said 'I'. Who is this human girl, and why is she here with you?"
"She is under my protection," Faeranduil said as he put his arm out in front of her horse, "we are marked as runaway slaves"
"We," the dwarf guard asked curiously, his fingers drumming on the wide blade of his battle ax. "What sort of trouble have you gotten into this time, hmm?" The dwarf smiled spitefully and Faeranduil knew he was jesting at his covert contempt, which was understood behind Faeranduil's cold eyes, towards the dwarves so called patrols and ranging parties.
"'Tis a rather long story that I would wish to tell only once, and out of the human realm." Faeranduil looked at the dwarf wishing he could truly look him in the eye but knew kneeling to do so would insult him.
Insulting a Dwarf would force them to either go back to Bristork, risking being seen, or further east towards who knows what types of trouble; and round the mountains after that they would still need to cross through the Dominion of Woodhill's Lands, the Halfling's home, only to face the mountains again.
The forth option was an even further distance, across the continent of Aramathe, and therefore not even considered. "If you please," he said after a considerable amount of silence, "it has been a long and trying journey; I promise the story in the great hall will be more than worth your time." He paused to look at Lidya, who was fascinated by the dwarf, whom she heard much about during the past four bloomings they traveled. "Provided my vouched will be permitted to be dismissed at my discretion."
He felt Lidya look at him curiously, and also felt her curiosity fade. Faeranduil looked at her, saw her sadness, and patted her knee. She was still unstable on the horse, however, that will be remedied once they make it back to Okeawodal, and to the king.
The dwarf looked at them both then stepped to the side letting them pass. "We can always trust in your stories, Faeranduil, Lord of the Summer Ice."
Faeranduil looked at him sharply, with his cold eyes, for a moment before chuckling. The dwarf followed his cue and began laughing himself. Before long they were both in riotous laughter as they passed through the giant stone door.
"Come," Faeranduil said to Lidya, "you are safe now." Words he knew she had never once heard before, let alone be able to believe. Her excitement was beaming from her, as tears began to gently run down her face. She rode the horse over the threshold and the door closed behind them, cutting both runaway slaves off from the realm of men.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in southwest Pennsylvania, Wayne began writing at the age of ten and is fascinated with history and religion. He has been developing the world of Ashra since the early 2000s, which was inspired by the first short story he wrote and a dream nearly six years later. During which time Wayne has written many poems and songs aside from the world that resides in his mind.
"In the worlds created by authors, dreams and visions have a tendency to come true."
-Wayne O'Brien
Table of Contents
A BapTism by fire
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A Baptism by Fire Page 5
