The Missing

by Jeremy Forsyth

  “My father seeks proof. If he is right, he wishes to take care of the Old Way Hunter soon, before he wrongly accuses someone else for the disappearance of the Higher’s daughter. We … my father, suspects that your master intends to have the Higher of the Olian Glades take the fall. My father believes that if we do not take the Old Way Hunter down now, he will ensure the downfall of Higher Durasian Lightfire.”

  This was a lot to take in but after a brief interval of silence while she did so, Revara asked, “and I assume I am your way of proving this… concern… of your father’s?”

  “Yes. We want to recruit you for this purpose, my lady, we want you to find any formal or written proof that we can use. Anything. Documents or letters of suspicion. If he is of the Old Way, your master must be communicating with someone who sets up his cases for him. He must be receiving help.”

  If all this was true, Revara would have to hand it to the old limping sneak- he was good. Very good.

  Revara took a step closer and traced a seductive finger down the length of Lardian’s chest. “What if I am in league with him? My master. What if I am his agent?”

  “Then we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We wouldn’t have approached you if we were not sure. You have had no affiliation with those we know to be Old Way members in the Glades.”

  “So, I have been under surveillance?” Just asking that made her queasy. The thought that she has been watched caused a nervousness to unsettle her internally. Revara drew back from Lardian, put on a smile and said,

  “I will look into it. But what is in it for me?”

  “Enough to make your effort well worth it. Give us something substantial, and you will find the Order of the White Whisperers very forthcoming in expressing our gratitude.”

  Revara’s smile widened. “Good. Then I will begin tomorrow morning, where I expect to see you at my house.”

  “At your house?”

  Revara drew closer. “Yes.”

  “What for?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Chapter 7

  During the First Moon; an age when the Moon Elves were still young and Rareshades sat the Alepion Throne, a Great Servant once declared that Alepion would be a land for the living and not the dead. This ushered in tradition that prohibited burial, insisting rather that the dead should be taken up by flame.

  So it was that beneath a starless sky, bereft of the faintest gust of wind, the body of the young daughter of Higher Durasian Lightfire was cradled in a coffin fashioned from lithe timber that just now, was licked by fire.

  The pyre burned within the Greathouse’s elaborate back garden, a drawn-out ceremony having been held prior to the igniting of the flames. Besides the roaring of those flames, the night was beset with an immaculate silence, the sort that was meant to give respect to the deceased and the newly bereaved.

  Paraden stood with his brooding master, the First Sign of Adonai highlighting the vehement glare that issued from his gaze. His heart, Paraden suspected, was filling with renewed hate for those he so devoutly hunted.

  “Now babies,” Andarken had murmured, back when both he and Paraden had come upon the disembodied baby. Now, Paraden’s master whispered it again, as if he were still unable to comprehend the blaring truth that even now declared itself right before his very eyes.

  Paraden looked about him until his eyes fell upon the grieving parents of the deceased. Here, his gaze lingered.

  The Higher stood frozen in the night, his profile dimmed by the Second Sign of Adonai. His grief had made him rigid, hardening his expression in such a way that by looking at him, one could see just how taut he was by the turbulent struggle he faced within; a struggle deriving from both the desire to erupt in terrifying fury and break down and weep, to express the depth of the pain he was currently experiencing.

  But while the Higher wrestled with his emotions, his united-one, the Lady of Olian was becoming completely overrun by hers.

  Paraden had once seen the Lady of Olian hold fast to an optimistic approach. She had been determined not to lose hope that her daughter would eventually be found and returned home unscathed, unmolested. Now, Paraden watched as that hope betrayed her, abandoning her to the brutal reality of her most feared eventuality.

  Paraden considered the Lady of Olian’s hunched posture, as she laboured extensively against her mounting grief. She stood with her head bowed, her mouth covered by one hand, her body jittering against the searing pain of her loss. And while Paraden watched her, he endeavoured with great effort against the urge to pity her. He could feel even now the hard and uncomfortable lump that formed in his throat while tears began budding in his eyes.

  Too young to choose.

  Too young to know

  “Now babies,” Paraden heard his master whisper. “Now babies.”

  Too young to choose.

  Too young to know.

  With a grunt, Paraden’s master turned and headed back to the House. Paraden followed and found his master pacing aggressively inside his chamber.

  Cautiously, Paraden closed the door behind him, wary now of his master’s pugnacious mood.

  “Whoever did this,” the Old Way Hunter seethed, “whoever it is that is capable of such evil lives in this cursed Greathouse.”

  Paraden watched his master continue his pacing, appearing oblivious of his shadowa’s presence. Paraden was thankful for that and decided he would remain by the door, still as a statue, so as not to draw attention to himself.

  “No wailing the night of capture,” Andarken recited. “No foreign personalities in the House.” The old elf paused in thought, murmuring softly to himself, “The culprit is someone in this House. Someone who the baby would be familiar with. Someone who could steal an heiress and not arouse her distress.” Andarken came to a sudden stop and slammed the tip of his cane into the floor with violent force. “BUT WHO!?”

  Paraden’s master wrenched his cane from the gash he had made and sat on the edge of the bed, emitting a loud and exhausted sigh, eyes drawn to the carpet at his feet where he whispered with contempt.

  “Someone in this House is lying. Someone. Some forsker. Curse them. Curse them all.” Suddenly, Andarken lifted his head and in a low and ominous voice said, “Shadowa, what is your report for this afternoon’s errand that I sent you on?”

  Paraden drew himself up, cleared his throat. “The mindfinders haven’t found any discarded footwear in the forest’s brooks. Nor in the gullies or ditches. No boots, sandals or slippers. Nothing.”

  “And the ash heap of all the hearths in this House that I asked you to personally inspect?”

  “I found no evidence of burnt leather, straps or any other material used for footwear, my master.”

  Andarken massaged his beard, his eyes narrowed. “Either my shadowa is as incompetent as I have always believed him to be,” the old elf mused now, clearly to himself, “or the boots worn by the culprit that night are still accessible for extraction.” Andarken’s eyes zoned in on Paraden. “The next place to search are the wardrobes of this House. If the culprit hasn’t discarded the boots he wore that night, then hidden in his wardrobes will be boots stained by that muck that blanketed the floor of that warehouse.”

  Paraden’s master lifted one leg over his knee. There, he examined the stain on the edges of his boots – it held a yellowy sort of hue.

  Back at the warehouse, where they had found the body of the baby, Paraden had brought his master’s attention towards the dirt that infected the floor. They had slaved to wash the stain off their boots once returning to the Greathouse. When seeing how fruitless their efforts had been, Andarken had become encouraged, smiling perhaps for the first time since arriving in the Greathouse.

  Paraden’s master proceeded as expected. First, he sent word to the Order of Nallara, requesting that their mindfinders search the forest for discarded footwear, or perhaps any piece of clothing that the culprit might have worn and then abandoned, clothing that bore a yellow stain. They were to search the stre
ams, gullies and brooks, ditches and bushes. To his shadowa, Andarken gave the task of inspecting the ash heaps of each hearth in the house.

  “Perhaps the abductor threw what he wore in the fire when returning,” his master had said. “Find any burnt leather. Anything. And don’t return to my presence until you have found another clue.”

  Paraden had spent the entire day seeing to the requirement of his master, but despite not finding anything to please him, he crept back into his master’s presence at the start of the dead baby’s funeral.

  “Whose wardrobe would you have me search, my master?” Paraden asked now.

  “Shut it, shadowa,” growled Andarken. “When I require you to speak, I will address you. Until then, I don’t want to hear your voice unless you have finally decided not to sound like a little elvess.”

  Paraden bowed his head. “Yes, Master.”

  Discharging a raspy and low sound of authentic annoyance, Andarken suddenly shot up from the bed and limped briskly towards the door. He pulled it open and stumbled back as if receiving a fright.

  Paraden turned his head to see what it was that had hindered his master’s stampeding momentum. He saw a young elf was standing in the doorway - one who appeared very much afraid to be where he was now.

  “What is it?” demanded Andarken, curtly. “Who are you?”

  “N-N-N-Naruder, Master Hunter. I am shadowa of Tantron.”

  “Who the forsker is Tantron?”

  “Master of the Kitchens.”

  “Yes? And what is it that you want? Speak elf, speak!”

  “I-I-I-I have information, Master Hunter.”

  “Regarding what?”

  “T-T-The Lady ---”

  Andarken grabbed the elf by the scruff of his neatly pinned overcoat and pulled him violently inside, slamming the door and then swirling to face his new guest. He stalked forward, making the elf quiver and cower before him.

  “Speak, damn you! Speak! And may Adonai save your rotten soul if you’re wasting my time!”

  Slowly, the elf straightened, appearing shaken. “Y-Y-Yes Master Hunter. I…. I believe you have been lied to---”

  “Of course I have been lied to! Speak!”

  “T-T-The night our Lady went missing, I saw---”

  Andarken, very impatiently, got into the elf’s space, making him edge back until he was plumped on the bed, head now craned upwards as he stared at the imposing and utterly berating old face of his interrogator.

  “Saw WHAT?”

  “I-I-I saw his Highership!” the elf blurted, stunning Andarken and inspiring an intense silence that fell upon the room. It allowed none to move and none to breath until Andarken at last spoke with clear mistrust.

  “Higher Durasian?” he asked, sounding startled. “The baby’s father?” The elf nodded fervently. “Where did you see him?”

  “In the main foyer, Master Hunter. I saw him leave the same time that his daughter’s abduction took place.”

  Andarken turned his head, considering the other side of the room - clearly taken unawares by this new testimony. When he looked back at the elf, his tone was accusing; ringing with utter distrust.

  “Your Higher’s testimony has him abed with his united-one when his daughter disappeared from the House. The Lady of the Olian Glades has her united-one asleep by her side until the morning.”

  “Yes, Master Hunter, but I---”

  Andarken dropped his cane on the floor, grabbed the elf with two hands, pulled him towards his face and glared into those fearful eyes that unlike Andarken and Paraden, did not shine with the First Sign of Adonai, indicating a bloodline disrupted by a mingling of other elvin races not born of the Moon.

  “Are you sure it was the Higher? Did you see his face?”

  “Before he pulled his hood over his head, yes. He did so before leaving the premises of the House.”

  Andarken chucked the elf back on the bed, emitting a sound of disgust before he bent to pick up his cane. He turned and strode to the nearest window. There he stared outside while Paraden and the fretful elf watched him, neither making a sound nor moving.

  “Get out!” Andarken suddenly ordered.

  Paraden glanced at the elf, jerked his head towards the door and just like that, the unsettled shadowa took his leave with some haste.

  When the door closed, Andarken turned around and with a bowed head and closed eyes, vowed,

  “If the Higher of the Olian Glades is behind all this… if he is responsible for his own daughter’s abduction and death, I will see to his utter destruction and shame. I will not rest until I have made him the bane of all Moon Elf society!” Andarken opened his eyes and raised his head towards the ceiling, adding sternly, “This I vow, in the name of Adonai!”

  Andarken dropped his head and returned to the window. As for Paraden, the shadowa crept forward.

  “Master, what shall we do?” he asked.

  His master didn’t respond. Not immediately at least. When he did, his words sent shivers down Paraden’s spine.

  “I now know whose wardrobe to start my search with. In the meantime, send word to the capital. Inform the Throne that Andarken Sourleaf, the Old Way Hunter of the Olian Glades, means to make his first accusation and that when he does, he expects there to be a score of Lowvilla sentinels behind him!”

  Chapter 8

  Revara was sitting in the top room of her house, before her dressing table, one smooth leg crossed over the other. Her garment was a thin lace sleeping gown, leaving her shoulders bare and her thighs exposed.

  Outside, the moon reigned. There was a moaning wind soaring over the trees of the forest, warning the Olian residentials that yet another storm was fast approaching, and that tonight thunder and lightning would be the lullaby that rocked them all to sleep.

  Revara had today’s Headline in her lap. She was focused on the image of its main feature, the bird’s-eye view of what the Headlines conveniently labelled: The Battle of the Averith Fields.

  The image showed two great armies on opposite ends of a stretching field of swaying straw. The suggestion that the straw itself reached over each warrior’s hip, reminded Revara of the Order’s tendency to exaggerate in order to set a more compelling scene.

  Now Revara concentrated on the title itself. She was taken aback by the sheer surprise of what it implied, for from it came the insinuation that by the time the Skysinger Elder returned to Alepion, he would have become the most celebrated Great Servant in all Moon Elf history. If he did not exceed the legends of his predecessors, the Elder would, at the very least, stand among them as equals.

  Highborn Dead!

  Sharal Evening, brother to the Father of the Sun,

  dies after having a fierce Moon fall upon his head.

  Beneath the featured image, the article began with unsurprising applause to the Great Servant of Alepion.

  Glory to the one who sits on the Golden Throne! Glory to Jayrander Skysinger the Fierce; he has done what no elder before him could achieve!

  “The battle ensued directly after his Eldership emerged from his Command Tent, having delegated his orders to his High Crescents.

  I was perched upon the centre pole of that same Command Tent, and as I watched the great ruler walk outside to rally his army, the furore that quickly began to spread throughout the camp was unmistakable, a fusing combination of both the motivation for revenge, the desire to feel relief from sorrow, and of course, a surging bloodlust that no previous elder had ever managed to inspire in his warriors.

  Before the armies met, I knew that the Sun were unprepared for the enemy they were about to face; in light of the Crowned Son of Alepion’s death, an overwhelming resolve to overcome their foe would trump the swaggering confidence of the Sun, who, like their Highborn leaders, mistakably believed themselves invincible!”

  --- Mindfinder on the scene; Eldorian Tenshadows

  The battle lines were drawn and soon after the Elder appeared before his army, he signalled for a full-scale attack, waving his Veiln
ar-forged longblade, Flame, above his head whilst he charged.

  The Highborn who led the Sun stood before his forces and it was towards the charge of his enemy that he stretched out his hand. Sharal Evening thought to begin the carnage by emitting a high shrieking cry, where a blue spell erupted from his hand towards the Fierce. Something incredible then happened - something marvellous. As if to swot away a pestering insect, the Elder used Flame to smack the spell away, the magical essence of the blade apparently powerful enough to deflect Sun Elf sorcery. The question on everyone’s lips then was: how powerful are the Veilnars to have forged such a weapon?

  Needless to say, if the Highborn wasn’t shaken by the ill effect of his first attack, his army sure were. For even before the Elder plunged himself into enemy ranks, those ranks rippled with cracks and for the first time since the struggle for the Athana had begun, the tight formation of the Sun faltered in the face of a Moon onslaught.

  Revara turned the page but before she continued reading, she studied the image that took up the centre; framed in an oval border while the rest of the article continued around it, was the sketched illustration of Sharal’s death: on his knees with an agonised expression on his face, his head raised high, his eyes rolled back in his skull while the great Jayrander the Fierce bore over him, driving Flame deep into his head with gritting teeth of rage.

  The dexterity of the image was impressive, Revara conceded, but what was surprising was how graphic it was. It was not because Revara had any scruples towards blood and gore, on the contrary - she revelled in it. Rather, it was how uncharacteristically explicit the Order was with this particular depiction.

  The Elder’s army, ranging between 16 000 and 17 000, outnumbered the Highborn’s, whose force remained a solid 10 000 sunblades. Both armies collided in shattering force, did send volleys of arrows to inflict casualties on both sides. And yet, of the horror that conveyed upon the Averith Fields, the Elder’s determination to reach the Highborn brother of the Father proved the most ferocious.