The Missing

by Jeremy Forsyth

  Beneath a barrow of crescents, shielding him with their longshields, the Elder and his ‘entourage’ violently cut a path towards the Highborn who had retreated behind his army to offer his spells for support. Seeing the approaching Elder, the Highborn unleashed his magic upon the shields surrounding the Elder’s advance, utterly obliterating most. Those who escaped broke off and set their blades against the enemy who sought to intercept the Elder from reaching their beloved Highborn.

  Desperate to win the battle, Elder Jayrander Skysinger rushed at his white-haired enemy, cutting all in his path, seemingly unfussed by the wounds he acquired. Finally, when only Sharal Evening stood before him, the Elder used Flame to cut through the Highborn’s force shield, surprising the Sun Elf who foolishly thought that it could protect him against Flame’s cutting edge.

  The Elder forced the Highborn to his knees, driving a devastatingly hard blow to the head, knocking his enemy’s helmet to the floor, leaving his enemy’s head exposed to a finishing clash of steel and bone.

  When the Highborn’s lifeless body fell limp to the ground, the Elder’s roar could be heard across the field, his triumph so powerful that it seemed he didn’t notice the few feeble arrows that pierced his armour during his exhilaration.

  Revara folded the issue and placed it on the table before her mirror. She straightened her back and looked at her reflection, dazed in veneration of the ruler of the Moon. None had ever killed a Highborn. But then none had ever been like the Fierce; a towering giant whose height and girth, it would seem, matched his fierceness and resolve.

  Revara could still recall the early talk of the people when the Headlines reported that the heir of the Last Golden Elder was set to unite with a mere crescent who had fought in her father’s wars. They had all been dismayed, knowing the Golden Moon would be at an end with a new Tree sitting on the throne. And yet, when the sketches showed the image of who it was that the Crowned Daughter of Alepion had united with, optimism had stirred amidst the folk of Olian.

  Whatever reservations the Realm held over a Skysinger reign, Revara believed they were now fast fading away; for after news like today the celebrations in Alepion would be endless - history was made with the Fierce’s name secured in the Alepion halls of fame.

  From behind Revara came a subtle moan; the type made when waking up from a restless sleep. Gracefully, Revara turned in her seat and locked eyes on the door that led to her privy.

  “And he recovers at last,” she mused, getting up and motioning towards the door.

  She opened it softly, peaking inside to find a dark room lit up by only a single candle directly ahead on the other end. Revara stepped inside. She closed the door and lingered there for a moment.

  “Fair evening,” she coaxed, eyes upon the single tub that she kept in the centre, a subtle smile shaping her mouth when she noticed movement inside it.

  “I don’t suppose you had the chance to read today’s Headline?” she asked rhetorically. “But imagine this: Our dear Great Servant, has killed a Highborn! Yes, I said it. He has killed one of the members of the Evening Tree.”

  Revara moved towards the tub, began an intent study of Lardian, who appeared, most unusually, inadequate; his neat attire, his swag and easy smiles that usually acquitting him of the habitual dullness of the Olian-elves, had abandoned him. Now, the handsome fellow appeared most distressed - haggard even. His lips were chapped and his eyes were bloodshot, weary. While secured inside the tub, his slouching position was a rather odd contrast to his usual straight and dignified posture.

  Lardian and Revara had unfortunately entered into a rather intense but brief scuffle this morning when Lardian arrived at her home. The scuffle comprised predominantly of the power that elves were born with: enabling abilities that when developed proved very helpful in life, or in this case, fatal in a fight.

  “It was a mistake to mistake me, Lardian,” she teased, “as one of your followers of the Whispers.” Feigning pity, Revara got down on her knees, rested her chin upon its edge of the tub. “Poor Lardian,” she said, watching how deluded the elf seemed, for he had clearly exerted himself during their stand-off this morning, one of which had, admittedly, surprised Revara greatly.

  Usually when she decided on her victims, she went uncontested. And yet it appeared as if she had underestimated Lardian, though perhaps not as poorly as he had her. He was the first of her victims that caused her to use her power.

  Once the elf had passed out from exertion, Revara had dragged his body into the privy chamber and proceeded to lay the unconscious elf into the tub, fastening one of his ankles to the chain that she had secured to the wall on the right. Afterwards, she removed his clothes, left Lardian in peace, keeping herself busy until the elf awoke.

  “I must ask, Lardian, why on this good earth did you assume me so pious?” Revara laughed. “And why on this good earth would you reveal such an incriminating secret like the existence of the society of which you spoke? You hardly know me.” She shook her head in disappointment. “Your father, when I do meet him, will not be impressed when I tell him of your demise. Especially that to one of the Old Gods, no less, I sent you. Which reminds me, is he the head of this organisation of yours?”

  Revara wondered to herself if the Old Way knew of this society - this White Whisperers group? Revara wouldn’t know for sure, seeing as she wasn’t a member of the cult herself. She desired freedom over subjugation, having never been one who thrived under the thumb of another’s authority. That was what it all was. Worshippers of the Whispering God remained subject to the Great Servants and their laws, while those who followed the Old Way fell under restrictions to theirs.

  Not me, Revara thought. She gave up on the Whispers long ago, deciding that the Old Gods would not forsake her as Adonai had. But she could never bring herself to submit to the Old Way’s expectation and protocol. Rather, she worshipped the Old Gods in her own way, seeking Their will and not the will of Their followers.

  “Now that you’re awake, let us get on with what we both know is your eventuality… which is … your…?” Lifting her head slightly from the tub, she suggestively encouraged Lardian to finish the sentence. However, Lardian remained unresponsive. Rather, he just moaned. The fatigue that came from over-extending one’s self with power, rendered him too weak to open his mouth. “… your death, yes,” she finished.

  Revara got up and left the privy. When she came back, she held a bundle of cloth. Returning to her place by the tub where Lardian could see her, Revara unwrapped the cloth, allowing him to see the elaborate ceremonial blade that, even to Revara, was a devastatingly intimidating tool of serrated steel.

  She held out the blade in front of Lardian and while she admired it for its singular purpose, she told Lardian that this particular blade was called Nevi Athoth.

  “In Old Elvin it means tool of the gods,” said Revara, turning the blade in her hand. When she looked at Lardian, she smiled at how droopy his gaze was and how morbid he seemed. Revara’s eyes glanced at the elf’s exposed chest, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks as her gaze drifted down, down, down. Revara’s gaze rose and she looked at Lardian again, smiling. Her free hand hung over the edge of the inside of the tub. She lightly caressed the inner thigh of Lardian’s dangling leg, reaching slowly towards his private region.

  Quickly, Revara withdrew her hand behind the tub. “What a shame, Lardian. You truly had so much to offer me,” gesturing between his legs. She laughed at her own wit.

  Clearing her throat, Revara got up onto her feet, invoking a more solemn persona. She walked around the tub, leaned down so that the back of Lardian’s head was directly in line with her breasts and while her free hand touched Lardian’s shoulder, the other brought the Nevi Athoth beneath his chin.

  “Look on the bright side, dearest. If they find your body, you’ll get a feature in the Headlines. Now, who doesn’t want to see their name in the Headlines?” Revara laughed again before slightly guiding Lardian’s head back, saying, “Now, just tilt your
head back. Yes, that’s it.”

  Chapter 9

  Paraden had to quicken his pace to keep up with his master and those sentinels who marched behind him. When they arrived at the Great Hall, Paraden’s master shoved the doors open with astounding strength for one of his age. In front of the steel heads of the sentinels following him, Paraden saw that the hall was hosting Olian petitioners.

  Inside, Paraden recognised house members standing by the benches but was focused on the prestigious looking elves seated at the long table stretching horizontally across the dais at the end of the hall. Of those elves, it was Higher Durasian who remained the most distinguishable and not only because of the throne-like chair he slouched in - while his councillors sat erect with folded hands on the table, displaying themselves with sophistication, but rather it was because the Higher of the Olian Glades looked detached, seemingly uninterested. The glaze in his eyes was lacklustre and the colour of his face appeared anaemic.

  Noticing this, Paraden felt a pang of guilt pierce his heart; a distinct sadness he had been trying to avoid since the investigation had begun. He hardened himself for what was to come.

  The petitioners made a path for Paraden’s master and when the Old Way Hunter stood before the dais, one of the elves seated behind the high table shot to his feet.

  “What is the meaning of this? Where do these sentinels come from?”

  Andarken Sourleaf had been dragging a reluctant Naruder with him - the same Naruder who was shadowa to the Master of Kitchens, and according to whose testimony placed Higher Durasian outside the Greathouse the same night his baby daughter was abducted. It was he who Andarken now shoved forward before chucking a pair of limp black boots on the floor.

  “They come from the capital city of Lowvilla. This,” said Andarken in a loud voice, gesturing towards the boots, “is why the sentinels have ventured from the Nune lands in the name of my Lady Silvinda Skysinger.”

  Paraden’s eyes rose to the Higher to see what his response might be but was surprised at how lethargic he seemed. To Paraden, it was as if the Higher hadn’t heard a single word in which Andarken had said.

  “And why in Adonai’s name,” came one of the seated, “is the Lady Silvinda sending Lowvilla sentinels here?”

  Paraden’s master limped forward on his walking cane, proclaiming in an even louder voice than before,

  “She has sent them upon my request. By them, I wish to apprehend the abductor and murderer of the Presumed Heiress of the Olian Glades!”

  There was a ripple of gasps that spread throughout those in attendance and those upon the dais. At the mention of his late daughter’s title, the Higher was transformed; his withdrawn and melancholy demeanour fell away to allow for a more attentive composure which lifted him straight in his chair.

  “You have found the vermin?”

  “Indeed I have, my Higher!” Andarken cried, lifting his cane up in the air, pointing the tip directly at him, adding, “And it is you!”

  Paraden felt the tenseness of the Hall form a heavy, uncomfortable and unseen cloud while he watched the Higher’s expression change into a dark frown; terrifying in its implications, for it promised violent retribution.

  “Me?” the Higher rasped, vehemently.

  Paraden’s master chuckled. He then turned around to address those in attendance. “I, Andarken of the Tree Sourleaf, Old Way Hunter of the Olian Glades, arrived here upon the summons of your Higher,” Andarken paused before he continued, “Higher Durasian Lightfire, along with his united-one, the Lady of the Olian Glades, who I see remains absent. I was commissioned to find their abducted daughter!” Andarken waved his cane in the air as he continued. “I set off to do just that: questioning every elf who lives in this House, drawing the conclusion that whoever it is that was behind the abduction lived here!” Andarken paused once more, allowing his words the time they needed to impact those listening. “Yes,” he resumed, “indeed, to achieve stealing an heiress, especially one who belongs to the Lightfire Tree, would require easy access to this House. Perhaps to achieve this, they would need to be the owner of this House.” That was when Andarken faced forward again, raising his head towards the dais and to those seated behind the long table.

  “The night our Presumed Heiress went missing, none heard any disturbance. None could recall the cries or even the whimpering of a baby, presenting me with three possibilities that could explain this: First, either some spell was cast upon her, which is unlikely, seeing as magic has been outlawed since the reign of the Worthy, or the baby was given some potion from the Sand Lands. But, given how nigh impossible it is to smuggle such contraband into the forest, I have ruled out the possibility entirely. And so, there is but one logical explanation: whomever it was that abducted the baby must be one who the little one trusted and felt comfortable around. Whoever took the heiress could maintain her sleepy form during the journey from crib to the sacrificial altar.”

  While Andarken disclosed his reasoning, Paraden had eyes only for the Higher, who with every word uttered by the Old Way Hunter, grew more ferocious in pose; his fist white upon the armrest of his chair, eyes hard with suppressed fury that at any given moment, threatened to combust.

  Andarken turned around again in order to look at the faces that watched him with shocked expressions.

  “When word came to me that the Presumed Heiress of the Olian Glades was found at last, I, along with sentinels of this very household, ventured to the crime scene to retrieve the body. During this time, I discovered something of interest at the scene of the crime; upon the floor surrounding the altar there was a muck, a yellow stain of peculiar origins, the likes of which I have never once seen and the likes of which stained the wood, as it stained my very boots. Despite my best efforts, that stain could not be removed.” Andarken turned again and faced the dais. “And so, I praised Adonai the Whispering God, God of the Moon Elves and all the World, who upon that day, revealed to me the road I must venture so that I could be led directly to my prey - to where the killer of babies sits.”

  Andarken’s voice at this point had become low and ominous, as it always was whenever he believed he had solved a case and was leading up to a proclamation that would leave his accused in chains.

  “I went looking for the footwear or the clothes that the abductor of babies had worn that night. I sent the mindfinders of Olden searching throughout the forest and I sent my shadowa to investigate the ash heaps of this House’s hearths, in case my prey was shrewd enough to rid himself of the evidence that would condemn him. And when both mindfinder and shadowa came up with nothing, I began to consider that the culprit had neglected to cover his tracks and that within the shadows of his wardrobe there would be footwear marred by the same dirt that marred mine.” Andarken lifted his one leg and removed the boot he had been wearing. He turned it over and presented it to the eyes of those seated on the dais. Once satisfied, he put his boot back on and glanced over his shoulder at Paraden, who took his cue.

  “This is my shadowa, who was present at the scene of the crime. He can testify to everything I am saying.”

  Paraden, very slowly, came forward and did what his master had done. Paraden showed the same stain that infected the sole of his boot and once seeing that his master’s purpose for using him in that moment had been achieved, Paraden put his boot back on and returned behind the sentinels of Lowvilla.

  “If those in the Hall wish to inspect the boots of the sentinels who had been dispatched to fetch the baby’s body, I would suggest you do so. Until then; listen closely. Knowing his Highership and Lady Olian were out, I had my shadowa inspect their wardrobes.” Andarken now pointed to the boots he had thrown before the dais. “These he brought back. And if you would inspect them, councillors of Olian, you will see that they too imprinted themselves upon the floor of the very warehouse that my Higher of Olian’s daughter was found dead.”

  During the silence that followed, the Higher of the Olian Glades presented a dangerous snarl and leaned forward.


  “I was in bed with my beloved when my daughter was taken, you fool!”

  Andarken nodded. He then turned his head towards the shadowa Naruder who had his head shamefully downcast. When the elf failed to step forward and share his testimony, Andarken grabbed him and pulled him forward, placing him before the dais.

  “By the mouth of this elf, you snuck outside the House the night your daughter was taken! Would you call him a liar?”

  Paraden looked from Naruder to the Higher and in that moment, he saw that the Higher had given himself away, for his hesitation was noticed by not only those seated with him at the table, but by the rest of the elves within the hall too.

  The Higher glared at Andarken. “I left the House, yes, because I had received word from an informer regarding the identity of Black Hood - who I have been personally investigating.” The Higher’s words were laced with malice which seeped out through teeth clenched so tight that it was a wonder none splintered.

  “Have you any proof? Did this informer relay his information? Could you now identify who Black Hood is? Would you care to summon this informer of yours so that your word can be proven true?”

  “He didn’t show,” was all the Higher said, before adding, “And now I know why. Whoever it is that has decided to frame me sent that message from knowing I was seeking the identity of the Black Hood. They must have known too that I would get you involved and that your purpose here would be to take me down!”

  Judging by his tone, Paraden could tell that Andarken was smirking when he said, “Interesting theory. But I say it should be heard in trial. Let it be told to the Throne of Alepion and let Adonai the Whispering God judge you! Sentinels of Lowvilla!”

  A deafening ring of steel resounded all at once and while Paraden stood on, watchful of the scene about to unravel, he almost expected the sentinels of Olian, posted sporadically throughout the Hall, to do as the Lowvilla sentinels did and draw their blades. He expected them to come to the defence of their Higher. However, Paraden came to realise that that wouldn’t be the case; for as honour bound as those sentinels were to the Higher of the Olian Glades, they remained the sentinels of the Throne first.