Agent of Prophecy

by M. A. Rothman

  Arabelle cleared her throat. “Am I interrupting?”

  Oda turned, and his eyes widened at the sight of the princess. He bowed quickly and deeply. “Never could you be interruptin’, Princess. I was just checkin’ in on the lad here, but I’m sure he would prefer your gracious company.”

  And with that, he hurried out.

  “I didn’t mean to make him run off.”

  The young dwarf looked up at her. He was so small. Oda made up for his size with muscles and a blustering personality, but this dwarf was even shorter than Oda, plus he was shy and very underfed.

  “It’s okay. He was already leaving when you arrived… Princess?”

  Arabelle groaned at the use of her title. “I wish you hadn’t heard him say that. Please, call me Arabelle. I’m the daughter of the Sheikh, but honestly it would be nice if someone around here didn’t know that.”

  The dwarf smiled. “I’ll gladly pretend otherwise if you like, Arabelle. But first let me say how grateful I am to you and your caravan for taking care of us in in our time of need.”

  Arabelle saw volumes of pain behind his sad brown eyes. She had to resist an intense urge to reach out and hug him. Instead she sat down before him and handed him the small kettle and a spoon.

  “I cooked you something. Please eat it. You look hungry.”

  She was afraid the dwarf would be reluctant to eat in front of her, but he started shoveling the stew into his mouth without even looking to see what it was. She watched with amusement—and no small bit of pride, even though she knew he probably wasn’t even bothering to taste anything, he ate so quickly. Her only regret was that she hadn’t cooked more.

  When the dwarf had scraped the kettle for the last remnants, Arabelle asked, “Did you enjoy it?”

  “This is by far the best meal I’ve ever had, Miss Arabelle.”

  Arabelle’s heart swelled. “Just Arabelle, please. And I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

  “I’m Grisham. I have no clan, like you heard Oda say. I’m an orphan.”

  “Some might care about clans, but I don’t. So… you really liked the stew? I’m only just now learning to cook, and you’re my second test subject.”

  Grisham laughed. “To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t put much value on my opinion. In the mines, we ate nothing but a terrible pasty gruel, and in the orphanage in Cammoria, we mostly ate porridge. It was a treat when we had some rabbit or fowl.”

  Arabelle felt her heart breaking for this poor little dwarf. Tears came unbidden and she wiped them away.

  “I’m sorry if I upset you,” Grisham said.

  “No, no, it’s nothing you’ve done. Thank you for your honest opinion about my cooking. At least you didn’t say it needed celery.”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that. I’m not partial to celery.”

  She laughed. “Nor am I. So, Grisham, what are your plans now that you’re free, if I may ask?”

  Grisham held up a leather coin purse. “Tabor kindly gave us each an allowance to buy clothes and supplies. We are allowed to eat with the soldiers each day. Again, the kindness of your people is a blessing. More kindness than I’ve received since…” He paused, as if revisiting a painful memory, then finished simply, “More kindness than I deserve.”

  “I’m certain you’ve received far less than you deserve prior to your arrival here, so I would hope that we do what we can to right the scales.”

  “Thank you, Miss—Thank you, Arabelle.”

  “And after you’re back on your feet? What then?”

  The dwarf shrugged. “Oda offered to have me on as his apprentice.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I’m not really sure. In recent years… I suppose I stopped thinking about what I might be when I get older.”

  Arabelle could see that this young dwarf was at a crossroads in his life. “My father always told me to be open-minded and to consider all your choices. And if you’re still unsure, try some things on to see if they fit. This is as true for your vocation as it is for your clothes. You can’t know what will suit you until you try.”

  Grisham nodded. “Your advice sounds like something my father once gave me.”

  Arabelle knew better than to ask about his father. He’d said he was an orphan, and she didn’t want to dredge up painful memories.

  “May I ask how old you are, Grisham?”

  Grisham stuck out his chest. “I am midway between twelve and thirteen. And you, Arabelle?”

  “I’m seventeen.”

  They were interrupted by Tabor poking his head into the tent. “Princess, it’s growing late. You are due to dine with your father.” With a fluttering of the tent’s flap, he disappeared.

  “It would seem I have been summoned,” Arabelle said wryly. She stood, and Grisham stood with her. On an impulse, she wrapped him in a hug, and after a moment, he returned it.

  She stepped back. “If you get sick of soldiers’ rations, I can always bring you more of my stew.”

  “That would be nice, but don’t trouble yourself on my account.” He winked and grinned. “And if you do… I’m not against food lacking in celery.”

  Arabelle was now confident in her abilities to hide in the shadows and to move without noise, and she felt certain that she could travel most places without being noticed. Now she was determined to test that confidence in the midst of a crowd.

  It was evening, and she was dressed in her dark-gray outfit with wraparound headdress and veil. As always when she was intent on stealth, she’d abandoned her slippers for bare feet. She stood in the shadows of the marketplace, keeping an eye on her target. She’d selected him randomly, and watched with amusement as he haggled with a toy merchant over a puppet.

  Some child is going to be happy soon.

  She was pleased with her success at staying perfectly still and blending in with her background. Many had passed by the spot where she crouched, but none had so much as given her a second glance.

  And then she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “Why are you hiding here, Princess?”

  She jumped and spun, only to find the smiling face of Grisham looking up at her. Fortunately, no one else was paying attention to this shadow-filled corner.

  “Grisham! I told you to call me Arabelle.”

  Grisham shook his head. “Not in public. I made that mistake in the soldiers’ mess hall. Someone joked how this was an improvement over what I had eaten as a slave, and I told them about ‘Arabelle’s stew.’ The soldiers got really angry with me before deciding I probably had no idea who you were. I didn’t correct them, but I think it’s best that you are called Princess by the likes of me. At least anywhere someone can hear.”

  She grabbed Grisham by the arm and pulled him deeper into the shadows. “How did you see me back here? And how did you know it was me?”

  He looked confused. “What do you mean? I noticed the torchlight reflecting off your eyes.” He hesitated, seeming uncomfortable.

  Is he blushing?

  “Your eyes are… well, they’re very kind and always darting about, looking for things. And I also saw the whites of your feet. It wasn’t hard to spot you from across the market.”

  “You weren’t even close by when you saw me?”

  “No, but then again, I do have a unique perspective. At my height, I had a clear line of sight to someone crouching like you were. Do I take it you did not wish to be seen?”

  She put a finger to her lips. “Please keep this a secret, but I’ve been practicing being invisible in public places. You’d be surprised what people say when they don’t think anyone is listening.”

  “Well, you were doing very well, if you want my opinion. You move like a shadow. But your feet and eyes…” He shrugged.

  Arabelle looked down at her feet. “Well, I can do something about my feet, but unless I go around with my eyes closed, I’m not sure what I can do about my eyes.”

  “Maybe squinting would help?”

  She laughed. “I’ll
try that next time.”

  “And perhaps I will look for you, Princess.”

  She grinned. “Does that mean you’ll be staying with the caravan for a while?”

  Grisham nodded. “I decided to do as you suggested. I’ll ‘try on’ being Oda’s apprentice and see how the life of a soldier fits me.”

  “That’s great to hear. But that reminds me. There’s one particular soldier who’s awaiting my return.”

  “Would that be Tabor?”

  “So you’ve noticed he’s my escort. An impatient one, too. I’d better get back to him.”

  Grisham bowed. “As you wish, Princess Arabelle.”

  She laughed, hit Grisham playfully on the shoulder, and headed back to the women’s clothing tent where she’d left Tabor. But as she snuck away, she noticed a black-armored soldier peer into the alleyway suspiciously.

  Seeking Elves

  Not for the first time, Kirag wished his mother’s visions had been more specific. She had said that the elves were trouble, but had not said whether the strangers were elves, were hidden among the elves, were assisted by the elves, or some other possibility altogether. And even finding the elves meant searching many miles of woods. Regardless, he would find them. And then he would question them.

  He had selected a Duo of Talons to accompany him on this mission: Vaughn and Zandri. They were good soldiers who did their jobs without asking a lot of questions. Together they hiked the woods, traveling at night and resting during the day. But eventually their curiosity got the best of them. On the third day, the inevitable questions began.

  “Sir,” said Vaughn, “are we certain that we know what to look for? My ma always told me tales of elves, but nobody I’ve ever known had seen a hint of one. How do we know they look like what the tales describe?”

  Kirag knew what the soldier was truly asking. He was doubting whether elves even existed at all.

  He sneered. “I assure you that elves do in fact exist, and that they look just as the tales describe.” He recalled the shimmering image of the elf he’d seen appear in his master’s throne room. But now he wanted to see one of these creatures face-to-face—and see whether the tales of their preternatural fighting skills held true.

  “Why do they hide?” asked Zandri, taking advantage of the opportunity to question their leader. “Why not present themselves like normal people?”

  Kirag grew impatient. “It’s said that in the time before the great barrier, elves lived among humans. But Azazel has told me himself that the elves had something to do with the coming of the demons.”

  “Then it is no wonder they now hide,” Zandri growled.

  Kirag raised a finger in warning. “Just because one hides doesn’t mean they lack claws. And we are in their domain. Keep your wits about you.”

  He lay on the ground. “No more questions. We depart four hours after midday and continue through dawn. We have a long march ahead of us.”

  The Talons prepared their camouflage, and Kirag closed his eyes. As he drifted off to sleep, he was wondering if elves’ blood ran red.

  Kirag knelt at the edge of a cliff overlooking a section of forest that had long been rumored to be the home of ghosts and other mystical creatures. But Azazel had told him that centuries ago, the elves had made this very forest their home.

  He breathed in deeply, detecting a scent he couldn’t identify. It was of a living creature, but unlike the coppery smell of humans and animals or the brimstone smell of Azazel. It was musky.

  Could this be the scent of elves?

  Even if it was, the forest below him was expansive. Searching it would take days, even if they split up. And he wasn’t sure he trusted his men to—

  A tiny wisp of smoke rose from deep in the forest.

  Kirag smiled and beckoned his men forward.

  “Could that be the location of the elven city?” Vaughn asked once his leader had pointed out the thin streamer of smoke.

  “It’s likely. I can feel the presence of something unnatural living within these woods.”

  “But how are we to reach it?” Zandri asked. Elves are said to be clever with the ways of the forest, disguising their paths so naturally that a human could search for hours and only find himself walking in circles.”

  Kirag studied the trees. The Talon was right: the elves’ paths would be well hidden. But from this elevated spot, he was able to spot indentations that hinted at trails he would never have found at ground level. Whether these paths were made by deer or elves did not matter—they were trails that could be followed. Together they formed a maze, and yet every maze could successfully be traversed, especially with a bird’s-eye view.

  He turned to his Duo. “I will guide your movements from here. Go back down the trail and loop around to the edge of the forest. Keep me in sight, and I will use hand signals to direct you forward. When you lose sight of me, climb up a tree. Do not go far without my guidance, or you will become hopelessly lost.”

  “How will you follow?” Vaughn asked.

  Kirag sneered at the man’s idiocy. Had he not need of these men, he might even have killed him on the spot. “You’ll be marking the trail as you go along, you fool! Now go!”

  The Duo scrambled down the steep path, eager to escape Kirag’s anger.

  Soon they had circled the precipice and appeared below, looking up at Kirag. He pointed them in the direction they needed to go.

  Guiding his men was an arduous process that tested Kirag’s patience—especially when they wandered off the paths he had directed them towards, which happened often. But in time, they approached the target he had chosen: a clearing near the location where the wisp of smoke had arisen.

  His men had disappeared into the trees and Kirag was awaiting their next appearance when an arrow whooshed past his ear. He threw himself to the ground and scanned his surroundings, but saw nothing. He drew his sword and dagger and sniffed the air. The musky smell had indeed grown stronger.

  Then two things happened at once. A commotion arose from the location of his Duo; and two human-sized, yellow-haired men with pointed ears materialized from the trees around Kirag. Kirag cared not for what happened to his men. He’d found the elves he’d been looking for.

  Both held bows trained on him, steely looks of concentration on their faces. But they had approached from the steep trail, and with Kirag crouched down, they’d had to come in close in order to line up their shots. Which meant Kirag would have an opportunity.

  “Drop your weapons, half-breed,” said one.

  Kirag’s vision turned red.

  How many people have I killed for calling me such?

  But he had to maintain control. He needed to question these brown-skinned creatures.

  He rose to his feet and took a step forward.

  One of the elves let loose his arrow. It hit the ground between Kirag’s legs. “Last warning.”

  Kirag took another step forward. “Drop your weapons, cowards of the woods.”

  Both elves fired their arrows, but Kirag was already moving. One arrow caught his left shoulder, yet did nothing to blunt his charge, and he plowed right into the nearest attacker. The elf’s bones crunched beneath his weight.

  The other elf switched to a glittering sword, which he swung at Kirag’s back.

  Coward!

  Kirag blocked the miserable attack with his dagger and swung his sword at the elf’s knees. He intended to disable him, not kill him.

  The elf nimbly jumped away and backpedaled to gain some distance.

  Kirag growled and ran toward the devious creature. The pain in his left shoulder reminded him that he would much rather fight with swords than dodge arrows.

  The elf drew a second sword and moved both in a blur. One of the swords darted out and nearly skewered Kirag, but he dodged in time and readied himself for an opening.

  The elf attacked again, precisely targeting Kirag’s injured shoulder. Again Kirag dodged, and this time he countered with his dagger. Spatters of blood appeared within the b
lur of glittering swords.

  So they do bleed red!

  Kirag again studied the elf’s movements. They were impossibly fast, but he was able to follow both swords if he concentrated. Unfortunately, he saw no openings. The elf was skilled with the blades.

  His impatience and battle lust overcame his good sense, and his vision flared red with anger. He charged directly at the elf, swinging his own sword with all his might.

  The metallic crash of contact jarred Kirag’s arms and numbed his sword hand, but he heard the unmistakable crack of a shattering blade—and not his own.

  A battle cry escaped from his throat.

  Only then did he realize his error. His charge had been too aggressive, his sword not only shattering the enemy’s blade but striking deeply into his chest. Red froth bubbled to the elf’s lips, and the light in his amber eyes dimmed.

  There would be no interrogation of this one.

  Kirag returned to the other elf, his anger growing. Kneeling, he felt for a pulse, and found none.

  He’d been careless. No—more than careless. He’d been a fool.

  Fuming at his own error, he returned to the cliff to see what had become of his Duo.

  Both were now visible in the clearing they had been approaching. And yet they too had failed. Zandri now lay dead in a pool of his own blood, and Vaughn was on his knees, an elf standing behind him, holding a sword to the Talon’s exposed neck.

  The elf looked up at Kirag.

  “Kirag, you are intruding where you do not belong. Leave this forest and I will release this man.”

  How can this creature know my name?

  Kirag’s shoulder burned as if acid were slowly eating at it, but it was not as troubling as the bile of disgust that rose up within him. His men had allowed themselves to be dispatched by a single enemy.

  He shouted down to the elf. “Who are you, to ask this of me?”

  “Castien Galonos, sword master of my people, and guardian of these woods.”

  “We are seeking strangers within Trimoria,” Kirag called back. “I would have you release to me such people that you have encountered. And if you find any in the future, relinquish them to the black-armored troops in Aubgherle.”