That left Elwyn with the knowledge that either her unique features came from her father or that she was just a rare anomaly. That possibility often left her in tears. Clayre’s hurried explanation, seeing her tears and distress, was to tell her that sometimes nature creates a special work of art, as it had with her. While she appreciated Clayre’s loving comments, she didn’t buy them for a moment. Elwyn found herself looking into the eyes of every person she met, but so far, she’d never found anyone else with large violet eyes, slanted eyebrows, or a complexion as pale as her own.
When considering the list of her physical oddities, the shape of her ears disturbed her the most. They delicately tapered to a point, rather than being rounded like the ears of everyone else she knew. She tried hard to hide her ears, a task that was made easier because of her full head of curly hair. But, when she was alone, she often examined them, finding them very abnormal in appearance. She sometimes wondered if the reason her uncle would never speak of her father was that he hadn’t been entirely human.
Elwyn did understand why her unique physical appearance made the young women from the surrounding villages reluctant to befriend her. She also understood why her superior hunting and forestry skills seemed to intimidate the young men. One thing that did puzzle her, was why the adult population of the village seemed to accept her for what she was, and never seemed curious about why she was so unique. It was almost as if they knew more about her than she knew about herself. But if they did, they weren’t talking either. Elwyn had already made the decision that she was going to have a long talk with her uncle and Clayre very soon. She just couldn’t bear the idea of living the rest of her life feeling as if she didn’t belong anywhere. She was hoping to catch the two of them alone after the conclusion of today’s festivities. She hadn’t worked out what she was going to say to them, but prayed that she would find the right words when the time came.
As Elwyn continued walking back toward the village square, her quiet reflections were interrupted. She was shocked to hear the faint sounds of swords clashing and horses squealing. She began to run toward the commotion. She flew across the sand; her feet barely touching the ground. The only sounds of her passing were a gentle tap from her doe skin sandals as they touched the ground and the smack of bright yellow globules of sand hitting the hem of her skirt. Although she was a goodly distance away, she could just make out a group of men and horses gathered in the town square. Fearing the worse, her adrenaline kicked in and she increased her speed. As she continued to run, her long reddish gold hair fought hard to escape the leather tie that held it captive. Being helped along by the breezes, the rebellious curls finally freed themselves and the tie went flying.
Now free, Elwyn’s long reddish gold hair flew behind her like a banner announcing her coming. As she drew closer to the square, her sharp hearing detected several loud cries, accompanied by the sound of clashing steel. She crossed the rest of the distance to the square, while trying hard not to trip on her fancy skirt, or on the voluminous petticoats that supported it. As she took a closer look, she thought she saw her uncle lying on the ground. She was still too far away to see many details, but Elwyn recognized his curly reddish gold hair, so much like her own.
Drawing closer still, her sharp vision detected a crimson stain that seemed to be spreading across the white linen shirt he was wearing. Elwyn could see Clayre kneeling next to him and pressing some cloths onto his chest. The white cloths were being soaked red, by what she could now see was blood. She felt panic begin to rise within her. It had never occurred to her that something bad might ever happen to her uncle. Her only thought was to rush to his side and help to save him.
Elwyn fought hard to calm herself. As her vision broadened, she realized that her uncle and Clayre were surrounded by several very tall men wearing dark forest green cloaks. These men were definitely not from her village and she had no idea who they were or why they were there. The closer she got, the more frightened she became. She felt her body trembling as she saw a dagger sticking out of her uncle’s chest. The men surrounding her uncle looked formidable and, because their backs were to her, she couldn’t make out their faces. This frightened her even more. She felt an icy chill pass through her body. They seemed to be in control of the village square and she had no way to determine if they were friend or foe. With as much strength as she possessed, she sprinted the last twenty yards that separated her from the only family that she had ever known. As she reached the men surrounding her uncle and tried to push her way through, one of the men turned around and grabbed hold of her arm. Elwyn found herself staring into the face of a man with large violet eyes, slanted eyebrows, and pale skin, who looked as shocked as she felt.
Chapter 4 – Unforeseen Danger
Unity was a small land governed by a council of representatives from the six nations of the Known Lands that surrounded it. It was a place of neutrality that allowed people from all these nations to come and trade their goods, without fear of political interference. For one country to violate the treaty of nonviolence in Unity was to incur the wrath of the other five nations. Ayron was fairly certain that the men they’d discovered on their land were up to no good. And, if these men started trouble in some way while they were in Unity, the other nations could blame Silvendil, and possibly even declare war against them. “That could be why they crossed the border into Silvendil in the first place,” Ayron thought to himself.
Ayron was sure that King Stefan was behind whatever mission these men were on. The fact that he had the men enter Unity from Silvendil, rather than his own land of Avrelan, meant that there was a strong possibility that they were planning to violate the Treaty of the Lands in some way, and then lay the blame at Lord Azavon’s feet. Ayron had no proof of any of this; just his own instincts and the instincts of those he trusted. The only thing that he and his soldiers could do was to stick close to Crawley and his men, and hope that they could prevent any violence. “It was going to be a long afternoon,” he sighed to himself under his breath.
The two groups rode along in relative silence for the next few hours. Occasionally Crawley and his men would try to pull away, but Ayron and his soldiers stayed right on their heels. The two groups left the thick woodland and rode the last few miles to Tarlon on an old trail that had been cleared to allow supply wagons to pass. Ayron slowed his mount and spoke again to Thane. He instructed his soldiers to divide up so that each of them was trailing one or two of Crawley’s men. Ayron decided to stick with Crawley himself. He instructed Keroc to take to the air as soon as they entered the village, making sure to keep Crawley in his sight and to warn him of any danger. Ayron was just returning to the front of the column of soldiers, when he heard Crawley urge his men to scatter and make a run for it. As some small buildings came into view, Crawley’s men seemed to split up in a predetermined pattern.
“So much for just wanting to enjoy the celebration,” Ayron muttered to himself. He urged his stallion Gerrack on, as he fought to stay close to Crawley, hoping to foil whatever trouble these men had planned. Crawley’s scrawny little pony had much greater maneuverability along the narrow paths than Ayron’s large war stallion. Ayron could see movement up ahead and to the right as he heard a voice in the distance shout.
“I see him! He’s over by the village square.”
As Ayron heard those words shouted out, Crawley pivoted and took off to the right. Keroc flew after him trying to get a glimpse of what, or who, the men were after. It was very obvious to Ayron that Crawley had been to this village before, and was well versed in its layout. He was suddenly blinded as Keroc projected the image of an unidentifiable reddish gold mass into his mind. He began to panic, but then the image began to come into focus. As the image became clearer, he recognized the face of a man he could never forget. A man he had at one time called friend, even brother. Ayron immediately knew what Crawley and his men were here in Tarlon to do.
Ayron signaled Keroc to project the image of the village square into the minds of his tr
oops so that they would know where they were needed. Silvendil soldiers were used to viewing images projected by drakenhawks. They were frequently used in battle as messengers. Ayron then leaned down and lay over the front of his saddle, whispered urgently to Gerrack, and prayed that he would reach his friend before Crawley did.
To his dismay, he raced into the town square just in time to see Crawley throw a dagger in the direction where Rhys stood. It was obvious to Ayron that Rhys was unaware that he was in any danger. One moment he stood relaxed, speaking to a woman standing nearby and the next he crumbled to the ground, with blood spreading out from around the edges of a knife protruding from his chest. Keroc hurtled down from the sky, his razor sharp talons extended, aiming for Crawley.
Just before Keroc struck, Crawley shouted to his men, “Find the kid, she’s here somewhe….”
His words were abruptly cut off as Keroc struck, ripping out Crawley’s throat with ease. The assassin slowly toppled from his horse, dead before hitting the ground from blood loss. By this time Ayron’s soldiers reached the square and were busy fighting with some of Crawley’s men who showed up to finish the job their leader started. As the men fought, all that Ayron could hear was the continuous clash of steel, occasionally punctuated by squealing horses. As the fighting continued, the men took the battle to the ground. The commotion was quickly drawing a crowd and Ayron’s men began having difficulty separating the local villagers from Crawley’s men. At his command, five of his soldiers joined him forming a protective circle around the area where Rhys lay. He was then able to turn some of his attention to his old friend. The woman with him stood, at first transfixed by shock as she watched the fighting escalate around her. She seemed to have no fear for her own safety though because, before he could even approach, she knelt down and hovered protectively over Rhys. As soon as Ayron felt sure that his soldiers had the situation under control, he walked over toward Rhys to get a better look at his injury. His heart sank as he realized how much damage had been done.
Rhys lay on the ground with the hilt of Crawley’s dagger protruding from his chest dangerously close to his heart. A crimson stain was rapidly spreading out over his bleached cotton shirt. The woman, with whom Rhys had been speaking, was kneeling down over his body attempting to staunch the flow of blood coming from the wound. Ayron immediately realized that she wasn’t the “kid” Crawley spoke of. She appeared to be in her mid thirties, and wore the powder blue dress of a healer. With the fighting in the square over, he ordered the five soldiers he’d called over to stand guard over Rhys and the healer. He then sent the rest of his soldiers to track down the remainder of Crawley’s men, with orders to kill them on sight. He hated to order more killing, but he didn’t want anyone escaping to reporting back to Stefan. He also ordered them to be on the lookout for a female child.
Just as Ayron was about to leave and conduct his own search for the mysterious child, the woman in blue called him over to where Rhys lay. Drawing near, his fears were confirmed. Rhys was critically wounded and still bleeding.
“I’m Clayre, the village healer and friend to Rhys,” the woman stated tersely, “Before he will let me tend to his injury, he insists upon speaking with you. You’ll have to draw close. He is extremely weak.”
“Just how serious is his wound? The dagger looks as if it struck near his heart. Can you tell me if he will live?”
“The dagger has done a lot of damage,” replied Clayre using every bit of self-control she possessed to keep from dissolving into tears. “Even if the tip isn’t poisoned, it may still be fatal. I can’t tell yet if it penetrated his heart, so for the time being it has to stay where it is. He has also lost a tremendous amount of blood; maybe too much. I need to examine him further, but he won’t let me until he speaks with you. Please hurry so he will allow me try to save his life.”
Ayron leaned down over Rhys, whose complexion was pale and waxy. It looked to him as if Clayre had gotten the blood loss under control for the time being, but the flecks of blood at the corners of Rhys mouth didn’t bode well. Ayron leaned closer until he was only a few inches from Rhys’ face.
“Hello elf,” Rhys rasped. “So you finally showed your face. It’s about time.”
As Rhys took a breath, Ayron could hear a crackling sound from deep in his chest. Puzzled, Ayron started to respond but Rhys shook his head and began to whisper softly.
“The child; you must protect the child. Swear it on your life, elf,” he gasped. “I may not be able to protect her any longer, and I now know that I can’t keep her hidden forever. Stefan knows she exists and is here in Tarlon. It is up to you now, and even if you don’t want her, you owe it to Rhianna to protect her.”
Ayron was totally confused by what Rhys was saying and thought that perhaps the blood-loss was affecting his mind. Not wanting to cause him any more stress, he tried to reply in a comforting tone, “Don’t worry old friend, I will make sure to find and protect your child. For now, you need to allow the healer to tend to your wound.”
Rhys grabbed his arm with surprising strength and said, “No elf, not my child; she is yours!” And with that Rhys lost consciousness, leaving Ayron more confused than ever.
“Rhys must be imagining things. I’ve never even been married or had a child,” he murmured to the healer Clayre as she knelt down over Rhys prostrate form.
Clayre lifted her head, and with tears flowing freely down her cheeks sobbed. “Get out of here and do as he asks. I will try to save him.”
Ayron felt as if he had entered someone else’s nightmare and didn’t like the feeling one bit. “Alright, I will go and find the child he spoke of. In the mean time, I’ll send my healer Galdor over to you. You might need the help of another trained healer if you are to take out that dagger without killing him. Please do your very best to save him. The Rhys I knew was a good and honest man. I will pay anything you ask. ”
The woman, totally absorbed in her work, didn’t look up but gave a quick nod of her head to dismiss him. With that, Ayron stood up and turned around. Before he could take a step, he found himself face to face with a young elf…an elf with curly reddish gold hair. Impossibly, this elf also had large eyes of deep violet, even deeper than his.
“Move,” cried the young elf in a panicky voice as she tried pushing past him. “That’s my uncle lying there,” she cried, still struggling to move past him. “Get out of my way.”
For the second time that day, Ayron was rendered speechless. His mind was spinning. None of this made sense. He fought to find his peace by centering his thoughts, as he had been taught as a young soldier. He would be no help to anyone in his current state of mind. As calm began to wash over him and some clarity returned, he was struck by a revelation. Rhys hadn’t recognized him and assumed that he was Azavon. Could this child be his niece? This whole situation just wasn’t possible. He looked again at the young girl. He just couldn’t make the pieces fit, and right now he had no time to figure it out. Ayron acted instinctively and reached out to take the girl by the arm. Whoever she was, she was obviously in grave danger with Crawley’s men searching for her, and he had given his word to Rhys that he would protect her.
The young girl squirmed and kicked, trying to break free from his grasp. Ayron couldn’t believe how incredibly strong she was. He half-carried, half-dragged her over to Gerrack. By this time she had added sobbing uncontrollably to squirming and kicking.
“Let me go,” she pleaded, tears streaming down her face. “My uncle needs me.”
Ayron felt awful, sensing the pain in her voice, but he steeled himself against giving into her pleas. He’d given Rhys his word that he would keep her safe and he was going to do it his way, until he knew more about the situation. He threw her up onto Gerrack’s saddle, and quickly mounted himself, before she could jump down. He held her tightly and rode as fast as he could toward a stand of trees he remembered passing on the way into the village. The young girl had given up pleading to be set free and was now just sobbing uncontrollably. Ayron si
gnaled Keroc to project his destination to Thane, with orders that they should both join him there. As soon as he arrived, he pulled the young girl down from Gerrack’s back. Immediately she struggled against him trying to break free. And then she started to yell for help. He leaned her back against a gnarled old tree trunk, and covered her mouth with his gloved hand.
“I know you are frightened and upset. I’m not going to hurt you.” Ayron said in a harsh whisper. “I’m an old friend of your uncle. Please stop yelling and listen to me for just a moment. Your uncle has been seriously wounded by the leader of a group of assassins. The man is dead, but his men are also looking for you. My soldiers have killed most of them, but there are still a few roaming around either trying to escape or find you. We are hunting them now. I left five of my best soldiers back at the village square to guard your uncle. I also left my healer, Galdor, to help treat his wound. Your uncle realizes that your life is in danger and refused to allow anyone to treat him until I brought you to safety. Please don’t dishonor his wishes and force me to break my word by trying to run away.”
Origin Page 4
