“Did you at least find out what was in the cart?”
“No, Chief, sorry, Chief.”
“I should have put one of the glamoch in charge,” grumbled Ramah.
“Yeah, but they couldn’t tell you what ‘appened could they, Chief, ‘cause they can’t talk, can they, Chief? That’s why we only rides ‘em.”
Ramah put his head into his hands. “Give me strength,” he muttered, pondering over his next move.
“Klag, have ten warriors prepare for a journey northward. I have heard that there are more of our kind there, and I mean to recruit them. We shall not allow this minor setback to dishearten us. There is strength in numbers and I must increase ours, we shall leave at daybreak tomorrow.”
“Ten warriors, north, daybreak tomorrow, got it.”
***
Having left the gulley, Jared and Hannock continued to follow a small track through sparse woodland. “Looks like it’s not been used much recently, Jared. Should be safe enough, but we must be vigilant.” They made camp, setting only a small fire, secreted behind a clump of trees. Hannock prepared a makeshift meal from what little provisions he had managed to salvage. The two soldiers seemed to be holding up well despite their wounds and Jared and Hannock were attempting to formulate a plan in order to continue their mission.
“We need to get those two settled somewhere. If we could find a village, perhaps we could also re-stock from the local traders. We may even find a stable willing to sell us fresh steeds,” said Jared.
“And fourteen royal guard?” added Hannock.
“Sorry, friend, I don’t mean to be insensitive, our main issue has to be a concern for the living. We cannot help the dead, but their families will be well taken care of when we return home.”
“You mean if we return home?”
“Alright, if we return home. We’re not falling at the first hurdle, Hannock, we must trust in ourselves.”
“Sorry, Jared, I’m just a little tired. I’ll be alright when I’m rested. Can’t stand the thought of having to put up with my own cooking though.”
“Now that’s the Hannock I know,” said Jared.
They decided that northwest would be their best option. Hannock had heard that a village by the name of Ferendon lay in that direction which, with an early start, they could reach by nightfall the following day.
Jared, remembering Hannock’s earlier comments, volunteered for first watch, insisting that he wasn’t tired having rested briefly prior to their unexpected battle. An offer Hannock gratefully accepted.
Jared stared into the campfire, watching as the tiny flames licked at the base of the fresh branches he had placed on it. The only sound to be heard was the hooting of an owl close by. This helped Jared relax as he knew that, if anything large stirred in the darkness, the owl would remain silent. The battle in the gulley, combined with his use of magic, had taken its toll on him far more than he had realised. He patrolled the camp, contemplating the day’s events, pausing briefly to check on his wounded men, and Hannock. With each step his legs grew heavier. He slumped down, leaning against the trunk of a tree that, due to fatigue, felt as comfortable to him as any padded chair. His eyes grew heavy, and within seconds, he was asleep.
***
Jared woke with a start. Slightly confused, he blinked a few times, not sure whether he was actually awake or dreaming. No more than three feet in front of him, sat on the ground, was a beautiful woman. Her platinum blond hair cascaded around her shoulders and framed her slender face. Her pure-white skin glittered in the moonlight. Her head, now tilted to one side, revealed her pointed ears. Hang on a minute, he thought, pointed ears! He made a grab for his sword.
“Looking for this?” she asked, holding out her hand to show Jared his sword.
“Well I just…” he began.
“You’ll end up as dead as your friends if you’re not careful. Anybody could walk into your camp and cut your throats while you sleep. Well, here you are then, take it.” She held out her hand to present him with his sword.
“Thank you,” said Jared.
“What for? It is yours after all.”
“Well I know that, but all the same.”
“What strange creatures you are. Who are you? Why are you here? Are you looking for something?” she asked. The questions came all at once, not demanding, simply filled with curiosity.
Jared did not feel threatened by the questions; her tone was actually quite calming. He rose to his feet and with a shallow bow announced, “I am Prince Jared Dunbar of Borell, son of King Tamor.”
“Have you hurt your back?” she asked.
“No, why do you ask?” asked Jared.
“Why did you bend forward like that? I thought you were stretching your back.”
“No, it’s a custom in my homeland and is considered good manners.”
“How strange. Did you think I knew your father?”
“No, why would you?” asked Jared.
“Then why did you tell me his name, if not for recognition? You are very strange.”
“Well...” but Jared gave in, this was becoming hard work.
“So tell me Gerald, why are you here?”
“It’s Jared,” he said with a sigh, “and I am escorting my brother, who is sick, in hope of finding a cure for his ailment.”
“Sick you say, is he dying?”
“No, his sickness is one of the mind.”
“Oh, you mean he’s mad?”
“No, I mean…, do you have a name?”
“What sort of a question is that? Of course I have a name, doesn’t everyone?”
Jared ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “May I enquire what it is?”
“If you must.”
Jared looked at her, “Well?”
“Yes I am thank you,” she replied.
“What is your name?”
“Faylore Fellentheen.”
At last, a breakthrough, an actual answer, he thought. Jared had met some perplexing folk in his life, but this one had to be the worst.
Faylore had remained seated throughout their conversation, but was now strolling around, studying the trees intently, stroking the trunks, the branches and the leaves as if she had become bored and was looking for something else to peak her interest. Jared was transfixed by her beauty. She was taller than he, much taller, about seven feet at his estimate. She wore a sleeveless tunic and breeches of emerald green, made from a shimmering, exotic fabric and on her feet, slippers that seemed to be made from leaves. Around her waist was a thick, brown leather belt and secured to this, a beautiful, curved silver sword, etched with runes. This hung against her left thigh, on the right, a dagger of similar design, and strung on her back, a silver longbow.
“Forgive my ignorance, Faylore, but are you an elf?”
Faylore glared at him. “Well if you’re going to insult me, I think I’d better leave!”
“No, please don’t. I never meant to insult you. I apologise, it’s just that I am not well travelled and unfamiliar with your race.”
She had turned away, her last statement having been made quite seriously. She really had felt insulted by Jared’s last question. She paused, looking over her shoulder at him. “Very well. It’s obvious that you are somewhat primitive in your ways, so I’ll accept your apology.”
At first, Jared had felt a little intolerance with this unusual visitor, but he was now becoming fascinated. “So may I…, what race are you?” he asked, remembering falling into the ‘may I’ trap, earlier. He had realised that, to converse with Faylore, one must be direct, remain polite, and ask questions in an inquisitive manner rather than a demanding tone.
“I am a Thedarian,” she replied.
“And where is your homeland, Faylore?”
“Well, Thedar, obviously!”
Jared decided not to pursue this particular line of questioning, feeling that it may become a little complicated. He also did not want to run the risk of inadvertently insulting his unexpected guest
again, and politely changed the subject. “Faylore, my friends and I were attacked earlier today in a gulley not far from here. All would have been lost if not for the intervention of an unseen archer. Was that you by any chance?” Jared asked.
“It was,” she sighed.
“Well, for that, Faylore, you have my gratitude.”
“Do not thank me. It is quite obscene to excuse any killing, whatever the circumstance. All have a right to live in this world. But the battle was unfair, I will admit. You were outnumbered and the attack unprovoked, however, if the roles had been reversed, it would have been they who received our aid.”
Jared was a little taken aback by Faylore’s retort, and the fact that she had said ‘our aid’, not ‘my aid’. “Would you care for some refreshment?” he asked, “We have wine or water, and biscuits.”
Faylore’s inquisitive nature got the better of her once more. “What are biscuits?” she asked.
Jared roused Hannock, but left the soldiers to their sleep. “Hannock, this is Faylore, Faylore this is Captain Hannock.”
Hannock pushed himself up on one elbow as Faylore sat, cross-legged, on the ground in front of him. “Well hello,” was his immediate response.
Faylore was given water, her choice, and some biscuits, with which she was not impressed, and the three continued with conversation. Hannock realised very quickly that Jared was choosing his words very carefully, deeming it prudent to speak only when spoken to and refrain from making off-handed comments, or offer opinion.
“So, what were those things that attacked us, Faylore?” asked Jared.
“They are the Dergon,” she replied.
“Why would they attack us, I mean us, specifically?”
“It was nothing personal, they attack everybody.”
“So this was not an attempt at robbery?”
“They would have taken your belongings, but that would not be their reason to attack. They are warriors, they live for battle.”
“But they retreated when you shot those four. If they live for battle why did they suddenly flee?”
“There are very few Dergon left now, and those few have been scattered throughout the lands. They are fearless, but cannot afford the loss of too many of their number,” she replied.
“And what were those things they were riding?” asked Hannock.
“They are glamoch. They roam the plains in herds. Wherever there are Dergon, one can usually find glamoch.”
“Are there others of your kind in this region, Faylore?” asked Hannock.
“But of course there are,” said Faylore with a matter of fact tone, “they are all around you, I would never travel alone, it is far too dangerous.” Jared and Hannock looked around them, but saw no other Thedarians. “They will not show themselves just because you wish it. They are with me, but find you most uninteresting.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Very well,” she said, and held up her hand, positioning her fingers in a way that could have only been a kind of signal. One of her fellow Thedarians appeared, dropping silently from a tree a stone’s throw from them, bow in hand, then another and another, until at least a score were facing the camp.
Hannock looked at Jared. “Impressive.”
“My kin and I shall stay and protect you for this night and ensure your safe passage on the morrow, for now, however, you must rest. Your two friends are badly wounded and shall be cared for in the morning. We have more effective remedies than the wrapped rags with which you bound them.”
“We are most grateful, Faylore. I must ask, why, if your people have no interest in us, do they help so freely?”
“We would see none suffer unnecessarily and my kin are loyal to me. They do it partly through duty, although I do prefer to believe that they do it through love. I am their queen, Faylore Fellentheen.”
***
The two soldiers were discussing their predicament. The change in them was amazing. The Thedarians had given them cordials and applied poultices and dressings, made from various powders and leaves that they had taken from pouches they carried. They had been bathed, despite their protest, and now looked well enough to continue their journey. A male Thedarian had approached Jared and Hannock once the guards were taken care of. Hannock tried to insist that he was fine but the Thedarian had ignored him and, grabbing his head, forcefully poured a cordial into his mouth, holding his nose until he swallowed. Then it was Jared’s turn who, although a prince, received exactly the same treatment. Karrak, still inside the cart, had remained undisturbed.
A short while later Faylore approached, and faced Hannock. “Well?” she asked.
“Well what?” asked Hannock.
Jared began to laugh, “Come along my friend, we have a long journey ahead.”
“Why are you laughing? What did I say? Am I missing something here?”
Hannock was completely confused.
CHAPTER 7
Barden stared at Emnor for what seemed like an age, disturbed by the news he had just received. “You not only know ‘who’ he is, Emnor, you know ‘what’ he is. You should have destroyed him when you had the chance, and to make matters worse, you now tell me you’ve known of his existence for years, since he was a child. What on earth were you thinking?”
“No, Barden, I do not know what he is, only what he could become, but if we act now there is very little chance of it happening,” Emnor replied.
“And it could have happened with the brother, but you omitted to tell me about him either.”
“The prophecy tells of the second born, not the first. But listen to us, that scroll is over a thousand years old, it’s even older than we are. I’m sure it’ll come to nothing,” said Emnor.
“How many said that about the Elixian Soul, Emnor? The scroll in which it was mentioned was double the age. We have had that in our possession for over five hundred years, having sworn to protect it and prevent it from falling into the wrong hands.”
“That’s something completely different. Barden, that’s an object. We are talking about a life; you can’t just snuff out a life as if it were a candle.”
“Why not? It would be a far better idea than to let events take place as they are described in the scroll.”
“But it’s all conjecture and hypotheses, Barden. I don’t know about you but I, for one, cannot just murder someone based on those.”
“Rather that, than the alternative, Emnor. One life… or tens of thousands?”
“You cannot condemn a man for something he might do, Barden.”
“Once I would have agreed with you, Emnor, but not now, not after the actions of his, or should I say, their mother.”
***
Tamor was a very happy man. He was king, his subjects loved him, his kingdom was bountiful and only two days prior he had married the kindest, most beautiful woman in Borell. Life, as far as he could see, could be no better. Utterly devoted to his wife, where she went, he followed.
A blissful year had passed when suddenly, showing no symptoms of illness, the queen collapsed. The court physicians were called, but on examination had diagnosed that it was nothing serious. Informing the king that his bride had just overtaxed herself and with a little rest would be fine in a few days, the queen had been settled into her bed. But they were wrong. Over the next few days her condition worsened until, apologetically, the same physicians reported that there was nothing more they could do. Distraught at the news, the king issued a notice to all stating that great wealth would be given to anyone that could save his dying love from her mysterious, seemingly-terminal sickness.
Without notice or prior appointment, a stranger had arrived at the castle, stating that if he could not save his king’s love, not only would he not expect to be given any reward, he would forfeit his own life, in apology. In desperation, the king accepted his offer.
The stranger entered the queen’s chambers, followed by guards, who now carried his numerous, intriguing, steel-banded chests. He instructed all to leave, insisting that under no circumstances mus
t he be disturbed. Peculiar chantings were heard and foul emanations came from under the door as Tamor waited anxiously. Suddenly, there was a blinding flash, then silence. The door to the queen’s chambers opened. The sweat-soaked stranger supported himself by leaning against the wall, and looked exhausted. King Tamor nervously entered the queen’s chambers and was overjoyed to find his wife sitting up in bed, smiling weakly at him. By some miracle, she had survived. The king, taking his love by the hand, bowed his head and wept with joy.
The stranger had been shown to a room to allow him to bathe and refresh himself, and once rested, had been summoned by the king. Tamor had asked the man to name his price, offering gold and jewels, lands and titles, but the stranger had refused them all, asking simply for one thing. Once Tamor’s marriage was blessed with children, the stranger would be given an audience with the queen, alone, simply to pay his respects and enquire after her health. The king was astounded by this simple request and granted it readily, the man still refusing to take as much as a single gold coin for his services. He then left the castle, and his existence faded in Tamor’s memory.
***
Another ten years passed. Tamor was now the proud father of an heir four years of age and a newborn, barely a week old, when the stranger returned, unexpectedly. He was greeted with great enthusiasm by the king, who immediately sent word and then escorted the stranger, to the queen’s chambers.
There was no sound from within, but less than ten minutes later the stranger emerged and, thanking the king, bowed and, once again, departed.
***
For a while, things in Borell remained unchanged until, one evening, as the king and queen were dining, one of the maids accidentally dropped a tray of food. Ordinarily not a word would have been said, but on this occasion the queen had risen from the table scolding her for her clumsiness. When the maid offered her apologies the queen slapped her across the face, shocking everyone with her uncharacteristic behaviour. The king had raised the subject later in the privacy of their quarters, his wife insisting it would be remiss of her not to keep the servants in their proper place. But this was only the beginning. Rumours of cruelty by the queen were rife. Maids being tortured by having their hair pulled until it came out by the roots, or having forks and knives driven into their hands at the dining table for the slightest excuse, or being beaten by the queen in her private chambers for no reason at all, were only some of them. Rumours to most but, unfortunately for the victims, horrifically real.
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