So I’ve managed to write another chapter, in a single day! What’s going on?

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Chapter 17: Vira Weitor

And so they ran, Brandyé leading, Elven now limping behind, and Elỳn at the rear, closest to the oncoming beasts. The path began to rise, mounting a small hill, and Brandyé could feel his legs starting to give out – he could run no further. His pace slackened, and Elven was soon pacing beside him, the terror on his face a mirror for Brandyé’s own.

And then Brandyé heard behind him a fierce cry and his heart leapt into his throat, for it was Elỳn, and he had never heard her utter such a sound before. Without thinking he stopped and turned, Elven carrying on past him. What met his eyes was astonishing.

Elỳn was surrounded by half a dozen fierundé, and from within her robes she had drawn forth a glowing blade and was sweeping it to and fro, keeping the animals at bay even as they snapped their jaws at her. He cried her name, but among the howling and snarling and thunder she either did not hear him, or chose to ignore him, for she did not waver in her warding off of the fierundé.

Elven was now far past him, and he heard him cry out, but at the same moment one of the fierundé leapt at Elỳn and all other thought was drowned out as his heart stopped. The world seemed to slow down around him, and for a moment it felt as though the rain lifted, and he saw only the beast’s flight through the air, its claws outstretched toward Elỳn’s throat, and the upward thrust of her blade as it pierced through the animal’s jaw, before it collapsed upon her and she was driven to the ground.

“No!”

All danger was forgotten, and he began to race back down the slope toward her, Fahnat-om pointing at the beasts. And then, as he drew near, he felt a hum in the air, and suddenly the earth erupted between the ring of fierundé and himself and he was thrown to the ground. Light blinded him, and as the deafening crack of thunder subsided he heard only yelps and howls. Blindly he clambered to his feet again and stumbled wildly, swinging Fahnat-om madly in the hope that it might strike one of the fierundé. Instead, he heard the distinct clang of steel against steel, and bewildered, he blinked away the lightening’s afterimage to find himself staring at Elỳn, her sword raised to meet his in its path through the air.

“Heed your sword,” she said, panting, “or you might cleave more than you intend!”

Suddenly horrified at what he had almost done, Brandyé lowered his weapon and looked about him. After the brightness of the lightning strike he could see almost nothing in the dark, but he had the sense that the fierundé had – if only momentarily – fled. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I am uninjured,” she said. He saw that she was coated in a foul black substance, and she noticed his gaze. “Their blood, not mine.”

“Brandyé! Elỳn!” came Elven’s voice from afar.

“Elven!” returned Brandyé. “Where are you?”

“Come, quickly – you must see!”

Perplexed, Brandyé turned once more up the hill to follow the path, Elỳn beside him. Before long they had crested the summit, and it was then that Brandyé saw what Elven wished them to see. Laid out before them in the low of the valley was a great array of torches and lights, lining wet and muddy streets and paths. Dozens, if not hundreds, of buildings and homes stretched out into the distance, and surrounding them all was a great wall of spiked wooden poles, at least twenty feet in height.

“The village…” Brandyé muttered, and then to Elỳn, “You were right – you were right!”

“Hansel’s Foil,” she agreed. “But we are not safe yet. Hurry!”

Down the hill they trudged, slipping and sliding in the mud, and before long they had reached the wall that surrounded the town. There was a door in the wall to which the road led, but it was shut against them. Desperate, Brandyé ran to it and began pounding upon it mercilessly, calling, “Please – let us in, let us in! We are being chased!”

But there was no answer, bar the distant howls of the fierundé. They had scattered at the lightening strike, but they were not cowardly beasts, and clearly had already begun to regroup. It would not be long before they saw they red eyes cresting the top of the hill, Brandyé thought.

Elven joined him in his pounding, screaming for all his might: “Let us in!”

For several minutes they remained there, stuck between the approaching fierundé and the impassable wall, and for all their calling and cries there was no answer. Finally, Elỳn said, “Enough – this is of no use. Elven, take one of your arrows and fire it over the wall. With luck, it will be seen by someone.”

“What if it hits someone?” he asked.

“I very much hope it does not.”

In the dark and the rain, Brandyé saw Elven draw forth another of the Illuèn’s glowing arrows and affix it to his bow. Aiming high above their heads, he loosed it, and away it flew, high, up, and then down, and over the wall.

For a moment there was silence, and Brandyé was encouraged to look once more behind them. To his sudden terror, he could see the dim shapes of the fierundé, now making their way down the path and the hill, their eyes glowing miserably. They had ceased their howling, and come upon them in silence.

“Please, let someone open this door,” he murmured. And then, just as he was about to draw out Fahnat-om for one, final death stand, there was a sudden scraping sound, and a porthole in the door swung back.

“This be yours?” said a voice, and the arrow that Elven had shot was suddenly flung back at them. The tone of the voice was lost on Brandyé; the act of the person to whom it belonged was ignored; all he knew was that the voice was human, and that he understood it.

“Please – let us in!” he cried once more. “We’re almost dead!”

But the door did not open; instead, the voice continued, “Who are ye? Comin’ from the south in the mid o’ night’s a bad sign.”

“We mean no harm!” called Elven, “but please – the fierundé are almost here!”

Then there was a pause, and the voice said, “Fierundé? The fierundé don’ come this far—”

And then Elỳn interrupted with, “They are here now, and if you don’t let us in we will be dead in under a minute!”

Perhaps it was the unusual accent she bore, or perhaps the female tones of her voice, but at her words there was suddenly a great scraping as of a huge latch being lifted, and the door swung inward. Overjoyed, Brandyé pushed forward with Elven and Elỳn, and in a moment they were inside the village.

“Quick – bolt the door!” Elỳn cried, and the old man whose voice they had been hearing nodded, swinging the door shut and dropping the heavy wooden bolt that kept the door shut. Not a moment too soon was it, for in only a moment came furious howls and snarls, and the scraping of many claws against the wood.

“That’ll hold ’em,” the man said. He turned, and his eyes widened as he took in their appearance. “Bless me,” he said. “Ye’re not from ’round here, are ye?”

Brandyé could but shake his head, but Elỳn said, “We are from the south, yes – but we intend no harm.”

“That remains to be seen,” said another voice. Turning, Brandyé saw a man in what was clearly a uniform of some kind standing before them, several guards carrying spears on either side. “Gaillard – did you let these folk in?”

The old man nodded. “The fierundé were on them,” he said. “They’d’ve died—”

“Better they than us,” the officer snarled. “You could’ve let them in as well!” Then he turned to the three companions. “Welcome to Hansel’s Foil. You’ll surrender your weapons now, or I’ll have my guards finish the fierundé’s work.”

“What?” Elven exclaimed. “We just told you we mean no harm—”

“‘No harm’ doesn’t arrive armed with glowing arrows,” the officer said. “Now – your weapons.”

Elven looked ready to continue arguing, but Elỳn whispered, “Do as he says – we can’t afford to battle these folk.”

Brandyé took heed at once, sheathing Fahnat-om and laying it upon the wet ground, and Elỳn followed him with her own glowing sword. Elven hesitated a moment, and then with a deep scowl laid down his bow, and scattered the remaining arrows on the ground. Brandyé also retrieved his crossbow and placed it in the mud as well, carefully.

The officer seemed satisfied, and motioned to his guards. They moved forward, and at a prod from their spears set the three companions walking forward. Through the village they passed, though Brandyé saw little; the sky was now black, and the only light came through curtained windows here and there. There were many torch posts on the sides of buildings, but in the rain none were lit. Brandyé could not help but notice that almost every home was built of wood, and he wondered what would happen should a candle inadvertently drop upon a curtain.

Brandyé had enough experience with being captured to know where they were being taken, and sure enough they soon found themselves in a small cell, one among many, iron bars on every side. This was the justice house of the town, Brandyé guessed, for they shared the space with several others, most of whom appeared bruised and drunk.

Though the cell was far from comfortable, the guards did at least bring some bread and water before they left them in the darkness. Suddenly ravenous, Brandyé and Elven did not hesitate to tear into their meal, while Elỳn sat peacefully to the side and gazed out through the bars.

After the last crumbs were gone and the last drops drunk, Brandyé finally turned to Elỳn. “What are we to do now?”

“Although we are captured, we are also safe,” she said. “One cannot complain about the nature of one’s salvation.”

“How long will they keep us here, do you think?” asked Elven.

“There is no knowing,” she replied. “However, I do not think it will be long; we are far too strange and unusual to be kept in a common prison cell for the rest of our lives.” And she smiled at them.

She was not wrong, for the following morning the officer from the previous night came to see them. For a long time he did not speak, and gazed particularly hard at Elỳn. She returned his gaze passively, and Brandyé knew he was trying to decide exactly what she was. Eventually he relented, and spoke to them. “I apologize for the conditions under which ye’re bein’ kept. If by nothin’ other than the surrender o’ your weapons, ye’ve showed us peace. Still – law is the law, and outsiders from the south are to be treated hostile.”

“Why?” protested Elven.

The officer looked at him oddly. “Ye’ve come from the south, no?”

“Yes,” Elven acknowledged.

“Then ye know that what dwells there’s evil.”

“We’re not!”

“The luck o’ it is, it’s not my place to say. There’s another wants to meet ye.” He turned from them and barked out to the guards that had accompanied him, “Get the rest o’ these folk out, he’ll not want to see hungover scum!”

There was a general bustle then as the occupants of the other cells were unlocked, unchained and dismissed, most of them still staggering from the drink of the night before. Some of them were aware enough to stare at the three of them through the bars, eyes always lingering on Elỳn’s cloaked and hooded face. Brandyé wondered how she managed to stay so calm with so many people staring at her; were it him, he would be burning with shame by now. Then he thought that perhaps he was glad that for once it wasn’t himself that was the cause of all the attention.

Before long the place was empty, and as Brandyé and Elven finished their breakfast (more bread, yet welcome – it was fresh, and well-baked), they heard a commotion, and voices outside.

“…keep her locked up?”

“Ye know the law as well as I, and they’re from the south!”

“D’ye see her face, or not?”

“Aye—”

“Then what were ye thinking?”

And then two men entered the building – the officer from before, following a man whom at only a glance Brandyé knew to be a soldier. He wore no armor, though Brandyé could immediately imagine him in it; rather, he was dressed head to toe in the finest cloth, leather bracelets around his forearms, and a great crest adorned his chest – stitched white against the green cloth, a curled dragon. An ornate sword hung at his side, and Brandyé had no doubt that it had seen action; the scabbard was well-used but clearly cared for, the pommel worn to a shine.

“Is this her?” the soldier asked.

The officer bowed. “Yes, sir.”

The soldier approached the bars and looked in. He glanced in passing at Brandyé and Elven, but focused his gaze on Elỳn almost immediately. “Greetings,” he said. “I am Tharom Hulòn. Who are ye?”

For a moment Elỳn was silent as she returned the man’s gaze, and Brandyé broke in, “I am Brandyé, and—”

“Didn’t ask ye,” the soldier said without taking his eyes from Elỳn, and Brandyé fell silent.

“I am Elỳn of the Illuèn,” Elỳn said finally, “and these are Brandyé and Elven. They are my traveling companions, and I would have you treat them as you would treat me.”

Tharom seemed to consider her words for a moment, before saying, “Ye have a white face and ye come from the south. What proof do I have that ye’re truly Illuèn?”

And then Elỳn stood and drew back her hood so that her white hair fell over her shoulders. She stood a full head taller than the soldier, who was himself taller than either Brandyé or Elven, and looked down upon him. “I offer no proof but my countenance, and the weapons that were taken from us last night,” she said, “though you have already seen them, have you not? You are Tharom Hulòn, knight of the Fourth Guard of the Dragon, and you are far from home. Tell me, what brings a proud knight so far from Vira Weitor, to the southern fringes of Erârün?”

At her words the knight seemed startled and almost disturbed, and it was a moment before he replied, “Ye know much, Elỳn of the Illuèn; I will take your word – for now.”

He turned to the officer that had imprisoned them and said, “They’re to be released into my custody.” As the officer moved to unlock the prison cell, he said to them, “Your weapons stay with me, and if I hear breath of misdeed, I’ll have ye back in manacles.” The cell door swung open, and Tharom motioned for them to follow him. “For now, ye look like ye could use a bed – and a warm bath.”

Brandyé’s spirits lifted somewhat at these words as they followed Tharom out of the building, for a bed and bath were by now luxuries beyond his wildest dreams. However, as they began to walk through the town, Brandyé began to think that the inhabitants of Hansel’s Foil did not share in his enthusiasm. Most of the folk they passed looked dirty and tired, plodding along as though they truthfully had no desire to be where they were going. So gloomy were their faces that Elven leaned over to Brandyé and said, “All these folk – they’re acting as though someone has died.”

The thought had occurred to Brandyé. “Perhaps someone has.”

Tharom overheard them and said, “Nay – no one’s died. Ye’re not likely to see much cheer south o’ Bridgeden, though; and these days, not much north o’ it either.”

“What does that mean?” Elven called after him, but the knight refused to elaborate. Brandyé turned to Elỳn.

“What is he talking about?”

But Elỳn seemed curiously distracted, her eyes fixed on Tharom. “This man, Tharom…” she muttered. “He is aware – much more aware than most men.” She blinked, and turned to Brandyé. “We shall do well to bide by this man – I do not know why he was exiled to the south, but he knows of the coming Darkness.”

“Exiled?” repeated Brandyé, but she would say no more.

Soon they found themselves in the entrance to an inn, and Brandyé could not help feel a sharp pang of nostalgia as he looked around, so similar was it to the Burrow Wayde and other inns in Consolation. He barely registered Tharom ordering three rooms and hot baths to be drawn, and fresh linens. By the tim Brandyé was in his room alone, the impending comfort was too much to bear, and as he stripped he nearly dove into the deep, hot tub of water that had been provided. He had intended to wash and then make his way downstairs for some food, but within moments he had fallen fast asleep in the tub of water, and did not wake for some hours.

 

Over the following few days, Brandyé and Elven roamed the town of Hansel’s Foil, which was large, though not nearly as large as Daevàr’s Hut had been. They soon became accustomed to the strange accent the folk here had, and Brandyé was glad that he did not have yet another language to learn. He still did not have any mastery over the ancient tongue that Elỳn and Schaera used amongst themselves, though he was beginning to understand a few words here or there.

As for Elỳn, she spent nearly all her time deep in conversation with Tharom, either over tea or ale at the inn or walking through the streets of Hansel’s Foil, and for all that time Brandyé did not see her except for evening mealtimes. When he asked her what they had spoken of she would only smile, and so it was a mystery to Brandyé when she came to them on the seventh day of their stay there and said, “I have convinced Tharom to take us north – possibly as far as Vira Weitor. It is a long road, but there are villages on the way, and with luck we might arrive there the week after next.”

“What of the fierundé?” Elven asked – a thought that was also on Brandyé’s mind.

“There has been no sign of them outside of the walls of the village for six days,” she said. “I believe they have retreated.”

“They could be tricking us,” Elven said.

But Brandyé did not think so. “I have not felt their presence for some time,” he said with a nod to Elỳn. “Although – if they do approach again, we’ll be in open land with no defenses.”

“Not quite,” said Elỳn. “I could not convince Tharom to return to us our weapons, but we will have a guard, and we will be on horses.”

“They can outrun horses,” Brandyé said darkly.

“There is danger, yes. But it is a journey we must take. Our trip will have been in vain if we allow the fierundé to capture us here.”

To this there was little Elven or Brandyé could say, and so they allowed themselves to be led to a nearby stable, where Tharom was waiting for them.

“Ye can ride?” he asked, and both Elven and Brandyé nodded. “Good. Ye’ll have a steed each – Elỳn has hers all picked out already. We’ve packed already, and we’ll be leaving in a few minutes. I’d like ye to meet our guard, too: this is Tylan, and Richmond.”

A woman and a man were there, both dressed in leather armor and with a sword at their side. The woman bowed slightly to them, but the man, Richmond, only scowled. “I beg your pardon,” Tharom said in a low voice, “for they hardly wish to be going. They were, ah – recruited be the word.”

“From where?” Elven whispered to Brandyé.

But there was no answer to be had, and soon they were riding through the village, passing through the dismal streets to the town’s north entrance. Brandyé felt a nervousness grow in his stomach as they drew near, for it was only once they were out of the town and into the open countryside that they would know for certain if the fierundé had indeed abandoned them or not.

Then they were before the gate, and two men pulled the great door open, and then they were through and trotting along the damp earth road, northward and away from safety. It was not long before Hansel’s Foil had retreated from view completely, and all around them was the quiet wind blowing through the tall grass, and only the odd tree dotting the landscape provided any relief from the dreariness of it all. Only when three hours had passed without sign of fierundé did Brandyé allow himself to relax his guard, and even then only such that he was not constantly looking every which way about him.

For most of that first day they proceeded in silence, stopping only now and then to let the horses rest. Tharom told them that the town of Bridgeden was a five-day ride, and they would decide at that point if he was to accompany them to Vira Weitor or not. Brandyé did not understand why he would not wish to see this great city, the sight of which even he was becoming increasingly agitated to see. “I think he will,” Elỳn confided secretly, but would say no more.

Brandyé himself felt somewhat intimidated by this knight and his secrecy, something which Elỳn was doing nothing to help with, but on the third day of their march Elven summoned the courage to bring his horse alongside Tharom’s and asked him, “What do you know of where we’re going?”

Tharom appeared to survey Elven for a moment before replying, “What would ye have me tell ye?”

Elven shrugged. “I understand we’re going to a place called Bridgeden, and then on to somewhere called Vita Weitor. Bridgeden I’ve never heard of, but Vira Weitor I’ve heard spoken of by several people. I’d have you tell me about that. What sort of place is it?”

There was a pause, and Brandyé, who was eavesdropping from behind, thought perhaps the knight was not going to answer. Instead, he said with a sudden note of emotion in his voice, “It’s a place of beauty, and a place of ugly truth. A place of justice and reason, and a place of treachery.  When there is music, it’s heard throughout the city; and when Death calls, the cries are heard just as loud.” He looked to Elven, fixed him with a hard stare. “It’s a city of two faces, and woe to he that looks upon the wrong one.”

“Have you ever lived there?” Elven prodded.

There was then a very long pause, and all Tharom would say was, “Aye.”

Some time later, Brandyé thought over the man’s words, and later that night he spoke to Elỳn about it. “He holds the city dear, doesn’t he?” he asked.

She sighed, staring into the campfire around which they were seated. Tharom had momentarily retreated, and she said, “More than you can know.”

“There was poetry in his voice when he spoke of it.”

“There is poetry in Vira Weitor.” She smiled slightly. “You have never heard such music, Brandyé – even among the Illuèn, Vira Weitor is known for it.”

“Is it beautiful?”

“The City of White Stone,” she said. “That is what its name means. Ah, but be careful!” she added as he looked away, imagining. “Names can be deceiving.”

So their journey continued, and two days later, just as Tharom had indicated, they came upon the town of Bridgeden. Unlike Hansel’s Foil it was not surrounded by walls and defenses, and they came into the town much as they had the abandoned village of Verüith Hamlà – slowly, first with farms, and then streets, and then the center of the village proper.

To Brandyé Bridgeden was far more than a village, and in fact reminded him greatly of Daevàr’s Hut, both in size and make. Stone there was now here alongside wood, and dwellings were often three or four stories high. It was a busy town also, and as they approached its center they found themselves slowed by the crowds of folk passing here and there about their daily business.

Yet even here, Brandyé was struck by the lackluster pacing of the town’s inhabitants. Not one person seemed in a hurry to get anywhere, and laughter was ominously missing from the chaotic sounds that surrounded them.

They stopped before a hostel called The Wayward Rest, and Tharom dismounted first to secure them a stay for the night. As Brandyé and Elven followed suit, Elỳn spoke to them: “Do not stray in this town. I know you have familiarity of such places, and you should know there is crime here.”

Brandyé shivered and looked about him. There was no indication he could see of treachery, though he admitted to himself that the morose, sullen and grave faces of the passersby gave away nothing of their intent. Any one of them could desire his death, and he would not know it.

“I have a treat for ye,” Tharom said, emerging from the hostel. “There’s a place near here with the best food outside of Vira Weitor.” He grinned at Elven and Brandyé. “I don’t know about your Illuèn friend, now – I hear they only eat green – but ye’ve never tasted a better pork roast.”

Tharom was not wrong, and that evening as he sat back with a belly full of meat and a third pint of ale in his hand he decided that life in Erârün was not bad at all. Given that, he had to wonder at the dismal atmosphere that seemed to pervade everywhere; even the host of their dining hall did not crack a smile when Elven told him their meal was ‘better than all the greenleaf in Erâth’, but merely muttered, “Thanks,” and moved on.

Brandyé slept well that night, and did not wake until well into the day the following morning. In fact, Elven and Elỳn had already left, and when he went downstairs to breakfast only Tylan and Richmond were there.

“Do you know where the others have gone?” he asked them.

Richmond shook his head, and Tylan said, “They went out, and told us to guard their things.”

Brandyé could not help noticing the bitterness in her voice, and offered, “I could watch our belongings, if you wanted to go out into the town.”

“Ye’re not too bright, are ye?” said Richmond, and Brandyé scowled; there was no need to be insulting, he thought. “Ye don’t know why we’re here, do ye?”

“You’re our guard,” he said. “That’s why you have weapons, and we don’t.”

“Do ye have any idea who ye’re following?” asked Tylan. “Who Tharom is?”

Brandyé sat down at the table with them and reached for the half-eaten loaf of bread. “You don’t mind if I eat?” he asked. “I understand he’s a knight – a soldier of some kind. I assumed you were as well.”

“Us – knights?” cried Richmond, and Tylan laughed a bitter laugh.

“I’m a ferrier,” she said. “Richmond here’s a butcher.”

Brandyé frowned, puzzled. “Then why are you here?”

“Not by choice, I assure ye,” said Richmond.

“Are you being paid?”

Tylan shook her head. “Nay. Pay’d not get me to come, no.”

“Ye really don’t know what a knight o’ the first order is, do ye?” said Richmond.

Tylan leaned in close to Brandyé, and he could smell the stale beer on her breath. “We’re here on pain of death.”

Brandyé’s eyes widened.

“It carries the death penalty to refuse the will of a knight of the first order,” Richmond said. “And ye’d better believe he’d do it, too.”

“Tharom threatened to kill you if you didn’t come?”

“Aye.”

“But…you have weapons. Surely you could—”

“Could what?” said Tylan. “He’d have our heads before we could draw.”

“Then…why you?”

Tylan shrugged. “I know my way around a sword. What other reason d’ye need?” Richmond grunted.

Brandyé thought long about this, and looked hard at Tharom when he returned with Elỳn and Elven later that day. While he had never been overtly friendly, nor had he seemed aggressive or harsh. He wondered what kind of man would threaten people with death in order to have them submit to his will. Even Khana, he thought, would have found some other way to coerce folk. His crew had shown him dedication and loyalty; with Tylan and Richmond, he wondered if they would even hold to their duty should they fall under attack.

They stopped in Bridgeden for some days, and it occurred to Brandyé that wherever they went with Tharom, no one ever seemed to ask them for payment, whether it be for food, or a new shoe for a horse, or the sharpening of a blade or two. He wondered at this, and coupled with his curiosity over Tharom’s apparent position in this society, he asked Elỳn about it.

“To be a knight of the first order of the dragon is a high privilege here,” she said to him. “I do not know Tharom’s past well, but I know that he did not come by that title easily. One must show the fiercest dedication to duty, and swear to die for the king of the lands, if needed.

“They are extremely competent warriors, and are seen as more than mortal men. There are perhaps some hundred or so in all of Erârün – to chance upon one so far to the south is exceptionally rare. They are known by their livery, and anyone wearing the crest of the dragon – the crest of the king – is revered with the utmost respect. That is why Tharom need not pay for anything: it is his privilege to take what he wishes at no cost.”

Brandyé was astonished. “What stops him from taking anything and everything?”

But Elỳn only smiled and said, “You should ask him.”

However, Brandyé had little chance to ask Tharom much, because they departed the next day, leaving the great town of Bridgeden behind. Whatever reservations Tharom might have had over the continuation of his journey seemed to have been resolved, for he was with them still, as were Tylan and Richmond. The two guards, as always, said little, but Brandyé found Tharom increasingly mute as they followed the road north and past several smaller towns, stopping only a night at each one. His face grew grim and severe, and every time Brandyé approached him he would spur his horse onward and past the group, scouting ahead and not returning for some hours.

So passed the final days of their journey, and as the weather held fair (though cloudy, as always) and the countryside remained pleasant, Brandyé soon forgot all thought of fierundé and Darkness, and even felt a lifting at his heart. Even Tharom’s gloom did nothing to drag him down, and he spent his time in conversation with Elven and Elỳn, and learned that Vira Weitor was the largest city in all of Erârün, and indeed might be the largest city in all the lands of Thaeìn, or possibly even Erâth.

In fact, it remained beyond Brandyé’s comprehension the exact nature of what they were to face; in his mind, towns such as Daevàr’s Hut and Bridgeden formed the largest gathering of men and women he could imagine, and he could only see Vira Weitor as some extension of these towns. So it was that he was wholly unprepared for what his eyes saw in the afternoon of their fourteenth day on the road: rising from the haze in the distance, great mountains that rose suddenly and sharply from the plains, and at the foot of the greatest one, a vast forest of towers, spires, roofs and battlements: the great city of Vira Weitor.

Chapter 16: A True Kingdom

For eleven days they kept their course, and Elỳn led them onward and north. Always in the distance were the whisperings of fierundé: a howl in the dark of night, or the rustling of a tree in the valley on a windless day. Yet for all that time they did not approach within sight, and with Elỳn’s restless vigil through the night, Brandyé began to find, for a few hours at least, a fitful sleep.

As the days drew on, the mountains became gradually less tall, and the climate became warmer, though not so much that they slept without cover. The forests in the misted valleys below also gradually changed, pines and needles growing sparse in favor of new spring foliage, though the leaves were of a dark and muted green – almost unhealthy, Brandyé thought. They would descend into these trees every few days or so to gather food and water, and each time Brandyé felt a great relief when they reascended to the scree slopes above. It was more than just a fear of fierundé, he thought; there was a darkness in the forest that felt oppressive, and brought back to him memories of his imprisonment in Abula Kharta’s dungeons, or even those of the Fortunaé.

However, even the wilderness of the Trestaé mountains could not last forever, and it was on the twelfth day of their northward trek that they came upon a small stone hut, apparently abandoned for many ages and rotting both inside and out. They had once more ventured into the woods beneath the mountains (no more than tall hills now), and were making their way along a narrow stream when they discovered it. Elỳn and Brandyé had in fact missed it entirely, and it was only Elven, bringing up the rear of their party, who called out.

“There’s something here!”

Both Elỳn and Brandyé turned, Brandyé tensing reflexively at the thought that Elven had spotted some new danger, but momentarily he recognized the excitement in Elven’s voice, and made his way back down the stream toward his friend.

“What is it?”

“A home!” said Elven. “Or at least, what was one once.”

“We are still far south,” said Elỳn, catching up to them, “but it may have been an inhabitant of Erârün.”

“What is Erârün?” Elven asked.

Brandyé opened his mouth to reply, but Elỳn said before him, “It is were we are going. A great kingdom of men.”

“It doesn’t look as though anyone has lived here for years,” Elven said. “I’d like to see inside.”

Despite himself, Brandyé felt a rousing curiosity in him also. It had been weeks since they had last spoken to anyone but each other, and an age longer since he had seen a true construction of men, and not the eerie dwellings of the Illuèn or the mad burrows of Ermèn. He began to unshoulder his pack, but Elỳn placed a hand on his arm. “This is an ill place, Brandyé. I sense Death has been here.”

“I no longer fear Death,” Brandyé said. “If they have been here, they are long since gone, I’m sure.”

Elỳn held his arm for a moment longer, and then released him. “It is late, and it will be dark soon. Don’t delay.” And with that, she turned from him, and sat upon a broken log.

Brandyé had no intention of delaying; though he wished very much to see inside this dwelling, he could not deny the gentle weight of dread in the back of his mind. Elỳn’s words were not frivolous, he thought.

Following Elven, he pushed through the thick undergrowth until he arrived at the building’s edge. There had once been a door, but there were now but bare iron hinges and an opening in the wall. There were no windows to speak of, and the space inside was dark and impenetrable. Standing side by side, they both hesitated a moment, and the thought came to Brandyé’s mind that such a politeness as allowing another to enter a building first was folly, so far from civilization. After a moment, he took a deep breath and stepped inside.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he came to see that the building was but a single room, festering and overgrown with moss and weeds. A tree seemed to have grown out of the floor near the rear of the room, and there was a deep hole in the dirt floor in a corner that he was certain housed vermin of some kind. The smell of must rose strong in his nostrils.

“What do you think this place was?” Elven whispered.

Brandyé shook his head. Looking further, he began to see the ancient signs of inhabitation: a table without a chair, the rotting wooden frame of a bed, a hearth, set in the rear wall of the hut. Vines and creepers covered all.

Brandyé stepped further into the hut, and moved to what appeared to have once been a desk, or set of drawers. Wondering what might be in them, he grasped the knob of one and pulled. With only a slight force, the knob came off in his hand, and a thrill of fright went through him at the sound. He dropped the broken knob and turned, half-expecting the ancient owner of this hut to be standing behind him, disapproving.

Elven looked at him from the table. “There’s still a plate out,” he said. “And it seems once there was a candle. I wonder what happened here.”

The sight of such rot and desolation brought sudden memories back of his grandfather’s home atop the hill in Burrowdown. That place might soon look like this, he thought, with no more fires to warm it or hands to tend it. He began to wonder what would cause a place to become abandoned, and there was only one conclusion he could come to.

“Whoever once lived here, lives no longer,” he said. He looked out through the door, to the forest beyond. “It was something in the woods.”

“You’re frightening me,” said Elven.

“This is a frightening place. I told Elỳn I don’t fear Death, and it’s true; but there are things here that are worse.” He shook his head. “I’ve felt it ever more since we’ve been traveling. There are fierundé, yes…but there is an ill shadow here, something that gives them strength.”

“We should leave.”

Brandyé nodded. “There is nothing here. Yet…it’s a sign we’re nearing the end of the forest.” And this thought brought with it another thrill, for he now began to remember the tales of his grandfather, and how he had lived in these lands north of the Trestaé mountains for so many years. What if they were to come across the very village his grandfather had once lived in? Would the ghosts of the dead still haunt it?

Still shivering, he stepped back out of the hut to find that it had started raining. Elỳn was still waiting, her hood up, and said nothing as he took up his pack once more. It was some time before she spoke, and only then to say, “The rain is darkening the sky; we should find shelter.”

“We could have stayed in that hut,” Elven said.

Elỳn stopped, and turned to face him, a look of such utmost severity on her face that Brandyé was taken aback. “I would not stay in that place, for any reason,” she said.

Later that night, as they huddled wet under their canvas, fireless and cold, Brandyé asked her about it. “You felt it, I know,” she said. “The death that lies there…it is not a good one. It was of Darkness.”

The rain ceased the following morning, and that afternoon the trees began to grow further apart, and the undergrowth became lower, and soon they had stepped out into a high plain of tall grass, dotted with copses and winding gently downward into a low valley. At the sight of the open (though gray) skies and land, Brandyé breathed deeply, and felt a great weight lift from him – the Darkness of the Trestaé was behind them.

They rested for a while here at the edge of the dark forest, and as they ate and drank, Brandyé became curious about this new countryside. “Have you been here before?” he asked of Elỳn.

She nodded. “I have, though it has been many ages since, and I do not recall much of it.”

“Is this now Erârün?” Elven asked.

“Yes – to an extent. Their southern borders are loose and not guarded, and few would ever venture as far as we are now. The Trestaé are avoided generally.”

“As in Consolation,” remarked Brandyé. “I am glad to be rid of their influence.”

“Do not expect Darkness to have left us yet,” she cautioned him. “Their influence extends now far beyond those places in the world that they were once confined to.”

“Why is that?” Elven asked. “I remember Athalya’s tales of rising Darkness, but why is it happening? Why now?”

“We are their alter,” she said simply, “and we are leaving this world. What better time could there be?”

“And let me ask you,” he continued, “what are we meant to do? We’ve been traveling north for weeks now – all to gain some strange city? What will we do when we arrive there?”

Elỳn seemed to take a deep breath for a moment before speaking. “I will attempt to seek an audience with the king. We fear his rule may be failing, and he must remember that the Illuèn will stand by men for as long as they might.”

“And what about us?”

“That, I cannot say. Your path is no more known to me than the fate of Erâth.”

“Then why have we come with you?” Elven cried out.

Brandyé put a hand on his friend’s arm. “Remember, it is she who has come with us. We were leaving the Illuèn regardless; I was leaving.”

Elven shook his arm free. “Then why do we keep following her? How do we know we’re meant to go to this city?”

“I don’t,” Brandyé admitted. “Though…I am curious to see the seat of a true kingdom.”

Elven grumbled then, but said nothing more. After a moment, Elỳn spoke again. “We should keep moving; I would find shelter before nightfall if we can – the open plain can be dangerous.”

As it happened, Elỳn’s prophecy of danger went unfulfilled, and they passed the night undisturbed under the branches of a large elm, and woke to find the clouds higher than they had been in a month. Elven spotted several hares in the fields, but Elỳn stayed his bow with the words, “Let them live – I feel we will be among other folk before long, and you can certainly sate your hunger for flesh there.” Brandyé had to admit to himself that, despite his own reservations about killing even for sustenance, he had begun to grow weary of Elỳn’s meatless diet and desired nothing more than crisp, tender bacon or even a steaming cut of fish.

Her words were filled with promise, and appeared to be borne out later that day when, descending from a low hill, they happened upon a dirt path that stretched out endlessly to both east and west. It was the first sign of human life they had seen since the abandoned hut, and was far more inviting. For a brief moment they debated over which direction to take, but Elỳn pointed out that they had come from the southeast, and so traveling west seemed more likely to carry them to their destination.

However, though they now had a road to follow and proceeded at an increased pace, they encountered nothing else, no other soul, for all that day and into the night. They slept that night just out of view of the road and made no fire, for Elỳn pointed out that while to meet someone by day was more than welcome, passersby during the night might not be quite as savory. It was warm enough that Brandyé did not miss the heat, and he had grown used to nights with only the dim glow from Elỳn’s skin. Nonetheless, he was relieved come the morning, for he had slept poorly; he found his breast filling with anxiousness at the thought of meeting people once again after so long. He began to worry that they might not welcome them with peace, or might even attempt to enslave them as had the Cosari. They were in a better position than he had been when he encountered the Cosari, of course – both armed and with an Illuèn guide – but what if they encountered not a person, or a village, but a battalion of soldiers? After all, they were entering the country that had once mustered the army that had vanquished the Duithèn once before. He began to realize he knew precious little about the kingdom he was now walking through.

Brandyé and Elven’s reuniting with men did not come that day either, however, although they did come across things that did nothing to set Brandyé’s mind at ease. Around noontime on the second day since finding the road, they saw in the distance the low shape of a home by the side of the road. The sight of it set Brandyé’s stomach twisting, and his nervousness grew even as they approached the dwelling. No smoke issued from its chimney, but nor was this a dilapidated hut in the middle of a forest.  As they drew abreast of it, he saw there was even a garden set between the house and the road, though it appeared not to have been tended to in some time.

For some time the three stood, staring at the dwelling without speaking. It seemed utterly deserted, yet perhaps its inhabitants were merely enjoying an afternoon nap? It was Elỳn who finally broke the silence, calling out a greeting to the dead home. Her words echoed and died, and there was still no sign of life.

“Perhaps they are out for the day?” Elven suggested tentatively.

“Perhaps,” said Elỳn, and Brandyé was certain she shared his own thoughts on the matter. “We should knock.”

Neither Elven nor Brandyé moved at this suggestion, and so with a sigh Elỳn strode forward and rapped soundly on the home’s door. Like her greeting, the sound died without response, and after a moment she tested the handle.

“It is locked,” she said. And then: “We should move on. It is not for us to trespass in someone’s home, whether they be there or not.”

And so they did, Brandyé hardly paying attention to the road or the steps he was taking, lost in the thought that the people who lived there had met the worst of fates. So distracted was he that he did not notice when they crossed a stream by means of a stone bridge, and nearly ran into Elven from behind when he was brought up short by a sign by the side of the road.

Verüith Hamlà, it read.

“The Green Hills,” Elỳn translated for them. “It is a village ahead, I think.”

And true enough, within moments they began to see many stone buildings ahead, lining the road and disappearing into the distance. Brandyé could see further signs hanging from some of these, indicating shops and other market houses, but it quickly became apparent that something was amiss. There were no folk in the road, no smoke, no animals, no sound of any kind. The village appeared as dead as the home they had passed, and the abandoned hut in the woods before that.

Brandyé’s unease grew, and was now bordering on fear itself. What cause could there be for an entire village to be abandoned and dead? Again, he dreaded the worst. As they proceeded, empty windows stared out at them, and though he tried to see inside he could not, for the buildings were dark to a one.

Elỳn pointed out the sign above a particular building, and it was a moment before Brandyé realized that he could read it. William Rathaï, Baker, it read. Among the fear and distress he felt a surge of relief – the folk here spoke his own language, and he would not be at a loss to understand them, as he had been so often in his life.

“There may be bread for us, if this village has been recently deserted,” Elỳn said.

The thought of baked bread, so long missed, was enticing, and so Brandyé moved forward and pushed upon the door. To his surprise it opened effortlessly, allowing a little daylight into a room that was otherwise entirely dark. The windows, though there were two, were thick with dust and flour and let in no light.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, and when they did, he took in his surroundings with distaste. If this was a baker’s shop, it was by far the dirtiest he had ever seen. Dust covered everything, from the floor to the tables to the stone hearth, cold and dark. “I don’t think anyone has been here for some time,” he said in a low voice.

Elỳn entered the bake shop with him, followed by Elven. For a moment the three stood in silence, until Elven said, “Look – there are still loaves here!”

Brandyé looked where his friend was indicating and indeed, there were three or four small loaves piled at the end of one of the counters. He moved to pick one up, and it was then that he knew the truth – this place had been deserted for many years. The loaf was heavy and hard as stone, and made a hollow knocking sound when he tapped it against the counter. He shook his head. “We can’t eat this. No one has eaten this baker’s bread in years.”

He reached to put the petrified loaf back, and only then did his eyes perceive in the gloom the proof of his worst fears, and his blood ran cold. There, through a doorway and laid in a corner, was a corpse.

It was little more than a skeleton in rags, yet the skin had been preserved in the dry dust, and so it was Brandyé could see that there was a gaping hole in the body’s throat, as though some terrible creature had mauled him and left him to die. This was William Rathaï, undoubtedly.

For an age he remained frozen, until Elỳn approached him. “What is it, Brandyé?”

Forcing words past the lump in his throat he whispered, “In the corner, there – I know why everything we’ve found has been abandoned.”

Elỳn looked where he had indicated, then sighed and closed her eyes. “It is as I feared. The fierundé have been here. This village was not abandoned – it was slaughtered.”

Suddenly Brandyé’s fear was replaced with a great sadness, and in his mind’s eye he saw the violence of poor William’s demise, and wondered if the man had had any family, and if they had met a similar fate. “My grandfather wrote of his life in these lands,” he said softly. “The village where he lived suffered a similar fate at the claws of the fierundé. For all I know, this is that village.”

Elỳn rested a hand on his shoulder. “Come. There is nothing more for us here. We must move on.”

“Move on to what?” Elven cried out. “Everything here is dead! What if this entire kingdom, this Erârün, has suffered the same fate?”

But Elỳn shook her head. “Erârün is a strong kingdom; they will not have succumbed so easily. If we keep moving, we will find people. This is an old town, far to the south on the edges of the Trestaé; as the fierundé expanded their influence, there were the first to fall. They would have been unprepared, and undefended.”

And so they left, though not without a farewell to William Rathaï that nearly brought Brandyé to tears. It was unfair, he thought, that so many should have died for Darkness. He found himself thinking of Schaera, and wondered how her people could have allowed such a thing to happen.

Then, in the midst of these thoughts, he heard a sound that caused him to look up swiftly, for it was a sound of life. Ahead of them, not too far, was a horse, solitary and still on the road. It was a mare, he saw, and beautiful – flanks of pure white, and a golden mane that hung low past her shoulders. She whinnied again, and Brandyé recalled Isabella, and wondered if somehow she had survived the constable’s spear and the Trestaé mountains to meet them once more. But as he looked closer he saw that she bore no scar, and was in fact much larger than Isabella had ever been.

For an age he stood, staring, until suddenly in the distance came another sound – a sound far more sinister. The chilling howl of the fierundé rose over the rooftops of the village behind them, and at the disturbance the horse reared high on her hind legs, let out a great cry, and bolted down the road. As they stood there she soon disappeared to the distance, and with her flight the skies seemed to darken and evening came on all at once.

“Wait!” Brandyé called after her, but it was too late, and she was gone. There had been a brief, glorious moment of hope at the sight of the living creature, like a ray of sunshine – the thought that this dead village and its lands were not entirely deserted – but now the sky closed in, and with another great howl in the distance, he felt the influence of Darkness return.

“Come!” Elỳn shouted. “We must leave this place – it is no longer safe!”

“I don’t understand,” said Elven as they began to pace along the road once more. “They’ve left us alone for so long – why are they approaching now?”

“The fierundé own this village now,” Elỳn said. “Night is coming, and they will not suffer us. Even my presence will not keep them away here.”

“We have nowhere to go,” said Elven. “Where can we be safe through the night?”

But Elỳn had no answer, and as they marched on and darkness fell, Brandyé began slowly to feel the pull of the fierundé on his heart. He felt a warmth at his breast, and knew it was his scar. Fierundé were approaching, he knew, and there would be no escape.

As they went on, nearly at a run now, he noticed that despite the widening countryside, there was still the odd building here or there – farms, homesteads and barns that formed the outlying village. All were dark and deserted, and there was now no sound in the air bar their own breath. In the weakening light Brandyé kept an eye on the surrounding fields and trees, dreading the glowing red eyes that would signal their doom.

Before long it was nearly full dark, and suddenly Elỳn called them to a halt by the side of a decrepit farmhouse. “We can go no further,” she whispered in a pant. “They will be upon us at any moment.”

Brandyé nodded, also out of breath. “I feel it.”

“We must hide!” said Elven desperately. “I’m sure this family will not mind us surviving the night in their home.” He indicated the stone building beside them.

Elỳn nodded agreement. “We can only hope their front door is not locked.”

“I hope—” Brandyé began, but could not finish for at that moment a great howl ripped the air, so close that he felt certain the beast must be only feet behind them.

“Run!” cried Elỳn, and they did, bolting from the path to the doorway that was no more than a black shadow in the gloom. Brandyé arrived first, and fumbling blindly in the dark he found the handle and turned it. To his indescribable relief it gave willingly, and the door fell open and allowed them entrance. Elven piled in after him, and Elỳn not a moment later. Swiftly she turned and slammed the door shut, and Brandyé could have sworn he heard a terrible and furious snarl from behind the wood as she bolted and latched it against the terror without.

Then it was deathly still, and Brandyé could not see a thing bar the ever-so-faint glow of Elỳn. For an age he waited, listening to his companions’ breath and waiting for the clawing and scratching that would tell him the fierundé were at the door, but it did not come. Finally, Elven drew a deep breath and said in a whisper, “Do you think we dare risk a fire? I’d be grateful for warmth and light.”

Brandyé spoke not a word, for he was secretly dreading the sight of what lay about them. He would rather spend the night in shadow and ignorance, than see the ruins of a family that had once been happy, and prosperous. But beside him Elỳn stirred, and he heard her say, “They have not tried to gain entrance so far, and they know we are here; I think there is little to lose. Elven – take my hand, and I will lead you to the hearth.”

They soon discovered that there was a fortuitous pile of wood beside the hearth, and before long they had a small blaze roaring. At the light and smoke the howls from outside began again and Brandyé shuddered, but in all the time they spent there they never approached further.

Now that there was a dim light, Brandyé took a moment to look around. The place was not so awful as he had expected, he found: the room they were in was a parlor of sorts, and apart from the coating of dust on everything it appeared merely as though the home’s inhabitants were missing. The floor and walls were stone, the ceiling beams of wood, and there was comfortable furniture strewn about – well-stuffed chairs, a long table covered in rough cloth, a sideboard loaded with plates and cups, and even a spinning wheel in one corner, though it looked if anything even more disused than everything else.

There was no food to be found, and Brandyé wondered if perhaps the family that had once dwelt here had taken it with them – had in fact escaped the destruction of the village behind them. Then again, he thought, it was just as possible that they had eaten it all and then, surrounded by fierundé and unable to flee, starved to death in their beds. This was a thought he could not face, and forbade Elven to explore the rest of the house when he showed such an interest.

So it was they passed the night in the dust and gloom of a stranger’s home, ate what little food that had with them, and waited out the fierundé, hoping they would have retreated come the morning light. Brandyé did not sleep well that night, and nor did Elven – he could hear his friend tossing and turning on the hard cold floor before the fire, which Elỳn dutifully kept stoked through the long, lonely hours.

And come the morning the dreadful sound of the fierundé had indeed abated, and when the cold gray light of dawn began to filter through the dirty panes, Brandyé crept to peer out and saw nothing but desolate countryside.

“Why would they go?” Elven asked.

“They are wary of the light,” Elỳn said, “for they are creatures of Darkness.”

“One approached me in full sunlight in Consolation,” Brandyé pointed out.

“It was drawn to you,” Elỳn explained. “I believe it was the first time a creature of Darkness had laid eyes on you. These beasts will not be so forthright. If we keep to daylight hours, we should be safe.”

“Does that mean we’re stuck here?” asked Elven. “We can leave now in daylight, yes – but what if we don’t find shelter before nightfall?”

“We can’t stay here,” Brandyé insisted. “We’ll be trapped forever, at the mercy of the fierundé.”

Elỳn nodded. “I agree – we cannot stay here. If my memory of this region of Erârün is still sound, there is another village west and north of here – Hansel’s Foil – not more than a day’s walk. And the road will speed our journey.”

But Elven eyed here warily. “And what if your memory is false? Together, with help from your folk, we only just were able to slay one of those creatures. We’d not last five minutes against a whole host of them!”

“I would trust her,” Brandyé said. “She hasn’t led us astray so far.”

“You would trust her,” Elven grumbled, but then said no more.

They set out not long after, taking care to douse the fire so that the old home would not burn down. Their pace was swift, and Brandyé more than once felt a pain in his side that he had to force himself to ignore. Elven also seemed frequently short of breath, but Elỳn, for her part, seemed unaffected by their brisk strides; taller and leaner, her steps took her further and with less effort. They paused only once at midday when they crossed a small brook, and Brandyé took the chance to look back at where they had come from.

“There are no woods here,” he pointed out. “You’d think you could see the fierundé if they were close.”

“And you would feel them if they were close,” Elỳn pointed out. “Do you?”

Brandyé shook his head. He had not felt the telltale burning in his chest since before dawn, and he forced himself to believe that it meant they were, for the moment, safe.

“There are also no villages,” Elven said – with a touch of bitterness, Brandyé thought.

“She said it could be nightfall before we arrive,” Brandyé protested.

“We’ll be dead by nightfall.”

Elỳn held up a hand before the argument could progress. “I said I believed there was a village – nothing more. We may arrive to find another dead town; we may find nothing at all.”

“You don’t fill me with confidence,” Elven growled.

“Confidence must be found within,” she replied enigmatically, and Brandyé found himself thinking her statement over as they continued on. The road was indeed a welcome change of pace, and he found that without needing to constantly watch for vines branches and rocks, he could allow his mind better to wander.

Confidence must be found within. It was the sort of maddeningly wise thing his grandfather might have said, or perhaps Ermèn. What confidence did he have? Now that he came to think about it, he was uncertain. He had confidence in Elỳn, he believed – confidence that she would not lead them astray. But what if she were not with them? They were approaching a time when there was every chance they might part, for when Elỳn reached Vira Waiter – assuming they reached the supposed great city at all – she would meet with the king, and he would be left to…

To what, exactly? He was still uncertain where his path lay, and realized that he had been using Elỳn as a reason to avoid contemplating his direction. Sooner or later, he would be on his own, and he would need to decide for himself what to do.

As he walked on, lost in these thoughts, he was hardly aware of the darkening of the sky, the closing in of the clouds, or the drops of rain that began to patter the earth around them. It was not until the road became slippery and muddy underfoot that he took heed, and only then when he missed his footing and nearly fell on his face.

“Are you all right?” Elven asked, helping him up.

“Yes. I was just thinking…” he trailed off.

Elven looked at him expectantly, but he said no more. For a moment, he thought he had felt a twinge of pain in his chest, but it was gone now. The feeling it left within him, however, did not fade, and rather grew over the course of the next hour or so, until finally in his dread he felt compelled to talk to Elỳn.

“I think the rain is hastening them,” he said as he drew abreast of her.

“It is dark,” she acknowledged.

“How much further do you think we have to go?”

For a moment she said nothing, and he looked up into her hooded countenance. There was an unusual severity there, and he began to realize that even she was uncertain. They might be five minutes from salvation, or another day’s march – and in either case, the fierundé were closing in upon them.

Brandyé allowed himself to fall behind Elỳn again, and for a while walked alongside Elven in silence. Soon the sound of rain was joined by the distant rolling of thunder, and when the lightening came he could not help but notice Elven flinch. He thought back to the last thunderstorm they had been under, and hoped no lightening would strike near them this time.

Then there came a moment where Elỳn stopped short, and as Elven and Brandyé joined her, she pointed ahead of them.

“The road leads into a forest here,” she said. “It will be drier there, but darker also.”

“How far in do you think it goes?” Brandyé asked.

Elỳn sighed. “To the best of my memory, the village I am seeking is on the other side of the trees. It is perhaps a twenty minute walk through…or an hour around.”

Elven looked up at the clouded evening sky. “We don’t have an hour,” he said. “It will be full dark in half that.”

“I’m worried,” Brandyé said. “The fierundé could already be in those woods waiting for us.”

“We’re doomed either way,” Elven said.

But Brandyé shook his head. “No – we haven’t come this far only to be defeated on the doorstep of safety. Elỳn, I don’t feel the fierundé here – not yet. You say it’s twenty minutes through the woods – can we run?”

She nodded. “I have the strength, though I worry I may outpace you.”

“I wouldn’t worry – it would be better for you to go on without us than for us all to succumb.” Elven seemed unhappy at this statement, but Brandyé ignored him. “We have our weapons – let’s try for the town.”

And so they set forth at a redoubled pace, Elven with his bow and an Illuèn arrow in hand and Brandyé with Fahnat-om drawn. At a near run they plunged into the woods, and almost immediately they were lost to light. Focusing intently on Elỳn’s white cloak ahead of him, Brandyé fought to keep both his breath and his footing, as the path wound through the trees, often crossed with roots and fallen branches. The rain was indeed lessened beneath the leaves, but its deadened sound was replaced with the whisper of dangerous creatures, and Brandyé knew the fierundé were close.

And then, as they ran on, he began to see eyes in the darkness, glimmers of light that gave away the crows that were landing all around them. Brandyé remembered the birds that had surrounded he and Elven in the Trestaé the night the fierundé had come upon them – the night Elỳn had rescued them – and he forced his legs to run ever harder, hope draining from his chest all the while. The crows called out, and Brandyé was certain they were signaling their location to the fierundé.

Sure enough, moments later came the dreadful howls, closer now than ever. Brandyé took a scarce moment to look over his shoulder, and behind Elven he saw many pairs of red, glowing eyes. “Faster!” he panted, knowing that if they did not reach the end of this forest soon – if they did not find the village at its other end – they were doomed.

“I can’t keep going,” he heard Elven gasp, and a new fear crept into Brandyé’s throat: the fear that he might survive while his friend fell to the beasts.

“You must!” he insisted, but it felt futile. Already the pain in his side was growing, Elỳn was far ahead, and the fierundé were closing in. He knew the beast wolves were not running themselves – he had seen them outpace a galloping horse – and could only hope that their laziness might buy them the time they needed to escape. The fierundé undoubtedly believed their prey to be theirs already.

And then, ahead, Brandyé saw the first glimpse of salvation – the ending of the trees. “Faster!” he cried. “We’re almost there!”

But almost as he said the words he heard a great snarl, and from the left came a flash of fangs that missed his face by mere inches. The fierundé had moved ahead and encircled them – looking forward, he saw no sign of Elỳn, but rather the shadows of more fierundé blocking the final dismal light of the evening sky.

He came to a halt, Elven beside him. Fahnat-om at the ready, he braced himself for a rapid death, and around them the fierundé drew near until they were mere feet away. “Get back!” he screamed, but the wolves seemed unperturbed, and snarled all the more.

And then there was a sudden flash, blinding in the gloom, and a new sound escaped the throats of the fierundé – one of fear. Blinking away the glow, Brandyé saw a fierund before him pawing pathetically at its own throat, a glowing arrow protruding from it. Beside him, Elven held his bow in astonishment. “The Illuèn arrow…” he muttered.

Brandyé had no time to pay him heed. “Now!” he shouted, and burst forward through the ranks of cowering fierundé, faster than he had ever run in his life, Elven at his heels. Suddenly he saw Elỳn before them once more, and he could swear that he had never seen her face glow more brightly than at that moment. “They’re right behind us!” he screamed.

Elỳn said not a word, but merely urged them forward as they reached her, and glanced only once back at the forest and the regrouping fierundé before following after them. Leaving the forest behind, Brandyé saw they were once more in open plains, and to his despair, he saw that there was no sound, no lights, no sign of human habitation – the village Elỳn had spoken of, Hansel’s Foil, was nowhere to be seen.