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Chapter 3: The West Road

 

The king, it seemed, had set up camp in the outskirts of the town, and though he rode on horseback with his men he did not travel without comfort. A great tent had been erected, fit to house a battalion of soldiers, and within it was laid out what seemed almost to be a palace in miniature, resplendent in golds and reds, with a grand table in the center for dining. The many carriages it took to carry all of this were arranged in a crescent around the tent, with the opening facing the north.

It was to this tent that Elven was taken, following in Elỳn’s wake, who in turn followed in Tharom’s. A great fear began to crawl upon Elven’s shoulders, for he was to meet quite possibly the most powerful man in all of Thaeìn—perhaps all of Erâth—and it was to be judged. His worst thought was that the king would find no time or interest in someone so small as himself, and pass him off to Tharom’s own judgement.

There were guards at the tent’s entrance, and despite Tharom’s position as a knight of the fourth order of the dragon, and Elỳn’s influence with the king, they were not permitted to pass before one of the guards had entered first and made their presence known. After a moment the guard returned, nodded curtly to Tharom, and drew back the canvas. Only then did they pass into the tent, and Elven was astonished at the splendor. Not only were there lavish hangings and draperies, but the table in the center was laid out for a feast, and here and there were set great candles on long posts, which to Elven seemed strikingly dangerous inside a canvas building. At the table stood Farathé, picking at the offerings, and he turned as Tharom and Elỳn entered.

“Elỳn!” he called out. “I am glad to see you; I wished to speak with you in private when you can.”

Elỳn nodded a deep bow. “Of course, your highness. There is another matter I would seek your attention on first, however.”

The king looked to Tharom and Elven, both of whom had bowed to one knee: Tharom by choice, Elven by force. “Does this business concern you, Tharom Hulòn?”

Without looking up, Tharom said, “It does, your majesty. And it concerns a traitor to this kingdom.”

“You may rise,” the king said, “both of you. Treason is a serious accusation, Tharom, and not one that is often brought before me. Would this not be a matter best suited to the courts?”

Elven stood along with Tharom, and looked up to see the king standing only a few paces away, Elỳn at his side. To his surprise, he thought he heard a note of embarrassment in Tharom’s voice when he next spoke.

“I apologize, your majesty. I would have dealt with this issue myself, but I was interrupted by the Illuèn. She claims—”

“Hold!” said the king. “Elỳn of the Illuèn is a guest of this kingdom and of my dwelling, and will not be spoken of so. You will address her by her name, or you will not address her at all.”

Elven’s nervousness began to fade somewhat at this, and he risked a glance at Elỳn. She smiled ever so slightly at him.

“I apologize again, your majesty,” Tharom said in a thick voice, and Elven could hear the insincerity this time. The king, however, appeared inclined to ignore it, and asked Tharom to continue. “Elỳn of the Illuèn claims this man is her friend, and would not have him punished for his misdeeds.”

“Your highness,” said Elỳn, “You know this man well, for I have spoken much of him. He is the friend of Brandyé Dui-Erâth: Elven Dottery.” Elven was surprised to hear these words, for he would not have thought Elỳn would have had reason to speak of him to someone such as the king of Erârün. “I will acknowledge that Tharom Hulòn knows more of his deeds among the casualties of the Rein, but I know him as someone of the fiercest loyalties: loyalty to his friends, above all others.”

Farathé seemed to consider this for a moment. “Loyalty to friends is admirable, and friendship is a strong bond. But loyalty to one’s king is unquestionable. What is his crime, Tharom?”

“He abandoned the fighting and fled like a coward into the mountains,” spat Tharom. “He followed in the footsteps of his coward of a friend, who I saw flee in mid-battle, leaving his fellows to die!”

“Is this true?” Farathé asked Elven.

“No!” protested Elven. “I’m not even a soldier—I’m a healer! I was never in the battles of the Rein. I stayed with the villagers, and when they fled to the mountain sanctuaries, I rode with them. I left only when I saw my friend in immediate danger from the army of Darkness, and would have returned if I could!” He very nearly spoke of his reason for wishing to return, but held his tongue at the last moment. “There were people I cared for among those refugees,” he said instead.

“This man speaks with compassion, Tharom,” Farathé said, “and if what he says is true, it is his friend, not he, who is guilty of treason. This Brandyé, he was enlisted as a soldier of the kingdom was he not?”

“He was, your majesty,” Tharom replied bitterly.

“Then it is he who held a duty to fight, not his friend. He can not be held guilty by association.”

Elven thought he could hear Tharom’s teeth grinding. “Yes, your majesty. I take it, then, he is not to be punished?”

“No!” said the king. “Your anger at his friend may be justified, but I think it is misplaced here. I appreciate your efforts in keeping my kingdom safe, Tharom—you have fought courageously and tirelessly against the enemy, and redeemed yourself in the eyes of the kingdom. Go, and take some rest; I know this is not the fate you wished for this man, but I will speak with him. Let me learn from him, and I will decide what is to be done with him.”

With what could have been a muttered curse, Tharom bowed again to the king, turned, and left the tent. Elven looked to the king and said, “Thank you—I am sure he would have—”

“I did not tell you to speak,” the king interrupted, “and you will address me as ‘your majesty’ when you do.”

Elven bit his tongue and nodded. “Yes, your majesty.”

The king smiled. “You can be polite, at least. That is a good start. Come—are you hungry?”

In fact Elven was ravenous, having run out of Jacob’s money the day before and been unable to pay for breakfast. He nodded, and the king gestured for him to sit at the great table in the center of the tent. He was tempted to dig in to the first chicken leg he saw, but he restrained himself; the king was expecting him to be polite, and surely it was not so to start before him.

It seemed he had made a sound decision, for the king looked upon him and smiled again before saying, “Please—start. And while you are eating, perhaps you can tell me in your own words of your travels.”

And so Elven did, with Elỳn by his side, and found a sudden and immense relief at being able to tell his tale to one who seemed eager to listen. He spoke to the king of his childhood in Consolation, of the greed of the Fortunaé, and how they had come to overthrow the other ruling houses and police the land with violence. He told how he and his family had left Consolation, and how they had been reunited with Brandyé in the woods of the Trestaé mountains. He spoke of their meeting with Elỳn, and their stay with the Illuèn, and he spoke of his awe at seeing Vira Weitor for the first time. “It is the grandest city I have ever laid eyes on,” Elven said, and the king smiled.

“It is my home,” he replied.

For some hours the king listened rapturously, speaking hardly a word, and by the time Elven had spoken of his parting with Brandyé and his travels through the Reinkrag mountains, he had come to respect this man all the more for his willingness to listen, and not speak.

When he was finished, the king was silent for a while, and when he spoke his voice was quiet but sturdy. “Consolation is a myth in my kingdom, but one I know of. I had never thought to meet someone who claims to be from there. There was a time when I would have thought your tale nothing but fanciful lies; there are but two kingdoms known to this day in Erâth: ours, and our neighbor Kiriün, to whom we now travel. These mountain folk, the Hochträe—we have no legends of them.”

“I assure you they are real, your majesty,” Elven said.

Farathé held up a finger. “I do not doubt you, but you must know why. There are many things in this world that are legend, and many that are unknown entirely. Until recently, I was not of the mind to believe legend, never mind what I could not see to exist. I know now that I was narrow-minded.

“It is your friend here that persuaded me. Her presence, and that of her kin, made me see that legend can be real. The Illuèn are real. And if so, then other things may be real also. She has spoken to me of your friend Brandyé at length, and of you. This alone is why I have entertained your tale; this alone is why you are not at Tharom’s mercy as we speak.”

Elven was uncertain what to say; more than ever, it seemed he owed his life to Elỳn; someone whose motives he still did not trust, and of whose friendship with Brandyé he was still jealous. “Why would Tharom want me punished?” asked Brandyé. “Your majesty,” he added at a withering look from the king.

“The laws of my kingdom are strict, and not lightly broken,” Farathé said. “If Brandyé was indeed amongst the soldiers of the Grim Watch, he betrayed his duty and his kingdom when he abandoned the fight.”

“Brandyé is not of your kingdom!”

Farathé glared at Elven. “I will not argue this point. An oath to me and my service is bound by my laws, whether you are born in Erârün or not. Should your friend return, justice will be done upon him.”

Elven had to quell the anger beginning to boil in his stomach, and his ears burned. “And what of me, your majesty? Am I free to go?”

Farathé shook his head. “The laws are clear: wanton travelers are not permitted in Erârün. Granted, this law was created when the wall between us and Kiriün was built—when the only travelers in this kingdom were of the enemy—but the law is the law, and as king I am bound to it as much as any of my people.”

“Then I am to be sent to the dungeons of Vira Weitor anyway?”

“That would be Tharom Hulòn’s wish, certainly. Is it yours?”

“No!”

“Then you will remain with me. As king, I have the right to keep my prisoners where I see fit; out of respect to Elỳn of the Illuèn and her friendship with you, I will keep you by my side. You will have free reign of our camp, and you will have a horse; but if you try to flee, I will have my archers shoot you down.”

Elven was reminded of Brandyé’s tales of servitude to the Cosari, and knew this cage, gilded though it might seem. His thoughts went to Talya again, and his heart ached at the thought of her waiting for him in Vira Weitor—possibly forever. “There is a person I am seeking, your majesty,” he said with restraint.

“Someone other than your friend, Brandyé?”

Elven nodded. “I had hoped to find her in Vira Weitor. I … I told her I would meet her there.”

Farathé appeared to consider this. “Who is this person?”

Elven gritted his teeth for a moment. “Someone we traveled with; a friend.” He glanced toward Elỳn for a moment, who was staring intently at him. “She was lost during the battles of the Rein.”

The king’s face became softer then, and he said, “It is unlikely she would have returned. Tharom Hulòn and a handful of soldiers are all of the Grim Watch that survived.”

But Elven shook his head. “She was not of the Grim Watch. She was with the villagers.”

“We have heard nothing of the northern villages for six months; we have presumed them lost to the enemy. Had any of them returned to Vira Weitor, I would have known of it.”

All of Elven’s anger had subsided, replaced with a dull, numb despair. What if his fears were realized? What if this was the reason for Sonora’s inability to deliver his message to Talya? “I would still like the chance to return to Vira Weitor,” he said softly.

Farathé nodded. “And you will, I am sure. Do not despair—your friend may indeed still be alive. But—do not put all your faith in it either. That is the path to despair.”

And then his conference with the king was over, and Elven was escorted back outside the tent. It was growing dark by now, and Elven wondered at what he should do next. Elỳn was with him, and said, “I carry the voice of the king here; let us have you fitted in a soldier’s cloth. That will give you free reign to the inns and dining halls of the town until we leave.”

Elven turned to look up into Elỳn’s soft, glowing face. “I must thank you, Elỳn,” he said. “I owe you my life, it seems. And I … I am sorry if it seems I’ve mistrusted you in the past.”

Elỳn smiled gently. “You had every reason to; and I know how much your friendship with Brandyé means to you. I would not take that away from you, ever.”

“Where do you think Brandyé is now?”

Elỳn looked up and to the north, across the empty and dark plains. “He is far from here; more than that I can not say. His path is unclear to me.”

“Do you think he’s still alive?”

Elỳn returned her gaze to Elven, and smiled again. “It will take more than a small misfortune to end Brandyé. He is stronger than both of us.” She motion for him to move forward, and he followed her direction.

“What of Talya?” he whispered as they walked.

Elỳn placed a hand on his shoulder. “I will have my kin in Vira Weitor look for her. If she is there, they will find her. I will send a rider in the morning.”

And so Elven walked on into the night, uneasy and miserable, and resigned himself to his fate.

Elven and Elỳn spent that evening together in the town, and she took the time to speak to him of her actions since their parting the year before. She had spent much time, it seemed, as a courier between the Illuèn and the king and his ministers, and in the time that had passed, several other Illuèn had come to stay among the folk of Erârün. They were seen as creatures of myth among the people of Vira Weitor, and to Elỳn’s chagrin, treated as royalty themselves.

“I can hardly pass down a street without being called after for a word or touch,” she said. “The folk seem to have the idea that we have miraculous powers of healing and good fortune.”

“Your healing powers are beyond our own,” Elven pointed out. “You healed my leg with greater skill than any I possess. Without you, I might still be unable to walk.”

“Without our healers,” Elỳn laughed. “I am no healer. You would know more how to mend a broken bone or cure a flu than I would.”

“I wonder if your healers would have saved the men of the Hochträe.”

“I am sorry for what you went through,” Elỳn said with sudden sobriety. “For anyone, to watch a host of men around them lose their lives would be dreadful; I cannot imagine what it was like for someone trained to save lives.”

“What of the men themselves?” Elven said bitterly. “How do you feel about them?”

Elỳn took a deep breath. “I have seen men die also, Elven. Any untimely death is tragic, but it is those wrought by the Duithèn that are to be truly feared.”

“You think their deaths were the work of Darkness?”

“Never have I heard of such a fate, in all the lands of Erâth. For men, sleep is unavoidable, and you take it for granted that you will wake in the morning. I can’t imagine the fear they must have felt—that you must have felt—in closing their eyes. If there is a mark the Duithèn leave upon this world, it is that of fear.”

Elven shook his head. “Then why visit it upon only a few men in the wild? Surely it would be more fruitful to bring such fear to a great city, such as Vira Weitor.”

And then Elỳn turned on him a look of such intensity that he felt withered under her gaze. “How do we know they did not?”

Elven felt a shiver in his spine. “What do you mean?”

“How many people have you been in contact with since leaving the Üthervaye mountains?”

Elven frowned and thought. “I don’t know—a dozen, perhaps a little more?”

“And in all that time, did anyone show signs of the illness—coughing, sleepiness at unusual times of day?”

Elven shook his head. “No—no one. I’m certain I didn’t bring the illness with me.”

Elỳn pursed her lips. “Let us hope not.”

Elven drank too much with Elỳn that night, and was roused before dawn the following morning, and so it was with a heavy head that he started out from Farthing’s Bar on a horse of his own, trailing behind the many others that made the king’s entourage. The king, the black-clad knights and Elỳn stayed at the front of the caravan, but Elven was left to his own devices. He assumed Farathé had spread the word not to let Elven leave the party, for he felt the eyes of soldiers on him everywhere he went, and if he found himself on the outskirts of the circle of soldiers and horses and carts, he would be approached by someone and not left alone until he returned to their center.

It was some time before Elven’s head was clear enough to take account of his surroundings, and when finally he looked up it was to see an endless expanse of wooded moorland around them, gentle hills and vales rolling into the distance. They were upon a path, it seemed, yet every now and then they would leave it, make their way across open ground, only to rejoin it some miles further on. After the third such excursion, Elven brought his mount to Elỳn’s side and asked her of it.

“We are avoiding those places where the road passes under trees,” she explained.

“Why? Surely it would be more direct to stay on the road.”

“There are vagabonds that dwell in the forests here—folk outside the laws of this country. Few would risk an attack on a host of knights, but the king would pass them by anyway. He is not interested in battle before it must be done.”

“He sounds like a noble king,” Elven noted.

Elỳn nodded gently as her horse plodded on. “One of the nobler of his line. I fear sometimes, though, that his aversion to battle might lead to the doom of his kingdom; he has allowed the northern villages to fall with little defense.”

“There was defense!” protested Elven. “I was there! The Grim Watch—”

“The Grim Watch were a token, no more,” interrupted Elỳn. “Hundreds of knights and soldiers remained in Vira Weitor while your company fought and died defending the Rein.”

This was something new for Elven to consider, for he had always assumed the Grim Watch was all the king could spare. “What of our journey now?” he asked. “If Farathé isn’t interested in battle, why is he seeking alliances from Kiriün?”

Elỳn smiled grimly. “That would be my doing—and it took some convincing. Even now, Farathé believes he is traveling to Kiriün to renew trade with them—that their wealth and produce might be shared with him and his people.”

“You deceived him?” Elven was astonished.

But Elỳn shook her head. “Oh, no—what he seeks may well come to pass. My hope is that when he sees Kiriün is under the same threat as his own kingdom, he will see the use in aligning himself with their own soldiers. Against the coming force of the Duithèn, the kingdoms of Thaeìn must be united. This he does not see yet.”

“You speak as if you know of Kiriün’s fate,” Elven said.

“The fate of Kiriün will be the same as that of Erârün, and that of the Hochträe, though they likely do not see it. Of all the peoples of Erâth, only the Dragon Lords might have escaped the Duithèn’s doom, but they are no more.”

“And what is the Duithèn’s doom?”

Elỳn waved a hand to their surroundings. “Look around you—it has already begun. The fading, the darkening of the world. Their influence is everywhere. Our fortune is that they are yet weak, and the people and creatures of Darkness are leaderless. Their scattered attacks can be repelled—if Farathé finds the courage to stand.”

Elven recalled to mind the battles in the fields of the Rein, where Talya had been wounded, and many others had lost their lives. The forces of Darkness were formidable, he knew, even in their weakened state as Elỳn described them. They fought with fury and with hate, and the men of Erârün were, for all their ability, lacking in such passion. In this he thought he saw a glimpse of the Duithèn’s cunning; they would weaken their enemy’s spirit before crushing their bodies.

And then a memory came to him unbidden, a thing he had not thought of for an age. “Elỳn,” he said slowly, “there was Darkness in Consolation, before we left. I believe Brandyé saw it before anyone. It was there in the violence of the constabulary, and the shadow of the land. It was there in the fierundé that roamed free across the countryside. And there … there they were not leaderless.”

“Danâr,” Elỳn said grimly. “You have spoken of his deeds before. He killed his own father to take power of the land, if I rightly recall your tale.”

“So it seemed. Elỳn—what if he summoned to him the armies of Darkness? What would happen to my home?”

“That is a dangerous thought,” Elỳn said. “Do you remember the tale of Goroth?”

Elven cast his memory back to his first meeting with the Illuèn, and the woeful tales they had told. “In the War of Darkness,” he said, as much to himself as to Elỳn, “he commanded the forces of the Darkness. He had a terrible blade—the same that Brandyé told me he was looking for. But he was more than a man.”

But Elỳn shook her head. “Only by the powers of the Duithèn. Goroth was a king of Aélûr, the land that lies across the western seas. The Duithèn invested all their might and power in him, and he became the demon he was. But in his humble beginnings, he was no greater a man than Danâr.”

A chill swept through Elven. “What if the Duithèn were to do the same with him?”

For a moment Elỳn was silent. “That thought has not escaped me. There are several reasons I believe it may not come to pass. Danâr is lord of a small land, with few men and resources. The greater forces of Darkness lie still in Aélûr, separated by a sea of blackness, and the bridge between them and us remains broken. And the symbol of Darkness, the weapon of the demon lord, Namrâth—it is still lost. Without it, Danâr could not hope to command all the armies of Darkness.”

“What if it is found?”

For an age Elỳn looked upon Elven without speaking. Finally, she said, “That will depend on who finds it.”

For two days they progressed onward, and when Elven did not speak with Elỳn he remained silent and alone, torn between thoughts of Danâr and of Talya, distracted only by the soreness of riding for ten hours a day, something he was most unused to. Every time the road threatened to lead into a copse of woods they would part from it, and though Elven would glance with idle curiosity into the depths of the trees, he saw nothing threatening among the leaves and branches.

After a time he began to feel less the eyes of the soldiers upon him, and thought perhaps they were slowly trusting him not to stray from the caravan as it made its way steadily westward. They had little to worry about, he thought, for there was nothing here for him run to, and despite the pain in his back and the ache in his thighs, there was comfort to be had in the company of the king, and he found the cover of a tent and the warmth of a cooked meal luxuries after so long alone in the wilderness.

It was on the third day, not long after they had broken camp in the morning, that Elven saw smoke to the north. He was once more riding alone, somewhat to the rear of the men and carriages, and had in fact been searching the skies for signs that Sonora might be returning to him. As it was, the ever-clouded and gray skies were empty, and as he let his gaze wander over the tops of the nearby trees, he saw what he thought at first to be merely a darker sort of cloud.

Only after a few minutes of watching it drift in the wind did he come to recognize it for what it was, and a thrill of panic took him. In haste, he urged his steed forward to the nearest soldier and said, “Look—look to the north. Is that not smoke?”

But the soldier merely grunted and looked neither right nor left. Discouraged, Elven tried again: “There’s smoke, I tell you! Something’s burning!”

Still the soldier continued on as if Elven had not spoken, and with a cry of frustration, Elven urged his horse further forward into the crowd of men. “There’s smoke!” he called to any who would listen, but to his dismay not a one seemed willing to pay him heed. Finally, he set his sights on Elỳn, who he was certain would listen to him, but as he brought himself closer to the king’s consort, he was cut off abruptly by Tharom Hulòn, who rode up to him and blocked his path forward.

“Seeking an audience with the king, are ye?” Tharom spat at him.

“There’s smoke to the north, and no one will look!” said Elven desperately.

“Aye, what of it?” and Elven was appalled, for he saw Tharom knew of it, and would do nothing.

“There could be people in need of aid!”

“It’s a camp fire,” said Tharom dismissively.

“You know it’s not! Look—you must recognize the black smoke of a burning village!”

Elven thought he saw a muscle twitch in Tharom’s cheek, but the knight remained impassive as he said, “Rescue is not our mission.”

“You villain!” cried Elven. He kicked at his steed to urge it past Tharom, but Tharom was the better horseman and cut him off again.

“You will not pass to disturb the king,” Tharom growled, but Elven cried out anyway.

“King Farathé! Your majesty!”

At his words, Tharom began to draw forth his sword, but to Elven’s relief the king appeared to have heard his name called and looked back at them, though his eyes were narrowed. “Who calls my name?”

“It’s nothing, your majesty,” called Tharom. “The traitor is seeking to make a disturbance—”

“There is fire and smoke to the north!” interrupted Elven. “A village is burning!”

The king brought his horse close to Tharom and Elven, and Elven was relieved to see Elỳn close behind him. “I have seen the smoke,” he said calmly. “What would you have me do? If it is a village—which is not certain—we are no rescue party. We cannot carry wounded with us, and this mission is of a higher priority.”

“You would leave your own people to die?” Elven cried out, knowing even as he did he was inviting the king’s wrath.

As he expected, the king glared at him. “Careful with your words, lest I have my knight cut you down for slander.” Beside him, Tharom moved in his saddle and drew his sword further from its scabbard.

Elven bowed his head. “I apologize, your majesty. But as a healer, I cannot pass this by—”

“As my servant and prisoner, you will do as I command,” retorted the king.

But Elỳn reached out a hand and touched the king’s arm. “Your majesty—perhaps allow three or four of us to investigate? If aid is needed, word can be sent back to Farthing’s Bar. Your people should know that their king would see them protected.”

For a moment, Elven thought Farathé would argue with Elỳn, but with a sigh he turned back to Elven and Tharom. “Very well—I suppose you will want to go,” he said to Elven, and Elven nodded. “Do not seek to use this chance to escape; Tharom Hulòn will accompany you. Believe me that he will strike you down at the first sign of flight.”

To Elven, Tharom appeared only too eager to be sent alone with him, and would have spoken if Farathé had not also said, “Elỳn—would you also accompany them? And take with you one soldier, who may serve as a messenger should the need arise.”

And so only minutes later Elven, Elỳn, Tharom and the soldier whom Elven had first approached that day departed from the caravan, and set out across the fields to the north. The smoke by now was quite clear and made an unmistakable guide for them to follow. Elven found himself urging his horse onward at a gallop, despite the possibility that Tharom would see it as a sign of escape and send an arrow into his back as he rode. He need not have worried, though, for Tharom kept pace with him with ease, Elỳn just short of him and the soldier trailing behind.

At such a pace, it was no more than twenty minutes before they crested a low hill and came to a halt, for what lay before them was tragic, and Elven thought his heart might break at the sight. At the foot of the hill stood what had once been a small village—no larger than Burrowdown, Elven thought—spread from the hill to the stream that flowed half a mile to the north. From the midst of the village’s many homes rose thick, billowing black clouds of smoke, some houses still burning bright and others smoldering in the cold air.

At a glance, Elven thought he saw what had happened. The villagers had built their homes dreadfully close to each other, and it had taken only one of them to catch fire for the others to be sent up in flames also. As it stood now, there was scarce a building that was not alight or had already burned to the ground. Elven could but hope that the villagers themselves had been able to flee before the flames, but as they drew nearer to the village’s remains he saw that this was not the case.

As they approached the nearest building—one that had miraculously avoided the flames so far—Elven saw that it was no blacksmith’s accident that had set the town alight, for protruding from the wall were several arrows, and the glass of the windows was shattered in many places. His heart in his throat, Elven looked through the broken windows, but could see nothing in the gloom.

Onward they went, steering their horses away from the worst of the flames, and here and there Elven saw further signs of violence: arrows, scores in the wood and the walls, and to his horror, what he knew unmistakably to be blood on the earth. Yet for all the clues, there were nowhere to be seen injured or dead bodies, and Elven wondered sickly at this.

“Are ye happy now?” Tharom called to Elven over the roar of the flames. “Ye were right—it was a village. And as I said, there’s nought to be done.”

Elven could but stare around him in horror. “But what happened? We must know!”

Tharom waved a hand to encompass the destruction around them. “They were attacked! What else d’ye need to know?”

“I would know who attacked them,” said Elỳn softly.

“Vagabonds! Murderers! Outcasts!” cried Tharom. “Vile men exist in this country, Illuèn.”

But as they rode on around the village, Elven could not help noticing the deep gouges on the door frames and walls. “What if it was creatures of Darkness?”

Tharom sneered at him. “We’re hundreds of miles from the Rein. Their armies can’t be this far south.”

For an hour they circled the village then in silence, each contemplating their own thoughts on what had come to pass there. As they did the air grew colder and the clouds thickened, and soon the first few drops of rain began to fall. Before long they were drenched in a downpour, and they sat quietly astride their horses and watched the flames begin to sputter and hiss, and go out.

Finally, Tharom broke the silence. “Come—there’s nothing left here. The folk either died or fled, but there’s no aid to be given. Let us return.”

But against his words, Elven found himself dismounting from his steed, and slowly began walking into the village’s center, deep amid the smoldering beams and ruins. He heard Tharom and Elỳn calling after him, but their words passed him by. Something drew him to the village center, a sudden need to know the fate of the folk that had lived here. On either side passed embers and ash, driven to the earth in the rain, yet nowhere did he see signs of life, or even of death, apart from the few arrows that remained buried in the charred beams.

And then he was before the central crossroads, and the remains of an inn stood before him, the roof long gone and the walls crumbled, its sign tumbled to the ground and burned beyond reading. He peered through the gaping doorway, and inside all was dark save for the glowing embers in the corners, and it was some moments before his eyes recognized the horror that lay within.

A child’s shoe lay smoking on the doorstep, a token of the passing of a village of families, and Elven fell to his knees and wept, for he knew Tharom was right: there was no aid to be brought here. This village, whatever it had been named, was no more, and no more were the men and women and children who had dwelled here. The inn that had certainly seen laughter and friendship now marked their awful resting place, and a cry of rage escaped his lips to know there was nothing that could have been done.

After a moment he felt a pull on his shoulder, and Elỳn’s words in his ear: “Come—it is not safe here. Those responsible may still be near, and we must not linger.” Elven allowed himself to be pulled away from the scene, and she led him back to their horses, where Tharom and the soldier remained, the knight uncharacteristically quiet. Elven half expected a remark from Tharom on his weakness, but for the rest of that day Tharom did not speak a word.

Elỳn suggested they follow the river, for it led southwest and back toward the road that Farathé and his consort were following, and so they rode along it in the rain, the stream swollen from the rain and rushing past them swiftly. Before long night was upon them, and they ventured a short distance into nearby woods so that they might be sheltered from the worst of the rain.

When they had made a fire and eaten what little they had with them, Elven made to turn in when suddenly Tharom broke his silence, and his words were greatly surprising to Elven’s ears.

“Far from the mountains and golden halls,

“The children of men do suffer and fall,

“And the Duithèn cast their shade;

“Blood is shed and fear sown wide,

“’Til brave men cower against the tide

“Of Darkness that makes light fade.

“In flames men perish without a breath

“Of the coming of those who are known as Death,

“And all that grows is hate.

“And when we ask to those of old

“What end will come to meek and bold,

“We learn nothing of our fate.”

Elven stared at Tharom, astonished, but the knight would not look at him, and merely grunted and poked at the fire. Elỳn said nothing, and long into the night Elven heard his words, and thought he had never heard such beauty, nor such sadness.

Don’t forget – you can claim your free copy of The Redemption of Erâth: Consolation just by emailing satiswrites@icloud.com and telling me which digital format you’d prefer (ePub, Kindle, PDF, etc.)!

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Chapter 2: Rumor

 

It was many days that Elven trekked alone, and the solitude was often unbearable. He would not return to the waters of the lake, for he knew not how to make a raft of his own, and did not wish to return to those used by the Hochträe. He also was wary of watercraft in general, and so kept to the borders of the lake by foot.

After nearly a week, there came a place where the lake began to grow a current, and Elven realized the lake was emptying itself into river almost a quarter of a mile wide. Luckily the river’s course seemed to continue in the general southerly direction that he had been following all along, and so he was spared the trouble of fording the fast and deep waters.

All this while, Elven had become wary of all that surrounded him, from the trees to the plants and even the streams that crossed his path here and there. He still had no thoughts on what had caused the deaths of the Hochträe, nor why he had been spared, but he began to look upon every herb and root as poisonous, and rationed himself to what provisions they had carried with them—dried meats, mostly, which were becoming less and less. For several days he even tried to go without drinking for fear that there was something in the water, but eventually his thirst conquered him, and when he did not begin to cough or doze off he admitted to himself that at least the waters in the land were not tainted.

He would not even hunt, for fear there was something in the flesh of the animals of that place, though he saw Sonora catch and eat many mice and rodents without ailment. He grudgingly thanked Elỳn for having once shown him and Brandyé how to survive on plants alone, and when the dried meats ran out and his hunger became unbearable, he uprooted several tubers, stewed them to a mush and came to the conclusion that it was probably not the plants that had stricken the Hochträe either.

So time went on, and Elven was left daily to his own thoughts. Often he would think of Talya, and sometimes of Brandyé, but other times his mind wandered to darker places, and he remembered the shadowed figure he had seen—or had he imagined it?—the night the Hochträe had died. He recalled Brandyé having spoken of shadowed figures in places he had called dreams, and he wondered if he might not have been subject to a dream himself. He recalled the chill in the air at the sight of the figure, the sense of loss that had filled the space between them, and he knew in his heart that it had been an omen: a portent of the Hochträe’s doom.

Elven was of a sturdy mind, however, and would not allow himself to linger on such thoughts for long. If the figure had been real, he reckoned, and if it had some need of him, it would approach him again. If it had not, then there was no use contemplating it at all. After a while there was no sign of the figure, and so he let the thought fall and did not consider it again.

As the mountains fell, the river began to meander amongst low hills, and slowly began to track westward. Elven was uncertain, but he thought that Vira Weitor might be along a more eastward line, but he was unwilling to leave the familiarity of the large river. There was also the thought that, if not the great city of black stone, there was likely to be at least a village or town along this great stream at some point, and if so, there would be a road for him to follow, and people whose counsel he could seek.

And so Elven left behind the higher mountains to the east in favor of the rolling hills and plains of the west, and his going was made far easier. The thick pine forests gave way to gentle woods, and each night he would camp by the riverside, eat and drink, and felt surprisingly calm for the first time in many weeks.

Then, nearly four months after he had set out from the Hochträe’s mountain realms, Elven came across a dry stone wall in the middle of a field, and his heart leapt for joy for it was a sign of humanity: that here, at some point, another living body had once stood. The wall was but a ruin—untended in many ages, and only a few feet long—but Elven’s pace nonetheless quickened, and the following day, he came across yet another wall, this time in full repair. Even better, there were sheep on the other side of this wall, and he knew his salvation was near.

Elven knew now that a farm was at hand, but he knew not in which direction the farmhouse might lie, so he began to follow the wall, which after many miles turned a corner and continued onward to the west. Over a hill it led, and as Elven reached the summit, he looked down and wept, for below him lay stretched out a home and several barns, and there were people amongst them, tending to their work.

From over his shoulder flew Sonora, eager to inspect these new folk, and at her overhead appearance several of the folk looked up to see Elven standing atop the hill, and called out to him. Despite himself, Elven could but grin, for he understood their words, and with a sudden bolt he began to run down the hill toward them.

To his immense fortune, the farm folk were friendly, and grasped his arms and led him to a bench outside the main farmhouse. Swiftly he was brought ale and bread, and at their scent a hunger he had hitherto ignored stole over him, and he ate and drank for many minutes in silence like a ravenous beast.

There was much bustling and whispering as he ate, but suddenly as he tore into his last piece of bread the folk fell silent, and then a figure stood before him and Elven knew this was the master of the farm. He swallowed his bite and looked up into lined, but not unkind, eyes.

“Ye’re a long way from anywhere, traveller,” the man said, “with nought but a donkey and a bird. Where d’ye hail from?”

Elven recognized in his voice the lilted accent of Erârün, and knew he could not be far from the great capital city. “I’ve come from the mountains in the north,” he replied, choosing to forgo a more lengthy history of his origins. “I was with a large number of men, but … they fell, some time ago. By a great lake. Do you know it?”

“Aye, I’ve heard of the great lake. The Ütherschae[ Overshadow river; from Üthervaye (over path) and shadow. Called such because it is always grey in color.] River flows from it, it’s said. But nought lives there but beasts!”

“And beasts alone live there still. All my party are dead, to a disease I have never encountered.” At his words the farmer seemed to retract, and Elven pursued, “I don’t have the illness myself—it struck these men down in less than two days, and it has been weeks since I left their … their remains.”

“What were the signs?” the farmer asked.

Elven shook his head. “Nothing but a cough; then they fell asleep … and would not wake.” He looked up into the man’s face with suddenly fierce emotion. “I’m trained as a healer, and I could do nothing!”

For a long while the farmer seemed to consider Elven and his words. Finally, he said, “Ye seem healthy enough to me, though I’m no healer myself. Thin, perhaps—in need of a good meal and a bath!—but I’ve seen ill before, and ye’re not it.” He stretched a hand out to Elven. “I’m Jacob.”

Elven took his hand, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “Elven,” he returned. “This is your farm?”

“All ye see,” Jacob replied. “Come—let’s get you clean, fed and rested.”

In the end, Elven stayed with Jacob and his family for a week, by the end of which he was starting to feel much more his old self. Jacob’s wife, Martha, had brought him a looking glass, and Elven had been astonished to see the pale, gaunt face and thick, scraggly whiskers staring back at him. But they brought him hot water and a sharp blade, and when he could once again feel the skin on his cheek, he began to feel more whole.

For a week also he grieved the passing of the men of the Hochträe. They had had families, he knew, and folk who cared for them, and they might never know their fate. To this end he wrote a note, addressed to Nisha, in which he described how fortunate he had been to know them, and how mournful their passing was. He did not know how the Hochträe would receive the news, for they had not struck him as a people to overly mourn death, but in his heart he knew they deserved to know.

He was at first reluctant to ask Sonora to bear the message, however; he did not blame the bird for her failure to deliver his note to Talya, but he was worried something might happen to her in her passage over the Üthervaye and the Reinkrag mountains. This was a new consideration for him, for always he had trusted the bird to know her way and to care for herself. But with such sudden death afar in the mountains, he imagined her drinking from a tainted stream and falling to the same fate as his traveling kin. In the end, however, Sonora seemed more than willing to bear his message, and the awe with which the farmhands regarded the bird and her talent kindled in him a kind of pride, and he could not deny the urge to show off.

All the while, though, he felt the pressing passage of time, and when his week had passed, he spoke to Jacob of his intention to make for Vira Weitor.

“None here’s been there,” Jacob said, “and I couldn’t rightly tell ye how far ye’d need to go. It’s to the south, and the east of here, I know as much … but there’s a village a day’s walk south where ye’d get better directions, I’m sure. Wutherford, it’s called, and there’s an inn there called the Dancing Sticks. Ask for  Abbey—he knows the land here better than any.”

“I can’t thank you enough for your kindness, and your generosity,” Elven told him. “It’s been an age since I’ve known such pleasantries as bacon and eggs for breakfast!”

“Ye’ve had an interesting life, from the few tales ye’ve told us,” Jacob acknowledged. “I hope ye find your lady, and your friend, Brandyé; he sounds like he needs more help than he knows.”

Elven could not agree more and laughed at Jacob’s words, though the feeling was tainted with concern for Brandyé’s fate, and the twinge of guilt he felt at having left him.

A twinge was all it was, though, for Elven was practical and knew his friend would have gone to his fate, with or without him. What he needed to concern himself with now was what was in his power, and finding Talya was such. He set out early in the morning while the mists were still low, with a clean cloak and a tall walking stick and a full pack, all courtesy of Jacob and his wife. He felt almost at ease as he set out down the dirt track, and resolved to put the tragedy and death of the past months firmly behind him.

The day passed in calm and in silence, and Elven discovered that Jacob had a good reckoning of distance for the first homes of Wutherford appeared just as the clouded skies were beginning to darken for the night. It was a small village, by his reckoning; perhaps forty or fifty families lived there cosily, and he imagined it boasted little trade such as towns like Bridgeden, or even Daevàr’s Hut. Nonetheless, there were folk about when he walked into the village’s center, where there stood a solitary well and a trough. The people were happy enough to guide Elven to the Dancing Sticks, though they seemed distant to him, and he recalled the subdued nature of the other towns of Erârün he had passed through.

If the folk of Wutherford were subdued, the inside of the Dancing Sticks was yet more so. Far from the raucous noise of the Burrow Wayde that he recalled from his youth, the Dancing Sticks was a dark and low-lit tavern, what conversations there were being carried out in furtive whispers. A fire popped in untended solitude in the corner, and Elven set his pack beside it and roused the flames with the poker that stood beside the hearth.

“Good evening, stranger,” rumbled a voice from behind him, and Elven turned. “What’ll ye be having afore ye go?”

Taken aback, Elven said, “I … I was hoping to spend the night, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

The man before Elven, short and portly and sporting a meat-stained apron, pursed his lips and nodded. “Ye’ll go tonight, or ye’ll go tomorrow, but ye’ll be going. No offense, mind ye—but strangers is strangers, and ye can’t be too careful these days.”

In fairness Elven thought he could understand the town’s wariness, and said instead, “I’ve no trouble passing through—my destination’s elsewhere. If I could ask you for a meal, though, and perhaps an ale?”

“And what’ll ye pay with?”

Elven had of course long-since lost what coinage he had once possessed, but fortune was with him for Jacob had been willing to part with a small number of coins for Elven’s journey. Elven had protested, but found them later that day when he stopped for lunch, tucked neatly into the bottom of his pack against his knowledge.

And so Elven sat by the fire, and cold meat and bread was brought to him. He thought it might be a few days past its best, but ate it anyway for he was hungry. The ale was warm and strong, and it was not long before he began to doze by the fire’s heat. When the innkeeper came to retrieve his plate and refill his mug he was startled awake, and saw that the inn was beginning to empty.

“We’ll be closing up in a bit,” the man said, “I’ll show ye to your room when ye’ve finished.”

The thought of sleep was welcoming, but it also reminded Elven that he had business to attend to before he turned in for the night, and left the village: he must find the man, Abbey. This turned out to be easier than Elven had expected, for when he spoke of it to the innkeeper, the man laughed. “Look no further—that’d be me!” He narrowed his eyes. “But how d’ye know of me? Who told ye to ask?”

Briefly, Elven spoke of the farmer, Jacob, and his stay with his family. He did not speak of his journey unto that point, and Abbey seemed to recognize his reluctance and did not push the point.

“Ye’re a traveler and a stranger, then,” Abbey grunted. “Travelers have destinations; what’s yours, then?”

Elven told him, and Abbey laughed. “Ha! Ye’re a long way from there, friend … though not as far as ye could be. I daresay, not as far as ye’ve been, I reckon.”

“I was told you could give me sound direction,” Elven said.

Abbey nodded, and took a seat beside Elven. “Aye. D’ye know the town of Farthing’s Bar?”

Elven recalled how he, Brandyé and Tharom Hulòn’s soldiers has passed through the town so many months ago on their way north to the Rein, and nodded. “I’d know my way from there.”

“It’s your safest route, I reckon. Ye could take a course straight southwest over the mountains—that’d land ye in Vira Weitor in ten days, if ye’re lucky. But there’s beasts in the wild, and it’d be easy to lose yourself.”

For Elven, having traveled possibly hundreds of miles over the course of months, a ten-day journey felt less than nothing, and he was astonished to think he was so close to his final destination. Yet he had swiftly grown accustomed to the comfort of civilization, and even ten further days in the wild was more than he thought he could bear.

“How far is it to Farthing’s Bar, then?”

“Six days’ walk, four at a ride, with Brouke in between.”

“And if I recall, it’s perhaps five days from Farthing’s Bar to Vira Weitor?”

Abbey smiled, a grim look in the dim firelight. “Ye must of ridden afore—ye’re thinking on horseback. Seven or eight, I reckon, at least.”

Elven contemplated his options; ten days over hill and mountain, or two weeks by trail and path. And as desperate as he was to arrive, to see if Talya had received his message or made her way their of her own accord, he simply could not face returning to the wild on his own. He breathed deep and said, “I’d take the road.”

“Fair choice. When ye leave tomorrow, take the west road from the center of the village. About five miles, ye’ll come to a branching. Go south and keep the main path, ye’ll reach Brouke in two days. There’s an inn there, the Black Kettle; tell them Abbey sent ye, they’ll put ye up for the night.”

Elven thanked him, and it seemed Abbey was readying to bid him goodnight, when a sudden thought struck him. “Abbey,” he called the man back. “Jacob said you knew the land here well—so it seems you do. Can you tell me if you know anything of the fields to the north? The Rein?”

In the fading light Elven could not read Abbey’s expression, but his voice was low as he said, “Ye’ve been there?”

“I’ve … come from there, in a manner of speaking,” Elven replied.

Abbey shook his head gently. “No one’s heard aught from there in a long while. We’re out of the way here, mind ye—rumor doesn’t cross our path often. Last I heard, though, things were going ill; armies of Darkness, or some such nonsense.”

“Do you know if the Grim Watch still patrol?”

“If they do, friend, I doubt there’s much left for them to defend. I’ll tell ye the one thing I know: at least one of the villages was burned to the ground. I was in Farthing’s Bar not two months ago; I overheard it said by a soldier—a knight, he was, dressed in black. Their kind don’t lie.”

Elven thought he knew who Abbey was speaking of, and knew that if Tharom Hulòn had retreated from the Rein to Farthing’s Bar, there was likely nothing left of the Rein at all. Despite the warmth of the darkened inn, he shivered at the thought. Yet at the same time, it meant that some, at least, had survived the attacks from the north. Had Talya also been able to escape the mountain caves and return with Tharom?

Not long after, Elven had finished his ale, and been escorted to a small and dingy room upstairs. He was exhausted, however, and could not complain at the straw pillow or hard bed: he was asleep within moments all the same.

Abbey roused him early the following morning, and after a breakfast of milk and pork pie, even escorted him as far as the village well, from which the road he was to take led.

“Fare well, stranger,” he said to Elven as they parted. “I wish ye well on your travels.”

Elven turned his back, hoping indeed that he would be well, and set out. It was not long before Elven reached the branching Abbey had spoken of, and when he turned south he realized he was on a path of some good use, for it was wide with deep wheel ruts running through it. Yet for all that day he met not a single soul, as he passed over fields and through woods, and spent the night alone by a small stream that ran under a decrepit bridge. All the while, he could not help the nervousness he felt in being alone once more, far from the safety of towns and homes and other folk. He had yet seen no sign of danger, and even the crows that had haunted him in the mountains were absent. Still, he knew that if the armies of Darkness from the north had succeeded in overrunning the Rein, it would not be long before they pushed further south, toward the larger towns such as Farthing’s Bar.

But when he arrived in Brouke the following evening, there had been not so much as a rustling of grass in the wind to disturb his passage. He found the Black Kettle and mentioned Abbey’s name, and was indeed put up for the night, though not a person there would speak to him, and he learned nothing of the goings-on of the village.

He left Brouke early the next morning without a word of goodbye, and as if to complement the dismal mood of the town, it soon began to rain. He raised his hood and lowered his head, and was soon thoroughly soaked. For three days it did not relent, and Elven was glad that he was making this journey in what would have been early summer if not for the sun’s permanent absence, for despite the rain it was at least not cold. The final day of his journey to Farthing’s Bar was better, but the road had turned to thick mud and his feet squelched in his boots with every step by the time he arrived finally in the town.

The place was as large and as busy as Elven remembered it, and despite his filthy condition he was paid no heed until he found himself at one of the town’s many inns and was asked to take his boots off at the front door. There were number of other pairs there as well, and he turned his upside-down so that he would not forget them.

Perhaps it was the nature of the larger town, or perhaps it was being further south and further away from the dangers of the north, but Elven found that there was more commotion, more noise and more joviality to found here than he had seen previously in either Wutherford or Brouke. By the end of the evening he was deep in conversation with several folk around a table at the inn, most of whom were, like him, merely passing through the town. A young man named Adrian said he had come from one of the west villages bordering the kingdom of Kiriün, and brought with him a strange rumor.

“Of course,” Adrian said, “I can’t tell ye for certain—the wall that keeps our kingdoms separate is as tall as it ever was—but we’ve been hearing whispers that there are folk from Kiriün that reckon a great danger’s coming from the north.”

“There is a danger from the north, ye fool!” another at the table said. “We’ve seen it ourselves!”

“Aye,” replied Adrian, “so it’s been said. But if the enemy is attacking Kiriün and ourselves, then that makes us allies, doesn’t it?”

“That’s kings’ business, not ours,” said a third. “What of it?”

“Well don’t ye see? No one from Erârün’s seen the other side of the wall in a thousand years! Wouldn’t it be something to travel into their country?”

Elven thought perhaps Adrian seemed unusually excited about this. “How different could it be?” he asked.

“The old tales say Kiriün is a country of farmers,” Adrian said, which to Elven seemed if anything even less exciting.

“Well if they are,” said the first man at the table, “they’ve kept it to themselves for long enough while we starve.”

And it was then that Elven, born in Consolation to a land of plenty, realized the importance of this to these folk. “You think they’ll open trade with us,” he said. “That we might get some of their produce.”

“It’d be only fair,” said the first man.

But Elven frowned. “What would we have to trade in return?”

The man’s eyes widened. “Defense! If they’re truly being attacked, they’ll need good soldiers, and there’re none better than ours.”

Elven thought this somewhat foolish: if no one had been to Kiriün in a thousand years, what knowledge could they possibly have of their armies’ skill, or lack thereof? He bit his tongue, however, and said, “Let us assume such a thing is to occur. Perhaps we will be a little less hungry. Surely this won’t happen for many months—years, even. It hardly seems cause for excitement, at least not yet.”

“Then how about this?” said Adrian. “Kings’ business, ye say,” he said, addressing the man who had spoken previously. “Then kings would need to travel. And what town is right between Vira Weitor and the walls of Kiriün?”

“This one?” Elven asked, for he truthfully had no idea.

“This one!” exclaimed Adrian. “The king’ll be passing through here any day now!”

This was too much for Elven, and he laughed out loud. “Because of a whisper on the borders of this country, you think the king of Erârün is coming to Farthing’s Bar?”

But the other men at the table were not so amused. “It’s more than idle fancy,” said the first man. “And it’s not just whispers from the borders. I met a man from Vira Weitor not three weeks ago, and he said there was uproar in the city because the king would do nothing to help those dying in the north. They were demanding the king either retreat from the north entirely, or seek help to reinforce their soldiers. Help from abroad.”

Elven considered this for a moment, then said slowly, “What you’re suggesting is enormous. The reunion of two kingdoms that haven’t spoken for a thousand years? This is madness!”

Yet there was something in the conviction of these men that stayed Elven, and for two days he remained in Farthing’s Bar, rather than continue on his way to Vira Weitor. He was unsure why he felt he should stay, other than he would rather meet the king’s entourage in the relative safety of the town than alone on the open road. He could not help recalling the last time nobility had visited his village as a boy, and the fate it had brought upon them. He realized he harbored a deep mistrust of the higher castes, and wondered if Vira Weitor might even be better without them there.

In the end his patience was borne out, for as the days passed by the fervor of the town grew, and before long it was undisputed knowledge to every adult and child that the king was passing through in a day’s time, in the grandest of carriages they had ever seen.

On the day itself, Elven found himself in the large courtyard that formed the center of the town, waiting to see if the rumors would come to be true. For several hours into the day he waited, and was beginning to think that perhaps in fact nothing was going to happen at all, when suddenly in the far distance and over the noise of the crowd came the ringing of great trumpets. In an instant the crowd hushed, and a moment later the call was repeated, louder and closer.

Then came the sounds of hoofs on cobblestone, and within a minute a phalanx of armed horsemen burst into the square, dispersing instantly to push the onlookers to the far edges of the court, clearing a great space between them. In a slow circle they moved, resplendent in black armor, and Elven knew these were not mere soldiers, but knights. His heart beat a little faster then, for behind their helm one of these men could be Tharom Hulòn, and Elven was unsure what the man would say to find him here. Certainly Brandyé had spoken of the man’s wrath at his desertion in the fields of the Rein, and though Elven had not been there, Tharom knew the friendship between them well. He would not wish Tharom’s vengeance wreaked upon himself.

The trumpets rang again, and despite himself and the danger of being recognized, Elven stood on his toes to see over the heads of those around him, waiting for the king’s golden carriage to appear. To his astonishment, a moment later rode in yet another formation of riders, and in the center, tallest among his riders and with a great black velvet robe trailing behind him sat a man whose hard countenance and commanding eyes defined him as none other than the ruler of these men, and the ruler of all those that surrounded him. Herein, Elven saw the difference between the lord of Consolation and the lord of Erârün; here was a man who rode with his men, even to having a great sword at his side, and though he was not from this kingdom and held himself in no way allied to this man, Elven felt a deep inspiration take him, and a smile slowly spread across his face.

This, then, was the king Farathé, and though he had never seen him before, Elven saw by his posture and scrutinizing gaze that this was a man capable of great kindness, and of great terror. Yet there was no harshness to his face that Elven could see, and he wondered if the king might make a speech to his people.

And as he was thinking these thoughts, his attention was drawn to the king’s entourage, and suddenly his smile faded and his jaw dropped, for if he could recognize the king by reputation, the person riding to his left he knew instantly by sight. He had not thought of her since they had departed Vira Weitor almost a year before, and the sight of her brought sudden, overwhelming memories of Brandyé, and reignited no small amount of jealousy in him. Elỳn of the Illuèn rode with Farathé, bright in her snow-white robes, and Elven found he simultaneously wanted desperately to speak with her, and to run as far from her as he could.

“My good people,” the king said, and his voice was deep and sonorous. “I am your lord and king, Farathé of the line of Healdòr, and I am pleased to be among you today.” At his words the crowd gave a cry of enthusiasm. “My fellows and I are on a mission of worldly importance: to speak with the lords of Kiriün, and seek their aid in the fight against the armies of the north.”

The crowd cried once more, but the king held a hand to silence them. “I do not wish to trouble you more than we must: I ask only that you accommodate my men for the night, and in the morning we will have left you in peace. I would have you go about your business as usual.”

And that was all the king seemed inclined to say, and Elven thought he was much less wordy than the lord Garâth had been, and liked him for it. Momentarily, the king spurred his horse forward and onward out of the court, and Elven thought perhaps he had escaped notice when two things happened almost simultaneously. As she made to ride out with king Farathé, Elỳn looked once more around the courtyard, her clear eyes darting here and there among the crowd, and for a moment Elven thought she caught his gaze, and their eyes locked.

He could not be certain then, however, for at the same time he felt himself grasped forcefully by the collar and hauled violently through the crowd. Desperately he tried to turn and resist, but his assailant was exceptionally strong and it was all Elven could do to keep his feet as he was brought unceremoniously into a side alley, away from the people of the town. Only then was he released, and gasping for breath Elven staggered away, one hand on the wall, and turned to see his attacker.

It was one of the knights, he saw at once: the black dragonstone armor was intimidating. Yet more intimidating was the sword the knight now held to his throat, and Elven suspected he knew what was happening, despite the man’s face being hidden behind his closed helm.

“Where have ye come from?” the man growled.

“Who are you?” Elven returned, though he supposed he knew.

The man grasped his helm and drew it from his head, and as the long black hair fell to the man’s shoulders and the lined, hard face revealed itself, Elven saw that he was right. “D’ye recognize me now?”

“Please … don’t hurt me,” Elven said, for it was all he could think of.

“No?” Tharom tilted his head and smiled grimly. “I daresay I can’t call ye a deserter, though I’m burning to know how ye got here. What of your friend? Where’s he?”

Elven looked Tharom in the eye, and saw a dangerous madness there. This man might well kill him, he realized, and he wished heartily for a moment that he had never met him. “Brandyé’s gone,” he said. “I left him.”

“I’d say ye were smart to do so,” Tharom said. “If I’d found ye together, ye’d both be dead. Where’d he go?”

“Nowhere you’ll find him,” Elven said with a hint of belligerence. “He went north.”

Tharom’s eyes widened. “To the enemy; I can’t say I’m surprised. Why’d ye leave him? D’ye realize his cowardice and evil for what it is?”

This was too much, and Elven nearly shouted, “Brandyé isn’t evil! He’s been fighting against Darkness his whole life!”

“From the last time I saw him, I’d say he’s lost the fight,” Tharom retorted. “Now—I ought to take you prisoner for abandoning the folk you were sworn to protect, but I’d have to bring you all the way to Kiriün and back again if I did. You’d spend your last days in the dungeons of Vira Weitor as it is; tell me, why shouldn’t I ease your passing right now?” He pressed the tip of his sword harder against Elven’s throat.

“Because I will ease yours first,” came a sudden voice from beyond them both, and Elven, daring not to move his head, looked with his eyes to the alley’s entrance, where there stood a white-gowned figure with a bow drawn and aimed at Tharom’s head. “Don’t be a fool, Tharom. You know you’re not fast enough. And what would the king say to you murdering innocent folk in secret?”

Tharom did not lower the blade, and growled low in his throat. “This lad’s not innocent—”

“He’s innocent of everything except helping his friend to survive,” Elỳn said. “A friend who had no business in your army as it was.”

Finally Tharom lowered the blade and whirled on Elỳn. “This lad and his friend swore an oath of loyalty to the king! An oath they both broke.”

“An oath they were forced to obey,” Elỳn said, “on pain of death. Would you say such an oath is one taken in good faith? Leave him be.”

“He deserves punishment!”

“Let us bring him before the king,” Elỳn suggested. “Perhaps you will respect his opinion, if not mine.”

“Fine,” spat Tharom, “though his’ll be the same as mine, I can assure ye.”

“We shall see,” said Elỳn. But as Tharom left the alley and she motioned for Elven to follow her, she said in a low voice, “Do not worry, Elven—I will protect you.”

And so Elven had no choice but to follow in the wake of someone to whom he now begrudgingly owed his life.

Chapter 1: Return to Erârün

 

The return to Erârün was long, and quiet. Without the knowledge of the Hochträe’s tongue, Elven was largely left in silence, and in silence he preferred to stay.  He seemed not to have Brandyé’s gift for communication, and found himself mystified by the lyrical and thoroughly incomprehensible language the folk around him kept to themselves. Every so often one of them would attempt to speak to him in his own tongue, but by necessity his answers were always short and succinct, and they would eventually leave him be.

Neither he nor they seemed overly affected by this; Elven no longer had any particular interest in the Hochträe, and they seemed to understand this peacefully. In fact, Elven thought he would have preferred to make the journey alone, although he could not deny the comfort of having someone else hunt and prepare meals for him (and the camp at large). As the days wore on, he found his thoughts began to center solely on one thing, and that was discovering Talya’s fate.

Early in their journey, he wrote a short note detailing his plans on a scrap of leather torn from his pack, and bid Sonora, his falcon, to bear it to Talya, wherever she might be. The last time he had laid eyes on her, she had been hiding amongst the rocks of the Reinkrag mountains, fleeing from the oncoming army of Darkness from the north along with hundreds of frightened villagers and no soldiers to speak of. His heart ached at the thought, and he wondered often what madness had driven him to follow Brandyé into the ever-clouded peaks and away from the woman he loved.

It was a curious thing, he thought, to have such feelings for another person. Never in all his youth had anyone spoken of love as something harbored for another person, though now he came to realize it, he had always loved his parents, his family … his fallen sister. Rather, even the folk of Consolation, the one land that had for centuries escaped the fate of Darkness, married for convenience and prosperity, and the very word love was reserved for tasty meals and warm, sun-filled afternoons.

Such afternoons were now a time-wearied memory, for soon after departing from the Hochträe’s mountain realms, the ever-present clouds swarmed in upon them again, and each day wore on in bleak grayness, each night only a few shades darker than the day. Elven had known such skies for so long that the brief respite among the sunny peaks of the Hochträe felt almost an anomaly—that the return to desolation marked a return to everyday normality.

Elven found himself longing for normality, clouded or not. In his time with Brandyé he had known adventure and excitement, but also sadness and death, and he discovered he was dreadfully weary of it. The moment he found Talya, he resolved, he would ask her to marry, and they would find a home, and he would never leave it again. Perhaps he would even take her back to his parents, left so far behind in the forests of the Trestaé.

To this end, Elven was at times uneasy with the direction they were taking. He understood that the Hochträe wished to visit the kingdom of Erârün, and the most sensible destination was the great city of Vira Weitor to the south. Yet this was in fact leading him away from the last place he knew Talya to be, in the western fringes of the mountains. Some days he was overcome with the urge to abandon the party and set out on his own, and only two things prevented him from doing so: that the folk he traveled with had set out with him and because of him, and that so much time had passed that it was unlikely he would find Talya still hidden in the refuge caves of the Rein. Before their parting they had not discussed what they would do should they not be immediately reunited, and Elven cursed himself for this. However, it seemed sensible to him that she would make for a place that was well-known to both of them if she could, and he held hope that Vira Weitor might be that place. If not, he told himself, he would seek her out where they had met: the far southern village of Hansel’s Foil. Failing that, he would not rest; there were many more places in the world in which to seek for her.

As their passage through the mountains wore on, these thoughts consumed him, and he found himself searching the clouded skies daily for a sign that Sonora was returning, but for many weeks there was no sign of the bird. Instead, he would see only crows, and this unsettled him, for Brandyé had once told him that such birds were in the service of the Duithèn: of Darkness.

Of the other creatures of Darkness, however, they saw nothing: whether by chance or fate, the fierundé seemed uninterested or unwilling to pursue them. This was one of Elven’s greatest fears, for although the Hochträe seemed to possess great martial skill, he had yet to see even a battalion of soldiers hold their own against a pack of the dreadful wolves, except perhaps those of the Illuèn. If there was a third reason he stayed with the host of Hochträe, it was this: he knew he would not last a minute against even a single fierund.

Although they were thus largely left in peace, their journey was not without difficulty; rain and mud often made the going difficult, and the lay of the land seemed to work against them: the valleys seemed all arranged from east to west, meaning they had either to make great detours around the mountain peaks, or attempt to pass directly over them. On one such try one of their donkeys lost its footing and fell, and so they lost not only a beast of burden but many of their supplies also.

Illness, too, they had to combat; although it was the time of year for spring, the weather nonetheless beat down upon them, and their high altitude meant the rain would often turn to sleet and snow. The folk of the Hochträe, unused to such persistently bad weather, found themselves succumbing to cold and flu, and Elven became busy seeking remedies in the woods. His own health he was able to maintain, but only through effort and wisdom; he had trekked with Brandyé through rain and cold many times before, and knew how to keep warm and dry.

Then there came a day when the land changed, and they descended from a series of long hills to find themselves at the edge of a vast lake. Elven was reminded of coming across such a lake with Brandyé in the Trestaé, but if that one had stretched a dozen miles this one must have stretched a hundred, for its edges were lost to sight. Then, with Brandyé, they had had little choice but to attempt to circumnavigate the lake, but here the Hochträe fell to the trees with axe and hatchet, and soon had a series of great rafts built that could house four men to a one, and their donkeys (provided the donkeys remained dreadfully still).

So they set out, and Elven found himself on a raft with two other Hochträe, one of whom seemed to know his tongue slightly better than the others.

“New land we come to,” he said to Elven.

“What do you mean?” Elven asked.

The man pointed behind them, to the north, and said, “Naiya,” which Elven knew was the name the Hochträe kept for themselves. “Hochträe,” the man said, as if to affirm Elven’s thought. Then he pointed to the northwest and said, “Reinkrag,” which Elven knew was the name of the mountains they had come from. The man seemed proud of himself that he knew the names of these places in Elven’s own tongue.

And so Elven pointed to the south, over the dark windswept waves of the lake, and said, “New land?”

The man nodded and smiled. “Irō-pa. Üthervaye!”

So Elven came to understand that they were entering a new line of mountains, and this lake served to divide the Reinkrag to the north from the Üthervaye to the south. He wondered how the Hochträe knew this, but the man seemed unable to explain beyond, “It is the way of the mountains.”

The lake’s length followed a southerly direction, and it was certainly faster progress than walking, though they remained in easy view of the shore at any given time. When the wind rose they would retreat to the banks of the river, create fire from the woods and camp. The Hochträe seemed adept at survival in general, for they appeared equally comfortable in the air, on the water or on land, and they were just as skilled at fishing as at hunting. The lake boasted many large fish, and for life in the middle of the wilderness, Elven was comfortable.

Then a day came when things began to go wrong, and it started with Sonora’s return. So many days had passed since Sonora had left his side that Elven had nearly forgotten to look for her, and so it was with great surprise that he looked to the gray skies around noon to see a familiar black speck approaching in the distance. He was sitting in the middle of the raft as they coursed gently down the lake, the water today stiller than usual. The Hochträe treated him as a guest and would not let him paddle, and so he often had little to do on these daily trips. Walking provided the distraction of physical movement; here there was nothing but himself and his thoughts.

Within moments the speck revealed itself as the headlong rush of feathers that he knew as Sonora, and soon she was circling above their craft. The Hochträe of his raft stopped their paddling momentarily to look upon her, speaking to each other in their own language and smiling.

Elven could not keep the smile from his own face, and retrieved the gauntlet he used with the bird from his pack and laced it over his forearm. With a delicate flutter the falcon settled herself upon it, and he lowered his arm under her familiar weight.

It was then that he noticed the note tied still to her leg—the very same, it seemed, that he had sent her away with. For a moment his heart stopped in his chest, for never in his life had Sonora returned without delivering a message. With swift fingers he undid the knot, and knew it as his own.

Yet a part of him said to be still—that perhaps Talya had merely replied to him on the same scrap of leather, not having the tools to write upon herself. When the note was released, Sonora leapt down from his arm and settled herself on the floor of the raft, peering nervously at the water all around her.

Elven unfolded the note. On it was written nothing but his own short piece:

Dearest Talya,

I am returning to Vira Weitor, though it may take several months. I will wait for you there.

With love,

Elven

He flipped the scrap of leather over, but it was bare on the reverse. He flipped again, reread his own writing, wondering if he was missing some clue, some subtle unwritten message that Talya might have sent back with Sonora.

Yet there seemed to be nothing but the note he had sent the falcon away with weeks ago. With nervous hands he folded the note into his pack, and leaned to pat Sonora’s head. “You did well, dear,” he said to her. “I’m sorry you couldn’t find her.”

The bird looked up at him with a disdainful look, as though he was somehow implying she had not tried hard enough. So human was the look that Elven could not help but laugh. “I’m not blaming you!” he said. “But I do worry—where could Talya be?”

What he did not voice aloud was his worst thought; that the reason Sonora had not delivered the note was that Talya had gone somewhere he could not follow.

Later that night, they stopped by a shallow creek that fed into the great lake through a series of bogs and marshes, and Elven could not help but think they could have picked a better spot. Almost as soon as they landed, he was beset by swarms of mosquitoes and midges, and spent the evening futilely swatting them away. The Hochträe, oddly, seemed unaffected, and laughed at his antics. “At home we have bites,” they told him. “They are bigger!”

“You’re just lucky to have me around,” Elven grumbled. “Without me they’d have no choice but to feed on you!” He shuffled closer to the fire, whose smoke seemed to help keep the insects at bay. He wrapped himself as fully as he could, but by the morning he was nonetheless covered with great, red spots that itched like nothing he had known before.

The morning brought with it cooler air, and the persistent attacks died away. Elven insisted they wait for him as he searched the woods for soothing plant leaves, but after an hour they were calling him to leave, and he had found nothing. In a foul mood he retreated to the rafts, and they set out on the day’s journey.

As the day went on the itch slowly faded, and Elven found himself scratching less and less. A cold, soothing wind rose from the north, and Elven found that if he sat backward on the raft with his face to the wind, he could almost forget the mild agony he was in.

With the wind, however, came waves, and the rafts began to bob roughly up and down. Soon there were strong gusts, and Elven could see far in the distance black storm clouds descending from the hills. The horizon faded into a haze of coming rain, and soon drops were falling on them with increasing rapidity.

“We need to go ashore!” Brandyé called to the Hochträe on his raft. The looked at him without understanding, and he vehemently pointed toward the lake’s shore. “We must go there, now!” To reinforce his thought, he pointed back at the closing storm, and they followed his finger, and nodded. As they shifted their position on the raft and began to call out their intentions to the others, Elven saw a great shaft of lightning reach out from the sky and seem to strike the lake not a mile distant, and a moment later came the ominous roll of thunder.

It was only just past midday by the time they beached their craft, but the sky was thick and black, and the rain was pouring down torrentially. Every now and then the sky with illuminate with brilliant lightning, and Elven was reminded of the great storm he and Brandyé had suffered through in the Trestaé. He was reluctant to enter the woods, for he knew there was the chance of lightning striking a tree near to them, and he had no desire to break his leg again. Yet he knew they would be drier under the branches, and so followed the Hochträe as they progressed a quarter mile inland to where the rain was less.

Eventually they came to a stop near a stream (one that, fortunately, did not seem to be home to any variety of biting insects), and Elven helped them set up a series of small tents. When they crawled under and were sheltered from the rain (though not from the wet ground), Elven thought perhaps they might just survive the storm, despite the sounds of the sky being torn asunder that seemed to come from directly over their heads.

There was nothing to speak of, and as the Hochträe in his tent tried without luck to start a small fire, Elven listened to the patter of rain, the crack of thunder and the rush of wind, and began to doze. Eventually he settled himself into a lying position on the ground, his pack as a pillow, and with Sonora curled close to his head, he passed into sleep.

His slumber could not have lasted more than a few minutes, however, before he was startled awake by the loudest crack of thunder yet, and a brilliant flash that seemed to burn right through his closed eyelids. A shout came from one of the nearby tents, and for a moment Elven waited, breathless, for the sounds of falling trees or crackling flames.

Neither came, however, and when he followed the Hochträe out of the tent and into the rain, it was to find everything as it had been—undisturbed, wet and dark. It seemed it had been a cry of surprise more than alarm, and Elven was about to turn back to reenter the tent when without warning the very ground itself seemed to tremble, and he was thrown to his knees.

There was no sound this time, however, and no lightning flash to precede; only a great tremor underfoot, and then suddenly the world seemed to fade entirely from Elven’s sight. At first he thought perhaps he had closed his eyes, but he blinked several times and raised his hands to his face, and realized he could not see them at all. It was as if all light had suddenly been extinguished from the world, and in the distance he heard Sonora’s frightened call.

For an endless moment his sightlessness continued, and he heard the Hochträe crying to each other and knew it was not just him. He did not dare to stand, and remained on his knees, the rain still falling on his shoulders, waiting.

And then, as if to contradict the abyssal blackness, a flash brighter than any he had yet known seared his open eyes, and he was deafened by a vicious crack of thunder and smelled burning air. The ground’s trembling seemed to fade, and slowly, the world came back into view.

Finally Elven stood shakily, and looked around him. Beside him were the Hochträe that shared his tent, and not too far in the distance were several others. They were also looking about them, and Elven could hear the frightened note in their voices, though he could not understand their words. For a moment he was overcome with frustration, for he wanted desperately to ask them what had just happened, but knew they would be unable to explain, even if they knew.

Over the raised voices of the Hochträe, Elven caught wind of Sonora again, and turned back toward the tent to reassure the bird. As he lifted the tent’s flap, he cast a final glance to the dark forest behind him, and wondered if it seemed a shade darker than it had before.

At his appearance, Sonora burst into a furore of squawking, and Elven was relieved to know that the bird had not lost her own sight. Elven settled himself on the ground again, and held a hand out to Sonora, who hopped toward him and nestled her head against him. “I don’t know what just happened,” he said softly to her. “I hope it’s nothing.”

By the morning the storm had subsided, and they drank from the stream before packing their tents and returning to the lake’s shore. They had progressed at the very least some seventy miles down the lake, and Elven was desperately hoping that they might reach the end of it soon, for he was growing increasingly weary of sitting still day after day with nothing to do.

He could not deny that the scenery around them had changed however; from the barren fields and rocks of the northern Reinkrag, the Üthervaye seemed much more akin to the Trestaé in their demeanor. From the lake’s edges rose high, pine-covered peaks, rising higher into the distance to those whose summits remained capped in snow even in the rain and the warmer weather. Every so often another river or stream would empty itself into the lake as they went on, and Elven suspected that the river that finally exited the lake to the south must be prodigious indeed.

The remainder of that day was dull and without incident; the rain came and went, and one of the Hochträe on Elven’s raft began to cough. Elven tried to insist that the man take a brief rest and allow him to paddle, but even in the midst of a wrenching hack, the man refused to relinquish the wooden board.

When they stopped that evening, however, Elven came to realize that it was not only the man from his raft that seemed to be suffering from a cold. Several others were also coughing or languishing, and Elven took the opportunity that night to boil a great stew for the camp, including a small pinch of munadé that he had managed to keep upon his person ever since he and Brandyé had left the Illuèn in the forests of the Trestaé.

Nothing seemed to help, however, and by the morning Elven saw that at least half the camp were suffering some new illness. Hardy folk, though, the Hochträe insisted on moving forward, and so they spent what would become their last day on the rafts. It was not long into the morning before Elven realized their own raft was drifting perpetually sideways, as the sick man’s paddling became ever weaker. Finally he rose carefully and grasped the paddle firmly, looking into the man’s now watering and bloodshot eyes. The man tried briefly to resist, but Elven did not let go, and merely shook his head determinedly.

In the end the man allowed Elven the paddle and retreated himself to the center of the raft, where it seemed to Elven he rapidly fell asleep. For some hours they continued thus, Elven keeping pace easily with the third man on the raft, until soon after midday a commotion on a raft ahead brought them to a halt.

Without warning, there erupted from before them a great series of cries and calls, and Elven saw several of the Hochträe leap bodily into the water. For a moment he could not fathom their actions, until he saw one of them splashing and treading water with a firm grasp on the inert form of one of his fellows. As several others reached out to help him, Elven came to realize that one of the men on the rafts ahead of them had fallen into the water, unconscious. With a sudden chill he looked to the sleeping man on his own raft. “We need to make for the shore!” he called out to the others as loud as he could.

At first none seemed to pay him heed, so fixated were they on rescuing their fallen friend, and so Elven turned to the man who was paddling beside him and pointed to the shore. “We must go to land,” he said firmly, and with relief he saw the man nod in agreement.

By the time they had steered their craft to a shallow mud bank, the rest of the Hochträe it seemed had managed to haul the fallen man from the lake and upon one of the other rafts. Seeing that one of their party had made for the shore, it was not long before the rest came to lie upon the mud bank with Elven, and they had disembarked and made their way uphill and under the cover of trees.

Elven and his companion had had to bodily carry the sleeping Hochträe between them for when they arrived, they found themselves entirely unable to wake him. When they found a small clearing in which to rest, Elven left the sleeping man with the waking one to gather firewood, and had a roaring blaze going by the time the rest of the party found their way to them. He was disturbed to find that they had also had to carry the man who had fallen into the lake, for he seemed equally unable to be aroused.

Now, it seemed, was the moment the Hochträe began looking to Elven as a healer, and far into the night Elven was kept busy searching for herbs, plants and roots, and concocting half a dozen or more brews that he knew ought to have risen the deadest sleeper, through smelling or by pouring small trickles down their throats. But despite his efforts, the two sleeping men remained so, and to Elven’s dismay their breath seemed almost to weaken as time wore on.

For the rest of the camp Elven once more boiled a thin stew with the last of his munadé, and was astounded at the end of the night when the pot was not empty, for the host of usually ravenous men rarely left a drop. It was becoming clear to him through observation that nearly every one of the Hochträe had succumbed to an illness of some kind, and he could not conceive what he would do if each of them in turn fell into a stupor that they could not be roused from.

This thought did not seem to escape the Hochträe themselves, for late into the night they kept themselves occupied by the fire, talking softly and jabbing at each other to keep themselves from falling asleep. This worried Elven all the more, for he knew that if they were to have any chance of recovering, they would need rest; yet he could understand their hesitation to lie down, in case they failed to wake again.

Eventually, one of the Hochträe approached Elven with a small cough and said, “New, this sleeping sickness. Do you know it?”

Elven shook his head. “I’ve never come across anything like it. Everything I’ve tried—munadé, ginger, silverfoil—nothing seems to have any effect. I’ve never seen anyone in so deep a sleep!”

“You can wake them?” the man asked.

Biting his lip, Elven realized the man had understood few of his words. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I might not.”

But the man smiled a grim smile, nodded, and said, “You can wake them.”

Elven did not feel quite so optimistic, and the morning saw only to bear out his fears. In the night, three more of the Hochträe had fallen into a stupor and could not be awoken, although several others had fallen asleep and woke of their own accord, if not without some anxiety.

As the remaining Hochträe tended to reviving the fire in the morning cold, Elven went to see the condition of the first two men who had entered this frightful state of unconsciousness. To his horror, their skin had grown pale and cold in the night, and it was only by listening deeply to their chests that he could ascertain a heartbeat of any kind.

“Help!” he called out, and thankfully this was a word every one of the Hochträe understood. Several of their number came rapidly to Elven’s side. “We must move them by the fire,” he told them, and indicated with his hands. “They are growing cold.” Elven grasped the wrists of one of them, and one of the Hochträe took the man’s feet. Following their example another pair hefted the second sleeping man, and together they awkwardly moved them closer to the renewed flames. Elven then spent many minutes rubbing their hands and limbs, but to no avail—soon their skin felt as cold as the mists that rolled between the dark trunks all around them.

In desperation, Elven managed to get several of the Hochträe to take his place at the fallen men’s sides, rubbing and attempting to keep their warmth within their bodies, and called to them, “I will be back!” Without another word, he set out into the woods, his only thought to find something, some herb or root that was pungent enough to wake the dead, for without it these men would almost certainly be so.

But after an hour of searching under fallen logs and stones and in shaded glens, Elven began to despair. He knew he could not leave the Hochträe for much longer, and turned to set back, when a vision crossed his path that caused his blood to run cold.

Though it appeared only for a moment, he could have sworn he saw a hooded figure deep in the woods, shadowed face pale and staring at him. The figure bore a cloak of deepest black, such that it seemed even to drawn in the light around it and make the forest a little darker in its wake. For a moment—a long moment, it felt—Elven stared at the figure, and so it seemed the figure stared back at him.

After a time Elven found the courage to speak, and called out, “Hello? If you are there, can you aid us?”

But at his words—or at a blink, he was unsure—the figure vanished, leaving only branch and leaf as though it had never been there at all. “Hey there!” he called. “Come back!” He ran a few paces in the direction the figure had been, but there was nothing to be seen. Turning, half-expecting to find the figure behind him, he said aloud once more, “Hello? Please—come back! We need your help!”

But there was no answer save the rustling of the wind and the call of crows, who seemed ever-present lately. Then out of the near-silence came a familiar caw, and Elven saw Sonora drop out of the trees to the forest floor. With a nervous sigh, Elven said, “You frightened me, Sonora! Come—let’s return to the camp.”

As Elven came nearer to where he had left the Hochträe, his nervousness grew, for he could not hear them—not a shout, nor a whisper, nor even a cough. He quickened his pace, his stomach churning, and when he finally arrived it was to a dismal sight.

The fire had nearly died, for not one of the Hochträe remained strong enough now to tend to it. All but three of their number were now stretched prone on the ground, pale and cold, and as Elven laid a hand on the two that had been the first to fall, he felt their skin as cold as ice.

Beside him sat one of the Hochträe, huddling and shivering gently, a blanket around his shoulders. Elven tried to speak to him, but the man seemed unaware that Elven was even there. Elven waved a hand before his eyes, and the man failed to blink, or look his way. Frightened, Elven moved to another and laid his head to the sleeping man’s chest, listening desperately for a heartbeat. After many, many moments, Elven withdrew with tears in his eyes, for the man was no longer sleeping.

“What is happening?” he cried aloud to the forest, and the silence gave forth no answers.

From fallen branches Elven stacked the fire high and rekindled it, and soon darkness had fallen. He made his way from person to person, body to body, checking for pulses and doing anything and everything he knew of, drawing deep upon his training with Sörhend, but nothing he knew of healing had prepared him for this. Finally he retired to the fire himself, wrapping a blanket of his own over his shoulders, and contemplated that the morning would bring with it a camp of the dead.

And indeed, come the dismal dawn, there was not a soul left alive under those branches, save Elven. Some time during the night he had dozed off, for he woke with a start and a panic, thinking for a moment that he had succumbed to the fate of the Hochträe. It was only as the fact that he was awake to have such a thought dawned on him as proof that he had in fact not succumbed that he breathed a sigh of relief, and looked about him.

White, pale faces surrounded him, thin tendrils of mist draped across their brows, and Elven shuddered, for even on the battlefields of the Rein he had not known death in such measure. A dozen strong men struck down in a matter of days, without cause or sign of disease, save a slight cough. He had never heard of such a sickness.

And then, a new and terrifying thought came to him: what was to be his own fate? He was now alone, lost in mountains that were entirely unknown to him. He could tell south from north, and knew that eventually he would have to continue following the path they had been treading up until this point, but how far would he be able to go on his own?

And surmounting all these considerations was the burning question he could not ignore: would he, too, succumb to this sleeping disease? If so, why had he not already? And if not … what was there about him that so differed him from the Hochträe? A hundred thoughts passed through his mind, and none were satisfactory. Other than where they had been born, he could see no difference between the Hochträe and himself. Was it because they were unaccustomed to a lower altitude? Was it because they had eaten something he hadn’t? To the best of his recollection, they had shared in every meal, drank together from every stream, and walked the same path from the highest peaks to the lowest valleys.

Eventually Elven could not bear these thoughts any longer, and stood. The first thing he must do, he told himself, was be absolutely certain that he was not leaving even one of the Hochträe alive. As a healer, and as a fellow man, he would not leave this place while even one of them still breathed.

It was not long, however, before his worst fears were realized, and he discovered he could find not a single breath nor beat of heart among them. To a one, they had died in their sleep. It was then that he came to the realization that he did not know what to do with their bodies; he had not the strength to dig a grave for so many in the hard soil, and he did not know what customs the Hochträe kept to themselves regarding their dead. Should he set them free upon the lake? Leave them where there lay?

In the end, he could not bear the thought of leaving them for forest animals to feast upon, and did the only thing he could think of: he stoked the fire as high as he could, and with sick tears, he hauled their bodies one by one upon it. A word of forgiveness passed his lips with each one, and with every moment that they burned he questioned himself: had he given up on these men too easily? Had they truly been dead? In the end, only his training with Sörhend was able to comfort him, for he had been taught that a man can live only a few minutes without breath, and each of these poor souls had now been more than day in such a dreadful state. There could have been no reviving them, no rescuing.

It was long into the evening by the time his horrible work was done, but Elven could not remain in that same place another night. By the poor light of a burning branch he packed what provisions he could onto a single donkey, and set out into the woods, leaving the smoldering pyre behind him. Great tears rolled down his cheeks, and he found himself longing more than ever for the comfort of Talya’s touch, or even Brandyé’s words. Through the night he walked, stumbling here and there, and did not rest until the miserable light of day crept upon him once more, though a part of him dreadfully wished that it would not.

In the daylight the world became more real, and the consequences of his actions began to settle upon him. He knew he had food for some days with him, and had with him as always his bow for hunting. He had reckoning of survival in the wilderness from many previous occasions, and was not concerned with his ability to feed himself. However, what he had no reckoning of was how far he might be from Vira Weitor, nor what direction it might lie in.

Eventually he decided his best course of action would be to follow the lake to the river that drained from it, and from there take the river downstream. Eventually it must lead from the mountains, he told himself, and once in the plains he might find some direction. There was even the possibility, slim though it was, that the river he sought was the very same that he knew ran not two miles from Vira Weitor’s western edge.

So began the first of many lonely days, and Elven began to appreciate what Brandyé must have suffered when he had been exiled from their home land of Consolation. Here, at least, he was well equipped, with a donkey to carry his burdens and a companion in Sonora who could, if not speak with him, at least be spoken to, and so Elven was kept from madness. Still, his predicament gave him cause to wonder as to the fate of his friend, and whether he had found what he was seeking for.