A sharp ridge of seemingly insurmountable mountains, sleek sides painted orange by the morning sun, had at some point come into view above the endless miles of greenblack conifers. Cloaked in a thin screen of mist, the peaks provided a surreal backdrop to the bold and jagged reality of the forest. The elf wasn't entirely sure when it had been, but after weeks of plodding northward, days without seeing a single village or even a dilapidated hermit's cottage, sometimes days without seeing anything at all but the trees, he had felt a sudden change in his surroundings, and finally realized that across the small meadow stretching out at his feet, above the eternal expanse of forest, he had come face to face with the Crown of the World.
As a young child, back home on the island, he had heard tales of the Crown of the World and the great dwarven kingdoms embedded at the mountains' base, tales of adventure and secret trap doors, curving silver swords and rough walled impenetrable vaults. He had marveled at his mother's paintings of the mountains brought back from the mainland by merchants; captured in their bold in bold strokes or subtle shading, mythical islands of solid rock, not languishing in the turquoise waters of the bay, but sitting proudly atop the land. He had never quite believed that they could be real, and he certainly had not expected to see them with his own eyes. But then, at that point in his life, he had not expected to be exiled either.
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He paused in the middle of the meadow, setting down his bulging pack and staring up, thinking how his mother, who treasured her paintings above all else in the empire, would have smiled with gleaming silver eyes at the originals. And thinking of trying to describe the scene to Jurrel, who would have clapped him on the back and told him it was a fine joke, like when he claimed to have seen a unicorn in the palace garden, which had turned out to be Jurrel's own horse standing behind some tall and leafless shrubbery. The translucent smiling faces hovered between him and the mountains, his mother's alight with affection, Jurrel's tinted with a bit of a knowing smirk. There was little chance he would ever see them again, perhaps Jurrel, if he faced exile himself to come and search the mainland, but though his old tutor had always been fond of him, the elf could see no reason he would undertake this risk. His mother was lost to him; her station bound her to the island, and though she had already seriously broken tradition, or perhaps because of that, he knew she would remain in her palace, resigned to losing him.
But inhaling the sharp mountain air in the quiet sun-drenched meadow, breathing in a bit of legend itself, it was impossible to remain depressed about anything, even being alone and entirely lost. Maybe not even lost. Lost is what happens when your destination eludes you; he had only a lack of destination and an unknown world, and he could not quite settle on a term for that. The elf considered the position of the sun and decided that he would stop there in the meadow for a meal, even though it had not been long since his breakfast. Opening his pack, he began rooting around for the pouch of dried pheasant he had just filled the day before.
Skimming across the edge of his perception, the muted stomping of feet and hooves filtered through the undergrowth, adding a pulsing rhythm to the alpine view. Simultaneously, something heavy struck the ground quite hard behind him, sending a short rumbling quake beneath his feet, and a woman on horseback burst out of the trees before him. The elf let out a startled yelp and dropped the pouch of pheasant, watching the woman and her horse charging toward him. But the expression of thunderstorm fury, the sharp killing intent in her eyes was not meant for him; she was staring past him at the other side of the meadow. Worried about what he would find, the elf turned around, discovering first a large spear planted deep in the ground only a few feet from him, and emerging from the shadows of the trees at a run, five beings of nightmare and legend, one bearing another spear like the one at his feet. He could not yet make out their features across the distance that separated them. From their size, they could have been large humans, but no human could move like that, the quick sinuous steps of an alpha carnivore. He shuffled backwards as the second spear nearly pierced his backpack.
Hands trembling, he slipped his small hunting bow, carved himself from a blackthorn sapling in the palace gardens, off his shoulder and groped in the quiver at his hip until his fingers closed around an arrow. He nocked the arrow, drew it back, wondering if there was any god in particular he should be praying to, perhaps a god of archery or a god of gambling and impossible odds, aimed it at the pack of figures charging him and let it fly. In spite of the other daelmond bearing down on him, he stared incredulous as the arrow shot directly into the nearest one's left eye, causing it to stop short, drop it's axe, and pull at the shaft while bellowing in pain.
Then a small hatchet sprouted from its neck and it promptly forgot about the arrow and dropped into the grass. Brandishing a pair of swords, the woman had leapt from her horse and taken up a defensive stance between him and the remaining daelmond. Two had slowed, staring at their fallen comrade, but two were still closing fast.
“If you have a sword, stand and fight, otherwise run,” the woman called over her shoulder.
He stared between her and the daelmond, wondering if it would be more disrespectful to ignore her order or to leave her to fight alone, then sprinted toward the forest's edge, stumbling slightly in the tall grass. When he turned back, a second daelmond was falling to the ground with a profusely bleeding gash across the chest. The woman's remaining opponent appeared apprehensive, attacking only halfheartedly, but blocking her stabs with effort. Swords stabbing, feinting, blocking, swirling in a circle of silver around her, the woman was backing away to the west. The elf realized that he had gained a clear shot at the second pair of daelmond.
With increasing confidence, he fit another arrow to his bow and released it, whistling through the air, causing no damage, but reminding the daelmond of his presence. One paused, then turned toward him, and he shot arrow after arrow, as it staggered across the grass growing larger and larger. Its yellow feline eyes locked on his, sharp fang-like canines bared in a grimace of pain and determination, determination to kill him, though he tried not to consider that.
There was an arrow in each of its muscular shoulders, one protruding from its stomach, one had hit its thigh at an angle and the elf could see the pointed tip sticking out behind it like a needle passing through fabric. If only he could stitch it to the ground, keep it away from himself, keep it from ever moving again. The next arrow struck the daelmond in the middle of the chest, and the elf froze in terror as his fingers, expecting the smooth shaft of an arrow, found only the leather of the quiver. Several paces from him, the daelmond stumbled to its knees and struggled to rise, and the elf groped at his belt for his skinning knife, doubting it could possibly be of any use against a creature so large. But the daelmond fell forward, driving the arrow in its chest deep into its flesh with a sickening squelch. The elf stared, waiting for movement that would not come, then realized that there were no longer roaring grunts or sounds of clashing metal from the meadow.
After scanning the far trees for any sign of reinforcements, suspiciously regarding stumps and thick tangles of bushes that seemed to transform into armed figures, the elf cautiously returned to the center of the meadow. The woman was walking between the fallen daelmond, slicing their throats as calmly as if she were preparing meat for stew. Daelmond, “demons” the humans called them, the fierce invaders from the south. Another thing he had never expected to see first hand, and unlike the mountains of the Crown of the World, he would much rather have skipped the experience entirely.
But they no longer looked half so fierce, weapons fallen, limbs splayed awkwardly, blood soaking into the grass.
The elf was accustomed to the glassy lack of expression in the eyes of dead things, having hunted and killed all of his meals since leaving the populated lands of the coast. His hands had been coated red in the blood of rabbits and game birds. But the dead daelmond disconcerted him; no longer snarling and charging him with weapons drawn, they looked much more like elves or humans. Living, their feline eyes with sharp vertical slits of pupils were unreadable and terrifying, their two sets of pronounced canines were fangs, their muscled bulk was monstrous. Dead, it was impossible not to think that the gold eyes had once held emotion and intelligence, the canines could have been part of an expressive smile, the limbs were as finely toned as those of the elegant temple dancers of his homeland, if somewhat thicker. Though he knew they had attacked first, that they would have torn him to pieces as the rusty stains on their clothes suggested they had done to countless others, the elf could not help feeling a wave of guilt at their deaths.
The woman seemed to be suffering from no such contemplations. She wiped her blades on the cloak of one of the fallen daelmond, one brightly polished with intricate carvings down its entire length, the other lusterless and plain, but nonetheless clearly sharp. Her worn leather bodice, overskirt, and knee boots were spattered with blood, very little of it her own. The short linen dress she wore underneath may have been as well, but as it was a dark crimson to begin with, it was impossible to tell. She noticed the thin slice along her forearm trickling a few drops of red, and grumbling to herself, cut a piece off the daelmond's cloak and wrapped it around the wound. Slipping her swords back into their scabbards, she tucked loose strands of nutmeg brown hair back into the long braid hanging down her back, revealing slightly pointed ears, and turned to the elf.
“You're not bad with a bow.” She eyed the small bow dangling from his hand. “If that is a real bow.”
“It's for rabbits,” he said, blushing slightly with annoyed embarrassment. For the only real battle of his life, he thought he had done rather well.
“You're a long way from the coast,” she said, glancing at his short gold hair, then staring into his silver eyes. “What brings you to the Crown of the World?”
“Nothing in particular. I guess I'm just wandering.”
The woman's eyes flashed slightly at his words. This did not seem like the time or place to try to explain how he came to be exiled from the island and lost in the forest, but the elf couldn't think of another justification for being alone and nearly unarmed so deep into the wilderness.
“Have you a name, coast elf?”
“Devren...” The elf paused. He had no title now, no family, no empire. Just an overstuffed backpack and one word of two syllables belonged to him. “Of no house, of no kingdom.”
“Freya Forestwalker,” the woman said, with a hint of a bemused smile. “Of a dead house and fallen kingdom.”
There were so many questions Devren wanted to ask that he found it difficult to settle on one and find the appropriate words to phrase it. The past few minutes had introduced far too much for him comprehend. Daelmond, unsighted in ten years according to the residents of the last city he passed through, appearing in an instant and dying just as suddenly; the edge of the mythical Crown of the World maybe a day's walk or less before him; this woman, striking in a feral sort of way, sleek but muscular, with bright rust-colored eyes that were examining him in an uncomfortably appraising way and those decidedly pointed ears. He knew he was staring at them and decided it would be better to just ask than try to feign a lack of interest.
“Are you a forest elf?”
“In a way,” she answered. Then, realizing that this explained nothing, she sighed and concluded, “My father is. My mother was a dwarf of the Akmaro clan.”
Devren tried not to appear as stunned as he felt. Half forest elf, half dwarf? He had not realized that was possible, but felt it would be horribly rude to let on that he thought it strange. The clan name meant nothing to him and he wondered if it should. He had perfected a technique of staring with interest into Jurrel's eyes while absently letting his mind wander through the palace and grounds; he decided he probably should have paid more attention when Jurrel was trying to explain the politics of the mainland to him.
“Have you walked all the way from the coast?”
An embarrassed smile crossed his face, and Devren coughed softly.
“I started out with a horse in Radamand about a month ago, but I lost it not long after I entered the forest. Either I tied its lead rope too loosely one night and it wandered away or someone quietly made off with it, I'm not sure which.” When her eyebrows raised at him, he added, “Walking has been slow, but until today, peaceful.”
Freya clucked gently and her horse trotted out of the forest. At first Devren thought it was a breed he had never seen before, but then he recognized it as one of the wild forest horses he had glimpsed through the undergrowth; spirit horses the townspeople had called them, and strenuously urged him never to harm one. They were the beloved brethren of the forest elves, according to legend, carved from the same piece of wood as the elves themselves by Luuvrin the Forest Wanderer; never captured, hunted or ridden, and fiercely protected. This mare was a chalky cream white, with black mane and tail, charcoal legs fading to cream at her knees, and a thick black dorsal stripe stretching the length of her back. Freya ran her hands along the horse's legs with a concerned expression, but appeared to find nothing amiss.
“Well, Devren of no house, of no kingdom, since you have no destination in mind, no horse of your own, and the first daelmond seen in a decade on your trail, would you like to ride with me to what remains of my city?” Freya asked, gesturing toward the distant mountains.
Devren's eyes flitted suspiciously between the small mare, the towering peaks, and his bulging pack, and she added, “Mo is sturdy. Unless you have a pack full of geological specimens, I can assure you that she has carried much more weight than the two of us and a bag.”
Checking the set of her swords, Freya placed a hand against the mare's shoulder and swung up onto her back. She gestured to the pack, and Devren hesitated, then passed it to her. Gripping the backpack against her right side, she reached out her left hand to him. He looked at her, slightly bewildered, wondering how he was expected to get onto the mare.
“Give me your hand, step on my foot, and swing up.” Her mildly exasperated eyes belied the patient tone of her voice.
The mare snorted, but he found himself seated safely on her back. Freya passed his bag to him and he managed to get the straps over his shoulders without tipping back off onto the ground. At another cluck from Freya, the horse set off into the forest at brisk but smooth trot, and Devren hesitated, then grabbed hold of Freya's waist to keep his balance. The mare's body was surprising warm, as were Freya's legs against his. Devren was not comfortable with horses, having never owned one before that black gelding that had disappeared two days into the forest. He was also discovering that he was not particularly comfortable with mysterious and deadly women, and was thinking that perhaps he should have asked for directions to this city of Freya's and just walked there on his own feet.
Yo. Ive started reading this, but I cant finish it just now, but Im on it, by Friday a review will be up. Glad to see you writing at all!
Uhm where's the dragons? There aren't any dragons in this story. What kind of story doesn't have dragons? I mean I'd like to read more but without a single dragon in sight I don't know if it could hold my interest.
p.s. dragon
/sigh
no dragons for you! (/whacks with spoon)
we'll see.. I don't know if I feel like dealing with dragons. They're all fiery and stuff and sometimes they burninate the countryside.
I like it, especially the action scene. Your very good at describing motion. Beware of adverbs and adjectives. You use a lot. Like
"gleaming silver eyes, translucent smiling faces, sharp mountain air, etc, etc" its a style choice, so by all means ignore me completely, its just that lately Ive been learning how to trim the fat with fiction and the first thing we are asked to look for is overuse of adverbs. Its not that any of those examples were particularly bad, its just that the piece has so many, and sometimes those phrases can be awkward, or wordy (if we were saying them out loud it would be a "mouthful"). Again, thats a style choice, Ive seen authors do that time and time again, especially in the sci-fi/fantasy realm which relies so heavily on details. Im just not a big fan of it, (or fantasy/sci-fi that relies on it).
The opening is sort of cliche with the banished Elf in a foreign land that he is not strong enough to survive within on his own. Than again, what hasnt already been done in the fantasy realm? I do like the elf though, and I care about whats going to happen to him next, so you are doing something right. I think with editing this piece could be great, and as is its a very lovely backdrop to a D and D character, and very entertaining on this random Monday morning. Thank you very much for posting.
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