Silevethiel (2 page)

“I apologize for disturbing you, my lady,” he said, “but I did not want to speak to you before I was certain the others were asleep. There is something I feel you should know.”

She nodded her head and waited silently for him to continue.

“Neither Shon nor myself have ever seen the other three men assigned to this mission. I questioned Prince Elthad before we departed, and he informed me that because of the mounting threat of Thaurod, he was given permission as Captain to swear men into the royal service without the king’s approval. I was not aware of any such decree, but knowing his fractious temper, I did not press the matter further.

“Nevertheless, I am troubled by these strangers. Though they have been careful to disguise it beneath their woolen over-garments, they are wearing non-regulation leathers. The weapons they carry are of strange make and design and are not permitted for use by soldiers of the royal guard. They continually exchange furtive glances, and on numerous occasions, both Shon and I have heard them whispering to one another when they believed everyone else to be asleep or too preoccupied to notice.

“My lady, I do not believe these men are fully enlisted soldiers of the royal guard, nor do I believe their intentions are pure. I have felt a growing sense of trepidation build in my heart since the beginning of the journey. Shon and I are sworn to protect you, but I ask you to remain cautious. The king’s assassin was still at large when we departed. Take great care. Do not find yourself alone with our other three companions.”

Her eyes widened in shocked disbelief, the soft moonlight reflecting brilliantly off of her pure blue irises. “Are you suggesting that my cousin...” She couldn’t bring herself to utter the words.

“I am not suggesting anything, my lady,” he replied. “I am merely saying that until you are safely within the walls of Silverden and have the protection of the elves, you should remain on your guard. Do not become too comfortable with your surroundings. Do not allow the grief of your father’s death and the monotony of the journey to cloud your judgment. Greed can taint even the most noble. Trust no one but yourself.”

One of the other men stirred, and Leif deftly returned to his belongings without another word. Irewen trembled beneath her woolen cloak, his warnings echoing in her mind. She did not want to believe Elthad could have sent the strangers to do her harm, but reason tugged at her heart. If she hadn’t been so heavily burdened by her sorrow, she would have noticed the men’s unusual gear. She would have listened more carefully to their hushed conversations and scrutinized their actions. She would not have mistaken her sense of uneasiness from their penetrating stares for loneliness and misery.

But what can I do?
The question burst through her mind like lightning.
I am not a warrior. I have no weapons or means of defense. Should Leif and Shon fall, I will die.

She considered sneaking away before the others woke and continuing on foot, but immediately dismissed the idea. The three strangers had made certain they carried all of the provisions. She had no experience in foraging and had no weapons or skills to hunt. More importantly, the men had already proved their expertise in tracking. She would not get far before she was discovered.

No
, she thought as she huddled beside a fallen log, hoping it would help to shield her from the penetrating wind.
I can do nothing but remain vigilant and pray Leif’s concern is for naught.

A yawn suddenly escaped her lips as the bulky woolen cloak finally seemed to provide her with some warmth. Her eyelids grew heavy with exhaustion and weariness. Despite her anxiety and desire to stay alert, she could no longer battle her fatigue, and she slowly drifted into a restless and disturbed sleep.

It seemed like only minutes had passed when frenzied shouting pulled Irewen from her dreams. Annoyed at the disturbance and only half awake, she groaned, then shifted on the hard ground, turning her body away from the noise.

She found herself staring directly into Shon’s lifeless blue eyes.

The last traces of sleep instantly vanished from her body. She screamed and jumped to her feet, then immediately froze in her tracks. Fear gripped her as she surveyed the alarming scene before her.

How could I have slept through this?

Her agitation grew when she noticed the headless corpse lying only feet from Shon. Fresh blood poured onto the frozen ground, shimmering in the soft morning light. Reminded of the thick crimson liquid pooled on her father’s body, she shuddered involuntarily.

The clanging of metal on metal pulled her from the grisly memory. She turned her attention to the remaining three men still locked in combat. She gasped as Leif expertly dodged an attack. Caught off balance from the power of the royal soldier’s swing, his attacker staggered to the side. Leif took the opportunity to thrust his sword through the traitor’s back. The victim clutched his chest when the sword was withdrawn. He met Irewen’s gaze for an instant, then collapsed on the ground with a dull thud.

She watched with morbid fascination as Leif pivoted to face the man rushing at him from behind. Leif turned just in time to block the violent overhead strike, his muscles shaking from the intensity of the blow. Despite his swift action, it was clear he was beginning to tire. He wavered against the brute strength of the man, whose unyielding pressure from above caused Leif’s blade to slowly inch closer to his face.

“Run, my lady!” Leif shouted over his shoulder before gathering his remaining strength and circling his blade clockwise. Forcing his assailant’s sword arm to the right allowed him a few seconds of reprieve while the stranger regrouped.

“Run!” he repeated, deflecting an attack directed towards his midsection.

Irewen didn’t need Leif’s frantic warnings to know she should flee, but she couldn’t move; her body was paralyzed. The world seemed to close in around her. She stood riveted to the ground, unable to take her eyes off the two men locked in their deadly dance. Their sword blades flashed brilliantly in the early morning sunlight, reminding her of Elthad. Was it his dagger that stabbed the king, or did it belong to one of his hired men? When her father’s last breath escaped his lips, did he know his nephew was a traitor?

The weight of Elthad’s betrayal shattered her heart with the force of a hammer smashing glass.

Suddenly, time seemed to stand still. The stranger’s sword slashed Leif’s side, and the royal soldier fell to his knees. Irewen watched in horror as the assassin sliced through Leif’s neck with one swift and powerful swing. Leif’s head plunged to the ground and rolled towards her, leaving a fresh trail of blood in the dirt. His body hovered eerily for a few seconds, then slowly tumbled forward.

The small campsite plunged into a deafening silence. Elthad’s hired man paused to catch his breath, slowly turning to face the young princess. She looked into his blue eyes—icy pools of hatred—and abruptly felt control return to her body. Instinctively, she threw off her cloak and bolted into the surrounding forest. She didn’t know if she was running in the correct direction, nor did she care. Her only thought was to put as much distance as possible between her and the odious man.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d run. Already, she felt her muscles tiring. She knew her pursuer had spent a good deal of his energy during the fight, but he was a warrior. There was no question his stamina and strength were superior to hers.

She glanced at her austere surroundings and silently cursed the mid-winter landscape. Aside from a few scattered evergreen trees, this section of the forest was barren. There was nowhere for her to hide. She felt the man’s eyes boring into her back and knew her life was forfeit. Without glancing behind, she willed her feet to move faster.

A horrendous pain suddenly erupted from her upper back. She cried out in agony and stumbled forward, then plummeted heavily to her knees. Another arrow penetrated the thin leather armour she wore beneath her long woolen tunic. The force of the blow violently launched her body forward. She landed heavily on the frozen ground, knocking the breath from her lungs.

Help me! Father! Please...

Her plea resounded uselessly through her head. She braced herself for the onslaught of a third arrow, but it never came.

Bastard! Finish me!

Irewen’s lungs felt like they were drowning in a pool of fire; each gasp for breath brought a grimace to her face. With her vision blurring from the pain, she cursed herself for listening to her handmaiden. Had she not worn the leather, her suffering would have already ended.

Guilt immediately consumed her heart as she considered the agony her father had been forced to endure. How long had it taken for death to free him? Had he been alive when his heart was wrenched from his chest?

A violent spasm wracked her slender body. In its wake, her consciousness began to dim. She convulsed once more, then her body stilled and she plummeted into darkness.

LIGHT SNOW BEGAN TO FALL AS LAEGON NEARED THE southwestern border of Mistwood. It was a time of peace. Hardly anyone ventured into the mysterious land of the Wood Elves. Nevertheless, every fortnight, Lord Brandir sent four Protectors and their Guardians to scout the forest. Individually assigned to a specific quadrant, they usually endured lonely and rather tedious journeys; no elf was particularly enthralled when they were selected for patrol.

Laegon dreaded the scouting assignments just as much as every Protector, but he had no reason to complain. As Lord Brandir’s son, he saw such duty far less frequently than most others. Indeed, this was the first time he had been sent on patrol in almost a year. Thus far, the journey had proven unutterably boring. A week into it and he and his Guardian, Brégen, had still seen nothing out of the ordinary.

He opened his link to Míendvel, feeling the familiar warmth of the magic course through his body. Míendvel was a unique form of elven magic that allowed Protectors to communicate mentally with their Guardians. A day never went by when Laegon wasn’t grateful to be one of the few blessed with the ability.

«We have not even had the privilege of pointing a lost and bewildered traveler in the correct direction.»
His unspoken words hinted at annoyance

Brégen’s hearty laugh rumbled through Laegon’s mind.
«Nor are we likely to in this weather. Who in their right mind would be traveling at this time of year? Still, perhaps if we are lucky, we may encounter a lost rabbit, and we can escort him back to his cozy burrow.»

Laegon’s bright laughter floated on the wind as he glanced down at his Guardian. Large fluffy snowflakes decorated the bulky lion’s thick mane, accenting the rich golden color at the roots that gradually transformed into a deep brown. The small freckles of white slowly turned into large frozen clumps of ice and fur as the snow began to fall with even greater intensity. Brégen quickly began to resemble a frightening wintry monster out of a child’s fairytale.

«Not that we would be able to help any animal with you looking like that,»
Laegon replied playfully.
«One glance at you and they would bolt in the opposite direction in sheer terror.»

The lion’s eyes, the left brown and the right olive, sparkled mischievously as he studied the elf sitting atop his horse.
«You do not look all that glamorous yourself, oh mighty prince. If you hunch any further forward on that poor animal, you...»

Brégen’s words died away. Stopping in his tracks, he sniffed the air. His keen eyes peered through the dense snow, and a low growl emanated from the depths of his throat.

“Quel é na?” Laegon whispered in his native tongue, knowing Brégen understood the language of the elves. “Quel dé ün va?”

In response, the Guardian’s rumbling growl erupted into a ferocious roar. He bounded forward, racing through the forest with powerful agility.

Brégen’s actions told Laegon all he needed to know. Though they had joked about the monotony of the assignment only moments earlier, the prince knew this was not simply a traveler lost in the storm. Instinctively, he shortened his reins. “Naralé!” he shouted, lightening himself in the saddle.

The charcoal and white mare obediently broke into a gallop. Laegon sped through the barren woodland, following Brégen’s ghostly form through the heavy veil of snow. Minutes later, the Guardian’s rage and sorrow flooded the elf’s mind. He squinted through the storm to see the lion come to an abrupt halt.

«We are too late, Protector.»

Brégen’s troubled voice echoed through Laegon’s mind as the prince brought the horse to a stop beside the lion. He quietly surveyed the grim scene before swiftly dismounting. He slowly walked among the dead, uneasiness filtering into his heart. Kneeling beside one of the corpses, he brushed the blanket of snow from the dead man’s clothing.

“Something is not right, Brégen,” he said aloud, his voice thick with worry. “This is the uniform of a soldier of Dargon’s royal court.”

«Dargon? What business would four of the king’s soldiers have in these lands?»

“Aye,” Laegon replied solemnly as he stood. “More importantly, who killed these men, and why?”

«We saw no sign of the attackers during our patrol. They must have fled south, intent on returning to the border. These men have been dead for an hour at most. If we make haste, we should be able to catch their killers before they cross into Dargon.»

Brégen looked questioningly at the elf when Laegon showed no interest in returning to his horse. Instead, the prince silently walked among the four bodies once again, intently studying the men’s positions and analyzing their injuries. Kneeling before a headless corpse, he slowly closed his eyes. Calling upon his Sight, Laegon began to recreate the battle in his mind, visualizing the movements and actions each man had taken before meeting his death.

Surprisingly, his Sight created the image of only one other man. Laegon watched with uncomfortable curiosity while the scene continued to unfold before him. He heard the men’s screams and felt their agony, as one by one, they succumbed to their wounds. An anguished cry escaped Laegon’s throat when the fourth soldier’s head was cleanly severed from his torso, leaving a lone figure standing among the bodies.

The elf breathed heavily as he stood, allowing the image to vanish from his mind. “These soldiers were not hunted,” he informed his Guardian somberly. The lion cocked his head at the announcement. “They were a group of five companions who fought one another. There is only one man now making his way to our southern border.”

Brégen’s response was gruff.
«That answers the question of who, but it does not answer the question of why. It most certainly does not tell us what business a group of royal soldiers from Dargon had within Mistwood.»

“From what I understand, Thaurod has become an increasing threat to King Donríel of late. The Wood Elves are one of his oldest allies. Perhaps the king had decided to request our aid, and these soldiers were escorting him to Silverden.”

«Aye, an escort may have been the reason for their journey, but it is obvious these men were not all here on common purpose. There was a traitor in their midst.»

“There was not just one.”

«Oh?»
The dark golden tuft of fur above Brégen’s olive eye rose with intrigue.

“My Sight showed me that two fought against three.”

«Our plot thickens, Protector. If these men were indeed serving as an escort, then where is their royal companion? Is the soldier returning to Dargon friend or foe?»

A powerful gust of wind burst through the small clearing, sending a violent flurry of snow and ice across the somber battleground. Laegon shielded his unprotected face from the furious onslaught. Lowering his head, he caught a faint glint of steel near the pale hand of one of the soldiers. He knelt on the ground, watching with growing interest as the unrelenting wind blew away more of the snow, freeing the blade from its wintry tomb.

At first glance, Laegon didn’t notice anything unusual about the small weapon, but his uncanny senses told him otherwise. He huddled his body against the harsh wind and bent lower to inspect the dagger more closely. He could see it was a weapon of excellent quality, such as he would expect for a soldier of the royal court, but focusing on the craftsmanship wouldn’t provide him with the answers he sought.

Scrutinizing the pommel, he found himself staring at the opposing heads of two golden dragons. Their eyes were red rubies that sparkled brilliantly despite the dim gray light of the storm.

His curiosity piqued, Laegon turned his attention to the corpse nearest the dagger. The unrelenting wind exposed part of the clothing hidden beneath the snow, and he wasn’t surprised to see the man’s garments weren’t that of a royal soldier.

“This dagger and clothing are not issued to Dargon’s soldiers,” he informed Brégen. “Three of these men were not fully enlisted soldiers of the king.”

The strong gusts abruptly changed direction. A thunderous roar erupted from the lion’s throat, and he immediately shot to the east. The Guardian ran for a few hundred yards before sliding to a stop near an icy patch of ground where, like flowers in a desert wasteland, the colorful fletchings of two arrows extended above the rapidly accumulating snow. He rushed to the spot, growling with rage when he recognized the slim figure of a woman sprawled on the ground, the tips of her jet-black curls fluttering aimlessly in the wind. He gently nudged her ashen cheek. When she didn’t respond, he promptly lay next to her, pressing his body tightly against hers in an attempt to transfer as much of his warmth to her as possible.

«Laegon, it is King Gartheld Donríel’s daughter, Princess Irewen! She was shot twice in the back while attempting to flee. She is alive!»

Before his horse had a chance to come to a complete stop, Laegon leapt from the saddle. He knelt by Irewen’s still body and called upon his Sight. Allowing the magic to guide his hands, he began to ease one of the arrows from her back, mindful that he didn’t cause her any further damage.

The process was painstakingly slow. Despite the frigid temperature, beads of sweat trickled down his forehead. He breathed a sigh of relief after removing the first arrow, then quickly turned his attention to the second.

He realized at once that something was amiss. Frowning, he gently probed the area surrounding the wound with his Sight. His heart stopped. The princess was poisoned.

Swearing under his breath, Laegon frantically returned to the task of removing the arrow from Irewen’s back. He hoped he would be able to dislodge the projectile before all of the poison was absorbed into her body. He was wrong.

The arrowhead was a thin hollow cylinder. Now empty, save for a thin metal disk, it had served as a vessel for the deadly substance. When the arrow hit Irewen, the force of the blow thrust the disk forward in the cylinder, pushing the drug into her back.

Laegon threw the arrow aside in frustration. He wasn’t a Healer, nor was there time to acquire an antidote. The poison was quickly spreading. Soon, Irewen would be beyond aid. Whatever assistance he could give, he needed to give it now.

He placed his hands on Irewen’s back, then cautiously let his magic to flow into her. Probing her body, he searched for the extent of the poison. The situation was indeed dire, but certainly not as bad as he had feared. The substance had absorbed into the tissue of her lungs; thankfully, it hadn’t yet reached her heart.

Working quickly to ensure the drug didn’t advance further, Laegon placed a thin veil of his magic around the perimeter of the poison. Once it was contained, he slowly worked backwards to the site where the arrow had penetrated Irewen’s skin, scrupulously eradicating the drug from the princess’s frail body.

When the last of the poison was eliminated, Irewen was breathing easier, but she was by no means clear of danger. The princess had lost a great deal of blood. The dark fluid continued to ooze from her injuries.

Ignoring the stabbing pain in his joints, Laegon concentrated on her puncture wounds. He again allowed his Sight to guide him and meticulously mended the damaged tissue and muscle in Irewen’s back before closing the skin.

Expecting her to wake now that she was healed, he looked at her in anticipation. Nothing happened. She didn’t move. Her shallow breathing remained the same. Her eyes stayed closed. Not even the faintest sound escaped her lips.

Perplexed, Laegon let his magic flow through her body once more, seeking anything he might have missed. Nothing. He sighed, defeated. Whatever was causing her to inch closer towards death was beyond the reach of his Sight.

Knowing the best thing he could do was to get her out of the storm, he carefully lifted Irewen onto his horse. He settled behind her in the saddle and let her body rest comfortably against his chest.

“She is fading,” he told Brégen, unable to mask the anxiety in his voice. “I can do no more for her here. We must seek shelter.”

The Guardian nodded swiftly, then bolted to the east.

“Naralé, Silwen,” Laegon shouted, feeling the mare respond with spirited vigor at the sound of her name. “Naralé!”

Laegon’s tension continued to build. Silwen dashed after Brégen, closely following the lion as he hastily guided them to safety. The prince did his best to ignore the dark shadow looming ominously behind them. He sensed its deathly tendrils reaching viciously for the princess. They were in a hopeless race against the power of the dead.

“Hold on, Irewen,” he whispered in her ear while silently willing Silwen to run faster. “Stay with me. Do not let go.”

Irewen felt nothing—no pain, no fear, no sorrow.

Not lumbered by the clutches of time, she floated aimlessly amidst the void that had consumed her mind. Her body was completely weightless, caught in the precarious realm between life and death. She had no sense of purpose or direction. She had no memories of the past and no dreams for the future. She didn’t know where she was, nor did she care.

Irewen Donríel, Princess of Dargon, simply was.

Suddenly, a brilliant light burst through the blackness, and a glorious warmth enveloped her body. She heard the hushed whispers of a man, struggling to reach her through the emptiness. She yearned for the stranger’s company and longed for his words to penetrate into the endless abyss where she remained trapped.

A distant glimmer of hope sparked in her heart. She abruptly felt life.

Her fragile dreams were quickly destroyed. A threatening darkness emerged behind her. Fear immediately consumed her body. She struggled to lift herself from the boundless void. The man’s urgent words of encouragement finally reached her. She frantically scrambled towards his desperate voice, to no avail. No matter how fast she willed herself to move, the menacing shadow lurched forward, expertly closing the brittle divide separating her from death.

It seemed as though she was trying to swim through a sea of molasses, and she sank further into the murky depths. With harrowing despair, she realized she could not escape. Losing the strength to fight, she panicked.