Doroschuk
03-03-2011, 08:39 PM
Haven
Chapter 1: The Hunt
The old forest had been quiet for a long time. Only the soothing sounds of the far off trickle of water and the humming of insects broke this natural silence. It was peaceful, but the tranquility was soon to be broken by an unwieldy passerby. Through the thick trees there came a man, running as if for his life, crashing through the forest, brushing tall trees, and crushing meager plants underfoot. He slowed to a stop in a clearing, catching his ragged breath.
The man was light in complexion, with short bushy hair, and no beard to speak of. The man’s clothes were ragged, his shoes were of torn leather, and his only weapon was a small blade tucked beneath his belt-sash. Broken shackles dangled from his wrists, making a very loud noise as he ran, and he began to hate himself for not removing the actual bands around his wrists. His face was wrinkled with frown-lines, and his tooth-lacking mouth hung open so as to catch a breath in all his haste. His dark eyes scanned ahead for a clear path, but then he quickly glanced behind to see if the rangers were near.
Not far behind the man were six figures, each cloaked and hooded. They were clothed all the same, with their cloaks a grayish-green color, making them indistinguishable from the rest of the forest. The figure in the middle bent down low to the ground, and softly listened to the earth. He then brushed his fingers across the leaves and dirt. The hooded figure slowly stood up again, and held his right hand in the air, pointing three fingers upwards, then two downwards, he stuck his thumb towards himself, and finally balled his hand into a fist. A slight rustle could be heard as three of the cloaked men scurried up the trees, while the center figure walked ahead, distantly escorted by the final two.
The rangers slowly circled the clearing, until they surrounded it at six points. Finally the captain walked forth into the clearing, making himself noticed. The man in the center turned abruptly and faced the captain, who unveiled his face, showing an old and serious portrait, with one green eye, and the other covered with cloth. His long dark hair was a wild mess, and showed signs of grayness and age; his wizened face revealed years of battle and anguish; and several scars wound their way across his gnarled features. He himself seemed a relic of a darker time of pain and war, but peace had made him an old man, clinging to his long-forgotten past. His eye was like a pool of sorrow, masked by a veil of hatred; a hatred of those who would disturb the peace he sacrificed so much to bring.
As he approached, the man with the shackles turned to flee, but he was cut off by two shadowy figures on the far side of the clearing. Closed in, the man stopped short and held his breath.
The captain smirked and said, “You are trapped, my friend, like a rat, and death rears its ugly head at your miserable self. You stand accused of murder in the first degree, and after being sentenced to life in prison, you escaped. If I were in your position I would have rotted in jail instead of escaped the prison. We all know escape from punishment is a personal insult to the king, an affront to Highmaster Sheo… and it shows cowardice. Are you unable to face your just punishment for taking a life unjustly? For murdering the innocent? There is now a child with no father, a wife with no husband, and you are to blame. Now you face death, the ultimate price. But I give you a way out: put your mouth to the dirt and beg me for forgiveness for your crimes, and then you will beg to the family, you will grovel and writhe in the dirt until they are convinced of your immense regret. Then and only then may you go back to prison; but if you attempt anything unsavory, I will be forced to break you. And then of course you will die.”
The thief moved his head down to the ground, as if bowing to the captain. He began to beg for forgiveness, but his remorse seemed hollow. “Please,” he said, “I beg forgiveness for the murder of this innocent man.”
“I don’t believe you!” shouted the captain, “Beg! Your life depends on it!” He kicked the man, yelling and striking him. Tears streamed from the poor escapee’s face. He began to shout hysterically. He looked to the right and saw another ranger, younger than he, whose eyes were swift and terrible.
He was shorter and thinner than the others. His hair was long and dark, but his eyes a piercing shade of gray. They were mesmerizing, like dew on the mountainside in the early morning, and very soft, usually. He had been the old captain’s protégé since he could remember; some say the captain had adopted him as his own almost immediately after the boy’s mother died in childbirth.
Arrinicus, Arrin for short, was young and courageous, a bold child, if brash at times. He was shaping up to be a mighty warrior, even though he had only recently attained his brotherhood status. His ears could hear incredibly well, and his eyes could see things distant as if they were clear as a still pool of water. He thought he knew everything, as all young people do, and he claimed he knew the old captain like the back of his hand. This torture was routine for the captain, and Arrin had seen it many times.
The captain, Merodus, enjoyed it when his captives begged. It reminded him of his glory days, back in the war, forty years ago. He was in his sixties now, but the old man still was frightening, and his hair was dark and thick. His age had made him bitter to all but Arrin, but he always told stories to those who asked him: stories of his great deeds in the war as the Grand Captain of all the Rangers, and he always told of the losses and sorrows faced by him and his kin. That is why he toyed with criminals. That is why he liked to turn them into emotional wrecks; he wanted them to lash out. He wanted to hurt them.
Merodus kept yelling at his prey, and continued to berate and insult him, moving ever closer to the man. The murderer had had enough, his confusion turned into rage, and he leapt up, grabbing his dagger, and slashed wildly at old man. Anticipating this move, the ranger swept towards the man’s right side, and grabbing his arm in two places, threw the fool to the ground. Then, placing his foot at the elbow, he yanked the man’s forearm, and there was a great snap as the man’s arm fell limp. The poor criminal began to scream wildly as the captain smirked proudly. Finally, a kick to the head knocked the captive unconscious, and the rest of the rangers leapt into the circle.
The rangers all stood about the broken figure before them, grimacing at the awful sight. Merodus was brutal, they knew, and he liked to have his way with his targets. He looked around at the grim bunch, his arms folded and a satisfied grin on his face. Some of them hung their heads, and none made eye contact with the captain. He crouched, groaning slightly, and felt for the pulse of the beaten man.
Merodus scoffed, “This man is but a small time criminal compared to what I have seen.” He sighed, “You are the younger generation, and you are all going to one day fill the boots of your senior rangers. But you must be steadfast: this broken fool is nothing. You will face, murderers, thieves, rapists, psychotic killers, monsters in every sense of the word. But you must all be strong. Look at this man, smell the sweat and blood, embrace it, for it is your life as a ranger. You represent the greatest warriors in the world, so show the world you are beyond sympathy for the heartless, remorse for the evil. Those things breed pity, and criminals prey on the pity of their captors.”
With that he stood up, clapped his gloved hands together and said, “Come on then, away with the fool.” He nodded west, and from the circle came Thermond, a big, burly ranger, who took hold of the unconscious man and set him over his back. As they all began to walk, a quiet drizzle began, which soon turned into a heavy rain. The captain shook his head playfully.
“Nice day for a stroll, eh boys?” he said jovially, and began to walk merrily towards the brush. They all groaned in disapproval, but a quick look from the captain made them straighten up and march in line. The rain continued steadily for the rest of the day.
***
On the eve of that night three men arrived on a large white boat, landing in the port city of Mindalos, the quaint seat of government for the small island kingdom of Elhambrad. They were tall and thin, very lithe and bony in appearance, for they were pale and all had light gray hair, their cheekbones high, and their lips tight. The two flanking the third were dressed identically, a dark purple tunic and a red sash across their right shoulders. Each wore light boots and silken trousers. They both bore a mighty spear, a curved glaive of sorts, vicious and deadly.
In the middle was the most noble of the group, with hair as white as snow. He was taller than his companions and his clothes were far grander. He had black silk hugging his thin body, and a mantle of cold steel, with jagged edges making his appearance even more menacing. In the center of his ornate armor was a purple jewel, long and dull, and it seemed to hiss as he walked off the boat with his escort. His dark purple cloak whipped about as the he slowly moved amongst the dock workers.
Mindalos was a city built on the ocean, the only real port in Elhambrad. Its buildings hugged a mountainside, squeezing between the windy cliffs and the warm shore. Its houses were of stone, scattered for about a mile along the southeastern coast, while its palace was its oldest building, a grand wooden frame that hung around stone blocks, located in a small garden that made no good impression on any visitor.
The party walked through the streets of the city, with their leader staring quaintly at the populace, while his escorts grimaced angrily at passerby. Their step was light, so that no average man could hear them even as they meandered down the main street. Coming to the central plaza of the small city, the two lesser men moved away and began to search the city for its king. One of the men found his target, and gave a sharp whistle to the others. Within five minutes they had arrived, and the taller man caught sight of the palace, nothing more than a large beer hall to his eyes. As they approached, the people began to point and whisper hurriedly. Some even closed their windows to the newcomers.
The strangers came to the palace, a mansion in name only, and the gate was closed shut, guarded by a little man. He was young and filled with vigor, and stood in defiance of their passage.
In a voice of meager authority, the guard said, “Ay sir, I’ll not have ye come through this door I won’t!” But the nobleman seemed amused. He simply looked into the eyes of the peasant fool, who was overtaken, and fell into an oblivious stupor.
“You will open these gates,” the nobleman said “and usher me forth as an honored guest, will you not?” The guard tilted his head to the right and smiled, wide-eyed.
“I will indeed,” he said, and his voice echoed with that of his captor’s. He happily opened the gates and let the group through.
He brought forth a small horn, and upon blowing it loudly in the middle of the courtyard, proclaimed, “Hail, king. Come meet our honored guest, a lord from distant lands.” Within minutes, several large men: fur clad brutes with clubs and swords, came marching out into the courtyard, followed by a middle-aged man who wore a silver crown on his head. He bobbed back and forth as he walked to the center of the garden, and tried to set his eyes on the guests. His forehead was crinkled in a serious manner, but his brightly reddened nose betrayed his inebriation.
The king shouted in a slurred but irritated voice, “What is this disturbance? Can a king not drink in peace?” The greater figure came into view, and he looked at the pot-bellied drunk with contempt.
“I believe I am your disturbance,” he said, smirking, “but I would hold your tongue if I were you.” The king, in his intoxicated state, took a charge at the newcomer.
“Blast you, foul man! I do not suffer people who know not when to hold their tongues in the presence of royalty. A fool you must be!”
But the tall man had had enough, “Nay!” he retorted, “You are the fool, old man, with your regal garb and peasant demeanor. I am sickened by the sight of a supposed ruler who cannot even walk out his front door without holding on to something! The dogs eat from your table as equals of your own kind!”
The king almost fell back at such a response, all he could do was stare at this strange man whose words bit like acid. He tried to utter a word, but the intruder stopped him.
“Speak not! For your word are not fit for my royal ears!”
The king barely squeeked, “Who are you?”
“Me?” the nobleman laughed, “I am Turos Fialis Si’hiron, and I am lord of the Si’hir Eldari. But perhaps you guessed that already… My purpose in this backwash is to find an old friend of mine. His hair is dark, his body thin and tall. He would have eyes reminiscent to mine.”
The king shook his head, “I know not all my subjects, and I couldn’t point him out with so few details.” But then Turos showed a great rage and grabbed hold of the king, his guards being too frightened to intervene. His eyes lost all the softness, they were swift and terrible. The king, scared sober, opened his mouth to gasp.
I have seen those eyes before,” he said.
***
It was approaching nighttime when the rangers returned to Sheo’s Monastery with the bounty of their hunt. All of them walked in a vague line, none speaking but Merodus’ random spats, and Arrin showed a sense of pride the others seemed to lack. This had been his first hunt as a brother, a title bestowed to a young man at the age of sixteen. It was only a title, worth nothing more than a name and a bow. Arrin was still an apprentice; still learning the ways of the rangers, still kept under supervision.
They climbed up the steep mountain pass, an ancient pathway, known only to the rangers, used to bypass the village of Larsus at the foot of the Mount Gilcus. This was necessary as the people usually became uncomfortable when near rangers. The rangers had always been a highly respected group of well-trained individuals, but the people knew they had a black and white view of law. It was best to stay away and avoid them, lest you be the target of their attention. Thus, the rangers avoided the people, not out of spite, but simply because their goal in life was to stop high level threats to peace, not to catch cat burglars.
Arrin had always been somewhat of a rascal around his fellow rangers, but when meeting new people he was very shy. The one person that kept him socially intact was his best friend and roommate Dalöm. Dalöm was an orphan, just like Arrin, and he’d been at the Monastery all his life. He and Arrin had stuck together since childhood, with Dalöm being only a year older. He was tall and had thick brown hair, with a thin beard growing on his jaw. He thought of himself as the cool and collected older brother to Arrin’s naïve adventurer. He came up to Furion from behind his shoulder.
“Shame what the old man did to the poor fellow, eh?” he said quietly.
Arrin looked back and replied with his usual poster child attitude. “He only did what he thought was deserved.”
Dalöm shrugged, “Whatever you say, I’m just thinking,”
“What?”
“Well, what if we were actually nice for a change and just carted him off to jail. Then the public might actually care for our wretched arses.”
Arrin turned completely around, walking backwards, “If the captain had done that, then would the prisoner have learned anything?”
Dalöm made a nonchalant shrug, “Hey, just slap a few more years on the guy.”
“He’s a murderer. He already has a life sentence.”
“Shut up, I’m just saying the old guy didn’t need to go and snap the man’s arm in two.”
Arrin grinned, and as they kept walking, he closed his eyes and cleared his thoughts. Breathing deeply, he quickly thrust his arm downwards. Suddenly Dalöm fell to the ground barely catching himself.
“Blast it Arrin!” he shouted as he held his knee, “You know I just about fell off the bloody cliff!”
Arrin turned to look at him and shrugged, “Why’d you fall brother?” A devilish grin stretched across his face.
Dalöm shook it off and stood up, “That spell craft of yours is going to get you in trouble one of these days, I swear it!” He grunted as he dramatically limped ahead.
Arrin just laughed, “Come on you little baby! You’re a big, strong ranger, I know you’re fine.”
Without looking back, Dalöm retorted, “Shut it, you dung dweller!”
Arrin put his hands on his hips and smiled, “Excellent comeback! Did you stay up all night with that one?”
Dalöm continued with a steady pace. Furion smiled and stayed behind the others. Arrinicus thought of Dalöm as a real brother, and always respected him in that sense. The wind blew across the mountainside, and Furion drew his cloak together. He looked out upon the horizon, and he could just barely make out the tall oak tree at the top of the mountain on which the city of Mindalos was built next to. No one but he could see it, but he had always been different like that.
He was a strange boy, with thinner looks than the others. Black hair adorned his head, unlike the usual brown and blonde. His eyes were keen, and his ears strong, but what really made him stand out, at least in his mind, was his power. Strength was not a skill of his: he had only ever won two wrestling matches in his career, and his skill with large weapons was laughable. But he harbored a secret that only Dalöm knew about. He had a power, the ability to control things with his mind, and manipulate them with his hands. His senses already put him above the other rangers, and he didn’t want to give them another reason to disdain him.
The sun was invisible behind the clouds, and all the soggy troops wanted to return to the Monastary. It was late summer, mid-August, in the year of Drua, one of the seven great spirits. There were many spirits in the world, and the Seven were like a pantheon, and all great nations revered them. Each held a certain realm as his own though, with their little island being the ancestral home of Highmaster Sheo, lord of the hunt, and of the forests. He was a quiet spirit, and his animal was the wolf. His gift to humanity was wit, and the bow. Drua was the lady of the seas, a kind spirit, who kept the seas under control. But she was quick to temper, and then her wrath was terrible, destroying ships and lives. She gave humanity sailing, and her animals are all the fish of the sea. There were many others, and they were all borne of the same father, “The Original”. But that is a tale for another day.
As the Monastery came into view, all of the tired men sighed in relief. The Monastery was built atop a promontory near the peak of Mount Gilcus, overlooking Larsus Village. Filled with monks, rangers, and pilgrims alike, the complex was the greatest temple to Sheo in the entire world. It was tall and wide, columned all about. It was built of red stone, eroded by age, giving it a dusty look. The monastery itself was a central dome, but it had several adjacent wings, with each about two hundred yards in length. To the west of the dome was the long gallery hallway, filled with sculpture, art, and exotic plants. The library was on the far end of the gallery, and it consisted of almost every single book or record on the entire island. The study room was adjacent to the library, and opened up to the front lawn, a neat and clean garden. On the east side were the dormitories, all inside a large building set in the mountainside. The dormitories connected directly with the leisure hall, an arc shaped building also built into the mountainside. The dining hall jutted out from there, half behind walls, and half open-aired. Next to that hall was the granary, for all the stored foodstuffs, and then beside that, in the back of the complex lay the training halls. That was where the rangers worked and trained, honing their skills to perfection. A path led away from the central dome, and tapered down the mountain and into the village. As Arrin looked at the glorious scene, the sun showed its last rays through the thick matt of clouds and struck against the building, giving the place a bright and mystical look. Furion took delight in nature’s honoring of Lord Sheo. The rain continued on.
***
Now the figure robed in black arrived in the small village of Larsus, accompanied by the hooded men. His visage was less that of an evil thing, but troubled almost. In his eyes one could see doubt, a thing he most definitely tried to conceal. But the rain kept any nosy passerby off the paths, but still Turos shivered. One of the hooded men stepped forward towards him.
“My lord,” said he, “Do you feel ill?”
“Nay, Sphaeon,” Turos replied, “But we should indeed find lodgings for the night and wait out this mess.” The guards complied, and the group dragged forth in their soggy robes along the flooded path. Entering what they presumed a village, Turos looked about for any indication of an inn. Upon rounding the corner of the main street, they all laid eyes on a large sign dangling from a post.
THE RUSTY SPITOON
Turos spotted the chagrin in his followers’ eyes, and sighed.
“It will have to do, I suppose.” he said solemnly.
Sphaeon took hold of the round knocker on the door and wrapped it three times. When the door began to creak open he stepped back for his master. Eying Turos was a small man, with a scraggly beard and ragged clothes. One of his eyes seemed to squint severely, while the other was large and round, fixed strangely on Turos. He took a step backwards and allowed the men in.
“This way me lords,” he said quietly, followed by, “Oy, master Randrim sir, you’ve guests.” Stepping into the small tavern, Turos sensed all sorts of foul things, be it the food or the lodgers themselves. The man he supposed to be Randrim came out and sat them down at a dingy little table in the corner of this earthy hut. His complexion was darker, tanned by years of labor, and his face was a burly display of scars and age. His dark red hair was cut short and curled over his wrinkled brow. On his muscular right arm was a tattoo of some sort of wolf-like creature. After getting their seats, the man crossed his arms and gave a strange look to the men.
“Shall I grab ye some ale lads,” he said, “Or perhaps some roasted chicken. Fresh eh?”
Sphaeon spoke first, “White Rose have ye, barkeep?” Randrim’s eyes crinkled in quick deliberation.
“Nay,” said he, “We’ve only mead and ale. Take yer pick.” His voice hissed with disdain. Sphaeon gave the man a dirty look as Turos waved his companion down. He spoke in a voice that was cool and friendly.
“Ale all around barkeep,” he said, “and some coin for good measure.” At this he flipped out a small silver piece, which Randrim caught and swiftly pocketed.
“Coming right up my lords,” he said, hastily bowing and leaving the table. Sphaeon fiddled with his knife as the party awaited their drinks, stopping to look at his reflection in the shiny blade. Turos relaxed as the comforting warmth of the small inn surrounded him, barely noticing when the barkeep came back, baring drinks for the group. They accepted their purchase and settled down, watching the other patrons as they dolled about. One man, though, was heard above the chatter, a bard in the opposite corner, and he had attracted a few men as an audience, though all the others could hear him anyway. His song went like this:
From the West, they say, comes news rather frightening,
The Eldarii, from the south, who strike as if lightening
Have sailed forth, from their home, on an island far away,
To battle man once more, who stand valiant and brave,
Against great fleets, and mighty hordes,
The walls of High Haven, and mighty lords,
Shall rise again, transcend all bounds,
And send their foes to burial mounds.
Turos grinned slightly, and leaned back in his chair.
“Soon,” he thought, “they will realize their foolishness.”
***
The rangers were welcomed home by a single person. He was an old, frail man, so ancient it would seem as if his body would crumble to dust in the wind. He was bent and gray, hunched over a thin staff. He was bald, and bore a curvaceous beard that was well kept. Its pale white color contrasted his deeply tanned face, crinkled with lines of age and stress. The old man barely held his eyes open, but they shone furiously. They were of amber hue, bright and radiant, and they pierced even Furion’s gaze. He was the grandmaster of the order of the Rangers of Sheo. His name was long forgotten, Elder they all called him, and Elder he was.
As Thermond laid the still unconscious body of the felon at Elder’s feet, the rangers bowed. The old man simply smiled.
“Rise,” he said, looking around as they stood up, “I am pleased to see you have all returned, but I am saddened at your prey’s fate. Brother Merodus I thought I made it a point not to physically harm your captives, but to simply subdue them.” Merodus fell to the ground, and bowed his head.
“Forgive me, Elder,” was all he said. Elder smiled once more, his entire face seeming to mold around his mouth.
“You are forgiven. But do not let it happen again.”
As Merodus rose, no one whispered anything about the captain. They all knew that though unequal amongst each other, all were equal before Elder, even the captain. The ancient leader waved his arm, took a handful of powder from a pack by his side, and blew it over the group, humming lowly.
He smiled again, “Sheo’s blessing on you all, Brothers Merodus, Kirator, Heilon, Fremund, Dalöm, and Arrinicus.” They bowed together, and then proceeded inside.
It was warm within the Great Hall. A sweet fragrance rose about the place, smelling of honey and salt. The friar must have been preparing a meal for the tired rangers, and he was renowned for being very good at his job. The servants droned about doing their work, and the rangers made their way into the next hallway.
Merodus drew back and called Arrin to his side, and they walked behind the others.
“You performed excellently lad,” the old captain said, grinning with pride.
Arrin responded excitedly, “Thank you Captain. I am happy to hear your congratulations, but I simply watched as you handled the perpetrator.”
Merodus patted him on the back, “Come now, a man must learn to take a compliment. But indeed, you did well in that you did not act brashly. You have a history of acting out of turn, and I am pleased that you kept your calm. A ranger watches and waits, only acting when the perfect opportunity reveals itself. Sometimes you must draw that opportunity out,” he gave a chuckle as they stopped in front of a large door.
He looked Arrin in the eye, “That,” he said proudly, “was your lesson today.”
The two clasped hands in a warrior’s grip, and Arrin bowed, leaving the old man and entering the dining hall. There he found about twenty rangers, all sitting in close proximity to the fire. They were awaiting the friar’s meal, as they always did for about an hour before the food was actually served.
“Arrin!” shouted a familiar voice, “Over here!”
Dalöm was waving at him from the table closest to the fire. Beside him were Schuler and Kirator. As Arrin made his way to the table, Kirator, a handsome young man, with long, dark hair and a wiry look, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
“Enjoy your first hunt?” he asked smugly.
Arrin took his seat and replied, “Yes, actually.”
“I bet it was all sorts of fun,” said Schuler, in his sad, lonely voice. He held his head down, staring at his plate, sighing. He had always been a miserable fellow for some reason unknown to the others. His dark, slick hair complimented the paleness of his skin, and the darkness under his eyes.
Kirator retorted, “Its only fun if you enjoy barbarism, which the captain seems so apt for. If only I was a member of Surrocus’ group, then… well he knows how to have fun.”
“Surrocus?” Arrin looked around, and whispered, “Didn’t he get caught up in an affair with a woman from the capital?”
Kirator looked angry, “Indeed. And I applaud the man’s bravery. He broke the one rule here I don’t agree with at all. Why can’t we be allowed wives?”
Arrin started, “Because love distracts us from our commit…”
“Commitment to Sheo,” Kirator interrupted, “I know the teachings Arrin. And it was a rhetorical question.”
“I wouldn’t be able to find a wife if my life depended on it,” said Schuler glumly.
Dalöm spoke up, “Stop it with your whining,” he said, “And you too can shut it as well. Dinner is come!” His love of meats was exceeded by no living man. All of them ate wholesomely, Schuler eating the least out of sheer lethargy. Arrin preferred bread and fruits to the excess of meat on Dalöm’s plate, and Kirator ate good helpings of everything. By the end of the meal, they was a smile on everyone’s face, even Schuler was satisfied from his meal.
Dalom seemed to be half asleep and Kirator leaned back again. Shuler just watched everyone else. All the while Arrin observed as Brachus, a senior ranger, slowly approached him. Brachus was Elder’s gopher, a man who took delight in performing his master’s tasks and whims. He approached the young ranger quietly.
“My Elder wishes to see thee in his chambers, Brother Arrinicus.” Then he moved on, leaving no time for Arrin’s questions. Confused, he got out of his chair and slipped out the door.
Heading towards Elder’s chambers, Arrin walked by the Hall of the Past. It was the monastery’s museum of sorts, a collection of statues and busts, paintings and tapestries, all depicting the exploits of past rangers. They told the tales of Gilcus the Great, the namesake of the mountain, Lordrid Grimhammer, Hildred the Tall, Meoglad Moonwalker, Yom’thul the Silent, and many others. Of course the library contained any written manuscripts, but they were less interesting to some.
Soon the boy came upon a long hallway, ending with two great oak doors. He went up to them and saw how heavy they looked. Preparing himself, he pushed with all his strength against the doors, bursting through and falling over. They simply fell open and swung lightly. Arrin, embarrassed to no end, collected himself and looked up, nearly screaming when he saw that ancient man that was Elder sitting in his bag-chair. The old man was delighted.
“Oho!” he shouted, “That always gets the younger ones. The doors are much lighter than they appear: simply a safety mechanism for the room, but a source of fun for me!” He smiled wildly as Arrin stared confusedly at this apparent mad-man. The boy hurriedly bowed in his direction.
“Please forgive me for dishonoring you, most high Elder.” He buried his face in the floor.
“Posh, young one,” laughed Elder, “everyone falls for it at least once.” He burst into laughter again. Arrin’s face turned a bright red.
The old man fell back into his seat, and said, “You may rise, lad. I meant you no embarrassment.”
Arrin stood up, his head staring at his feet, “What is it you wish of me, Elder?”
Elder’s face became grim, “I am disturbed by recent events.”
Arrin quickly defended himself, “I have done nothing wrong, I promise Elder!”
The old man raised a hand for silence.
“You are not what disturbs me,” he said, “but rather news from the capital.”
Arrin was relieved, and inquired, “What news, sir?”
“One of my rangers in the palace reported to me just minutes ago. He tells me of a foreigner arriving in Mindalos.”
“We see many foreigners in the harbor, sir.”
“Yes, but unlike most he was donned in noble dress, and had a very intimidating power around him. Furthermore, he was Eldari.”
“Eldari?” said Arrin, confused once more.
“Indeed,” replied Elder, “They are a race of people that, until recently, have been very reclusive. They are smaller than the average man, a lithe people, good hearing, and excellent vision. They mostly have lightly colored hair and their cheekbones are high. Their people once held a vast empire, but suddenly were cast down, and they retreated to their home far in the south. But lately they have been seen far and wide, and it is said they are expanding in the south. I am unsure what to think of this man’s arrival.”
“I do not wish to be rude, Elder, but how does this pertain to me?”
“You my boy, are his target.”
Arrin stepped back, “What do you mean?”
“The eldari somehow gained entrance into the palace, and hassled the king of Mindalos. He told him he looked for a man with eyes resembling his. My ranger described them to me, and I knew only one person had eyes such as those: You.”
Arrin was shocked, “Why would someone be looking for me?” he asked, “I have never known anyone beyond this island”
The old man sighed, “I can think of no reason. But the safety of my people come first, and I must ask you to stay within the Monastery grounds for a while. At least until I have more information.”
“Thank you, Elder,” Arrin quietly replied, “I will take my leave.”
“You are dismissed.” Said the old man, but as Arrin got up and walked away, Elder said, “Arrinicus,” and the boy turned around, “Lay low. Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself.”
Arrin nodded and continued on his way. He took the long walk towards the dormitories, thinking about what he’d been told. But he was relieved that no one could pluck him from the Monastery. It was his safe haven.
When he arrived in his room, he relayed the tale to Dalöm, who swallowed it up with childish intrigue. After many questions, Arrin went to bed, sleeping warmly in his comfortable sheets.
***
Turos awoke without moving, listening to the jostling in his room. Upon opening his eyes he saw that his bodyguards had been beaten and tied up in the corner, while several eldari men stood with their weapons drawn.
His face flushed with anger, “What is the meaning of this intrusion?!”
A soldier spoke in a deep commanding voice, “Forgiveness, my liege, but we are here to detain you.”
Turos stood up, “By whose orders?!”
The commander bowed his head and said, “Your sister.”
Turos was in shock as they pulled him out of the room, followed by Sphaeon, but the other guard couldn’t move. They were brought outside and into the street where a throne was being hoisted by several slaves. Brought to their knees, the two men looked up at the slender figure seated atop the throne.
She was Kaila nos Fila Si’hiron, Princess of the Si’hir Eldari. She was beautiful to the eyes of all men, her hair white silver like her brother’s, and her eyes that same, piercing gray. She was garbed in black metal and garnet satin, with pointed tips to match her nails. Her voice was light, but authoritative.
“Why am I not surprised to find you snooping around in Human lands Turos?” she said, grinning smugly.
“I am here to carry out the will of our father.” Turos replied angrily.
“Daddy sent you on a mission I wasn’t aware of? Well your bodyguard kindly told me you searched for a man, before he unfortunately perished.” She chuckled viciously, “Perhaps enslaving the populace and taking them home would be good. Burn the rest of the place down, hmm? I think it’s a good idea big brother.”
Turos stood up, shouting, “You witch!” his hands lit up with fire and he threw it at his sister. She waved off the burning balls of flame as if they were simply bugs in her face.”
She smiled maniacally, “Come now Turos, when are you going to think up some real tricks.” She held out her arm and moved her hand as if squeezing something. Suddenly Turos clutched his stomach and fell back to his knees. He yelled and convulsed into the street.
Kaila simply ignored him and said, “Take my brother back to his ship and tie it down. He doesn’t leave until I command. Now gather all the men. Kill the rest.” The soldiers spread all over the island following their grisly orders.
As Turos was being hauled off, Kaila saw the monastery at the top of the mountain, and ordered, “To the top boys! Last one there will be killed!” She laughed once more.
***
Arrin heard the rumblings outside, like deep, rolling thunder. He rose from his bed and looked out the window. The whole island seemed to be on fire, even Larsus below. He sprang from the window and clothed himself, shouting at the others to awaken. They rolled about sluggishly until they realized the urgency of their situation. Clothing themselves, they all burst out of the dormitories, shouting at the others in haste. Quickly making his way to the armory, Arrin was the first to strap in his gear. Soon the others, still a bit sleepily, followed suit. The massive amount of men all pushing through to their weapons caused chaos in the small building.
Merodus began shouting over the clamor, “My squad to the courtyard, as well as all the initiates! All of Captain Grisham and Captain Surrocus’ men to the front wall! Follow my orders!” he paused for a minute, being brushed by passing rangers, then shouted, “I am in command!”
Thunder loomed in the deep as the legions of ironclad men poured up the mountain steps. The rangers watched in silence as darkness descended, and the rainclouds in the sky let loose their floodgates, filling the valley with drenching rain, slowing down their foe. As the lightning broke the sky, the great host was illuminated in a single flash of metal against the light. The thunder seemed weak against the great footfalls of these monsters clad in metal.
As they made the approach to the Monastery, Merodus, unflinching, stood upon the wall, daring his foe to even try to come closer.
He gave his order, “Volley to them, boys. Hell and thunder for these monstrosities!”
The entire company of men raised their bows in unison, resting their arrows and drawing back their stings. In a great roar of “Loose!” the deadly missiles were released upon their hapless targets, whose metal chassis held no defense against the terrible power of this rain of death.
Though many fell, it seemed as though twice as many replaced them, and once more the forked streaks in the sky showed the fury of the invaders and their blazing metal. They filled the valley around the promontory, and continued to press into the hail of arrows that ever struck them down. Soon, many of these iron clad creatures broke out small, metal devices with strings, which they pulled back and placed great iron bolts onto. With a great heave they released their terrible volley, striking down many of the defenders.
“Fire at will!” shouted the captain, who then retreated to the courtyard, ordering the volleys from those rangers. Though surrounded by this army of armored soldiers, the rangers held fast, and continued to break the invaders against the wall.
Arrin was atop a side wall, firing rapidly against the enemy when he saw a great throne burst onto the promontory, carrying a shadowy figure of thin looks and pale complexion. His eyes were shocked in disbelief when the figure, robed in black, stretched out its hand, and in a pulling motion, seemed to pull the Monastery’s gate towards it. It shattered, taking many rangers and invaders with it. Arrin ran quickly towards the rubble, but stopped short when the iron monsters began to pour through. He was baffled as he watched them fight. Rather than kill their foe, they beat them into submission, and carried out their task with lack of care for their own casualties.
Only in weight and numbers could these creatures wrestle down the powerful rangers, and they used this to great effect. Soon the rangers were broken, and being swept off the battleground. Arrin found Kirator locked in battle with one of the monsters. But suddenly, a great bolt of iron pierced his body, and seeing man wounded beyond immediate healing, the creature beat him viciously to death. Arrin’s body almost went limp at such a sight.
Arrinicus himself had kept from battling with his sword, but when one invader approached him, he brandished his blade. The two took battle, and Arrin quickly overwhelmed the soldier, and struck him down, sticking the blade through his neck. But to the chagrin of his killer, the monster’s helmet rolled from its head, and revealed a handsome face, struck down in the prime of youth. It was a man.
This scene broke the young ranger, who staggered off the corpse and onto the open battlefield. Men were being shackled left and right, while the rest were mopped up. Soon, Arrin wandered right into the spear of an enemy soldier. The armor-clad grunt struck him with the metal ball on the blunt end of his spear, and the boy fell to the cold ground, struck with a sense of delirium. He could feel the rain pour over him, and his breathing seemed to become loud and ragged. His vision was blurred with a thick haze as he felt his mind slip away. He tasted something strange in his mouth, a bitter taste. More rangers fell as Arrin used the last of his strength to gasp for breath. He slowly shut his eyes. Darkness engulfed him.
The world was silent.
Chapter 1: The Hunt
The old forest had been quiet for a long time. Only the soothing sounds of the far off trickle of water and the humming of insects broke this natural silence. It was peaceful, but the tranquility was soon to be broken by an unwieldy passerby. Through the thick trees there came a man, running as if for his life, crashing through the forest, brushing tall trees, and crushing meager plants underfoot. He slowed to a stop in a clearing, catching his ragged breath.
The man was light in complexion, with short bushy hair, and no beard to speak of. The man’s clothes were ragged, his shoes were of torn leather, and his only weapon was a small blade tucked beneath his belt-sash. Broken shackles dangled from his wrists, making a very loud noise as he ran, and he began to hate himself for not removing the actual bands around his wrists. His face was wrinkled with frown-lines, and his tooth-lacking mouth hung open so as to catch a breath in all his haste. His dark eyes scanned ahead for a clear path, but then he quickly glanced behind to see if the rangers were near.
Not far behind the man were six figures, each cloaked and hooded. They were clothed all the same, with their cloaks a grayish-green color, making them indistinguishable from the rest of the forest. The figure in the middle bent down low to the ground, and softly listened to the earth. He then brushed his fingers across the leaves and dirt. The hooded figure slowly stood up again, and held his right hand in the air, pointing three fingers upwards, then two downwards, he stuck his thumb towards himself, and finally balled his hand into a fist. A slight rustle could be heard as three of the cloaked men scurried up the trees, while the center figure walked ahead, distantly escorted by the final two.
The rangers slowly circled the clearing, until they surrounded it at six points. Finally the captain walked forth into the clearing, making himself noticed. The man in the center turned abruptly and faced the captain, who unveiled his face, showing an old and serious portrait, with one green eye, and the other covered with cloth. His long dark hair was a wild mess, and showed signs of grayness and age; his wizened face revealed years of battle and anguish; and several scars wound their way across his gnarled features. He himself seemed a relic of a darker time of pain and war, but peace had made him an old man, clinging to his long-forgotten past. His eye was like a pool of sorrow, masked by a veil of hatred; a hatred of those who would disturb the peace he sacrificed so much to bring.
As he approached, the man with the shackles turned to flee, but he was cut off by two shadowy figures on the far side of the clearing. Closed in, the man stopped short and held his breath.
The captain smirked and said, “You are trapped, my friend, like a rat, and death rears its ugly head at your miserable self. You stand accused of murder in the first degree, and after being sentenced to life in prison, you escaped. If I were in your position I would have rotted in jail instead of escaped the prison. We all know escape from punishment is a personal insult to the king, an affront to Highmaster Sheo… and it shows cowardice. Are you unable to face your just punishment for taking a life unjustly? For murdering the innocent? There is now a child with no father, a wife with no husband, and you are to blame. Now you face death, the ultimate price. But I give you a way out: put your mouth to the dirt and beg me for forgiveness for your crimes, and then you will beg to the family, you will grovel and writhe in the dirt until they are convinced of your immense regret. Then and only then may you go back to prison; but if you attempt anything unsavory, I will be forced to break you. And then of course you will die.”
The thief moved his head down to the ground, as if bowing to the captain. He began to beg for forgiveness, but his remorse seemed hollow. “Please,” he said, “I beg forgiveness for the murder of this innocent man.”
“I don’t believe you!” shouted the captain, “Beg! Your life depends on it!” He kicked the man, yelling and striking him. Tears streamed from the poor escapee’s face. He began to shout hysterically. He looked to the right and saw another ranger, younger than he, whose eyes were swift and terrible.
He was shorter and thinner than the others. His hair was long and dark, but his eyes a piercing shade of gray. They were mesmerizing, like dew on the mountainside in the early morning, and very soft, usually. He had been the old captain’s protégé since he could remember; some say the captain had adopted him as his own almost immediately after the boy’s mother died in childbirth.
Arrinicus, Arrin for short, was young and courageous, a bold child, if brash at times. He was shaping up to be a mighty warrior, even though he had only recently attained his brotherhood status. His ears could hear incredibly well, and his eyes could see things distant as if they were clear as a still pool of water. He thought he knew everything, as all young people do, and he claimed he knew the old captain like the back of his hand. This torture was routine for the captain, and Arrin had seen it many times.
The captain, Merodus, enjoyed it when his captives begged. It reminded him of his glory days, back in the war, forty years ago. He was in his sixties now, but the old man still was frightening, and his hair was dark and thick. His age had made him bitter to all but Arrin, but he always told stories to those who asked him: stories of his great deeds in the war as the Grand Captain of all the Rangers, and he always told of the losses and sorrows faced by him and his kin. That is why he toyed with criminals. That is why he liked to turn them into emotional wrecks; he wanted them to lash out. He wanted to hurt them.
Merodus kept yelling at his prey, and continued to berate and insult him, moving ever closer to the man. The murderer had had enough, his confusion turned into rage, and he leapt up, grabbing his dagger, and slashed wildly at old man. Anticipating this move, the ranger swept towards the man’s right side, and grabbing his arm in two places, threw the fool to the ground. Then, placing his foot at the elbow, he yanked the man’s forearm, and there was a great snap as the man’s arm fell limp. The poor criminal began to scream wildly as the captain smirked proudly. Finally, a kick to the head knocked the captive unconscious, and the rest of the rangers leapt into the circle.
The rangers all stood about the broken figure before them, grimacing at the awful sight. Merodus was brutal, they knew, and he liked to have his way with his targets. He looked around at the grim bunch, his arms folded and a satisfied grin on his face. Some of them hung their heads, and none made eye contact with the captain. He crouched, groaning slightly, and felt for the pulse of the beaten man.
Merodus scoffed, “This man is but a small time criminal compared to what I have seen.” He sighed, “You are the younger generation, and you are all going to one day fill the boots of your senior rangers. But you must be steadfast: this broken fool is nothing. You will face, murderers, thieves, rapists, psychotic killers, monsters in every sense of the word. But you must all be strong. Look at this man, smell the sweat and blood, embrace it, for it is your life as a ranger. You represent the greatest warriors in the world, so show the world you are beyond sympathy for the heartless, remorse for the evil. Those things breed pity, and criminals prey on the pity of their captors.”
With that he stood up, clapped his gloved hands together and said, “Come on then, away with the fool.” He nodded west, and from the circle came Thermond, a big, burly ranger, who took hold of the unconscious man and set him over his back. As they all began to walk, a quiet drizzle began, which soon turned into a heavy rain. The captain shook his head playfully.
“Nice day for a stroll, eh boys?” he said jovially, and began to walk merrily towards the brush. They all groaned in disapproval, but a quick look from the captain made them straighten up and march in line. The rain continued steadily for the rest of the day.
***
On the eve of that night three men arrived on a large white boat, landing in the port city of Mindalos, the quaint seat of government for the small island kingdom of Elhambrad. They were tall and thin, very lithe and bony in appearance, for they were pale and all had light gray hair, their cheekbones high, and their lips tight. The two flanking the third were dressed identically, a dark purple tunic and a red sash across their right shoulders. Each wore light boots and silken trousers. They both bore a mighty spear, a curved glaive of sorts, vicious and deadly.
In the middle was the most noble of the group, with hair as white as snow. He was taller than his companions and his clothes were far grander. He had black silk hugging his thin body, and a mantle of cold steel, with jagged edges making his appearance even more menacing. In the center of his ornate armor was a purple jewel, long and dull, and it seemed to hiss as he walked off the boat with his escort. His dark purple cloak whipped about as the he slowly moved amongst the dock workers.
Mindalos was a city built on the ocean, the only real port in Elhambrad. Its buildings hugged a mountainside, squeezing between the windy cliffs and the warm shore. Its houses were of stone, scattered for about a mile along the southeastern coast, while its palace was its oldest building, a grand wooden frame that hung around stone blocks, located in a small garden that made no good impression on any visitor.
The party walked through the streets of the city, with their leader staring quaintly at the populace, while his escorts grimaced angrily at passerby. Their step was light, so that no average man could hear them even as they meandered down the main street. Coming to the central plaza of the small city, the two lesser men moved away and began to search the city for its king. One of the men found his target, and gave a sharp whistle to the others. Within five minutes they had arrived, and the taller man caught sight of the palace, nothing more than a large beer hall to his eyes. As they approached, the people began to point and whisper hurriedly. Some even closed their windows to the newcomers.
The strangers came to the palace, a mansion in name only, and the gate was closed shut, guarded by a little man. He was young and filled with vigor, and stood in defiance of their passage.
In a voice of meager authority, the guard said, “Ay sir, I’ll not have ye come through this door I won’t!” But the nobleman seemed amused. He simply looked into the eyes of the peasant fool, who was overtaken, and fell into an oblivious stupor.
“You will open these gates,” the nobleman said “and usher me forth as an honored guest, will you not?” The guard tilted his head to the right and smiled, wide-eyed.
“I will indeed,” he said, and his voice echoed with that of his captor’s. He happily opened the gates and let the group through.
He brought forth a small horn, and upon blowing it loudly in the middle of the courtyard, proclaimed, “Hail, king. Come meet our honored guest, a lord from distant lands.” Within minutes, several large men: fur clad brutes with clubs and swords, came marching out into the courtyard, followed by a middle-aged man who wore a silver crown on his head. He bobbed back and forth as he walked to the center of the garden, and tried to set his eyes on the guests. His forehead was crinkled in a serious manner, but his brightly reddened nose betrayed his inebriation.
The king shouted in a slurred but irritated voice, “What is this disturbance? Can a king not drink in peace?” The greater figure came into view, and he looked at the pot-bellied drunk with contempt.
“I believe I am your disturbance,” he said, smirking, “but I would hold your tongue if I were you.” The king, in his intoxicated state, took a charge at the newcomer.
“Blast you, foul man! I do not suffer people who know not when to hold their tongues in the presence of royalty. A fool you must be!”
But the tall man had had enough, “Nay!” he retorted, “You are the fool, old man, with your regal garb and peasant demeanor. I am sickened by the sight of a supposed ruler who cannot even walk out his front door without holding on to something! The dogs eat from your table as equals of your own kind!”
The king almost fell back at such a response, all he could do was stare at this strange man whose words bit like acid. He tried to utter a word, but the intruder stopped him.
“Speak not! For your word are not fit for my royal ears!”
The king barely squeeked, “Who are you?”
“Me?” the nobleman laughed, “I am Turos Fialis Si’hiron, and I am lord of the Si’hir Eldari. But perhaps you guessed that already… My purpose in this backwash is to find an old friend of mine. His hair is dark, his body thin and tall. He would have eyes reminiscent to mine.”
The king shook his head, “I know not all my subjects, and I couldn’t point him out with so few details.” But then Turos showed a great rage and grabbed hold of the king, his guards being too frightened to intervene. His eyes lost all the softness, they were swift and terrible. The king, scared sober, opened his mouth to gasp.
I have seen those eyes before,” he said.
***
It was approaching nighttime when the rangers returned to Sheo’s Monastery with the bounty of their hunt. All of them walked in a vague line, none speaking but Merodus’ random spats, and Arrin showed a sense of pride the others seemed to lack. This had been his first hunt as a brother, a title bestowed to a young man at the age of sixteen. It was only a title, worth nothing more than a name and a bow. Arrin was still an apprentice; still learning the ways of the rangers, still kept under supervision.
They climbed up the steep mountain pass, an ancient pathway, known only to the rangers, used to bypass the village of Larsus at the foot of the Mount Gilcus. This was necessary as the people usually became uncomfortable when near rangers. The rangers had always been a highly respected group of well-trained individuals, but the people knew they had a black and white view of law. It was best to stay away and avoid them, lest you be the target of their attention. Thus, the rangers avoided the people, not out of spite, but simply because their goal in life was to stop high level threats to peace, not to catch cat burglars.
Arrin had always been somewhat of a rascal around his fellow rangers, but when meeting new people he was very shy. The one person that kept him socially intact was his best friend and roommate Dalöm. Dalöm was an orphan, just like Arrin, and he’d been at the Monastery all his life. He and Arrin had stuck together since childhood, with Dalöm being only a year older. He was tall and had thick brown hair, with a thin beard growing on his jaw. He thought of himself as the cool and collected older brother to Arrin’s naïve adventurer. He came up to Furion from behind his shoulder.
“Shame what the old man did to the poor fellow, eh?” he said quietly.
Arrin looked back and replied with his usual poster child attitude. “He only did what he thought was deserved.”
Dalöm shrugged, “Whatever you say, I’m just thinking,”
“What?”
“Well, what if we were actually nice for a change and just carted him off to jail. Then the public might actually care for our wretched arses.”
Arrin turned completely around, walking backwards, “If the captain had done that, then would the prisoner have learned anything?”
Dalöm made a nonchalant shrug, “Hey, just slap a few more years on the guy.”
“He’s a murderer. He already has a life sentence.”
“Shut up, I’m just saying the old guy didn’t need to go and snap the man’s arm in two.”
Arrin grinned, and as they kept walking, he closed his eyes and cleared his thoughts. Breathing deeply, he quickly thrust his arm downwards. Suddenly Dalöm fell to the ground barely catching himself.
“Blast it Arrin!” he shouted as he held his knee, “You know I just about fell off the bloody cliff!”
Arrin turned to look at him and shrugged, “Why’d you fall brother?” A devilish grin stretched across his face.
Dalöm shook it off and stood up, “That spell craft of yours is going to get you in trouble one of these days, I swear it!” He grunted as he dramatically limped ahead.
Arrin just laughed, “Come on you little baby! You’re a big, strong ranger, I know you’re fine.”
Without looking back, Dalöm retorted, “Shut it, you dung dweller!”
Arrin put his hands on his hips and smiled, “Excellent comeback! Did you stay up all night with that one?”
Dalöm continued with a steady pace. Furion smiled and stayed behind the others. Arrinicus thought of Dalöm as a real brother, and always respected him in that sense. The wind blew across the mountainside, and Furion drew his cloak together. He looked out upon the horizon, and he could just barely make out the tall oak tree at the top of the mountain on which the city of Mindalos was built next to. No one but he could see it, but he had always been different like that.
He was a strange boy, with thinner looks than the others. Black hair adorned his head, unlike the usual brown and blonde. His eyes were keen, and his ears strong, but what really made him stand out, at least in his mind, was his power. Strength was not a skill of his: he had only ever won two wrestling matches in his career, and his skill with large weapons was laughable. But he harbored a secret that only Dalöm knew about. He had a power, the ability to control things with his mind, and manipulate them with his hands. His senses already put him above the other rangers, and he didn’t want to give them another reason to disdain him.
The sun was invisible behind the clouds, and all the soggy troops wanted to return to the Monastary. It was late summer, mid-August, in the year of Drua, one of the seven great spirits. There were many spirits in the world, and the Seven were like a pantheon, and all great nations revered them. Each held a certain realm as his own though, with their little island being the ancestral home of Highmaster Sheo, lord of the hunt, and of the forests. He was a quiet spirit, and his animal was the wolf. His gift to humanity was wit, and the bow. Drua was the lady of the seas, a kind spirit, who kept the seas under control. But she was quick to temper, and then her wrath was terrible, destroying ships and lives. She gave humanity sailing, and her animals are all the fish of the sea. There were many others, and they were all borne of the same father, “The Original”. But that is a tale for another day.
As the Monastery came into view, all of the tired men sighed in relief. The Monastery was built atop a promontory near the peak of Mount Gilcus, overlooking Larsus Village. Filled with monks, rangers, and pilgrims alike, the complex was the greatest temple to Sheo in the entire world. It was tall and wide, columned all about. It was built of red stone, eroded by age, giving it a dusty look. The monastery itself was a central dome, but it had several adjacent wings, with each about two hundred yards in length. To the west of the dome was the long gallery hallway, filled with sculpture, art, and exotic plants. The library was on the far end of the gallery, and it consisted of almost every single book or record on the entire island. The study room was adjacent to the library, and opened up to the front lawn, a neat and clean garden. On the east side were the dormitories, all inside a large building set in the mountainside. The dormitories connected directly with the leisure hall, an arc shaped building also built into the mountainside. The dining hall jutted out from there, half behind walls, and half open-aired. Next to that hall was the granary, for all the stored foodstuffs, and then beside that, in the back of the complex lay the training halls. That was where the rangers worked and trained, honing their skills to perfection. A path led away from the central dome, and tapered down the mountain and into the village. As Arrin looked at the glorious scene, the sun showed its last rays through the thick matt of clouds and struck against the building, giving the place a bright and mystical look. Furion took delight in nature’s honoring of Lord Sheo. The rain continued on.
***
Now the figure robed in black arrived in the small village of Larsus, accompanied by the hooded men. His visage was less that of an evil thing, but troubled almost. In his eyes one could see doubt, a thing he most definitely tried to conceal. But the rain kept any nosy passerby off the paths, but still Turos shivered. One of the hooded men stepped forward towards him.
“My lord,” said he, “Do you feel ill?”
“Nay, Sphaeon,” Turos replied, “But we should indeed find lodgings for the night and wait out this mess.” The guards complied, and the group dragged forth in their soggy robes along the flooded path. Entering what they presumed a village, Turos looked about for any indication of an inn. Upon rounding the corner of the main street, they all laid eyes on a large sign dangling from a post.
THE RUSTY SPITOON
Turos spotted the chagrin in his followers’ eyes, and sighed.
“It will have to do, I suppose.” he said solemnly.
Sphaeon took hold of the round knocker on the door and wrapped it three times. When the door began to creak open he stepped back for his master. Eying Turos was a small man, with a scraggly beard and ragged clothes. One of his eyes seemed to squint severely, while the other was large and round, fixed strangely on Turos. He took a step backwards and allowed the men in.
“This way me lords,” he said quietly, followed by, “Oy, master Randrim sir, you’ve guests.” Stepping into the small tavern, Turos sensed all sorts of foul things, be it the food or the lodgers themselves. The man he supposed to be Randrim came out and sat them down at a dingy little table in the corner of this earthy hut. His complexion was darker, tanned by years of labor, and his face was a burly display of scars and age. His dark red hair was cut short and curled over his wrinkled brow. On his muscular right arm was a tattoo of some sort of wolf-like creature. After getting their seats, the man crossed his arms and gave a strange look to the men.
“Shall I grab ye some ale lads,” he said, “Or perhaps some roasted chicken. Fresh eh?”
Sphaeon spoke first, “White Rose have ye, barkeep?” Randrim’s eyes crinkled in quick deliberation.
“Nay,” said he, “We’ve only mead and ale. Take yer pick.” His voice hissed with disdain. Sphaeon gave the man a dirty look as Turos waved his companion down. He spoke in a voice that was cool and friendly.
“Ale all around barkeep,” he said, “and some coin for good measure.” At this he flipped out a small silver piece, which Randrim caught and swiftly pocketed.
“Coming right up my lords,” he said, hastily bowing and leaving the table. Sphaeon fiddled with his knife as the party awaited their drinks, stopping to look at his reflection in the shiny blade. Turos relaxed as the comforting warmth of the small inn surrounded him, barely noticing when the barkeep came back, baring drinks for the group. They accepted their purchase and settled down, watching the other patrons as they dolled about. One man, though, was heard above the chatter, a bard in the opposite corner, and he had attracted a few men as an audience, though all the others could hear him anyway. His song went like this:
From the West, they say, comes news rather frightening,
The Eldarii, from the south, who strike as if lightening
Have sailed forth, from their home, on an island far away,
To battle man once more, who stand valiant and brave,
Against great fleets, and mighty hordes,
The walls of High Haven, and mighty lords,
Shall rise again, transcend all bounds,
And send their foes to burial mounds.
Turos grinned slightly, and leaned back in his chair.
“Soon,” he thought, “they will realize their foolishness.”
***
The rangers were welcomed home by a single person. He was an old, frail man, so ancient it would seem as if his body would crumble to dust in the wind. He was bent and gray, hunched over a thin staff. He was bald, and bore a curvaceous beard that was well kept. Its pale white color contrasted his deeply tanned face, crinkled with lines of age and stress. The old man barely held his eyes open, but they shone furiously. They were of amber hue, bright and radiant, and they pierced even Furion’s gaze. He was the grandmaster of the order of the Rangers of Sheo. His name was long forgotten, Elder they all called him, and Elder he was.
As Thermond laid the still unconscious body of the felon at Elder’s feet, the rangers bowed. The old man simply smiled.
“Rise,” he said, looking around as they stood up, “I am pleased to see you have all returned, but I am saddened at your prey’s fate. Brother Merodus I thought I made it a point not to physically harm your captives, but to simply subdue them.” Merodus fell to the ground, and bowed his head.
“Forgive me, Elder,” was all he said. Elder smiled once more, his entire face seeming to mold around his mouth.
“You are forgiven. But do not let it happen again.”
As Merodus rose, no one whispered anything about the captain. They all knew that though unequal amongst each other, all were equal before Elder, even the captain. The ancient leader waved his arm, took a handful of powder from a pack by his side, and blew it over the group, humming lowly.
He smiled again, “Sheo’s blessing on you all, Brothers Merodus, Kirator, Heilon, Fremund, Dalöm, and Arrinicus.” They bowed together, and then proceeded inside.
It was warm within the Great Hall. A sweet fragrance rose about the place, smelling of honey and salt. The friar must have been preparing a meal for the tired rangers, and he was renowned for being very good at his job. The servants droned about doing their work, and the rangers made their way into the next hallway.
Merodus drew back and called Arrin to his side, and they walked behind the others.
“You performed excellently lad,” the old captain said, grinning with pride.
Arrin responded excitedly, “Thank you Captain. I am happy to hear your congratulations, but I simply watched as you handled the perpetrator.”
Merodus patted him on the back, “Come now, a man must learn to take a compliment. But indeed, you did well in that you did not act brashly. You have a history of acting out of turn, and I am pleased that you kept your calm. A ranger watches and waits, only acting when the perfect opportunity reveals itself. Sometimes you must draw that opportunity out,” he gave a chuckle as they stopped in front of a large door.
He looked Arrin in the eye, “That,” he said proudly, “was your lesson today.”
The two clasped hands in a warrior’s grip, and Arrin bowed, leaving the old man and entering the dining hall. There he found about twenty rangers, all sitting in close proximity to the fire. They were awaiting the friar’s meal, as they always did for about an hour before the food was actually served.
“Arrin!” shouted a familiar voice, “Over here!”
Dalöm was waving at him from the table closest to the fire. Beside him were Schuler and Kirator. As Arrin made his way to the table, Kirator, a handsome young man, with long, dark hair and a wiry look, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
“Enjoy your first hunt?” he asked smugly.
Arrin took his seat and replied, “Yes, actually.”
“I bet it was all sorts of fun,” said Schuler, in his sad, lonely voice. He held his head down, staring at his plate, sighing. He had always been a miserable fellow for some reason unknown to the others. His dark, slick hair complimented the paleness of his skin, and the darkness under his eyes.
Kirator retorted, “Its only fun if you enjoy barbarism, which the captain seems so apt for. If only I was a member of Surrocus’ group, then… well he knows how to have fun.”
“Surrocus?” Arrin looked around, and whispered, “Didn’t he get caught up in an affair with a woman from the capital?”
Kirator looked angry, “Indeed. And I applaud the man’s bravery. He broke the one rule here I don’t agree with at all. Why can’t we be allowed wives?”
Arrin started, “Because love distracts us from our commit…”
“Commitment to Sheo,” Kirator interrupted, “I know the teachings Arrin. And it was a rhetorical question.”
“I wouldn’t be able to find a wife if my life depended on it,” said Schuler glumly.
Dalöm spoke up, “Stop it with your whining,” he said, “And you too can shut it as well. Dinner is come!” His love of meats was exceeded by no living man. All of them ate wholesomely, Schuler eating the least out of sheer lethargy. Arrin preferred bread and fruits to the excess of meat on Dalöm’s plate, and Kirator ate good helpings of everything. By the end of the meal, they was a smile on everyone’s face, even Schuler was satisfied from his meal.
Dalom seemed to be half asleep and Kirator leaned back again. Shuler just watched everyone else. All the while Arrin observed as Brachus, a senior ranger, slowly approached him. Brachus was Elder’s gopher, a man who took delight in performing his master’s tasks and whims. He approached the young ranger quietly.
“My Elder wishes to see thee in his chambers, Brother Arrinicus.” Then he moved on, leaving no time for Arrin’s questions. Confused, he got out of his chair and slipped out the door.
Heading towards Elder’s chambers, Arrin walked by the Hall of the Past. It was the monastery’s museum of sorts, a collection of statues and busts, paintings and tapestries, all depicting the exploits of past rangers. They told the tales of Gilcus the Great, the namesake of the mountain, Lordrid Grimhammer, Hildred the Tall, Meoglad Moonwalker, Yom’thul the Silent, and many others. Of course the library contained any written manuscripts, but they were less interesting to some.
Soon the boy came upon a long hallway, ending with two great oak doors. He went up to them and saw how heavy they looked. Preparing himself, he pushed with all his strength against the doors, bursting through and falling over. They simply fell open and swung lightly. Arrin, embarrassed to no end, collected himself and looked up, nearly screaming when he saw that ancient man that was Elder sitting in his bag-chair. The old man was delighted.
“Oho!” he shouted, “That always gets the younger ones. The doors are much lighter than they appear: simply a safety mechanism for the room, but a source of fun for me!” He smiled wildly as Arrin stared confusedly at this apparent mad-man. The boy hurriedly bowed in his direction.
“Please forgive me for dishonoring you, most high Elder.” He buried his face in the floor.
“Posh, young one,” laughed Elder, “everyone falls for it at least once.” He burst into laughter again. Arrin’s face turned a bright red.
The old man fell back into his seat, and said, “You may rise, lad. I meant you no embarrassment.”
Arrin stood up, his head staring at his feet, “What is it you wish of me, Elder?”
Elder’s face became grim, “I am disturbed by recent events.”
Arrin quickly defended himself, “I have done nothing wrong, I promise Elder!”
The old man raised a hand for silence.
“You are not what disturbs me,” he said, “but rather news from the capital.”
Arrin was relieved, and inquired, “What news, sir?”
“One of my rangers in the palace reported to me just minutes ago. He tells me of a foreigner arriving in Mindalos.”
“We see many foreigners in the harbor, sir.”
“Yes, but unlike most he was donned in noble dress, and had a very intimidating power around him. Furthermore, he was Eldari.”
“Eldari?” said Arrin, confused once more.
“Indeed,” replied Elder, “They are a race of people that, until recently, have been very reclusive. They are smaller than the average man, a lithe people, good hearing, and excellent vision. They mostly have lightly colored hair and their cheekbones are high. Their people once held a vast empire, but suddenly were cast down, and they retreated to their home far in the south. But lately they have been seen far and wide, and it is said they are expanding in the south. I am unsure what to think of this man’s arrival.”
“I do not wish to be rude, Elder, but how does this pertain to me?”
“You my boy, are his target.”
Arrin stepped back, “What do you mean?”
“The eldari somehow gained entrance into the palace, and hassled the king of Mindalos. He told him he looked for a man with eyes resembling his. My ranger described them to me, and I knew only one person had eyes such as those: You.”
Arrin was shocked, “Why would someone be looking for me?” he asked, “I have never known anyone beyond this island”
The old man sighed, “I can think of no reason. But the safety of my people come first, and I must ask you to stay within the Monastery grounds for a while. At least until I have more information.”
“Thank you, Elder,” Arrin quietly replied, “I will take my leave.”
“You are dismissed.” Said the old man, but as Arrin got up and walked away, Elder said, “Arrinicus,” and the boy turned around, “Lay low. Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself.”
Arrin nodded and continued on his way. He took the long walk towards the dormitories, thinking about what he’d been told. But he was relieved that no one could pluck him from the Monastery. It was his safe haven.
When he arrived in his room, he relayed the tale to Dalöm, who swallowed it up with childish intrigue. After many questions, Arrin went to bed, sleeping warmly in his comfortable sheets.
***
Turos awoke without moving, listening to the jostling in his room. Upon opening his eyes he saw that his bodyguards had been beaten and tied up in the corner, while several eldari men stood with their weapons drawn.
His face flushed with anger, “What is the meaning of this intrusion?!”
A soldier spoke in a deep commanding voice, “Forgiveness, my liege, but we are here to detain you.”
Turos stood up, “By whose orders?!”
The commander bowed his head and said, “Your sister.”
Turos was in shock as they pulled him out of the room, followed by Sphaeon, but the other guard couldn’t move. They were brought outside and into the street where a throne was being hoisted by several slaves. Brought to their knees, the two men looked up at the slender figure seated atop the throne.
She was Kaila nos Fila Si’hiron, Princess of the Si’hir Eldari. She was beautiful to the eyes of all men, her hair white silver like her brother’s, and her eyes that same, piercing gray. She was garbed in black metal and garnet satin, with pointed tips to match her nails. Her voice was light, but authoritative.
“Why am I not surprised to find you snooping around in Human lands Turos?” she said, grinning smugly.
“I am here to carry out the will of our father.” Turos replied angrily.
“Daddy sent you on a mission I wasn’t aware of? Well your bodyguard kindly told me you searched for a man, before he unfortunately perished.” She chuckled viciously, “Perhaps enslaving the populace and taking them home would be good. Burn the rest of the place down, hmm? I think it’s a good idea big brother.”
Turos stood up, shouting, “You witch!” his hands lit up with fire and he threw it at his sister. She waved off the burning balls of flame as if they were simply bugs in her face.”
She smiled maniacally, “Come now Turos, when are you going to think up some real tricks.” She held out her arm and moved her hand as if squeezing something. Suddenly Turos clutched his stomach and fell back to his knees. He yelled and convulsed into the street.
Kaila simply ignored him and said, “Take my brother back to his ship and tie it down. He doesn’t leave until I command. Now gather all the men. Kill the rest.” The soldiers spread all over the island following their grisly orders.
As Turos was being hauled off, Kaila saw the monastery at the top of the mountain, and ordered, “To the top boys! Last one there will be killed!” She laughed once more.
***
Arrin heard the rumblings outside, like deep, rolling thunder. He rose from his bed and looked out the window. The whole island seemed to be on fire, even Larsus below. He sprang from the window and clothed himself, shouting at the others to awaken. They rolled about sluggishly until they realized the urgency of their situation. Clothing themselves, they all burst out of the dormitories, shouting at the others in haste. Quickly making his way to the armory, Arrin was the first to strap in his gear. Soon the others, still a bit sleepily, followed suit. The massive amount of men all pushing through to their weapons caused chaos in the small building.
Merodus began shouting over the clamor, “My squad to the courtyard, as well as all the initiates! All of Captain Grisham and Captain Surrocus’ men to the front wall! Follow my orders!” he paused for a minute, being brushed by passing rangers, then shouted, “I am in command!”
Thunder loomed in the deep as the legions of ironclad men poured up the mountain steps. The rangers watched in silence as darkness descended, and the rainclouds in the sky let loose their floodgates, filling the valley with drenching rain, slowing down their foe. As the lightning broke the sky, the great host was illuminated in a single flash of metal against the light. The thunder seemed weak against the great footfalls of these monsters clad in metal.
As they made the approach to the Monastery, Merodus, unflinching, stood upon the wall, daring his foe to even try to come closer.
He gave his order, “Volley to them, boys. Hell and thunder for these monstrosities!”
The entire company of men raised their bows in unison, resting their arrows and drawing back their stings. In a great roar of “Loose!” the deadly missiles were released upon their hapless targets, whose metal chassis held no defense against the terrible power of this rain of death.
Though many fell, it seemed as though twice as many replaced them, and once more the forked streaks in the sky showed the fury of the invaders and their blazing metal. They filled the valley around the promontory, and continued to press into the hail of arrows that ever struck them down. Soon, many of these iron clad creatures broke out small, metal devices with strings, which they pulled back and placed great iron bolts onto. With a great heave they released their terrible volley, striking down many of the defenders.
“Fire at will!” shouted the captain, who then retreated to the courtyard, ordering the volleys from those rangers. Though surrounded by this army of armored soldiers, the rangers held fast, and continued to break the invaders against the wall.
Arrin was atop a side wall, firing rapidly against the enemy when he saw a great throne burst onto the promontory, carrying a shadowy figure of thin looks and pale complexion. His eyes were shocked in disbelief when the figure, robed in black, stretched out its hand, and in a pulling motion, seemed to pull the Monastery’s gate towards it. It shattered, taking many rangers and invaders with it. Arrin ran quickly towards the rubble, but stopped short when the iron monsters began to pour through. He was baffled as he watched them fight. Rather than kill their foe, they beat them into submission, and carried out their task with lack of care for their own casualties.
Only in weight and numbers could these creatures wrestle down the powerful rangers, and they used this to great effect. Soon the rangers were broken, and being swept off the battleground. Arrin found Kirator locked in battle with one of the monsters. But suddenly, a great bolt of iron pierced his body, and seeing man wounded beyond immediate healing, the creature beat him viciously to death. Arrin’s body almost went limp at such a sight.
Arrinicus himself had kept from battling with his sword, but when one invader approached him, he brandished his blade. The two took battle, and Arrin quickly overwhelmed the soldier, and struck him down, sticking the blade through his neck. But to the chagrin of his killer, the monster’s helmet rolled from its head, and revealed a handsome face, struck down in the prime of youth. It was a man.
This scene broke the young ranger, who staggered off the corpse and onto the open battlefield. Men were being shackled left and right, while the rest were mopped up. Soon, Arrin wandered right into the spear of an enemy soldier. The armor-clad grunt struck him with the metal ball on the blunt end of his spear, and the boy fell to the cold ground, struck with a sense of delirium. He could feel the rain pour over him, and his breathing seemed to become loud and ragged. His vision was blurred with a thick haze as he felt his mind slip away. He tasted something strange in his mouth, a bitter taste. More rangers fell as Arrin used the last of his strength to gasp for breath. He slowly shut his eyes. Darkness engulfed him.
The world was silent.