Chapter 17: New Friends

Smythe’s eyes came open as he drew in a ragged breath. His face was still pressed into the grass, but he could breathe! The foot that had been squashing him into the ground was gone, too. He flopped onto his back and took large, grateful gulps of air. His ribs hurt as they expanded and contracted; he was lucky they hadn’t shattered. Frantic shouts still echoed around the Chapel grounds, though they seemed less panicked than before.

Had the villagers somehow won? It seemed impossible. A hulking figure walked out of the night to stand over him, then, raising a massive club above its head. Smythe groped for Lightbringer, but she was nowhere in reach.

The Troll never got any further with its intended strike, though, for a fireball the size of Smythe’s head struck it in the chest and blew it apart with a roar. Smythe threw an arm across his face and rolled away from the explosion as pieces of smouldering flesh peppered the ground around him.

Where had the fireball come from? Was there a sorcerer hiding among the Rostiners? Smythe pushed himself up on his hands and looked around. What he saw made his mouth drop open. A cloaked figure, tall and broad-shouldered, was moving among the fighting, a long, curved blade flickering in a deft hand as he spun and danced among the Goblins and Trolls. Fire and lightning flashed frequently from the fingertips of his other hand, coruscating as they erupted against the ulunn, knocking them flat or shattering their flesh like the Troll a moment ago.

“I’ll be damned,” Smythe breathed as he watched. The villagers had fallen back against the Chapel to give the mysterious warrior room to fight. Kedron was still on his feet, but he stayed out of the melee, not willing to get any closer to the stranger and his magic.

Getting to his feet, Smythe snatched Lightbringer off the ground and moved in to help. There was no point lying about idle while the fighting was happening, and besides, it looked like this warrior’s fireballs and lightning bolts were slowing down; he was using them less every second, though that blade still took limbs and heads readily enough.

With a cry, Smythe threw himself into the backs of the ulunn surrounding the cloaked figure and began to cut down what was left. Thankfully, there was no sign of any more Trolls; Smythe didn’t know if he had it in him right now to take down another one. As he entered the battle, he saw Kedron do the same thing nearby. The cowl of the stranger’s hood turned to Smythe briefly, and Smythe thought he saw it incline in a nod of gratitude.

Soon enough, with the three of them fighting together, the ulunn were done. Grounding a now-dull Lightbringer’s point in the grass, Smythe looked around. Small, dark bodies littered the ground, many of them missing arms or legs or heads, interspersed with chunks of Troll. The stranger apparently knew not to leave Troll’s whole for their regenerative abilities.

“None of them got inside,” Kedron said, relieved. The par’vala was leaning on his sword, catching his breath. A very naked Imella appeared out of nowhere and threw herself at Kedron, followed shortly after by Lena, also in naught but her skin. The two young women made a show out of carefully feeling the lad all over, checking for wounds.

“Leave over!” He said with a chuckle after a moment. “I’m fine, I promise. I’ll see you inside in a bit.” Reluctantly, the girls left him and went back inside. Smythe’s eyes followed their pale forms as they hurried away. They were well put together, those girls.

No sooner had they disappeared than Elsa – garbed only in a filmy robe – came crashing through the defenders - knocking two of them over! - before flinging herself into Smythe’s arms. “I felt your pain,” she sobbed into his chest. “I still feel it! How do you stand it?”

Smythe made hushing noises and stroked her hair. “It’s alright, lass,” he soothed. “We won.” She offered no reply, just squeezed him until he thought she might do more damage than the Troll had. Her emotions were a tangle of fear and sorrow and anger, but love shone through brighter than any other.

“I need to get back in to help with the wounded,” she said after a moment, pulling back a bit. She wiped her eyes and visibly gathered herself before looking up at him. “Try not to get killed in the next hour.” She said it with a small smile before turning to hurry away. Smythe grinned as he watched her retreat. She was a strong woman. As strong as any warrior. Sometimes the hardest battles to fight were the ones where swords were pointless.

A few sultry moans brought his attention to where a handful of women were writhing on the grass nearby, trying desperately to satisfy the animal lust that came from being touched by a Goblin. There were four of them in total. Several burned Goblin bodies were scattered around the women; the little bastards had nearly gotten away with them.

Smythe glanced at the defenders and barked orders. “Get these women inside out of the cold!” He snapped. “And don’t leave them with any men unless they’re married or already acquainted. Last thing we need is the poor things waking up all ashamed of themselves when it’s not their fault.” There was a collective clatter as defenders dropped their weapons and shields and hurried to gather up the lust-crazed women.

With that handled, Smythe could focus on the stranger, who stood motionless between himself and Kedron. “I owe you a debt, whoever you are,” Smythe said sincerely. In the background, he heard Ari chivvying some men into getting some wood together for fires.

“There is no debt,” the stranger answered in a flat, masculine voice. It wasn’t especially deep, but it had a rasping edge to it. “The ulunn disrupt the balance, and so they must be neutralised.”

“You’re an Elf,” Smythe said in surprise as he recognised what his vala was telling him about the fellow. His spirit felt similar to those of Induin and Liaren, as well as other Elves Smythe had met.

“I am,” came the reply as the stranger made his blade disappear beneath his cloak before reaching up for his cowl. When he lowered it, he revealed a handsome, narrow face beneath pale, silvery hair pulled back neatly from his face by a leather band. “I am Solovir.” There was an air of age and wisdom about him. Smythe was willing to bet that Solovir had walked this earth a very long time.

Smythe offered a hand, and Solovir took it. “I am Henley, and this is Kedron,” he said, nodding to the par’vala. Kedron shook the Elf’s hand readily and offered his own in thanks.

“Brave, for one so young,” Solovir remarked as he greeted Kedron. When he turned back to Smythe, he asked, “Is it true, then? Are the arohim truly returning?”

“We never left,” Smythe replied. He jerked his head at Kedron, indicating that it was time for the lad to head inside. His vala told him that he could trust Solovir, so he answered honestly. “There are not many of us, these days, but our numbers are growing.”

Solovir nodded thoughtfully. “I have been searching for the one that the prophecies say will bring change. He is called Anarion. Are you he?”

Smythe grinned. “I am not. But I know of whom you speak.” He gestured to the Chapel. “Come, Solovir. Let us go inside. Do you like ale?”

A short time later – after Smythe had stopped by his room to wash up and don a shirt and breeches – he and Solovir were seated in the dining room at the long table. They sat across from one another over tall mugs. A brush from Smythe’s vala had set the sunstones on the walls alight, and the highly polished blackwood table reflected the bright, merry glow. Solovir had doffed his cloak to reveal what he wore beneath; a simple but well-made leather tunic and matching breeches, both in a blend of greens and browns. He would camouflage well in any forest.

An ornate, silver-worked longbow had been slung over his back beneath the cloak, but he’d removed it and carefully propped it against the wall behind him before sitting. His sword he kept at his waist. By the slight bulges in his sleeves and beneath his tunic, he had several knives tucked about his person, too.

“Did you come alone?” Smythe asked as he took a long pull of his ale. Fighting made him thirsty. Nearly dying made him even more thirsty. “I did not sense any others in the area.”

“Yes,” the Elf replied. “I spend much of my time in solitude.” His large eyes were a shade of blue so pale they were almost white.

Smythe eyed him quizzically. “Intentionally?”

Solovir’s lips quirked. “Yes. It is our way. I am one of the Alda’rendi.” Smythe had never heard that name before. He said as much, and Solovir explained. “I am Eryn’elda, by blood, but I and my brethren have dedicated our lives and abilities to protecting the balance of nature. Recent events have brought our attentions to the Emerin forest, and so, I was sent.”

At that moment, Induin stepped into the dining room through the wide archway that adjoined to the library. As beautiful as ever, the slender Elf wore a short white slip that barely covered her pert bottom. She froze when her gaze fell on Solovir.

Smythe tensed. Had he made a mistake, trusting the man? He prepared himself to leap in front of Induin if Solovir attacked, but his vala told him that the Elf was calm and contained on the inside. Focused, but relaxed. Induin, however, was almost reverent.

She bowed deeply, her silver hair almost brushing the floor. “Welcome, friend Guardian,” she said formally. Her sapphire eyes remained on the floor when she straightened, and she clasped her hands at her waist. “Is there anything you require?”

Wordlessly, Solovir stood and rounded the end of the table to stand before her. Taller than Induin by several inches, he studied her intently. She blushed under the scrutiny but did not move. Smythe watched curiously. This might be an important Elvish ritual, and he did not want to intervene unless Induin was in trouble.

“The strands of fate weave a tight web around you, nessa,” he said softly as he walked around her. He seemed to be seeing something that was invisible to Smythe. “A light grows in your belly.” Those pale eyes fixed on Smythe. “Is the child yours, eruchen?”

Induin answered before Smythe could with a shake of her head. “No, Guardian. Not his.”

“Then to whom have you fallen pregnant?” Solovir asked her insistently as he resumed his position in front of her. “That is no ordinary child, nessa. He glows like a summer star on a moonless night. The babe is arohim, I am sure of it. And the father as well. You are his meldin.” There was a strange tone to his voice, as if he were discovering these facts in the moment and speaking them as they came to him. “He is the Anarion,” he finished in a whisper.

Smythe tensed again. Was it safe for Solovir to know about Aran’s unborn babes? Who would he tell? What were his intentions? And what did ‘protecting the balance’ mean, necessarily?

Induin’s eyes widened. “I’m having a boy?” A joyous smile split her flawless face. She opened her mouth to say more, but Smythe’s caution got the better of him. He cleared his throat loudly, and two sets of Elvish eyes regarded him.

“Forgive me,” he began carefully. “But I am loath to place Induin in danger for knowledge of her unborn child. I hope I do not offend, Solovir, but it is a fact best kept secret.”

A conflicted look crossed Induin’s face. She appeared torn between confiding in Solovir and protecting Aran and his child. She placed a hand over her belly, though there was no discernible bump, yet. Folding his arms across his chest, Solovir turned and walked to the window behind his chair.

“Your loyalty to my younger sister is commendable,” the Elf said as he stared out into the night. Firelight flickered through from the yard; the burning of the ulunn bodies must have begun. Smythe got the feeling that Solovir referred not to Induin as ‘sister’ in a blood-kin sense, but in a familial sense nonetheless. Long moments passed in silence.

“I will keep this knowledge to myself, on my life,” Solovir finally said as he turned from the window to look at each of them in turn. “It appears I have been drawn to almost the centre-point of the ripples. It is a shame the Anarion is not here, but perhaps being in this place is just as well.”

Right then, Liaren strode gracefully into the room. She wore loose, comfortable cloth pants and a matching shirt that hung fully unbuttoned to show her flat belly and the insides of her breasts. A mirror of her twin sister, though with chestnut hair and emerald eyes, she gasped audibly when she saw Solovir. Her response was an echo of Induin’s initial greeting. When she asked if he required anything, the tall Elf eyed her with even more interest than he had Induin.

“And so, I come to see how complex the threads are,” he murmured. He stayed where he was, leaving the table between himself and the twins, though he leaned forward, placing his palms on the polished wood. Smythe’s gaze flicked back and forth between the girls and Solovir. He was trying to understand the depth of the interaction, but he feared it was largely lost on him.

“There is something I require,” the Guardian told the twins. “I require knowledge of your journey since leaving Ildernass. Every conceivable fact. Rest assured, friend eruchen,” he added for Smythe’s benefit. “I will say nothing of this to any soul except for my brethren, and they will die before revealing such knowledge, as will I. The coming of the Anarion is a great and remarkable event, and I would not see his children or my sisters harmed in any way.”

Smythe nodded, but still felt compelled to delve into Solovir with his vala. It was strange; the man felt ... closed, as if there were parts of him Smythe could not read. It didn’t make him uneasy, exactly, though it was still a little unsettling.

“There are depths to my soul,” Solovir said suddenly, not taking his eyes off the twins. “That should not be explored by others, friend eruchen.” It wasn’t exactly a warning, but Smythe withdrew his vala at once. Solovir looked at him. “To become what I am,” he explained. “I have seen things that would drive many to the brink of madness, and beyond. Few Elves are chosen to take the trials of the Alda’rendi, and fewer still survive. The marks they leave are more than merely physical.” He fingered a few strands of his pale hair for emphasis, as if his ghostly stare was not enough.

“Forgive me,” Smythe said again, spreading his hands apologetically. “I care only for my friends.”

Surprisingly, Solovir’s frosty gaze became friendly. “I believe we will get along well, Paladin Smythe.”

Smythe wasn’t so sure he could fully trust a man he couldn’t read, but then, what choice did he have? Solovir knew far too much already. He smiled and nodded in a way he hoped the Elf found agreeable.

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17.1: A Stranger in the Dark

After watching the door close behind Aran, Elaina stood in the passage for a time, staring through the stone as she felt his presence recede. Finya and her soldiers had all followed Burin, leaving her alone to arrange her thoughts.

She wanted to hit that door with Shatter and go running after Aran, despite that fact she knew she would be more useful here. Somehow, she had to help Burin realise he was being pigheaded and that he should send Dwarves northwest if he ever wanted Glinda back. How she was to do that without using her vala or her charms, she was unsure.

Spinning on her heel, she began the journey back, creating and discarding ideas as she walked. “Why can’t I just slip into his bed?” She muttered for the fiftieth time since arriving at the Dwarven capital. “It’s like being told to run a race with my bloody feet tied together!” Truly, she preferred not sleeping with the king, but it was certainly a longer and more difficult path.

In fact, sometimes she felt as if she could go the rest of her life as Aran’s lover only and be happy with that, but that was only because of how deeply she loved him. She still had desires, and Aran could not always be there to fulfil them. Strangely, she felt a pang of loneliness as she stalked the empty, vast halls of Dun’Arghol. Her only companion was the sound of her bootsteps echoing off the stone walls.

“Twenty years on my own at the Chapel,” she grumbled. “And now I can’t go an hour without some company.” Her solitude at the Chapel hadn’t been total, she had to admit. She’d had Jeira, and Plane visits with Smythe when she felt like company. Still, twenty years was a long time to live on one’s own in a remote region. Aran’s coming had been like a ray of sunshine after months of solid rain.

Now, she had brothers and sisters again, and the Order of Aros was gradually pulling itself out of the darkness. The things Aran had done – that she had seen him do – were nothing short of miraculous. Her heart ached again as she thought of him travelling east on his own, without her to watch his back, but if she was being honest with herself, the man hardly needed it. He could be standing in Beringarde and sense a moth beat its wings in Maralon. The trouble was, wielding that much power would draw unwanted attention to him like flies to a midden.

“Look after yourself, Aran,” she said under her breath as she passed through a huge archway featuring an elaborately carved lion’s head at its apex and then began the ascent up an enormous staircase that wound its way up and up, occasionally turning at right angles until its end was lost in the distance. Someone had lit the wide, shallow oil bowls which sat on short stone platforms, flanking the stairs at regular intervals and providing some light, though Elaina didn’t need it.

There was no railing or siding on the ten-foot wide stairs, and a fall meant certain death, even for her, if she fell from high enough up. It didn’t bother her much; she’d been in situations that made this look like an afternoon walk among daisies.

The scraping of a boot on stone behind her was all the warning she had. One hand reached for Shatter at her belt as she started to turn, but she already knew it was too late. Why hadn’t her vala told her someone was there?

Time seemed to slow down as her eyes fell on the black-cloaked assassin. He was short and lean, with a face that could have been handsome if it wasn’t set in a rictus grimace, and if his eyes did not appear to carry a dark shadowing beneath them. His knife was held low with the point up, and he was already driving it toward her chest. He moved with shocking speed, faster than any Human could naturally.

Something flashed past Elaina’s ear and struck the assassin in the throat. The force of the shot stopped his forward momentum and sent him stumbling toward the edge of the stairs. Instinctively, she grabbed the man’s arm and let him collapse at her feet rather than tumble off the edge. Gurgling sounds came from him as he scrabbled at where the arrow entered his neck, and his eyes stared up at her wildly.

She spun quickly and fully opened her vala, taking the Mountain stance and raising Shatter against any more assailants who may be nearby. Where had that arrow come from? Her vala detected a man further up the stairs, maybe a hundred feet away and squatting easily just beyond where the stairs changed direction, which gave an excellent view of where Elaina had been walking.

Appearing in his early twenties, her saviour was dressed in tan and brown hunting leathers and had shaggy brown hair and a stout beard. He was tall and lean, and something about his bearing made Elaina think he was more suited to living in the wilderness than in a city. The way the firelight from a nearby burner played across his face gave him something of a wild cast.

His bow was lying across his knees as he regarded her, and her vala said he had a good heart and meant no harm, so she lowered her weapon. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, looking up at him. Whoever he was, making a shot like that, at that distance, was impressive. “You just saved my life, stranger.”

“You were fortunate,” he said as he studied her. She felt the flash of excitement in him, but she was used to how men looked at her. “Had I not been coming this way, your day would have ended much differently. I usually hunt beasts, or ulunn, but rarely men.” There was an abrupt manner about him. Not rude, exactly, but certainly direct and not fussy with his words.

The archer’s eyes fell on the corpse by Elaina’s boots. “Who are you, that men seek to stab you in the back in the dark?”

Elaina thought quickly. “I am here on business with the king,” she told him. “Perhaps this man is one of Burin’s enemies.” Squatting by the body, she looked it over. Beneath the man’s cloak were plain, unadorned clothes. He wore no jewellery, nor possessed any tattoos or other identifying marks that she could see.

“Perhaps,” the stranger repeated, though whether he believed it or not was uncertain. “I am Noah,” he said simply. “Noah Stoneman.”

“Elaina Fairborn,” Elaina replied, offering a brief smile as she gingerly pried the assassin’s fingers open to get a look at the dagger. She hissed as she recognised the blade and the carved bone hilt. It was identical to the weapon the Nameless had been carrying, the one that had taken her, Smythe and Kedron down like children before Aran stopped her.

“What is it?” Noah enquired. He still hadn’t moved from his spot.

“This man is a Herald assassin,” Elaina told him. She aligned with Noah, just to be safe, and she felt the connection forming between them. If she was going to trust him with knowledge, she wasn’t going to take chances.

“And why,” Noah began as he straightened and began to descend the stairs toward her. He had an easy, smooth stride, even as he slung his bow across his back. “Would a Herald assassin target you, Elaina?” He stopped in front of her, looking down not challengingly, but inquisitively.

Elaina tore off a piece of the man’s cloak and used it to carefully wrap the dagger before she stood and tucked it behind her belt at her hip. “Because of what I am,” she told Noah, meeting his intent gaze.

“And what is that?” The taller man countered. “And why do I already feel like I’ve known you ten years? Are you some kind of sorcerer?”

Elaina grinned. “Not a sorcerer, Noah.” She offered a hand. “A Paladin. And a friend, if you’ll have me.”

“A Paladin, you say?” He smiled and grasped her hand. He had a strong grip, and his palms and fingers were callused. “I had heard that at least one was in the city, but I didn’t believe it, until now.”

“Well, here I am, in the flesh,” Elaina said with a chuckle as he released her hand.

Noah eyed her up and down rather boldly. “I can see that,” he murmured appreciatively. “Tell me,” he began curiously. “I have heard that a woman arohim can bewitch a man’s mind and make him do things he otherwise would not, all for a promise of her charms. Is this what is happening to me?” For a man who thought he might be under a spell, Noah certainly appeared nonplussed, especially in the way he was looking her over.

Elaina decided she liked Noah, especially since the alignment revealed to her what kind of man he was. She stepped a little closer. “Do you feel bewitched?” She asked him coyly.

He shrugged. “Don’t know if I’ve ever been bewitched before, so I can’t really say.” His eyes dropped lower again, and he cleared his throat surreptitiously. Elaina glanced down at herself, then, and realised what kept drawing his attention; the rain in the passage earlier had plastered her white shirt to her breasts, rendering the material transparent. With her cloak hanging open, Noah had tickets to a grand show, indeed. She sensed some awkwardness coming from him as he realised she knew he’d been looking.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she soothed. “You just saved my life! And I don’t mind that you’re looking.”

Despite her permission, the bearded young man fixed back on her face. “I don’t get much time around women, if you know what I mean.” After a moment, he added, “And you’re one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

Elaina beamed at the genuine compliment and stood up on her tiptoes to brush a kiss on his cheek, just above his beard. “I have enjoyed meeting you, Noah, and I would like to continue this conversation soon. However,” she gestured to the body just behind her. “I do need to address this matter at hand.”

Noah nodded in understanding. He fingered the bowstring slanting across his chest as he studied the corpse. “I never liked the Heralds much,” he confessed quietly. “And I always thought killing in the dark, from behind, was the coward’s way.”

“On that, we agree,” Elaina said. “I will inform Captain Finya about this right away. She should know there might be more Heralds in the city.”

Noah smiled. “Perhaps I can hunt them down for the Captain. For a small fee, of course.” He then offered a small, unpractised bow. “I enjoyed meeting you, Elaina Fairborn. Until next time.” He stepped around her and began to descend the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Elaina asked.

“Hunting!” He answered without looking back.

“Hunting what?”

“Whatever I find that isn’t supposed to be down here!”

Shaking her head in amusement, Elaina watched the strange fellow until he was out of sight. “Thanks again, Noah,” she murmured as she absently touched the place beneath her breast where the knife would have gone in. “I’m glad you arrived when you did.”

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17.2: The New Familiar

Aran entered Evoni’s home at her invitation and she closed the door behind him. It was a very spacious, single-room cottage maybe thirty paces on a side, with the ceilings somewhat higher than he was used to, and the furnishings a little larger. Evoni busied herself with lighting a couple of the fat lanterns that hung about the place while Aran looked around.

There was a wide fireplace on the western wall – to Aran’s right as he walked in – in front of which a few plush furs were laid out. A small fire crackled on the hearth, and a large pot hung above it, giving off scents of what had to be rabbit stew. On the left was the kitchen, with a stone oven and a long island bench for preparing food.

The sleeping area was in the back, opposite the front door. Aran could see a long, wide bed there, which appeared to be just a comfortable-looking mattress atop a stone platform. In the middle of the room was a round wooden table about chest-height on Aran with four matching stools tucked neatly beneath.

All in all, it was simple, yet homely. Aran watched Evoni move about, admiring the sleek length of her legs. What would her skin feel like to touch? She strode gracefully to the fireplace and lifted a metal spoon off a nearby hook. When she bent forward to stir the stew, Aran’s pulse quickened before he could settle it. Was she bending at that particular angle innocently? Or was it calculated, the way she kept her knees locked and presented her bottom like that?

“We build our homes a little larger than we need,” Evoni said suddenly. She turned to face him, spoon still in hand. “I will outgrow this place,” she told him as she gestured to the room with her empty hand. “But not for at least a hundred years.”

“I like it,” Aran said genuinely. “It reminds me a little of my old home, many miles from here.”

A warm smile split Evoni’s pretty face at the compliment. “Please make yourself comfortable. The stew is almost ready. Are you hungry?”

“Famished,” Aran replied as his stomach punctuated the fact with a loud rumble. He unpinned his cloak and hung it on a hook behind the door before following suit with his sword belt. Evoni busied herself with fetching a couple of big stone bowls from a cupboard in the kitchen.

“Anything I can help with?” Aran asked as she placed the bowls on the table. She eyed him briefly, looking him up and down.

“Are you comfortable, like that?” She asked, curious.

“Like what?”

“Wearing all those garments,” Evoni said. “They look like a hindrance. Are they for protection? Or perhaps warmth? I have heard that other people wear this ‘clothing,’ but I’ve never asked someone about it myself.”

Aran chuckled and plucked at his shirt. “In the Human lands, to walk about as you Giants do would be scandalous, to say the least.”

Evoni’s eyebrows climbed. “Then how can you Humans truly know one other, if you are hidden behind fabrics?”

“That is an excellent question,” Aran told her. “But it is more than clothing that Humans hide behind, I am sad to say.” Before Evoni could ask him to elaborate, he began unlacing his shirt. “I will adapt to your customs, if that is agreeable?” When she nodded, he added, “Personally, I prefer it your way.”

Evoni watched him unabashed as he undressed and hung his clothes up with his cloak and sword. She smiled at him when he was done. “Your body is pleasant to behold, Aran,” she said warmly.

“I find yours the same,” Aran replied. “Though I was unsure if it was polite to say so.”

“It is always polite,” Evoni began as she walked slowly toward him. Aran was captivated by the way the light glimmered off her skin in places as if caught and reflected by tiny diamonds. “To say what is in one’s heart.”