Читать книгу Elantion - Valentina Massano - Страница 8

Deryel, Draelia, in the autumn of 326 F.R

An unexpectedly cold autumn had come to Draelia, on the heels of an oddly hot summer, as though the seasons themselves were affected by the tragic events that gripped the world. The sky grew more leaden with time, and frigid air lashed every corner. In some areas, the fog was thick, and in others, the rain gave no respite. But apart from the tulvaren army, there was no longer anyone beyond the boundaries of Elelreel—neither human, nor elf, nor dwarf. Two and a half years after the invasion was initiated, not much was left of the Monarchy of Draelia; all that remained were the few strongholds and cities that the tulvars rebuilt after destroying. The divine powers of King Athal, of his Commanders, and of the High Priestess had helped them stand victorious.

In those days, the tulvar Sheera Khelun, Commander of the Violet Archers and royal daughter, rode her dappled grey horse (a large and inexhaustible steed, and her companion on many journeys) toward the village of Deryel, situated at the mouth of the winding Spur Valley. The emblem of the House of Khelun, a black flame on a red background, which she had embroidered on her cloak and engraved on the leather of her armor, made her immediately recognizable. Her helm, which sported a long black horsetail, was symbolic of her title as Commander, and the meticulous finishes on her armor affirmed her royal lineage. Sheera was tall, and regarded as very beautiful among the tulvars. Her long oval face was framed by black hair, long on one side and almost shaved on the other, which provided a contrast with her ashen grey skin. Her small, almond-shaped eyes, a characteristic of all tulvars, were a very intense red, and topped by thin black eyebrows. She had a long nose that was slightly pronounced, and her lips were wrinkly and not very full. On her left cheek, two ritual scars indicated her spiritual path. Uniquely, Sheera had a large purple iridescent spot that trailed from her left side all the way to her neck. In tulvaren culture, this was viewed with suspicion; in fact, it was said that whoever was born with the Abyssal Sigil could prove either a blessing or a curse upon the entire race.

She was ordered to journey to Deryel as quickly as possible by direct order of the High Priestess. Upon arriving, she got off her horse, left it at the pole, and approached the Governor. “I hope the load is ready… my patience is at its end,” she said, her voice coarse, as she gave her fellow tulvar a letter.

“It’s going to take time to prepare the crates,” began the Governor, as he read it. “Besides, only the best crystals are selected for the High Priestess.” He was hunchbacked from age, and much shorter than the Commander, his rumpled and frayed clothes dragging against the ground.

Sheera brought her hand to her sword and pulled it slightly from its scabbard. “Load. The. Crates.”

The Governor stiffened. The reputation of the King’s daughter preceded her, and none of the tales involved generosity or mercy.

Sheera and the heavy and noisy wagon left Deryel, and in a few days’ time, they arrived at the Eyjanborg Temple, where the High Priestess Yvalee made her anger at the delay known. The secondary portals that had opened to the south, in the heart of Symeris and Austur, had now lost their power, and their threshold was impassable by the tulvaren soldiers who had to invade those lands. The crystals would have served Yvalee precisely to restore power to the portals, even if the ritual would have been slow and involved. Sheera greeted her mother and reassured her that her anger would vanish as soon as she laid eyes on the crystals.

The High Priestess opened a chest, and her eyes lit up as soon as she verified their purity. “Bring in the crates,” ordered Yvalee. She then turned to Sheera. “When will you take the oath?”

“Never,” she declared.

“Don’t you think your rebellious phase has gone on a bit too long?”

“Even so, I will never become a priestess.”

“You’ll come to see your folly, sooner or later,” said Yvalee, glaring.

The great Temple of Eyjanborg had just been finished, and the large round hall, covered by an enormous dome painted in gold, accentuated the sacredness of the place. Sheera was momentarily entranced at the sight. She lost sight of her mother and saw her sister Auril emerge from a side room. Auril approached Sheera and gave her a nod, and nothing more. The younger of the sisters was shorter than Sheera, albeit slightly, and she too had black hair, though hers fell well below the lower back. Her long, spindly arms ended in bony hands and pointed fingers. Her face was very thin and devoid of scars, and her eyes were red, small, and distant, with fine eyebrows. Her nose was long and a tad pronounced, and her wrinkled lips were made dark using a lipstick composed of the juice of a particular berry mixed with fat. There were never two sisters as utterly different as Sheera and Auril; while one had accepted the traditional path of becoming a priestess without hesitation, the other had exercised the right granted to all tulvaren nobles to face military training instead, as she was reluctant to consecrate her whole life to the Goddess. Sheera observed Auril as she carried out one of her daily duties: bathing in the font adjacent to a side of the room. After immersing herself completely in the water, she came out with the very light dress she wore clinging to her body, and the light color of the wet fabric allowed her figure to be glimpsed despite the pallor of her skin, which attracted the gazes of the tulvars present. Bathing before turning to the Goddess was a purification rite that had been a daily practice for the Priestesses for centuries upon centuries. Auril passed in front of her sister with her typical air of superiority, and Sheera’s eyes tracked her, the rivalry between them written on her face. Ultimately, Sheera saw her disappear into the twilight.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she witnessed a young female hastily approaching. “Commander Sheera, the High Priestess awaits you.”

Sheera, who was accustomed to keeping her hand on her sword, squeezed the hilt and furrowed her brow in surprise. “Why?”

“Follow me,” replied the annoyed priestess, skirting the question. “She does not like to wait.”

With a chagrined grimace and an unenthused groan, the Commander followed the young female across the temple and past the priestly quarters. Looking around, she was amazed by the opulence of the furnishings, decorations, and clothes of the maidens. So different from the original temple, she mused. At the end of the corridor, the rooms of the High Priestess were windowless, and lit solely by a candelabra. In the center of her bedchambers, a heavy wrought-iron brazier housed the burning embers that kept the room warm. Sheera was watching them, and they pulsed with a strong red light that reminded her of the symbols engraved on the giant rocks which fueled the portal. Then she saw her mother.

“All this can still be yours, my dear…” she started.

Sheera rolled her eyes. “I’ve already made my decision.”

“With your abilities and powers, and with your Abyssal Sigil, you ought to serve the Goddess. And you could do so like none before you. Prepare to take my place and stop wasting your life as a soldier…”

“As a Commander,” she corrected.

“The rank matters little. Again I tell you, it is insignificant compared to the role you would have here,” her mother continued.

She dropped the fine blue silk robe that was sourced from Symeris to prepare for the evening prayer at the Temple, together with all the Priestesses. Sheera spotted the symbols on her back, which appeared on the body of the High Priestess when she was selected by the Goddess—bleeding wounds that turned into showy black scars, which stood out against her grey skin. They were a source of pride for the High Priestess.

Yvalee was slightly taller than Sheera, with the angular physique typical of their kind, an elongated face characterized by her long but not so pronounced nose and the thin lips that Yvalee usually colored red. On her forehead and cheeks, she bore sacred tulvaren tattoos that read: “Flesh and blood for the Goddess.” In addition, the moment she was consecrated as High Priestess, her eyes became larger, as well as white and opaque (as opposed to red and shiny); they now seemed to contain the thick fog that hung over Alceas. Yvalee’s long, flowing hair was fragrant, thin, and black, often braided or bunched into elaborate hairstyles. She turned to face her daughter, holding a small, featureless wooden box.

“This is why I made you come here,” she told Sheera, offering the box to her. “You may open it…”

Glancing at her mother briefly, Sheera opened the chest, within which she discovered a fragment of pure virk crystal, which was often used by tulvars of all stripes to enhance their power and resist elven magic. This fragment was different, though—it was large and drop-shaped, well cut and faceted (if not polished), and of a green hue so deep as to pass as liquid; Sheera found it shinier than normal. She took it out, and saw that it was the pendant of a necklace, watching as it swung in hand.

“Wear it. It’s yours,” said Yvalee.

“Mine?” Sheera replied, astonished. “But why? What have I done to deserve it?”

“Does a mother need a reason to give her daughter a gift?” she asked, though in reality, she figured the crystal might unleash her inner strength, thereby getting her to change her mind. She took the necklace off of Sheera’s hands, removed the meager fragment, and put it around her neck, regarding it with pride.

At first, Sheera sensed more strength in her, and then felt her magical might literally course through her entire body.

“It’s powerful,” she acknowledged.

The High Priestess smiled. “I knew you’d like it. It’s a taste of what would await you…” she said.

Those words made Sheera furrow her brow. “I should have guessed… This gift won’t make me change my decision!” she exclaimed.

Yvalee seemed resigned. “Do as you please, Sheera, but know that we are much more alike than you might think…” she said firmly, adding fuel to the fire she could tell was flaring in Sheera’s heart.

“I thank you for your largesse, High Priestess.” Then, without waiting for her mother to reply, she made her way out of the private quarters of the Priestesses, determined to exit the Temple as soon as possible. She hoped she didn’t need to return anytime soon.

In her room, Yvalee stood still while her handmaids prepared her for the great evening ritual: they began to douse her with warm water redolent of flowers, and sprinkled oils of intoxicating aromas upon her. She gave herself up to the massages, closing her eyes in a mixture of rage and exhilaration. Everything around her disappeared, as she dwelled on Sheera. She envied the strength and fire that drove her daughter, she hated her sneering attitude, she couldn’t stand how uncontrollable she was, she was disgusted with the fact that her powers were null and void with her, she felt the will of the Goddess within, she craved Sheera’s power, and she feared that if the young woman would not agree to be consecrated, many problems would arise.

*

In the city of Eyjanborg, atop one of the towers of the Royal Palace, King Athal was eagerly awaiting news from his children. Since they invaded Draelia two and a half years prior, his armies had killed, conquered, and laid waste. Immediately after crossing the portal, his military’s sheer might had devastated the cities and villages, and all the soldiers of King Osman IV could do in the fields of battle was get annihilated.

Triumphantly, Athal had entered Eyjanborg, the capital, at the end of the first year, and thanks to his children, the human territories of Draelia were completely subjugated by that time as well. The High Priestess had opened secondary portals, and the King’s soldiers had crossed those magical thresholds, taking the Southern Principalities by surprise, bringing havoc and death to the essenir elves of Rekonia and to the humans of Vetlag. However, the secondary portals drew power exclusively from extremely pure virk crystals, and repeated delays in the delivery of the crates carrying the precious gems led to the depletion of their power. As such, the invasion of the other lands had suffered a setback. The King then pushed his legions southward and westward, clashing with the armies of the three Principalities, a battle that ended in a terrible defeat, second only to the defeat they suffered at the Iron Plateau at the hands of the dwarves of the Icemount. From that point, the campaign of conquest had reached a dead end—which was part of why the frictions between the Houses had resurfaced over the last few months.

The King of the Tulvars was getting on in years, and his appearance reflected his age. Once tall and with a sculpted physique, he was now skinny and wrinkled, his back slightly hunched. Nevertheless, his arms (though slender and bony) and his long-fingered hands still had strength, and still yearned for combat. His hairs were grey, and his stern-faced visage was pallid and wrinkled, yet he inspired terror in all, save for his wife Yvalee. His shiny red eyes were also weathered with age, and his mouth (whose lips were nigh imperceptible) was always curved. The regal raiment he wore was sewn using the fine fabrics they’d become acquainted with in Elantion. He had on a soft tunic in black and green elven velvet that brushed against the floor, embellished with threads of gold and fragments of virk crystals. The royal tiara upon his head had been forged using the gold in the crown of King Osman IV of Draelia, who died two years earlier, run through by Athal’s blade.

“Two years have passed, and I still don’t know how to best them, but soon there will be elven meat for you, my rapacious friend,” said the King pitilessly, stroking his vulture’s soft feathers. The bird stirred slightly, and Athal handed it a piece of meat it wasted no time devouring. It flew away and perched itself on the back of the chair. Suddenly, the heavy door of the hall opened, revealing a member of the Royal Guard.

“What do you want?” asked Athal.

“A missive, Sire,” he replied, handing his Sovereign a scroll.

Athal unfurled it, and his mouth curled into an evil smile. He dismissed the guard and headed for the desk. The quill danced across the parchment, its ink tracing strange and twisted glyphs. After signing his name, he slowly poured the sealing wax and imprinted his coat of arms on it. Then he summoned the vulture and gave it the letter.

“Take this to Zund,” he whispered.

Meanwhile, Zund, heir to the throne and General of the army, was riding toward the western edge of the Whitetrunk Forest, where a patrol had reported seeing a human move among the trees before disappearing amidst the path leading to the Slumbering Peaks. Zund was a tall tulvar with a statuesque physique, and he was courted by all the daughters of the noble families. Zund never reciprocated their interest in him, as all he was attracted to was power. He sported long, exceedingly thin black hair, which was often tied behind his nape with a leather strip. Hi face was angular and square, his almond-shaped eyes an intensely dark red. His slightly pronounced nose had a bulge due to a fracture. His fair skin was covered with dozens of scars, the most striking of which was certainly the one that trailed from his forehead straight down to his right cheek, sustained by a sword blow inflicted on him at a wee age. The armor he wore was made of hedgot leather, imparting it with the marvelous attribute of fire-resistance. His breastplate was adorned with the emblem of the House Khelun—a black flame on a red background—and embellished with silver plaques. The edges of his thick black velvet cape were embroidered, and warm bear fur covered his shoulders.

“Where is it?” asked Zund, having arrived.

“It disappeared on the path to the pass, General,” said the soldier, pointing at the road.

Zund gritted his teeth in anger. “Is it a slave? A refugee?”

“Definitely a refugee,” he replied.

“Send some orcs to search for him.” The General briefly looked at the Peaks again, intensely enough that he might have set them on fire. Then he headed toward his steed, a horse as black and heavy as the shroud of night, mounted its saddle, and trotted away. Eyeing the horizon, he saw a thin silhouette, which was becoming clearer as it approached—it was his father’s vulture. He pulled on the reins, and the bird perched on his arm, its talons clutching his leather armband. There was a message with the King’s wax seal tied to its neck. He took the scroll, bade the bird talk flight by lifting his arm, broke the seal, unrolled the scroll, and discovered that his father had an important task for him. He took some soldiers with him and headed south.

*

Several hours later, in the elven territory of Elelreel, Kaj’s wagon trundled down the road descending from Falcon’s Pass. The tulvaren patrols he’d spotted in the distance while he was at the Whitetrunk had convinced him to head back immediately, so as not to risk being seen. He reached the bottom of the valley. At the crossroads, he decided to take the high road that separated the swamp from the Malivon River. The area’s enveloping mist moistened Kaj’s woolen clothes, much to his annoyance. They were no longer in any condition to protect him from the elements. He wore a linen shirt, a wool tunic, thick wool trousers, socks, and fur-lined leather boots, but the cold was as biting as ever. Kaj held tight to his thick, frayed-edged woolen cloak and ran a hand through his invariably disheveled dark brown hair to fix up the hairs that had fallen to his brow, all while panting and rolling his clear eyes. Kaj was a fairly tall man, well-built and muscular thanks to his many years working iron at his foster father’s forge. His stern features belied his cheerful and friendly personality.

The surrounding atmosphere seemed to muffle most sound, but as soon as he crossed the intersection following the bridge over the Malivon, he heard the whistle of an arrow whishing by his right ear. He froze. Instinctively, he flicked the reins and scanned the area, but instead of sprinting, the mule stopped in its tracks, encircled by five imposing orcs.

Kaj didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, one of their number collapsed to the ground with a grunt. Behind the fallen ogre stood a cloaked figure with a large hood, weapons in hand. The orcs attacked the figure, and Kaj jumped off the wagon brandishing his sword and dealing a few cutting blows. Then, he found himself with two daggers at the sides of his neck.

The elf withdrew her weapons. Kaj had time enough to observe her, and realized she was a nalnir. She was shorter than Kaj (albeit not by much), with an athletic physique; she wasn’t frail at all, for an elf. Her wavy reddish hair was styled in a half-up ponytail that highlighted her pointed ears, as well as a few small tresses ornamented with metal beads. She also had the classic nalnir tattoos on her forehead. Her face was delicate, her large, shiny yellow eyes (typical of forest elves) expressive and alert. Her groomed eyebrows formed part of a well-proportioned visage, though her slightly crooked nose was highlighted by a scar. Her lips were fairly full, though reddened and marred by the cold, and therefore standing in contrast against her pale complexion. Her clothes were of classic elven workmanship—her brown suede tunic was fastened by knotted leather laces, and her sleeves reached the middle of her forearms, from which part of her wool tunic poked out, covered by engraved leather armbands. Her hands were protected by wool gloves, apart from her bare distal phalanges, which were slim and slender. The bottom of the large dark grey woolen cloak (that reached around the midway point of her calves) was worn, and made warmer by a thick wolf-fur collar. Aside from the daggers, the nalnir also had a beautifully etched bow and a quiver full of arrows, in addition to a small satchel and a bag that she carried over her shoulder with various useful items inside.

“Pretty dumb, traveling alone these days,” she began. “And with a slow mule and a dilapidated cart, at that.”

“I didn’t actually encounter many obstacles…”

She arched her eyebrows haughtily as she checked whether the orcs were all fully dead. “Are you fighting with the human resistance?”

Kaj was silent a moment. “Who, me? No, no, I’ve got my hands full with the wounded arriving in Fenan…”

“That’s odd… you fight well,” she said with suspicion. “You’d make a fine recruit, in these times,” she continued, though without all that much conviction in her voice. “What have you got in that wagon?”

“Healing roots,” said Kaj.

The elf looked at him, then headed for the wagon and opened one of the bags. “Anruith!?” she exclaimed in Elvish.

“Yep, healing roots.”

The elf rolled her eyes. “These roots are also found in the environs of Herle. Leaving Elelreel and going past the Peaks for them is madness!”

Kaj looked chagrined. “I knew what I was going towards…”

“Then you’re twice as dumb,” she said tersely. “In any case, the name’s Clarice.”

“Kaj.” He extended a hand. “Wait, are you Clarice, the Vagabond?”

“Yes,” she replied dryly.

Suddenly, he heard a noise of unknown origin. “Did you hear that?”

Clarice was freeing the mule from the yaw. “Yes. Goblins. They must’ve heard us fight against the orcs. There’s nothing they’d want here; they won’t attack…” she said pensively. “Those orcs were definitely sent by tulvars.”

“I’d hoped they wouldn’t see me. Boy am I glad I got away quickly!” he cried, peering around. “We’d better clear out of here…”

He made for the wagon, but Clarice smacked the mule, who promptly ran away.

“But why?” he asked, surprised.

“I’ve got no intention of letting all of Draelia know where we’re headed!” she shouted, throwing him an empty sack. “Take your roots.”

Kaj shook his head and started filling it. “You headed towards Fenan?”

“No, but Fenan happens to be on the way. I’ll accompany you there, and then proceed from there.”

They walked down the road that cut through the plains so as to take cover in the forest. They had been walking at a brisk pace for two hours, but the forest was still a ways away. The sunset came quickly, and by the time they started weaving through the trees, it was almost dark. Soon, they stumbled upon a clearing sufficiently shielded by bushes and rocks.

“We’ll set up camp here. Light the fire; I’ll be right back,” said Clarice.

“Where are you going?” Kaj felt his pockets in search of the fire striker. “Dammit, where’d I put the stupid thing!?”

When he looked up, she had already melted into the darkness.

He stretched out his arms in resignation. “I don’t have my fire striker on me…!” he shouted, hoping she’d overhear.

The moonlight helped Kaj gather some wood and dry moss. He made a hole in the ground and carefully laid them in layers as he waited for Clarice. Suddenly, he heard a noise, and he saw her emerge from the undergrowth with her game in hand.

“A hare?”

“If I’m not mistaken, you had a fire to light,” she said, panting. She didn’t answer his question.

“You didn’t give me the time to…” he started, but the elf threw the hare at him before he could finish.

Clarice bent down, pulled a piece of flint from her pocket, and struck it against her dagger with a decisive motion. The dry moss began to crackle, turning into a nice fire. Kaj roasted the hare on the fire; the scent that emanated was mouth-watering. She was sitting on a small rock nearby, engrossed in cleaning her swords.

“I couldn’t help noticing the green streaks that appeared on your skin,” he said.

“I’m a nalnir,” she said tersely.

“Right, but you don’t see that often in Fenan elves… it’s weird.”

“Living in a village far from the forest, that’s normal. It’s even more evident within the Shadetrail,” she replied, a little annoyed. “Where are you from?”

“I told you, I’m from Fenan…” he said, as he turned the spit.

“I mean, before the Invasion,” she clarified.

“Lochbis.”

“Is your family at the village?”

“No,” he said bluntly, lowering his head. “My family couldn’t make it out of Lochbis, unfortunately. I was out of town when a pack of abominables led by a sorcerer attacked. I returned home, to find nothing left. There was a great big blast, and some people ran outside the walls. The remaining guards let me out; when we reached the mountains, we saw only smoke and flames rising from the city… I came back a few days later to look for my things.”

“I’m sorry that happened to your loved ones, though you story is similar to many others I’ve heard… I know the fangwyns or ‘abominables’ well. People transformed into monsters, and commanded by necromancers. Do you know how the transformation takes place?”

“I’m not sure I want to know…”

“After they’re killed, a ritual snatches their souls, and their bodies twist into husks filled only with hatred and brutality.”

“By Dag! I shudder to think those things were once people.”

Clarice put down her daggers and neared the fire. “Let’s eat the hare now; otherwise you’ll char it.”

Having enjoyed their meal, they retired for the night.

Just before the break of dawn, Kaj felt something brush against his shoulder, and woke with a start, only to realize it was her.

“Get up! We’ve got to leave!”

“Dammit, do you mean to scare me to death?”

“If I wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t have noticed.”

The nalnir’s answer sent a chill down his spine. She didn’t even spare him a glance, as she was intent on putting out the fire and hiding the traces so that any other orcs that might be in the area couldn’t identify them. The cloak he habitually wore around his neck concealed most of his body, but he noticed she’d removed her gloves, and regarded her thin cold-beaten hands.

The fog was quite thick that day, but the deeper they ventured into the forest, the thinner the mists became, hanging high amidst the trees. The atmosphere was magnificent, if surreal. The Shadetrail Forest was still this green and lush (in complete contrast with the rest of the world) thanks to elven magic. By comparison, the Whitetrunk Forest was an expanse of bare and battered trees.

They moved forward at a brisk pace, and the forest seemed a samey blur to Kaj.

“Tell me, how do you elves recognize every tree in the forest? How do you always know where you are?”

Her response was not the one he wished to hear. “You humans don’t observe, and you don’t know how to listen to the forest. You’ll never be able to get a grasp. You’re too distracted,” she pontificated.

“Oh c’mon! Would it kill you to answer without the usual elven arrogance!?”

“If you don’t like my answers, then don’t ask questions.”

“Three centuries since the Reconciliation, and nothing’s changed,” he prodded her, annoyed. “I was just hoping to make the trip there more pleasant.”

“We have to walk, not talk. Fenan’s not far now. You can talk to whomever you like once we’re there.”

“You bet I will!”

They walked for a day and a half, most of the time in silence. During the afternoon of the second day, they arrived at the bridge to Fenan, a small and quiet elven village. It stood between two fierce streams, the White and Silver Creeks. Scads of refugees from beyond the Slumbering Peaks had found a home here. The streets (some cobblestone, others clay) were narrow, and the sticky mud of that time of year sullied boots, clothing and cloaks. The houses built by the refugees were mostly small, wooden, one-floor affairs with thatched rooves, while the older homes around the plaza were two stories tall and built using wood and stone. The tavern stood out from among them, along with the smithy’s furnace and forge and their attached residences. At the center of the square was situated a large well, near which stood a vegetable-laden table; a number of human women and female elves were cleaning the vegetables while chatting and having a laugh or two.

On one side of the square was located the building that housed the wounded and sick. It was a sanctuary dedicated to Luhreil, the god of water, and it was a circular structure built of wood and stone. The jutting roof was supported by slender columns, from whose sturdy iron rings sizeable lanterns were hanging. The sanctuary’s large door was made of solid wood, so old and run-down that it had lost its erstwhile shiny patina. Inside, the single nave housed beds and cots, and the handful of windows let in little light. The clouded panes of glass evoked a sense of isolation. Additionally, there were three small rooms and a nice stone fireplace that warmed the whole interior.

“Now go take care of your wounds,” said the elf hastily. “I have something to do.”

“The tavern’s on the other side of the square, if you need a room.”

But Kaj received no reply. He turned to face her, only to find she was gone.

When Kaj opened the sanctuary door, he found it fuller than ever before. There were many inside—too many. There had to have been some battle, with the wounded militiamen taking refuge here. He feared there might not be enough roots for everyone. He had to get to work. He went to the room that had been designated the kitchen and started making his healing brew.

Moments later, he heard the door slam. “So it’s true! You are back!”

He spun on his heels, to see Cilna run toward him and throw her arms around his neck. She was a young elf of Fenan; her family had lived there for many generations, a fact of which she was proud. She was frail, and not very tall, with long always-braided blonde hair and big brown eyes. Her open, friendly, and curious nature had often gotten her in trouble for some ill-spoken words, not to mention all the times she’d been too curious. Like everyone else in Fenan, she wore simple clothes, a linen tunic yellowed by time plus a blue woolen robe which the young woman protected by wearing a coverall.

“Cilna, be careful! These roots are precious!” The bowl had almost dropped from his grip.

“You found so many!” she exclaimed excitedly.

“Yes, and it wasn’t easy. Now let me continue, if you would. You can help me when the medicine’s ready to be distributed.”

Cilna nodded. “I’ll be there when you need me.”

After entrusting Cilna with the hot infusion he’d just finished concocting, Kaj busied himself preparing compresses for the wounds.

Then the young woman called out for him in desperation. “KAJ!”

He rushed over to her. Five ailing and wounded hunters were beginning, one by one, to tremble and squirm. Before long, they were all dead. Their wounds had been infected by the teeth and claws of lalks, demonic wolves whose packs numbered many across all of Elelreel. Cilna was motionless beside Kaj, staring at the hunters’ bodies.

“You didn’t think to check the wounds?” asked Kaj, in time.

Petrified, she stammered incomprehensibly, and moreover, in the heat of the moment she had dropped what little of the potion had remained.

“By all that’s holy!” he shouted, picking up the cauldron and ladle. “How thoughtless can you be? I risked my life for those roots, and then you go and waste them like this! The brew was supposed to be enough for tomorrow morning, too!” he cried. “Get out of here.”

Cilna ran away crying, and the door closed with a dull thud.