SALVATION FOR THE FALLEN Chapter 9

He already knew that Larien was not at the tavern since he had just been there talking with Earnest and Carl. Neither one of the men had seen Larien at all today. As he was leaving the tavern, Caro and Cat tried to get him to come over to their table and share a drink with them. He just waved in acknowledgement that he heard them but kept on going, focusing on his mission – to find Larien. He walked swiftly to her home trying to avoid the people on the street out for their walks after their evening meals. Some called out to him but again, he just waved and continued on his way. He was in no mood to talk to anyone tonight except Larien. He didn’t care if he appeared rude. If truth be told, most people didn’t expect him to stop and talk unless he had a special agenda, but they were neighborly people so always made the effort to engage him in conversation. The news he had was important and he needed to talk to her NOW!!

He reached her place, a bit out of breath in his rush to get there, and impatiently knocked on the door. There was no answering, “Come in, the door’s open”. He beat it again, this time with his gloved fist. Still, he could hear no returning response. He pounded on the door a third time as he shouted, “Larien, are you there? Answer me!” Nothing! Maudit, où est-elle? Then he thought that since it had been such a nice day, maybe she was out in the garden. There was still a bit of sunlight left before the moon rose. He strode around to the side garden door and knocked. Again, only silence greeted his efforts. He jiggled the door and it opened on squeaky hinges. Yes, she had spent some time working in her gardens by the look of that one area over close to the house. But, there was still no Larien. He was definitely not happy that he could not find her and his patience was running thin, VERY THIN! Maudit!!

He turned from the garden and went back out the way he had come in thinking he needed to remind her to keep the garden door locked and fastened securely. It should never be so easy to open as it was for him. It wouldn’t be a good thing if someone could walk in and surprise her, especially with the news he had in his possession. He had to stop and think. Where, where did she go? He was always a man of action and this not knowing where Larien could be did not sit well with him. Then, like a thunder bolt, he knew. After gardening, she would probably go to the glen! Oui, c'est ça!

With renewed purpose, he hurried through the alleys of the Keep and made his way out the castle gate, his dark cape flowing out behind him in his haste. He was one of the few people that knew the way to Larien’s glen, and more importantly, could go inside to see if she were there. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry, he would be able to enjoy the warmth of the night air. The sun had finally set and the moon was now slowly rising in the east. The moon was full and bright and not the best type of moon to hide his activities or anyone else’s for that matter. There were few clouds left in the sky to make their shadows on the ground or hide the moon with their presence. The moonbeams were fingers of light filtering through the leaves, leaving small patches of brightness to help him see his way through Wildon Woods. Not that he needed any assistance. He spent much of his days as a boy exploring these woods and now, as a man, used that information to his advantage. To say that he knew them like the back of his hand was an understatement. Not much moved in these woods that he didn’t already know about in some way, shape, or form. That’s what made him so good at his job. He wasn’t being boastful thinking that either; it was just the plain and simple facts. He and his brothers practically lived in these woods growing up. They climbed many a tree in their time and scared many travelers on their way to the Keep! If he weren’t in such a hurry to reach Larien, he might have taken a bit longer on his journey through this home away from home. But he did have a mission of importance. He finally reached the special location that held the magical portal which would lead him into the glen. He said the incantation and stepped into Larien’s paradise.

Her glen was a beautiful place and he was glad that Larien had this retreat to turn to for solace. He let his eyes get used to the light reflecting off the water as it was brighter than the light from the woods. He listened intently for sounds of her in the water but he heard nothing. He quickly looked around the glen area, taking it all in – the moss-covered rocks, the flowers, and the waterfall. Next, he looked up at the big boulder that was Larien’s thinking rock. He quietly took the steps, careful that his sword didn’t clang against the boulders as he walked up them, sure that he would find her there. Ah, yes, there she was! Finally he had found her! He didn’t realize that he had been holding his breath until he saw her. She was lying on the boulder as he suspected. Her back was towards the waterfall and she lay there on the rock with her left arm and hand cradling her face like a pillow. Her eyes were closed. He could tell by her measured breathing that she had fallen asleep. Larien must have changed her clothes after her swim if the pile of clothes lying on the rock was any indication. He stood there looking at her, his eyes moving slowly over her still body. The moonlight caressed her face turning it to alabaster. Her long dark eyelashes curled and rested on her cheeks. He knew that she had fallen asleep after her swim; her long, silky dark hair was still slightly damp and curling around her face and shoulders, spilling across her right hand.

He took his gloves off and secured them in his belt as he knelt next to her sleeping body. Larien looked so peaceful that he hated having to wake her. As he knelt there, he debated with himself over waking her at all. It would be so easy to leave her to her dreams and not wake her to the rude reality of the news he needed to share. He also knew that he could only tell her and let her be the one to talk to the Council. His feud with the Council was still on-going and he refused to speak directly to them. She would have to be the one to tell them. It was best that way as they wouldn’t like what he would say to them should he let his reserve down. And looking at her now, he still could not believe that someone wanted her dead! What could she have possibly done to anger someone to feel that they needed to rid the earth of her existence? Larien smiled even in sleep, her rosy lips slightly curled at the sides. He reached his fingers out to lightly brush the curls from her cheek and place them behind her ear so he could better drink in this vision before him. He never tired of looking at her either awake or in repose. There were not many people that affected him like this or that he cared about as much as he did for this woman. He would gladly give his life for her if he needed to do so. His touch, while feather light, was still enough to disturb her slumber and she slowly opened her eyes. Her smile was instantaneous, genuine, wide, and, oh so inviting.

“Hello, Mark.” Larien’s voice was husky from sleep.

“You know I do not go by that name anymore, my Queen,” he chided her softly.

“Yes, I know. You prefer Deamon.” There was a bit of sadness in Larien’s eyes as her right hand reached up to touch the side of his face. He moved his head slightly so he could kiss the palm of her hand as she continued, “But here in the glen, I think of you as Mark.”

Deamon knew that while they were in public, she did call him by the name he preferred and rarely as Mark. However, when they were in private, she often reverted back to his given name. Since Larien held such a special place in his heart, she was the only one he allowed the liberty of calling him by that name. He asked – no commanded – that all others call him Deamon or Master of Whispers. That was his name now and that was his profession. It suited him. It also allowed him certain liberties because people were too afraid of him to come out and ask his intentions or take him to task. There was only one that knew his true heart and was brave enough to question him and that was Larien, his Queen, his lady.

Larien knew that Deamon did not come to converse in idle chit chat. She sat up and looked at him, asking, “What is it you want to say to me? I know that you have something very important to say. Otherwise, you would have waited until later tonight or tomorrow to talk to me. But since you are with me here, it must be of an urgent nature.”

Deamon sat next to Larien as he wrapped them in his cape. Larien was grateful for the warmth it offered as the night air was beginning to cool down and she had gotten a slight chill while she slept. Deamon was quiet, just looking at the pool with its reflection of the moon rippling in the water. Larien waited, knowing that he was gathering his thoughts. After so many years together, she knew the signs very well. So, she sat close to him, absorbing his warmth and closeness in silence which was broken only by the sounds from the waterfall.

“You know, Larien, I would not come to Galeran if it were not important that I talk to you privately.” Deamon’s voice was low and hesitant, trying to find the right words to tell her. It all seemed easier when he was thinking about it. He was worried how this would affect her and her Angels. However, since there was no easy way to say it, he just started talking. She rested her small hand on his leg to encourage him to continue.

Deamon cleared his throat. “I have grave news. Several of my informants have told me that a very large army is fast approaching our Keep. And, from what I hear, it is not the normal size army of just a few hundred or so that we usually fight or have fought in the past. They are but a couple of days walk or so from our borders, Larien, and are rapidly approaching. My spies do not have anything good to say for this army so I think it is safe to say that they are not coming to ask us to aid them but have more sinister plans in mind.”

“When you say a very large army, Deamon, how many do your informants think there are?”

“I have not received a specific number of warriors but my understanding is more in the thousands. All I know is that they are marching on the Keep from the South, the East, AND the West. If it were not for the Tonathium Mountains, I’m sure that we would be surrounded on all four sides by them,” Deamon replied.

Larien started to talk and Deamon interrupted. “But that is not all.”

“There is more than being attacked on three sides by thousands of warriors?” Larien couldn’t think what could possibly be worse than this news.

He waited a brief moment, looking down at her hand resting on his leg, took it in his own, and kissed it before he quietly replied. “They have orcs in their ranks! “

“Orcs? Are you sure?” Deamon nodded. He felt the slight squeeze of surprise she gave his hand. Larien continued, “Yes, I see your point.” Larien closed her eyes and sighed. “They are definitely not here to chat with the Angels about anything. I will call our warriors and we will meet the advancing armies on the plains outside Wildon Woods.”

“I’m afraid we are too late for that, my Queen.” Larien looked at Deamon’s face, trying to tell what more he had to say that was worse than the news he had already given her. “They are too close to be intercepted and fought on the plains. As I see it, the Castle will have to defend itself. We have no other choice.” Deamon’s voice sounded resigned. The Angels have not had to defend its walls in a very, very long time, probably several decades or more. They all knew stories of other towns and villages that didn’t fare well when battles came so close to their castles. There usually was more damage to the castle walls and the occupants the walls protected. Those battles became more personal, more costly, and bloodier. It was seldom favorable to the villagers who became enslaved to the marauding army, giving up their freedoms to serve the new master of the castle.

Larien sighed deeply. Her bodied shuddered. His arm tightened around her. She looked at Deamon and could read his concern over the news he had just given and how it would affect her personally. She also knew that if the approaching army was anywhere on the plains, they would be within sight of the Keep very, very soon. Even the difficulties of transporting catapults and maneuvering thousands of warriors across the plains would not deter their march. The Angels didn’t have much time to waste.

“Do you think we need to go to the council tonight, Mark, or will the morning be time enough?”

“It should be tonight, Larien. The Castle Angels need time to prepare their weapons and secure the Keep. You need time to warn the dwarves and elves. We will also need to get the hot tar and catapults ready. Remember, we are going up against orcs and will need everything in our arsenal available and at the ready.”

“Then it seems we have no choice. Let us return to the Keep.” Larien knew what needed to be done. “We have a lot of planning ahead of us.” Deamon stood and reached down to help Larien stand. He looked deep into her eyes and could see the concern there for her Angels. He could not read anything in them to give any indication if she knew more than what they just discussed. He drew her to him and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close to him for a few seconds, his cheek resting against her hair. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, kissing her softly and longingly before letting her go. She picked up her clothes as he retrieved his cloak and they left the glen together – in silence.

What started out as a perfect beginning to the evening was not turning into a perfect ending. They didn’t talk much on their way back to the Castle, each deep in their own thoughts. Larien was thinking about the Council meeting that would be called and the discussions that would ensue. She hoped that they would be able to keep the battles for the enemy and not have to battle each other. With the armies coming into the Angels’ domain, the council members might have their own interests they want to protect and she would need to make sure that whatever they decided was best for the Angels as a whole and not just to specific individuals.

Deamon was thinking it was probably a good thing that Larien could not read his mind now. She used to be able to when he and the boys were younger. It had always amazed him how she knew who was responsible when he and his brothers got into mischief. It wasn’t until he got older that he knew and understood her ability even though there were times when he was an adolescent that it was awkward that she could. She stopped being able to read him when he saved her life that first time; that was when their relationship seemed to change. Because she could not channel into his thoughts now, it made it easier for him to keep the biggest piece of news that he had gotten from his spies to himself. He still could not believe what he had been told even though his source was usually very reliable. It seems that someone in one of the three approaching armies wanted the Elf Queen, his Larien, dead!! Deamon was worried about who would try to take Larien’s life and how and, more importantly, why. He was going to do all in his power to see that it did NOT happen – even if it meant dealing with Zigaroth himself!

created originally 6 September 2011

SALVATION FOR THE FALLEN Chapter 4

The days were starting to run into each other. They consisted of walking through unknown forests and towns, stopping in places off the beaten path and sleeping under the stars at night. Bartholomew always looked forward to the end of the day so that he could be with Shadow. They would often just sit together by the fire until Bartholomew would fall asleep against Shadow's large body…dragon and rider bonding even in sleep.

Bartholomew had also been noticing something else that was changing or maybe it was just him making the connection that had always been there but he had never given it much thought. The last couple of nights he paid particularly close attention to when his hand would start to throb and when Shadow would appear. He came to the realization that there was a greater physical bond that was developing between them since they left Dragon Mountain. The marking on his hand was becoming more visible as was a matching marking between Shadow's eyes. He remembered the summer festivals that his village would have and a lady would be there to read your palm and tell your fortune. He recalled the one time she read his. She said that it was strange-looking and not normal compared to others, something about his life, heart, and health lines all being connected. At the time, he thought that she didn't know what she was talking about. However, now he wasn’t so sure. The lines did look as if they were connected at the ends forming a triangle shape. When Shadow arrived each night Bartholomew's hand was drawn, as if by some invisible thread, to the spot between Shadow's eyes. The throbbing would stop the minute the triangles touched. There was a strange, soft-glowing energy that flowed between them whenever they stood together like that; touching their triangles, cementing their oneness, creating harmony.

There was nothing about the glowing mark and its significance in any of the readings he had come across. There were no stories told of the type of relationship between riders and their dragons. He thought that it was still very strange that he could find so very little to help him understand why Shadow and he were the way they were. Since he did not have the answers to his random thoughts of why and what and how, Bartholomew tried to put it behind him and rest with his companion. As they settled down for another night under the stars, he wondered how much further they had to travel. How far had they already covered? Bartholomew yawned, his muscles relaxing in Shadow’s warmth. He knew they still were heading north but that was about all he was sure of. As he drifted off to sleep, he wished he knew more – more answers.

Knowledge

Bartholomew was completely surrounded by trees; their sturdy trunks thick with age, their branches connecting each to the other.  The forest floor was verdant green from ferns, grasses and moss with splashes of color as the flowers reached their heads to gaze at the world around them.  Filtered sunbeams from above made pools of light and moved gently as soft breezes blew.  Everything was vibrant and intense.  He could smell the flowers but could not recognize them by name.  That’s when he saw her.  She approached him with measured steps.  She wore garments of green and almost blended into her surroundings.  Her long blonde hair glistened when she passed through each sunbeam giving her a special glow, an aura of brilliance.  He felt his eyes squinting as she passed through each beam.  She wore a unique headpiece nestled in her hair.  It looked like the sparkling stones were in the shapes of flowers; flowers that winked at him as she came closer.  He couldn’t look away; he was mesmerized by the sight of her.  She stopped in front of him.  She stretched her hand out and combed her fingers through his hair, connecting with him.  He felt her touch send a current through his body, warming him.  Her hazel eyes gave him nothing to fear as he looked into their depths.  Her rose-colored lips turned up as she smiled.  Then, she began to sing.  Oh, what a sweet melody.  He wanted to close his eyes.  But she held his gaze.  Her voice was soft, clear and pure.  He did not understand the words she sang but he felt a peacefulness pervade his whole being – calming his fears, giving him confirmation that he was doing the right thing, that this was his time in history.

He woke up with the last few notes of her song resounding in his head. He had to take a moment to figure out if what he experienced was a dream or reality. He lay there and could hear Shadow’s steady breathing as it was not yet dawn. It was then he knew that it was truly a dream and the Elf Queen, for that was who he thought she was, disappeared into the night.

He found that sleep now eluded him.  The words of the Queen’s song kept repeating themselves in his mind even though he didn’t know what they meant.  Why did he dream of her?  Did he have this dream to help answer his questions?  Was the dream a way of calming him down or was it just wishful thinking on his part?  Was she preparing him for something to happen or for nothing – success or failure?  His journey thus far had shown him that there were many things that he could not explain.  Did this dream, her words, fall into that category?  Questions came fast and furious in his mind.  The answers were not so quickly resolved.  Maybe he needed company other than his own.  Was this what it was like just before a person went crazy like Old Yerik back home?  Yerik did not come into the village often; in fact, no one knew exactly where he lived.  However, when he did he was always talking to himself, sometimes saying things that made no sense and sometimes arguing with himself and losing!  He would look off into the distance with a glazed look in his eyes and sing songs in a language no one knew.  His clothes were torn and unclean and hung from his body.  Mothers kept their children on the other side of the street fearing that whatever he had, it was contagious.  His unkempt white hair and scraggy eyebrows added to his crazed look.  But Yerik always took the time to look Bartholomew straight in the eye and raise one brow when he passed by him.  And for that moment, and that moment only, Bartholomew thought that Old Yerik might not be as crazy as he seemed.  Bartholomew could see the look of deep intelligence in his glance.  And every time that this had happened over the years, it sent shivers up Bartholomew’s spine and a tingling through his arms and legs.

Bartholomew decided that he would go ahead and start his journey earlier since he couldn’t sleep and he couldn’t wait for Shadow to wake. He gathered his meager belongings, taking stock of his bread supply. He had one small piece left and that would be gone before mid-day. He knew that he would need to find an inn to replenish his food. He hadn’t spent any money, his leather coin pouch still jingling with unspent wages. Before donning his glove, he went to Shadow and touched him, telling him goodbye. Shadow opened his dark eyes and blinked twice. Bartholomew turned and started making his way through the brush as he put on his glove.

As he traveled, he took stock of his surroundings. It looked like he was coming out of the forest area. The trees also looked different. He paused. Something was not quite right. Why didn’t they look right? He looked to either side of where he was standing. And then, it hit him. While the trees were tall, they had no leaves. There was no canopy of branches and leaves. They looked like forlorn skeletons standing in rows and groups. The green he saw was not leaves at all but moss clinging to the trunks and dead branches giving the illusion of leaves. The darkened sentinels were broken and lying on their sides, like old, broken soldiers. He had never seen a place with such a sad, forsaken look about it. He felt a pain close to his heart and sensed that some great tragedy had occurred here a very long time ago. He was shocked to see no new undergrowth trying to rebuild. No healing. No birds calling to their mates. No rabbits hopping around the ferns. It was as if this place, this land, was cursed by something evil.

It was then that he smelled it – a sickly, sweet smell. He sniffed the air, turning around trying to discover the source. Why did it smell so familiar? Where had he encountered it before? He was puzzled. He inhaled again. If only he could remember. It was quite distinctive and not a common tobacco smell at all. He stood there for a few more seconds. It came to him in a flash of remembrance! Old Yerik!! The tobacco from his pipe!!! Someone close by was smoking. Yes! That was it! He squinted his eyes and looked around him, trying to find the source of the smell. And then he saw him – the old man. He was sitting on a fallen log, his legs swinging freely as he smoked his pipe. Bartholomew slowly made his way over to where the stranger sat. The stranger didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge Bartholomew’s presence but just keep sitting and smoking and swinging.

Bartholomew ventured, “Ah, good day, sir.”

The stranger continued to sit. Holding the bowl of his pipe, he now looked intently at Bartholomew, his eyes moving slowly from the top of Bartholomew’s head to his toes and back up again. Bartholomew felt uneasy under the old man’s scrutiny. He had never had someone give him such a stare. The stranger took another puff.

While the old man looked him up and down, Bartholomew was fascinated by the pipe. He was well versed in the forest and recognized the wood as bog-wood. Bog-wood came from trees that grew near or in bogs and were usually preserved oak, pine or yew. The wood was naturally stained brown and when it dried out, it could crack or split. The knife-maker back home often used it for the handles of his daggers. But this was the first he saw it as a pipe. The bowl was large and fit in the palm of the old man’s hand and it had a long, long, curved neck and a small nub at the end. There were strange designs carved into the bowl but, without holding it, he couldn’t make them out.

Holding the bowl of the pipe in his hand, the old man pointed the tip at Bartholomew and asked, “So, boy, you hungry?”

It took Bartholomew a moment to realize that the old man had spoken to him. “Yes I am. I am also running out of food supplies and will need to buy some more before I can continue my journey.” Bartholomew raised his eyes and met the old man’s stare, square on.

“Then come with me.” He hopped off the log and started walking, not once looking back to see if Bartholomew was following him.

Bartholomew wanted to ask the old man his name. It would be so much easier for conversation. As he was about to open his mouth to ask, the man said, “You can call me Kirey, for now.”

Kirey’s quick response to Bartholomew’s unspoken question surprised him. It was like the old man knew what he was going to say before he had the chance to say it. He shook it off and asked, “Where are we going?”

“This village is Morridin and we’re going to the Inn of the Sleeping Dragon for your supplies. Ever hear of Morridin, boy?”

“No, I’m from the south. Is Morridin famous, Kirey?”

Kirey took two puffs, raised his bushy white eyebrows before he replied, “You didn’t read about it? Hmmm. It was the last battle in the War of the Dragons. Those trees back there have been that way since the last battle. And you’re right, it has been cursed since that day.”

The older man walked briskly so they reached the village square in fairly good time. He watched for Bartholomew’s reaction when he first saw the square. It wasn’t the square in general but the tree that stood in the middle of it that caught the young man’s attention. Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw dropped and his eyes grew big. He found his right hand was rubbing his left. The throbbing was so intense that it radiated up his arm. For there, standing in the center, was a tree. It was not a tree like any he had ever seen. It was massive, with a gnarled and twisted trunk. Its roots reached out along one side of the trunk, its branches bent and intertwined. But the most amazing thing about this dead tree, what caught and grabbed Bartholomew’s attention and held him breathless despite the pain, was its shape. This tree with all of its parts looked like a dragon as it was dying! The ground on which it stood was scarred by deep gouges of unhealed earth, no doubt the result of a long ago battle.

“That, Bartholomew, is the Tree of Sorrow. It will forever stay like that to remind all mankind of the destruction that was caused during the War of the Dragons. That was the place where the last known dragon died. Ah, but enough of this, the Inn is just over here. Come.” Bartholomew slowly followed Kirey to the Inn of the Sleeping Dragon. There they ate in relative silence and Bartholomew purchased the items he needed to continue his journey.

As they left the Inn, they went back through the village center. Bartholomew walked over to the tree, Kirey watching intently. Bartholomew squatted down and reached his left hand out to touch the tree’s root. The pain was so acute that he bit his lip, closed his eyes tightly, and tried to not shake from the sheer intensity of it. If Kirey asked what was happening, Bartholomew would have to tell him that he could feeling the dragon taking its last breath as it lay dying. Being a dragon rider must have made him sensitive to the tragedy of this place, this tree, and the war that claimed the lives both of men and dragons.

Kirey came up to him and put his hand on Bartholomew’s shoulder. In a soft voice filled with emotion he said, “Take Shadow and continue north over the Tonathium Mountains until you come to the home of The Castle Angels. Look for the tavern called Diova Gruss and ask to speak to Carl, one of the proprietors of the tavern. He will be able to take you on the next part of your journey.” With that, the old man named Kirey walked away from Bartholomew.

Bartholomew stood next to the Tree of Sorrow and watched him leave. Only when he was no longer in sight did Bartholomew realize that not once had he mentioned Shadow to Kirey. So, how did he know?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RugSclNY4y8

created originally 1 June 2011