The villagers of Elowyn Glade were struck by an afternoon of fearful intrusion, injury and bravery.

Nobody knew why the Rider had entered the village seeking out an artefact recently secured by Saraya and Vinaris, Elven sell-swords. What’s more, the two adventurers did not get the opportunity to appraise the hammer that the beast so desperately craved. Was it for himself or for another?

Within hours entering the evening, rumour spread about the words of the Rider. Many of those near enough to hear the Rider were too petrified to discuss the matter. The men drank heavily and the women spent far too much time fussing over their children and the neatness of curtains and the quantity of bread loaves in the kitchen. All they felt they could do to depress the image of the Rider to the furthest reaches of their minds was to stay occupied. One boy did hear the Rider. He came face to face with the furred presence in all its evil, fortunate enough to be saved by the Elven girl, Saraya.

“That beast followed you to the Glade,” Linus yelled down the street to the green-hooded girl making her way along the uneven stone way.

“Your thanks for a postponed death, is duly noted.” Saraya’s voice echoed back off the walls of buildings as she slightly turned her head to reply.

“Why must you run? Am I not worthy of an explanation? That thing entered the village at full tilt looking for you. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have been near death as I was.”

Saraya stopped and flung herself around, glaring at Linus.

“Listen, boy. Did you see those girls? They are without a mother. I have my actions to bear upon my shoulders. I had no idea the artefacts we brought with us were going to have an impact upon the next village we entered. My own brother almost came to his own demise and so did your employer. Should we not focus on what can be done now, rather than dwell on past actions?”

“If you are referring to Greymon, he is my father,” Linus corrected Saraya. “He adopted me when I was a youngster. My family had abandoned me. Left me in the foothills of quarry country. We all have a story, and not all stories involve wandering like vagrants dragging pestilence with them.”

Saraya stepped forward close to Linus. Leaning in, she drew a thin, black-charred blade and raised it under his nose.

“You talk of stories, yet your ears are failing you, boy. You know not of ours and think we bring nothing but hardship to you and your folk. What we drag with us is a burden of knowing how to fight and little else. If you think you know me, draw your weapon and let’s have this out. First blood cedes and respect is honoured.” Saraya’s luminescent eyes leered into Linus’ as she made her position clear.

“This is a joke, Elf-witch!” Linus stepped back, arms to his side and palms facing forward.

“Are you mocking me?” Saraya grew angry. A flutter in the morning air caught her hood and flicked it off, revealing once again her blonde curls. The sight was a contradiction. How could such beauty bare such anger?

“You single-handedly seared the beast in two with energy left to do further damage. I make weapons, not fight with them. I came here for answers. Little comes from sword fights other than bravado and claims to honour. I earn respect through my hard work and honouring my promises. I’m sorry for the losses of yest’day. It was your brother at our shop, was it not? We are blessed to have a High Priest of Ulhamur within our city.”

Saraya lowered the dagger and sheathed it.

“When your skills are limited to that of a sword, every object becomes a sack of blood waiting to be punctured,” Saraya’s flippant likening of a body to a blood sack sent a ripple of goosebumps down Linus’ spine.

“I appreciate you sparing me the time for discussion, Elf.” Linus let out an obvious sigh of relief.

“Keep calling me Elf and you’ll be on a spit roast, boy. I’ve eaten worse things – and I’m sure man-flesh tastes a sight better than roasted translucent muck.”

“Touché. I’m Linus.”

“I’m late.” Without warning, Saraya dashed fleet-footedly away, continuing along the street toward the Northern aspect of the Glade. She turned as she ran, “I’ll be at the Temple. My brother is in the High Priest’s care.” Almost as distant as the quarry miners’ picks clanking away, Linus barely heard Saraya’s voice above the wind, “Sorry for almost slicing your throat.”

Nick.

All content is original.

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Acknowledgement

Cover Art