The Magical Stone of Elthenia Parts 1 to 7 (a continuing story)

  

The Magical Stone of Elthenia Parts 1 to 7

Foundations

 

If anyone deserved a peaceful retirement it was the greatest warrior Elthenia had ever known, and probably would ever know: The exiled, General Felsted.

Not everyone gets to celebrate their 800th birthday by building their own cabin, thought Felsted, knee deep in the snow and mud of the foundation he was digging. He stood up, leant against his spade, and fumbled around his Yak wool jacket for his pipe. His white beard matched the fresh puffy snow high on the mountain tops, and the empty blue sky mirrored his eyes, both in colour and in their transitory state of reflection.

Not finding his pipe, his eyes drifted upward and rested on the natural moon of Elthenia, currently nestled between the lower mountains of Wexmede and Norkam, the sight brought a smile to the old elf’s face. But then, like some overwhelming shadow of inevitability, his eyes rested on the ghost moon, or the galleon moon, as the older elves called it. A few elves, older than himself, who remembered the galleon moons arrival and the onset of suffering its inhabitants — the Lawcundali, brought to this formerly serene world.

Felsted closed his eyes and inhaled the sharp forest air. “We are born again each morning, and for this I am grateful,” he said aloud.

“Born again? Once is quite enough, thank you, godfather. Us barn-owls have far less chance of survival than you elves; even when you are being hunted by wolves and all the other monsters those moon creatures can conjure up. You have the gift of the Sun-God at your fingertips,” said Tarron, Felsted’s closest friend glancing towards the fire Felsted kept burning for warmth and security.

Felsted, smiled at Tarron as he returned to his excavation. After a period of prolonged digging, Felsted suddenly dropped to his knees, “Well, well,” he said, somewhat stupefied, “that’s not something you find every day.” Tarron, who was thinking about where to hunt that day, flew a little closer to see the obstruction. A large blue rock, with red spiralling veins under its surface protruded from the trench. “I thought this was an old oak tree stump. I couldn’t have been more wrong,” said Felsted.

“What is it?” Asked Tarron, floating from the annoyingly shaky pine branch, which caused snow to fall not just below but from above also (hence on him), to the neat log pile Felsted had brought up from the valley last spring.

The elf sat back on the side of the trench where he suddenly saw his pipe next to his pickaxe. Shrugging his eyebrows in a ‘I don't remember leaving you there’ movement, he picked up his pipe and filled it with bakerlite gold dust — an oxygen enriched quartz-like material unique to the planet of Elthenia and essential for mountain elves. His eyes remained fixed on the stone as he lit his pipe. A long trail of thin silver smoke rose like a waking spirit into the forest. The smell reminded Tarron of pinecones in winter, but also freshly scythed hay fields in spring. He loved it when the old elf lit his pipe, it gave the owl a sense of timelessness.

“Lapis lazuli,” replied the old elf eventually. “The largest sample of such a rock I have ever seen. And with red veins? I’ve never known a lapis stone to have such a strange quality.”

“Is it valuable?” Asked Tarron.

“Yes. These blue rocks were far more valuable than diamonds when I was a young elf at school in the valley. Back then the spirits wanted to protect themselves, so they encouraged the early elves to pursue other minerals and rocks. Yet, those who know such secrets understand that this is the true rock — the answer, as the mystics called it.”

Felsted blew elephant shaped smoke clouds into the cold air and chuckled to himself. “They called me the greatest warrior on Elthenia, yet I never possessed wealth; now, I retire to the wilderness and find this under my house! Well, what I had hoped to be my house.”

“I thought you were building a cabin?” said Tarron. Felsted threw the owl a ‘yes ok, Mr Pedantic’ glance, “Ok, under my proposed cabin,” replied Felsted, exhaling walrus shaped vapors now.

“I’ll have to move the foundation if I can’t move it.

I wonder how it found its way into the mountain? Lord Boden knows how I am going to extract it from the ground.”

Confidence

The following day, a ground frost lingered on the forest floor. Felsted started work early, carefully excavating around the lapis stone.

He found that the rock was far larger than it had first appeared. The deeper he dug, the darker the red veins of the stone appeared. The blue of the lapis grew more vibrant and glowed brightly through the rime coated clumps of earth stretching either side of it.

By the afternoon Felsted decided to stop exposing the stone.

“I think I will move the cabin further up the hill,” Felsted said to himself. Snow had been threatening all day and now the isolated somewhat disinterested flakes had taken on a stronger personality. They seemed keen on seeing what the old elf was unearthing and floated down in slow observation.

It was at the cusp of twilight Tarron returned and unexpectedly landed directly on the stone. Felsted was cleaning his spade and puffing on his pipe when suddenly a brilliant cerulean light filled the forest along with the sound of the musical note of E.

Felsted, a keen fiddle player, instantly recognized the high pitch and for a moment was dumbstruck by the sound and colour around him. Tarron reacted fearfully and flew onto the log pile, regretting he hadn’t landed there in the first place — it was his favourite spot and it had only been a momentary thought that had swayed him to land on the strange lapis stone after all.

“My word, what was that?” Said Tarron staring into the brilliant blue light emitting the pure chord.

“I think…” said Felsted, leaning his spade under the canvass awning that also doubled up as his home whilst he built his cabin, “you have awoken the stone, it must have felt your soul as you landed on it.”

“I didn't know it was asleep. I didn't hear it snoring anyway. And I thought you said this lapis stone was known to the Elves as ‘the answer?’”

“And so, it is. But answers are everywhere,” said Felsted sitting in front of the owl on a log cutting stump and relighting his pipe.

“Quite often the biggest problem is not finding the answer, it is matching that answer to the right question. I believe we have just found our question. Elven legends say that lapis stones have a kind of conciseness. They were once honed into crystal balls to allow seers and witches to gaze into the future. But this is not their real power, seeing the truth — that is a genuinely Godly power.

I believe the stone just read your character. The note of E, in Elvish song, represents confidence. And the colour blue — especially a cerulean deep blue — signifies goodness. You’re a good bird, Tarron!”

“That’s a relief,” said the owl. “I say Felsted, have you touched the stone?”

“No,” said the elf. “I’ve deliberately avoided touching it. It felt… holy. And, special. I thought I would wait, you know, for the right moment.”

The owl considered Felsted’s words in silence, then replied: “I thought the same, of course. But the wings, Felsted, they have a life of their own sometimes. It’s an owl thing.”

Felsted continued looking at the beautiful blue stone but chuckled at his old friend.

The Thief

The seasoned traveller, whatever world they are from, will know that what is of value in one place, may be worthless in another.

Gold fruit in Lingarden is a hindrance to the little folk of that world when it falls from the orchards and clogs up the trails all spring and summer; only finally allowing those elvish souls to travel unhindered when it finally sinks into the boggy soil of autumn.

Here, on the mountain lands of Elvenmede, where many decades of terrible wars against the Lawcundali have laid waste to key artisans and their equipment, a simple tool such as a spade becomes a thing of great value.

And thus, it was Felsted’s freshly cleaned spade, leant up against the mighty oak in the centre of his plot, that caught the eye of a young thief named Douglas Drew.

Snow had continued to fall all night. Felsted’s snores rumbled through the mountain forest like a rock festooned rivulet running through a deep cave. The cerulean lapis light still hummed its E chord; but now it was so quiet that to most ears it would be drowned out by the sound of snow falling on snow.

Tarron had returned to his nest and most likely Douglas would have been selling the spade next morning down at Wildermill market, had it not been for the lapis stone suddenly turning a crimson colour and changing its barely perceptible E note to a loud dominant B.

Felsted leapt from his sleep with the agility of a mountain lion chasing a cape hare.

“Great Lord Boden! What on Elthenia!” Cried Felsted.

“Douglas Drew! Stagnacious the squirrel told me there was a thief about, I hardly believed him when he said it was you! Trying to steal my spade, are you?”

“I wasn’t stealing it, Uncle Felsted,” (Drew now using the familiar ‘uncle’ — a term young elves of a good character employ to address well respected elders).

“Don’t you ‘uncle’ me, you irksome thief! You drop that spade immediately!”

He did. But, in so doing, the falling spade broke off a piece of the lapis stone. As the shard of rock dropped into the forest snow, rivulets of blue light appeared in the forest floor. Instantly, the cerulean penumbra returned to the air. The low hum of the E chord replaced the clang of the B note that had sounded at the appearance of Douglas Drew.

Drew stood with the aspect of shame chiselled into his young personable elven features. His dark brown eyes, like two immaculate conkers, flung their gaze to the forest floor.

Felsted, at first angered that one of his own kind would steal from him, unexpectedly lost all his contempt at the sound of the musical note filling the forest. Suddenly forgetting the presence of Douglas, Felsted fumbled in his possession box reaching for his boxwood violin. He pulled it out and uttered a gasp of joy — it had been too long since he last played this beautiful instrument his father (a master violin maker) had crafted for his son some 800 years ago.

Felsted sat back on one of the two beautiful oak chairs Felsted had carved when he returned from the war and started playing the old elvish folk songs. Melodies that he had not heard or played since his days serving for the King on the waves of the Caldonic or in the caves of Lochthundermoor.

In this abrupt change of mood, Felsted’s mind soaked back through the Fens of time, observed only by the silent Douglas Drew, still standing by the spade but now awe-struck by Felsteds violin playing.

Suddenly, Tarron appeared, this time avoiding the lapis stone and heading straight for the log pile. “Douglas Drew, I knew Stagnacious was right — squirrels always are I told godfather — what is the thief of lower mountain doing standing by my master’s spade? Under his canopy no less?”

“It’s ok, Tarron,” Felsted replied. “Drew was going to steal my spade, but…”

Felsted looked at the lapis stone and the now turquoise rivulets flowing down the mountain. He lowered his violin to his stomach, holding it in the style of a guitar, plucking the strings around the lower E tone radiating from the stone so the violin notes sounded like icicles falling through spruce branches onto frozen puddles.

“Something happened,” murmured Felsted, as much to himself as to the owl.

“I’m sorry,” said Drew, in a tone so full of humiliation that it took Tarron by surprise.

“Drew, what happened, what did you do?” Tarron, the owl asked.

“Nothing,” replied Drew. “I mean, I was going to steal Uncles spade; but in the act, I accidently broke off a piece of the blue stone and, well, then a strange light appeared and a loud sound. It was like the stone woke up.”

“Too late on that one young Drew. I already woke the truth, answer, blue, or whatever other name the stone goes by, yesterday.”

Tarron turned his head almost fully around, as if trying to process all this information. “I think the only ‘accident’ — from your perspective anyway — was you getting caught trying to steal my masters spade.”

“No,” replied Drew, “that was a mistake, pure and simple”.

“That’s exactly what I mean Drew!” Tarron called out in frustration.

“No, I don’t mean getting caught was a mistake, I mean the whole thieving thing was a mistake. I’m not a thief Tarron. I’m just an idiot, who made a mistake. But, I see that now.

Listen to me Tarron, and Felsted, sir, I don’t know how, or why, but I promise you, something has changed inside me.” As he said this, Drew looked down at the broken piece of stone in the snow. The large body of the lapis stone in Felsted’s old foundation, now glowed marine blue and emitted mainly the E note, although now accompanied by the occasional different note, as if composing its own melody.

Self-awareness

As morning broke, Felsted stoked the smouldering fire and glanced at the waking Drew. “I’m walking down to the glade to get some milk. Do you want some porridge when I return?”

“You mean I can stay, Uncle?”

Felsted nodded. “But stop calling me uncle, it sounds too… affectionate. Felsted will suffice.”

“Tarron, I believe this young elf has had what we old elves call a religious experience. His soul has been changed by a supernatural power no less. But, if I am wrong, and he attempts to steal my spade again, or anything come to that, you have my permission to rip his head off with your talons.” The owl blinked in affirmation as the old elf walked off down along the forest path carrying a single wooden shoulder yoke.

“He is right you know,” said Drew after a while. “I think it is that blue stone. It has affected me somehow. Honestly Tarron, I feel so different inside.” The young elf picked up Felsted’s axe and started to chop wood for the fire.

“What makes you think it’s the lapis stone that changed you?” Said Tarron, cleaning his white feathers.

“I don’t know for sure. Before that shard of stone hit the snow, my heart was filled with plans of selling Felsted’s spade at Wildermill market. Once I had the money, I intended to buy an air balloon ticket to Orion. There, I would find my fortune. Perhaps by singing in the public houses around the Palace. I have a good voice, so used to say the old folk who visited the orphanage used to say.”

“Wexmede orphanage?” Tarron asked, Drew nodded. “They have beautiful grounds. Giant cedars unique to this part of Elthenia, the Friars are great gardeners. When did you leave the orphanage Drew?” Tarron asked as the young elf continued splitting logs.

“I escaped a couple of years ago. I would have had to leave by now anyway. Not all the Friars were kind Tarron,” said Drew as he split a particularly large log, the thumping sound echoing through the forest.

Tarron turned his head a few times, then spread and contracted his wings allowing the fresh morning air to flow around his feathers.

“If you made your fortune, what would you do with it Drew?” Tarron asked. Drew wiped off the sweat from his brow and looked back at Tarron as if he didn’t understand the birds question. “I mean, what would you do, if you were suddenly rich?” Tarron clarified, continuing to stretch his wings.

“I never thought that far ahead,” reflected Drew, taking a handful of snow and rubbing it on his face to cool himself. “Besides, I don’t care anymore. Now, I just want to help everyone who needs help. I want my life to have value. I want to make a difference. I want to be good. From today, goodness itself, is my… my thing, my”

“guiding light?”

“Yes, exactly Tarron, my guiding light. You owls have a way with words don’t you.”

Tarron turned his head half way round and rolled his shoulders, which Drew interpreted as a shrug. Drew really did seem to be a changed elf, thought Tarron.

Drew stood up and walked around the new foundations Felsted had dug. Away a little to the side, covered by a canopy of pines, Drew saw a stack of large oak trunks on round timber rollers, each with a noose and rope attached for pulling the trunk. Drew had helped the Friars build barns in the large orphanage grounds. They often moved timbers in this way, pulling the log along the rolling logs, stopping, moving the rollers from the back to the front and continuing.

“Are these oak trunks supposed to go in these trenches Tarron?” Douglas Drew asked the watching owl.

“Yes, they form the foundation, why?”

“Well, I may as well clear the snow out of the trenches, and bring the oak trunks to the trenches ready for when Felsted returns. I would like to stay and help him build his cabin, if he wants me of course.”

“I think my master would appreciate that Drew,” said Tarron.

 

 

Custom of the Yoke

Whatever planet you live on, if you have consciousness and thought, you have feelings, and not always happy ones. It was mid-November and memories of the fallen loomed heavily over Felsted’s mood. Often, through prayer, meditation, or simply by walking or playing his music as he used to, these things helped lift his solemnity.

As Felsted entered the forest clearing, he observed the snow, buffered by the pine trees. The goats herd clustered for warmth by a row of elms that led to Wildermill River. He whistled for them to meet him in the centre of the glade, where in summer they would often sit together as Felsted told tales or, in older days, played his violin.

“How is the herd? How are you, Lilian?” Felsted asked as he placed the bucket beneath Lilian’s udders.

“We are all well grandfather; but you are unhappy.”

“No, I’m just thoughtful,” said Felsted beginning to milk Lilian as odd flurries of snow descended.

The other members of the herd gathered around Felsted and Lilian.

“Why does grandfather always lie to Lilian?” Felsted stopped milking the goat and leant forwards to look at her. “I never lie Lilian, least of all to you. You are all family, you know that” Felsted announced to the other goats who let out mummers of acknowledgment.

“But grandfather, even now you are not telling the truth. You know that we feel your soul as much as we feel this snow. We are Elvenmede goats, we see all feelings. There is a cloud of grey in your heart. Why do you say there is not?”

This time Felsted continued milking. He felt his heart harden and knew this to be a sign of anger in reaction to a truth being spoken. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, watching as he blew odd snowflakes away.

“You are right Lilian. You are all sensitive creatures. Wonderful friends. But do you recall around this time last year? When I stayed up here all night to protect you from Galvistad and his wolf pack?”

“Yes,” said Lilian, this time the herd bleated in a mix of gratitude, fear, and apprehension.

“Given the sound of the wolves that night, you may have forgotten you asked a similar question then, as we gathered at the fireside. Do you remember what I said?”

“I sometimes feel the ache of my friends to see the stars they once held in their eyes,” said Plaintiff, Lilian’s young brother. And all the goats, particularly Lilian, instantly bleated that they remembered and understood that some feelings need to be experienced but not always named.

 

Upon his return, Felsted saw the fire burning vigorously. He noticed that Drew had placed the porridge pot beside the fire so it would be warming. The young elf was busy digging snow from the trenches. Felsted started making the porridge as Tarron flew close to his master.

“Young Drew says he wants to remain here to help you build your cabin,” said the owl. “Why?” asked Felsted.

“To help you godfather. He feels ashamed about nearly stealing your spade. He sees this as his recompense. A way to pay you back for, well, for almost destroying your chance at building the cabin.”

“But he didn’t steal it. Anyway, I have already forgiven him.”

“Have you godfather?” Tarron asked.

“Yes. I am making him porridge, aren’t I? What is that if not a mark of forgiveness?”

Tarron turned his head, which Felsted knew meant that the owl was thinking all sorts of things that he did not want to share.

Felsted filled each bowl with porridge and called Drew over to the fire. They ate in silence watching wayward snowflakes floating down through the autumn sunlight as if uncertain of their role in life.

“Tarron tells me you wish to help me build the cabin,” said Felsted finally.

“Yes,” Drew replied. “I would like to. I am good with my hands.”

“If you are good with your hands, why did you become a thief?” Said Felsted, not angrily, but with genuine interest. The young elf shrugged slowly.

“I wish I had an easy answer for you. Truth is, I don’t.”

“You know, there is no need for repentance here Drew,” said Felsted. “I do forgive you. You don’t need to help me build my cabin. You may go in peace and friendship.”

Drew stared into his empty bowl as if the words he searched for might be found there. “This repentance you speak of, I don’t know what it is. But I do know, for the first time in my life, I feel something I believe is happiness. If I can, I want to hold onto that feeling Uncle. I’m sorry, I mean Felsted.”

Felsted nodded slowly. He then took Drews bowl, “I’ve reconsidered. You can call me uncle.

We best get to work then Drew,” he added, smiling.

 

Felsted had built two A-frames with a crank and pully system of ropes. The old and young elf worked together tirelessly. They seemed inspired, like two accomplished musicians in concert.

They lowered the oak trunks and fitted the corner struts and brace beams, all in one day. Tarron returned from Broom Wood with two large rabbits he had caught by Rankharts old mill waterfall. Between lifting and fixing timber beams, Felsted skinned the rabbits and put them in a stewing pot over the fire.

“I’m not sure if that was a miracle, but it certainly wasn’t far off,” said Felsted as they ate their stew and observed the erected cabin frame.

“I loved this work it uncle. We should build cabins for all the homeless of Orion and Monikadium.”

“Not every day is like this Drew, but I grant you, this is one to remember.” They stared, almost in disbelief, at the skeleton of the cabin in the firelight.

“Elves are certainly hard workers,” said Tarron, looking at the rigid, upright timbers from his position on the log pile. “Some are saying that you work like the possessed tribes of Talgahan.”

At this, Felsted looked up at Tarron, “Who said such a thing?”

Drew, who was licking his plate, froze. He glanced at Felsted then at Tarron, waiting for the owls reply. “Unfortunately, many creatures master, chief among the rumour mill is Spelldax of course.”

“Now, why doesn't that surprise me. That rat has a habit of turning up when you least expect and don’t want him around,” said Felsted.

“I know, I know. I told him to hold his tongue or Wallbert and his clan would pay him and his lair a visit.

Some good news though master, the deer tell me Lord Longshanks has returned.”

This report immediately brought a smile to Felsted. The lines on his face seemed to have a life of their own when the old elf smiled. Some exploding like Alfatex fireworks, others rippling and flourishing like a flock of Melgraviock geese landing one of the still lakes of Orion.

“Who are all these creatures you are talking about Uncle and Tarron?” Drew asked. “And didn’t the tribes of Talgahan cut down so many trees when they made their ships that they turned their land into… what was the name…”

“Guilden Moor,” said Tarron.

“Yes!” yelped Drew, as if he had remembered himself. “Isn’t that what happened?”

“Ask General Felsted,” said Tarron. “That’s where he fought for 4 years.” Felsted ignored the remark, preoccupied with his thoughts.

“So, the forest thinks we are destroying the mountain because I am building a cabin?” Felsted asked Tarron removing his pipe from his jacket but then holding it in front of him as if trying to remember what it was used it for.

“It’s not the cabin, or the trees, it’s the stone everyone is afraid of master,” said Tarron. “But the speed which you and young Drew here have built the cabin, does seem, as you say, miraculous.” Felsted, who by now had recalled what his pipe was for began filling it with bakerlite. He glanced at Tarron. “Longshanks will put the forest at ease,” said Felsted. “But be mindful of talk about the stone, Tarron, we don’t want the likes of Spelldax snooping around here.”

Felsted, finally lit his pipe and smiled at Drew who had remained politely but equally impatiently quiet. “Spelldax is a Doyen rat. He commands a lair that are allowed to live in the forest because of their supposed pledge of neutrality during the Lawcundali wars.” Tarron appeared to huff at this and turned his head, so he looked away from the fire. Felsted grinned as he exhaled smoke the shape of a leaping fox. Wallbert is a fox. I trained him, a long time ago. He is a friend to us,” said Felsted, who had waved his pipe in a little circle as he uttered the last sentence.

“Hmm, well, I’m glad we have some friends that aren’t rats,” said Drew. “I have some unpleasant memories of rats in the orphanage garret. Some of the monks used to lock us in there if we were “mischievous”, or disobeyed them, or happened to be in their vicinity when they were in a bad mood — which was pretty much all the time.”

“Dear Lord Boden, I’m not surprised you escaped,” said Tarron.

“We, your new friends, will teach you a few things, so you no longer be concerned with rats young Drew,” said Felsted, resting his hand on the young elf’s shoulder.

“Uncle?” Said Drew after a long period of listening and watching the fire. “This is no ordinary stone is it. I mean, it is extraordinary isn't it.”

“I believe so Drew,” said Felsted holding his pipe in front of him with both hands. “If my hunch is right, this maybe the most extraordinary thing on the planet of Elthenia.”

Tarron flapped his wings, as if an ominous shadow had just floated over him.

Drew felt a sensed a change of mood was required and picked up Felsted’s violin, looking at the old elf, as if to ask whether it was ok for him to handle the instrument. Felsted smiled and nodded and the young elf, who appeared to be a natural in the art of music, began his practicing.

A Mysterious Observer 

Whatever universe you dwell in, hard work makes you tired. This is an undeniable fact. Douglas Drew, who had previously never done a hard day’s work, slept like one of the abandoned elven ships off the Pale coast.

The night was cold and the Elethian moon full. The lapis stone sent its fixed beam of cerulean light into the forest the way a giant’s waking eye might gaze out from a thousand years of sleep.

Tarron came back from hunting and landed on one of the cross beams the elves had placed the previous day. ‘It’s amazing, this amount of work they achieved,’ he thought as he walked along the beam like a master craftsman inspecting his apprentice’s work.

As he walked, the blue lapis light dulled into a purple shade and the musical note dropped from pure E to a kind of flattened agitated hum. Suddenly, Tarron saw a shrub move in the darkness. He flew arrow-like towards the swaying fern, hooting loudly to wake Felsted.

Despite his age and the previous day’s hard work, the former general, who had spent years leading the fight against Lawcudali clones in the wastelands of the Opion Desert and swamps of Guilden Bog Moors, with barely 3 or 4 hours sleep a night — woke with the speed and agility of a viper. Few elves alive were faster.

In a few seconds he was standing by the still moving bush. “What was it?” He asked Tarron who was above him, peering into the purple light.

“I don’t know godfather,” Tarron replied.

“The lapis stone has changed its tone. This is an augmented E chord,” said Felsted looking at the ground by the ferns for tracks. “The stone must have detected danger,” said the owl.

“Yes, as if it didn’t like whoever was here,” replied Felsted. For a while they remained quiet in the frosted silence until Felsted reached into his jacket, removed his pipe, and lit it.

“We’ll, whoever it was, they have gone now,” he said exhaling bakerlite into the cold air.

“I’ve never known anything get away from you Tarron, you must be slowing up in your old age.”

“I was as fast as a warrior Peregrine diving from the cliffs of Lochthundermore.

A little faster in fact, me thinks. Unlike our new friend and your new apprentice back there,” said Tarron looking over to the still sleeping Drew.

Felsted, glanced back and smiled. The purple light gradually returned to sapphire blue and the ominous, augmented chord to the major E, underbelly of the forest.

“You like him don’t you,” said Felsted.

“Yes, he reminds me of Elthenia’s greatest warrior in his heyday.”

“Hagan?” Felsted replied whimsically.

“I said warrior, not maniac,” replied Tarron. “I will search a while godfather. It will be dawn soon.” Felsted nodded as the owl flew into the darkness.

He remained there for a while. In the snow, dark trees, and bright moon, veiled by swiftly passing clouds. He then strolled back to the camp, wondering, who had been the mysterious observer watching them?

The Many Faces of Truth 

Drew slept with his thumb in his mouth, which made Felsted chuckle, waking the young elf from his slumber. Swiftly pulling his thumb out of his mouth Drew spread his arms wide as if to greet the twilight and remove any notion that he would ever suck his thumb.

“Early. I like it. This is my new life. Working hard and living for the sake of pure goodness,” said Drew. Felsted picked up his wooden shoulder yoke, smiled at the young elf and began walking down the forest path.

“Er, you are leaving?” Drew asked scratching his long auburn hair.

“Going to get milk,” Felsted replied.

“Oh, can I come?”

“No, keep an eye on the camp. Someone was watching us last night. They might come back.” Felsted’s oak like frame disappeared into the darkness of the wood.

“Someone was watching us??” Drew called out, suddenly lowering his voice, and attempting to look in every direction at once.

Dawn over the snowy meadow was spectacular. A soft swirling wind danced in circles around the clearing, throwing up the fresh snow that reminded Felsted of Queen Rainbeth, and the way she skipped through the orchard as the cherry blossom fell.

Lilian appeared by Felsted’s side, nudging him with her nose.

“Grandfather, you have the memory of love in your eyes. You are happier this morning.”

“Do I? And am I? Well, nothing escapes you my friend, and anyway, today is another day. One day is never the same as another Lilian.”

The goat looked at Felsted as if to say, you should try being a goat.

The pale full, Lilian trotted away but suddenly turned back. “Grandfather, Galvistad the Wolf, was seen on the mountain last night. But this information came from Red the Robin. So, not dependable.”

Lilian turned and started off again. “Lilian, where did Red say she saw Galivistad?”

“By Broom Wood,” replied Lilian, this time bouncing off down the hillside snow.

Walking back into camp Felsted found Tarron and Drew discussing the roof of the cabin.

“In the lowlands of Elvenmede, they have grass roofs. I have seen them,” said Drew to Tarron who rotated his head in disbelief.

“Godfather, I am not sure if this young elf is genuinely completely reformed — especially in the sphere of truth telling.”

Remembrance Day 

Thick sunlight poured through the forest. The patter of snow melting from trees sounded like Clavinarc ice lilies opening their petals to winters new moon.

It was Remembrance Day. A day Felsted kept sacred, above all others.

Since his arrival, Drew had unknowingly dismantled the walls of Felsted’s memory. The young elf reminded Felsted of someone he hadn’t seen in centuries.

Building the cabin had been wonderful for the old elf’s mental health. Tarron, above all, knew this.

“The act of creating is our most precious gift,” the owl would often say to his godfather, who would nod in agreement.

“The past is also important,” Felsted would say in return. “And honouring our fallen brothers and sisters is a solemn duty, as well as an act of love.”

Each 11th of November, since he and Tarron had been exiled and had made Wexmede Forest their home, the old general walked to the top of this Mountain in pilgrimage to his brother and the many thousands lost in those dreadful wars.

“What’s the matter with Uncle?” Drew asked Tarron as he watched the old elf walk from the camp after they had finished breakfast. Felsted lit his pipe, and a trail of smoke followed him dreamlike up into the forest trail.

“He is reflecting. You are perhaps too young to realise, but today is Remembrance Day Drew,” the owl replied. “There are many things you do not know about my godfather Felsted. The greatness of his position for instance. The level of his fighting skills. Believe it or not, he was once known above all the warriors of Elthenia.”

“Where did he fight?” Asked Drew.

“Everywhere. And he carries the scars to prove it. Not that he needs to.

However, he suffered greatly during those wars, and sometimes, especially at this time of year, he struggles with these memories. I know you understand this, from what you have said about the orphanage.

Felsted lost his brother Heartminster in the Caldonic Sea. A Captain of the Line, Heartminster ordered his ship to intercept the Morkullesium fleet, sacrificing his ship, but in so doing saving the refugee ships from Lochmede.”

“I didn’t know any of this,” said Drew, looking around at the stacks of timber for the cabin, still clothed in snow; the omnipresent smouldering campfire, and Felsted’s canvass shelter under the oak.

“Why would you? You just came past and thought you would rob this old elf after all,” said Tarron. Then, immediately regretting bringing this up after the young elf clearly had shown repentance, the owl fluttered his wings, “still, you have made godfather happy Drew. Restored some of his shine, you might say. And, you have made me happy too.”

Young Douglas Drew might have dried away a tear from his cheek, then again, he may have just wiped the sleep out of his eyes, but where an awkward silence may have existed with all other creatures, no such thing existed between these two.

 

 

 

Night of the Wolf

Progress on the cabin halted that day, but Drew did not stop his newly found passion for work. He cleaned the camp. Stacking and separating all the timbers under giant spruce branches to keep the snow from piling up and allow air to flow around them, as Felsted had instructed.

Every now and then, he would stop and observe the lapis stone with its red veins appearing to move slowly, as if blood ran through them.

Tarron was hunting and with Felsted up on the mountain, this was Drew’s first time alone for a while. The camp now looked cleaner than it ever had. Fresh logs on the fire, Drew relaxed and sat by the lapis stone gazing into its beautiful colours.

Quilted in the peaceful silence of that afternoon, Drew placed his hands palm down on the rock, then laid his head sideways on the back of his hands and closed his eyes.

He felt the E chord vibrating through him then wrap like a wave around him.

Suddenly, he imagined he was flying through space. Colourful galaxies twisting in giant spirals, each appearing to sing a different note, like a choir, he thought.

He looked down and later, when he told Felsted and Tarron of his dream, said that it looked like he was being ‘carried on a bolt of lightning’.

“But it wasn’t white uncle, it was the colour of the lapis stone. Indeed, I believe it was this very stone,” said Drew, pointing at the lapis jutting out from the ground.

Rising from the silence that followed, a deep rasp-like voice growled through the darkness.

“You suspect the lapis stone is a shard from the reflective, don’t you Felsted?”

It was Galvistad the giant wolf, with several other wolves flanking him and more in the forest shadows.

In a single movement, Felsted leapt from where he was sat listening to Drew recount his dream of the previous evening, reached into his pocket and threw several Carmelite gauze orbs into the fire. Immediately five shapes sprung from the fire. Each of them a replica of Felsted, but young looking, holding elvish swords made of fire.

Drew began to realise that the wolves in the forest had been created, probably by the Lawcundali – although the friars outlawed even the mention of that name. Yet, even to those young orphans daydreaming about the old wars whilst locked away in the garret knew of the name Galvistad.

Felsted generated his warriors of fire, in his own image, they were different from the wolves, but Drew could not explain how.

In the orphanage, the young elves swapped secret stories of these legendary warriors who possessed the power to recreate themselves. No one, as far as Drew was aware, had ever seen such being. Yet recently Drew had learned that disbelief itself, is like quicksand. It feeds on fear.

The wolves launched their attack from all sides. Throwing themselves at Felsted’s amber knights, who tried to cut them with their swords, but were blocked by some invisible shield covering the wolves.

Yet, the same defensive armour also prevented the wolves’ teeth from burying into the elf fire warriors. Thus, a stalemate materialised. With the wolves and the knights lunging and swiping at each other, searching for some hidden weakness.

Drew’s focus turned to Felsted and Galvistad, who were staring across the lapis rock and skeleton of the cabin, into each other’s eyes. A prolonged silence between them ensued, like two giant fallow bucks with their antlers locked — except this tug-of-war was between two masters of mind and spirit-thought.

They look like they have been enemies a long time, thought Drew.

Suddenly, one of the wolves broke from its attack on the fire warrior and darted towards Drew. It leapt into the air, its jaws locked wide as it if intended to swallow the elf whole.

Felsted, in a single movement, too fast to see clearly, crouched and instantaneously threw a dart at the wolf, pinning it to the oak tree where it disappeared like steam into the freezing air.

The other wolves howled in pain, all except Galvistad who showed no emotion.

The wolf pack retreated behind Galvistad, howling and snarling, as if ready to attack again at any moment.

“I underestimated you, old elf,” growled Galvistad. “I will not next time. And your young friend there will not be so fortunate.

Leave here general. This was our land long before you falsely laid claim to it. Leave, while you still can, and take that overgrown pigeon who masquerades as an barn-owl.” Galvistad moved his head slightly and his cloned wolves disappeared into the forest. “There will be no cavalry coming to rescue you this time Felsted.”

As Galvistad seeped back into the darkness, Felsted dropped onto his chair and removed his pipe from his coat pocket and began to clean it. After a while Drew spoke: “Thank you for saving my life uncle”.

Felsted glanced up, nodded, and twitched a smile at the young elf, “not what you expected when you offered to help me build my cabin a?”

“No,” replied Drew.

The lapis stone, which had glowed fierce red throughout the attack and blasted out a discordant E flattened 5th chord, struggled to return to its normal light and sound. Suddenly, Drew stood up, “where is Tarron uncle?”

Felsted, broke from his reflective thought and both elves started calling for Tarron.

It was Drew who found the owl, half buried in snow, blood oozing from his wing.

“One of the wolves has mauled him.” said Felsted.

Drews soul froze. “Is he dead uncle?” Felsted did not reply.

Drew stood up and kicked the snow letting out a howl of anger, sadness, and frustration. But as he did this, he saw the small fragment of stone he had chipped off the lapis stone on that first day.

Acting on an impulse he picked up the stone, returned to Tarron and laid it against the owls injured wing. Felsted held back his natural reaction to stop Drew, acknowledging the young elf was acting from a power outside himself.

At first, there was no movement from Tarron. But then Drew touched the owl with his other hand and instantly the bird jolted upright, flapping his wings like a new-born.

“What happened?” Tarron called out, flying up onto the log pile and shaking his head as if waking from a long sleep.

“You were crossing the threshold of paradise,” said Felsted. “I was ready to carry you to your ancestors, but it turns out there’s more to this former thief than meets the eye.”

“It wasn’t me uncle, it was the stone that healed you Tarron”.

“If it was the lapis stone, it would only enhance what is already present inside you. You are a healer, Douglas. If you doubt it, why did you pick up the shard of stone in the first place?” Said Felsted.

Drew blushed which made Tarron, then Felsted and finally Drew himself begin to laugh out loud.

“Hey, whilst you were dying in the snow Tarron, you missed the best part, didn’t he uncle?” Said Drew, holding back his laughter. Felsted, whose creased up laughter lines and white beard resembled a wild sea squall, or perhaps a snowy mountain in an earthquake? Drew wasn’t quite sure, nodded at young elf as if to say go on, tell him.

“Galvistad called you an ‘overgrown pigeon masquerading as a barn-owl,’”

Tarron turned his head and rolled his shoulders. “That Galvistad is one evil wolf; but there’s nothing wrong with his eyesight,” said the owl, laughing with his friends in the way someone who has had a lucky escape, and knows it, laughs.

 

Sometimes, there’s so much noise buffering your mind, that the only escape is to surrender to silence. This is how the 15th day unfolded.

Felsted woke, lit his pipe, picked up the wooden yoke and headed down to milk Lilian.

It had snowed in the night and the cold was in no hurry to leave the mountain. It appeared to have embedded itself along the paths and within the ferns. It lingered in the ashen clouds that draped their weight on the trees, as if trying to reach the forest floor but not quite making it. Instead, filling the air with a gluey mist.

“Godfather is quiet today,” said Lilian.

Felsted patted the goat to reassure her he was alright, just not talkative.

Drew similarly worked in silence, fixing the remainder of the rafters as Felsted had directed. Work continued in that cheerless way all day.

Tarron hunted returning to camp with 3 rabbits which Felsted prepared silently.

Drew made up the fire and as twilight bled through the ever-present mist, the three ate in a kind of hushed contemplation.

Later, Felsted blew bakerlite smoke into the thick night air. The aroma reminded Drew of mornings in the orphanage dormitory back in Eucklaxted, Sothern Hills.

He suddenly spoke: “Uncle, Galvistad will return, that much is obvious. He likely wants the lapis stone although I don’t know what he intends to do with it.

When he spoke to you, he said something about the cavalry not coming to your rescue this time. I take it you have fought him before?”

Tarron fluttered his wings and turned his head around, as if to say something; but deciding to remain quiet. It was almost as if by the act of saving the owl, Drew had been elevated to a higher level of estimation in the eyes not just of his two friends, but of the entire forest. For although many creatures respect a great warrior, everyone, without exception, respects a gifted healer.

“You are right Drew,” said Felsted, “Galvistad will return; and yes, I know him — he is an old enemy of mine.” Felsted who had been staring into the flames, looked up at the young elf.

“I will tell you of Galvistad.”

 

The Anvil of the Dead Ocean

It was too cold to sleep, so Drew threw more wood on the fire as Tarron walked along the log pile like a sentry keeping himself warm. Felsted looked into his pouch of bakerlite and added some more of the mountain amaranth to his pipe.

“This plant is only grown in my beloved mountain lands of Elvenmede,” said the old elf reflectively. “I missed it dreadfully when I was fighting in the Opion Desert and later, in that awful place.”

Both Drew and Tarron stole a look at Felsted, who appeared to be addressing the fire.

“We were tracking a wolf pack who were in the service of Ziamork, the unseen High Priest of the Lawcundali, he who despise elves. Indeed, I believe he despises all life.

The wolves had taken several babies from the Clan of Buxton, including Callum, Chief Buxtons own son.

We followed the wolves through the Incus plain, beyond Fen Blood and onto…” Felsted looked like he didn’t want to name the location, but then added: “The anvil of the dead ocean; but it was a trap. A flock of Naham Vultures were waiting for us.” Felsted appeared to be dragging each word from the sarcophagus of his memory.

“Our archers used all their arrows on the vultures; but with feather’s as hard as Tamerin Tortoise shell, many of them broke or were blunted.

We killed some, and, as the birds swooped down to pick us off, our elite warriors put an end to many more. Yet still, they kept coming, like the mosquito flies of Orkland smothering a corpse.

While the brunt of our warriors fought the vultures, me and Clannad Tor and his twin brother Shadum — two of my finest warriors, fighters that I had taught from bairns — pursued the wolf pack further onto the dead ocean.

Eventually, we caught up with the wolves. We were outnumbered ten to one, yet we put our souls into the charge.

We took half of them out, before Clannad fell. Shortly after Shadum joined his brother.

We had fought our way to the abandoned babies, Callum was in my arms, when the then young wolf Galvistad closed in for the kill.

It was just at that moment Buxton and his scarlet cavalry arrived. The babies were all saved; but, out of my warriors, I alone survived.”

                                                                 * * *                                                                            

Drew may have convinced Tarron that the cabin should be covered with a grass roof, but Felsted reserved judgment. In any case, he had made arrangements with some old mason friends who once served under him, they had agreed to bring him a cart full of Wexfordian roofing slate. They even gifted Felsted the cart, such was the love they had for their old general.

In spite of the deep snow, the sun was thick with heat and bore down on the elves as they unloaded the roof slate. It was about mid-morning when they noticed Red, the Robin, hopping around the sides of the cart, fascinated by the contraption.

“Have you never seen a cart before Red?” Felsted asked as he and Drew stopped for a tea break.

“No grandfather. I have seen a small one once. Long ago. When the hill elves came looking for gold, they carried their tools in it. They called it… a hole on a wheel?”

“I think you mean a wheelbarrow,” said Felsted smiling.

“Yes,” said Red now flying around the cart and jumping on the slates. “Everyone is talking about your cabin grandfather. And the mystery stone. And the healer.”

“Why is it the news you don’t want to travel like wildfire, is exactly the news that travels like wildfire?” Said Felsted shaking his head with a rye smile as he poured tea for himself and Drew from his colourful old iron pot.

“Thank you uncle,” said Drew taking his tea. “When you say the healer Red, I hope you don’t mean me. I’m no healer.”

“Come now Drew,” said Felsted, “the forest sees everything. The trees speak to each other, their roots speak to the insects who speak to the birds and so on. Afterall, you did heal Tarron.”

“I told you uncle, it was mainly the stone,” replied Drew.

“Some, say it was the stone; some say it was you, young elf,” said Red. “I thought there was something good in you from the day you almost stole grandfather’s spade.”

“So, you’re the one who has been observing us?” said Felsted.

“No grandfather, I haven’t been observing you, I’ve just been watching you.” Felsted and Drew laughed as Red sipped tea from Felsted saucer.

“I love building nests. I build a new one each spring. This cabin is, or will be, your home, your nest. That is wondrous grandfather, is it not?”

“It is Red. I couldn’t have put it better myself. In all honesty, I never thought I would have a home, a nest as you say, a cabin,” said Felsted, standing up with his tea and stroking the upright timbers.”

“You had a home when you were young though uncle, didn’t you?” Asked Drew, sipping his tea and holding it with both hands wrapped around the cup, as if the real purpose of tea was to inhale its contents.

“Yes Drew, I did. A lovely home. Not so much in its size - it was a cabin, quite a bit smaller than this one - but roomy enough for us four, my parents and my brother. Although we are mountain elves, we lived in the valley. My father was a master violin maker.

For centuries now, everyone has known me as the general. The greatest warrior in Elthenia. The admiral… although that was always a mistake…” Felsted threw away the last of the tea, having apparently lost track of his thoughts slightly, consumed by some unpleasant memory, thought Drew.

“Point is, I always wanted to be a violin maker, like my father. But…” Felsted now looked up at the galleon moon and his face lost the glow of happiness it had moments before possessed. “They came.”

There was a long period of silence. Drew, in previous days, would have felt the need to say something, to fill the void that hung in the air. But, a few days with Felsted had taught him, that was not always necessary, and indeed, often that void held its own healing balm.

Red, on the other hand, had finished off the saucer full of tea and had digested two worms by the time Felsted had finished. Red and was enjoying the opportunity to converse – most of the other forest creatures tended to be ‘very busy,’ when Red came around – his erraticism and somewhat eccentric behaviour  putting them on edge. Although these were exactly the qualities Felsted liked about the little bird. Red flew back to the front of the cart.

“Yes, wonderful craftsmanship. I dare say the tree and a half men I saw on the edge of Wildermill would recognise this design. Those menfolk are geniuses with their hands; indeed, they are.”

Felsted suddenly froze. “You saw three and a half men?”

“Yes, grandfather, yesterday,” said Red. “They were heading to Monikadia me thinks.”

Longshanks

The following day, Drew saw a note pinned to a transom of the cabin.

“I have to go away for a couple of days Drew. Tarron will be with me.

Work on the roof, as instructed. There are plenty of oats and Lilian will be expecting you. Don’t worry about Galvistad, I have a friend who owes me a favour. He will be watching over you from the shadows. You may see him, then again, you may not. That will be up to him.”

Great. Thought Drew. There’s a giant mad wolf with his pack out there who wants to get close to the magic stone — call it what it is say I — and I’m in his way. I’m also on my own, except for a goat called Lilian and a mysterious shadow walker.

“Still, this is my new life, and I love it!” said Drew aloud and with a hint of defiance, so all in the forest could hear.

In the clearing the snow had become brittle with the onset of frost. Listening to the crunch sound as he walked towards Lilian, Drew heard the almost imperceptible E chord — as uncle called it. I would like to understand music, thought Drew.

On the brow of the hill that rose like an elvish monk’s bald patch in the clearing, Drew was surrounded by mountain goats, all asking for some ailment to be healed.

“I am here for Lilian!” Drew called out. A sudden quietude came over the herd, followed by a gradually rising chorus of: “I am Lilian!”

“No, I am Lilian”.

Suddenly, as if an apple had fallen into a still lake, Drew felt someone, or something behind him. Yes, because he heard its deep guttural breath, but mainly because all the goats, save two, had been overcome by that ripple of fear.

Drew turned and beheld the largest stag he had ever seen. He dropped the yoke. Glimpsed to where it fell and saw that all the goats had vanished except the two fearless ones.

“Blessings to you Lord Longshank,” said Lilian. “You know my younger brother Plaintiff of course, and this is…”

“The thief turned healer,” said Longshanks, whose voice seemed umbilically connected to everything, all at once.

“I wanted to meet you Drew,” said Longshanks. “The forest is calling you the healer.”

“Yes, I heard that,” replied Drew gazing up at the great stag’s oak-like antlers and then into his eyes, deep and reflective, like the fabled Loch Pools of the Opal Moon.

“You are in good company here young elf,” said Longshanks, “Lilian was born under the star of truth and her young brother Plaintiff the star of wisdom.

At that moment, Red landed on the stag’s antlers. “Lord Longshanks, Galvistad has sent one of his shadows to touch the magic stone.”

“Ah, you’re calling it the magic stone too, Red!” Said Drew to an indifferent glance from Longshanks and bemused looks from Lilian and Plaintiff — although few would notice the difference between this and their normal look if truth be told.

“This is an opportunity,” said Longshanks turning his head slightly and looking towards the distant mountains.

“Drew, return to the cabin. Carry on working as normal. This wolf is an extension of Galvistad. Don’t be afraid. I will be there. We need to find out exactly what Galvistad is up to and what he wants with the magic stone. Yes Drew, I think the name you have coined for the Lapis stone is appropriate. Certainly, until Uncle Felsted returns, and we find out its true name and nature.”

With that, Longshanks disappeared before Drews eyes leaving Red the Robin flying, somewhat off balance initially, from the invisible orb that had suddenly encapsulating the giant stag.

Back at the camp, porridge eaten, and the ever-present fire fed with new logs, Drew carried on laying the slate. He used an elvish mix of dragon’s blood resin and Anzic cave lime that had been brought by the stonemasons. It took Drew all morning to sort the stones out into rows, as Felsted had told him.

It was the reddening of the forest around him and the flattening of the E chord from the magic stone that alerted him to the presence of a wolf.

“Why are you still here elf?”

Drew turned from where he sat on the rafters, laying the slates. He looked down at the wolf from his seated position on the roof. “You are a Luna wolf?” he said unexpectedly.

“You are also not a warrior shadow at all, you are a real wolf. What is your name?” asked Longshanks, slowly appearing from the crimson air as he spoke. Transfixed in fear and wonder, the she-wolf gazed up at Longshanks and mumbled: “Calsynthia.”

“You look hungry Calsynthia,” said Longshanks. “Douglas, perhaps some of your porridge?”

“Of course, Lord Longshanks.”

The Luna-wolf tucked into the porridge as if this was her first introduction to food.

Without stopping to take a breath, her nose remained in the pot, but her eyes flicked from Drew to Longshanks in a mixture of fear and disbelief.

Longshanks kept his eyes on the forest. The discordant diminished E chord still rung out from the magic stone — Galvistad was out there watching, the stag felt him.

“You are not like those other wolves,” said Drew, who, having finished one side of the roof, leaving only the side facing the mountain summit to complete, was now stoking the fire.

“I am different,” replied Calsynthia, licking the edges of the bowl. “I am expendable.”

She glanced into the forest at first with a look of defiance, and then one of resignation.

“I was a prisoner of war, now I am just a prisoner. Captured in the battle of Solemn Pine. I was a cub. My whole family…

But I’ve always had a knack for surviving. Note, I don’t say living, just surviving.”

“Galvistad sent you in here hoping you would convince the healer to leave?” Longshanks asked Calsynthia. “Yes Lord. I do not believe He, my master, knew you were here.”

“He is your master no longer,” said Longshanks. “You are free Calsynthia. You may leave the mountain under my protection.” At this, Calsynthia’s head rose, as if buoyed by hope; but then something more powerful than hope weighed her head and her soul back down again.

“My experience of hope is fleeting. Like the White Mists of Treldiphia, where it is said, if you are brave enough to walk 24 hours, you will return from the mist as you were in the prime of youth. What they fail to tell you is that the terrors you encounter in that one day, will leave you mad.

Experience dashes hope. At least it always has done for me.” As Calsynthia finished speaking a chorus of howls filled the forest.

Again, the pack attacked. Each wolf charging towards Longshanks who spun his antlers sending several of them flinging across the snowy forest twilight like clumps of lava spat from an awakening volcano.

The wolves’ shields were down, enabling them to tear and bite into the giant stag; and they may have done so, such were their number, were it not for his immense power.

“Drew, take Calsynthia into the shelter of the cabin.” At first reluctant because he wanted to assist Lord Longshanks, nonetheless, Drew obeyed.

Lowering the oak bar across the door to prevent any of the wolves getting in, Drew and Calsynthia listened to the battle outside.

Calsynthia stood, shaking with terror in the centre of the cabin. Drew felt a deep sympathy for the Luna-wolf, but also exasperation as he listened to the battle raging outside. He tried to look through the cracks in the cabin but, he and Felsted had made the walls well and with the onset of darkness Drew could only make out the occasional wolf being thrown above the firelight.

A shaft of moonlight dropped vertically through the open roof. It landed on Calsynthia exposing her frightened, lost eyes.

“He will come for me now,” she said, under her breath. Barely perceptible through the growls, barks, and howls outside. “Who?” Drew replied, glancing at her but concentrating on trying to see what was happening with Longshanks and the wolves.

“Galvistad. He has this streak of vengeance that guides everything he does. He thinks this is his land and the answer — that rock you call the magic stone — belongs to him, or rather his masters.” At this last word, Drew turned to Calsynthia. He was just about to question her on who she was referring to when he was struck with a fear, he had never experienced the like of. A large, clawed hand came out of the moonlight, grabbed Calsynthia around the throat and pulled her into that same crack of light.

Frozen in disbelief, Drew summoned all the courage he could find in his soul and leapt after the wolf.

The shaft of moonlight splitting the room acted like a curtain, opening to Drews charge but then closing behind him and instantly turning back into the simple beam of light falling into the cabin.

Outside, Longshanks, bleeding from several nasty lacerations, but other than that unharmed, had laid waste to all the wolves. Many were shadow wolves, but a fair few were fearsome hunting natural-born wolves who had fought alongside Galvistad back in the times of war.

“There was no need for any of this,” said Galvistad, staring at Longshanks from the ridge above the cabin. “You have undone my warriors. Many were gifted to me by my master’s the Lawcundali. Others were old war companions. And for what? For an old elf you call a friend?”

“Have you ever called anyone a friend Galvistad? And, more pertinently, has anyone ever called you a friend?” Longshanks asked the glaring wolf. A sudden infuriation overcame Galvistad, and he howled at the moon; “good luck, finding your young friend Longshanks!” He said, before disappearing into the mountain shadows.

 

Red Poppies on the Opal Moon

Drew felt like he was waking from a concussion as he fell back against a cliff of jagged rocks. One of the rocks broke off in his hand. He went to look at it, but his attention was taken by a hooded cloaked figure. A halfling with a clawed hand that resembled the hand he had seen in the cabin, reaching through the moonlight.

The hooded figure moved slowly towards Drew but then stopped. His face remained hidden in the darkness of his hood as, to Drews shock, the halfling begun to grow.

Soon, he matched the young elves height, then 5, 6, 7 ft tall and still he grew. Douglas Drew, now completely covered by this growing cloak, and its wearer edged his way out from under the robe. Above him he saw the creature’s clawed fingers reach out and pick what appeared to be red petals from poppy-like flowers growing on the rock-face. The giant, as he now was, seemed uninterested in Drew, allowing the elf to move away and look back on the scene.

“Great Lord Boden, I am on the Opal moon. How is this possible?”

He could see a large tower close to him and others in the distance. These are the Towers of the Lawcundali that are said to extend far into the void of the moon.

“These creatures must be Priests or servants of the Lawcundali — perhaps even clones, isn’t that what Uncle Felsted called them?

If they see me, I’ll be burned at the stake — that’s what the Lawcundali Priests on Elthenia used to do to non-believers.

‘Hold, on,’ thought Drew, ‘why didn’t this creature see me? Am I dead’

Drew looked at his hand. He saw it! “That’s a good sign,” he said aloud.

He then looked at his body and saw in his jacket breast pocket, the shard from the lapis stone. It was glowing bright red and he thought he heard the murmur of what sounded like voices coming from the stone.

“These Lawcundali Priests cannot see or hear me. This stone certainly has many hidden powers, one of them must be the power to render me unseen by these demons. If it brought me here, it must be powerful enough to get me and Calsynthia back to Elthenia.”

Drew made his way across the lunar landscape to the tower. White moon-dust clouded the Priests who resembled short and tall masts in a distant sea mist.

How soulless this place is, thought Drew.

As Drew approached the tower Calsynthia had been taken to, he saw an open staircase spiralling the circumference of the ornate stone column.

Funnels projected out from the roof of the staircase. Drew heard a strange deep clanging-like sound through the chimneys. Perhaps the Lawcunadi slave Cities in the void of the moon were not as dead as legends suggested?

Drew stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He wasn’t sure how he was going to recapture Calsynthia or how he could return to the cabin.

Yet, as he run up the far easier stone path — a contrast to the moondust surface — Drew unconsciously touched the lapis stone from the outside of his pocket.

“You’re going to have to guide me, whoever you are,” he said to himself, finding comfort in his own voice, even as he looked at the seemingly endless stars. It almost appeared to the young elf that they were whispering to him through the space between all things.

As he ascended, he looked down at the strange priests who moved so slowly and then suddenly so fast that they appeared to vanish. What were they doing?

Behind him, the stone façade was decorated with carvings. It wasn’t clear to Drew what the carvings meant, but some did match the legends he had heard about this strange race of zealots that no elf had ever seen — so it was said.

The carvings at the bottom had shown primitive humanoid creatures holding hands and playing games — that species certainly looked happy, thought Drew, now starting to run again. He then noticed a planet split in half with one inhabitant of that world appearing to gain superiority over another.

There were then many celestial signs that Drew could not decipher at all. Then, about halfway up, Drew first noticed the hooded creatures with their claws. A series of lines and spirals and, what appeared to be a series of books. Drew had never seen a real book.

There was said to be one secret library in Monikadium — but no one he knew had ever seen this library, except maybe for Uncle who had seen pretty much everything there was to see, most of which he kept to himself. Drew hoped one day the great old elf would tell him stories of his glorious past.

Perhaps one day uncle would take me to the Citadel in Monikadia? To elves, this was the holiest place on the entire planet of Elthenia.

When he arrived at the top of the tower, Drew saw that the carvings now included elves, but not in a good way. They were depicted as cruel puppet like creatures. Thieves, who appear to have stollen the Lawcudalies books and even their planet — none of which made any sense to Drew.

He saw that the last door was ajar, and he heard what sounded like praying from inside the room.

 

 

Escaping the Lawcundali Tower

Silently opening the door Drew slipped in, he stood back as one of the Lawcundali glanced over to the door, then walk over and close it.

The room was unlike anything Drew had seen before. Stars were not just above him, they surrounded him. Distant galaxies floated under his feet. Planets were zoomed in on, then cast back into the black canvass of their celestial home. The priests were controlling this imagery of the universe from the centre of the room. Calsynthia lay prostate on a stone alter in the centre of the circle the Lawcundali formed.

The priests seemed to have momentarily lost interest in the she-wolf and were speaking in their strange rattling language about the stars.

Drew sat back against the wall. Behind him it looked like he was sitting on a whirlpool of galaxies clustering together. He looked at them for a moment, regretting that he had no plan.

If only I understood what those Priests were saying, he thought. Instantly that thought crossed his mind, the language of the priests became discernible to him.

There was no mystery in Drew’s mind. The magic stone had heard his thought and had answered them. I wonder if I can just think us both back to Felsted’s cabin?

No, it doesn’t work like that. Even magic has its boundaries.

“The she-wolf has the essence of the reflective in her spirit. The readings are clear!” Said one of the priests. He had a monotonous tone to his voice. It reminded Drew of the discordant E flattened 5th chord the lapis stone emitted when the wolves attacked the camp.

“Brothers, it is my opinion that we have found the reflective,” said one of the priests. A murmur flowed through the circle these creatures formed; then, suddenly, they all fell silent and started to grow — as the priest as the priest eating the red poppies had grown. Except these grew as tall as pines and as they grew, they hummed a single monotone note. It was as if they were trying to match the dominant E chord but lacking the beauty of the sound from the magical stone back in Elthenia.

Indeed, after even the short length of time Drew heard the chant, its falseness became ugly and grew in its ugliness the longer it went on. Drew suddenly had an idea and, in his mind, called to Calsynthia. As he had hoped, she lifted her weary head up and looked directly at him. She could see him.

‘If you can make it to me, you will also be invisible to these creatures Calsynthia. We need to get back to the rocks where the poppies grow. That’s where the doorway is hidden that we return us to uncle Felsted, we will be safe there.’ Calsynthia read Drews thoughts and immediately sat up and dropped from the alter to her weak legs, making her way gingerly over to Drew.

As they escaped out of the door, some of the priests did look down, but Drew could tell they could not see anything and seemed too engrossed in whatever they were doing to care about the lunar-wolf escaping.

Drew gripped the fur around Calsynthia’s neck and instantly she too became invisible to the Lawcundali. They made their way slowly down the tower, stopping at one point where one of the priests shifted past heading upwards — he slowed but did not see the elf or wolf. They made their way across the lunar landscape to the jagged rocks of the mountain where the red poppies grew.

“There’s a sheltered ledge, it’s up a way, we need to climb these rocks,” said Drew to Calsynthia. He could see the lunar-wolf was weak and did not want to climb anywhere. “You are only hidden from the Lawcundali while I am touching you — I don’t know how long we are going to be waiting Calsynthia. We are both tired and need to rest, you will be seen here. If we can make it to the ledge, you will be hidden, and I will be able to keep an eye on the tower.”

Calsynthia eventually acquiesced and they climbed the rocks.

It was a hard climb for the she-wolf. Several times they stopped and were exposed but whether they were under some spiritual protection or just riding their already extended good luck, they did finally make it to the sheltered ledge.

As Calsynthia collapsed, Drew checked the tower to see if any of the priests had followed them. He then leant back next to a tuft of poppies projecting from the rockface. “It seems we have not been followed my friend.”

“How will we ever find our way off this moon?” said Calsynthia in a disheartened groan of exhaustion.

“That will have to wait for now. One escape at a time a?” Drew replied.

Drew removed the magical stone from his pocket. “Why did those Lawcundali call you the reflective? What are you supposed to be reflecting?” He put the rock back in his pocket and looked up at the stars.

“When I was in the orphanage, we had our roof repaired and a young elf named Skydo told me and some of the other orphans that he had once worked at the Citadel Palace and that he had seen the King hit a ball with a bat and the ball had hit a giant crystal chandelier — biggest one on Elthenia — Skydo said ‘You should have seen it shatter on the black marble floor lads. I saw it from the skylight, but I knew each one of those crystals would be worth a packet in the Monikadium bazar’.” Drew glanced at Calsynthia who was fast asleep. Realising he was talking to himself he continued.

“Skydo made me want to be a thief. I thought that’s the only way I’ll ever get my hands on such treasure. And now look, these stars are so close that I think I could pluck them from the sky and put them in my pocket or hug them so close to my chest that they would slip inside of me so the star and I would become one. Yet, now, I wouldn’t do that, even if I could.

My life changed the moment I met uncle Felsted,” said Drew talking only to the stars.

“I wonder what is going on with him?” he added, as he dozed off.

Back on the planet of Elthenia, Felsted and Tarron had made their way to Monikadium. A day and a night of constant snow had slowed the old elves progress; but by the time they arrived in the valley of stone, the snow, which generally confined itself to the Elvenmede mountains until December, had abated.

“If you are seen under that cloaked hood, you will be recognised godfather. You know they revere you here. Many still call you the saviour of Monikadia. But you agreed to your banishment. Your exile is broken on pain of death.

Tell me godfather, why are we here? Why did we leave Drew back at the cabin?”

Felsted did not answer, but looked towards the central dome of the city, for he knew what laid in the subterranean world below its catacombs, and he knew that unless they retrieved it, the whole planet may be doomed.

As Felsted walked along the busy road leading into the elf city, crowds were thickening. The smell of rabbit stew — a favourite of the elves — drifted over the castellations and through the arrowslits in the embrasures. Baked walnut cake, another elven delicacy, followed the savoury aroma of boar, bison, and vegetables. It’s good to be home, thought Felsted, keeping his head low so as not to be recognised.

His elven shoes clicked on the stone along the market bazaar, where Elves from all over the Mountain regions of Elvenmede came to sell their wares.

Numerous unnamed, crooked, shadowy, and colourful alleyways led off Leathermede Thoroughfare — the main shopping district of the old town and closest route to the Domed Citadel.

Felsted glanced up at the calling of one of the cities resident Peregrine Falcons. He was one of the few elves who still knew all bird dialects. Most birds could be understood perfectly by the elves if they so wished; but the Peregrines, who had been heroic in the war against the shadow armies of the Lawcundali, preferred to keep their distinct language untranslatable to the elves.

Felsted, who the Falcons, like most of Monikadia, still referred to as the General, was an exception.

He had been secretly taught and understood all the Falcons dialects.

Unexpectedly, he heard the cranked voice of his old friend and one of the bravest warriors he had ever known: Telasupricia — who was now the Kings personal bodyguard. She was calling the guard of the citadel on important business — secret business because she was using that Peregrine only dialect.

Telasupricia had been brought by Felsted as a young Eyas — an offspring found on the battle-scarred mountains of Talgahan Clyde. Her parents having been killed in the rein of fire onslaught of the Lawcundali Goblins — another species, converted in mind and spirit by Ziamork, High Priest of the Lawcundali.

Just then, as Felsted lowered his head allowing his hood to drop before he continued along the throughfare, an old partially crippled, blind elf called out from a hidden doorway: “General!? General?! I would know the sound of that gait anywhere. General, remember me? It is I, Mala, your first mate on those long voyages and sea-wars of Treldiphia and beyond. General?!”

Felsted had a heart the size of one of the fjords on Lochthundermore, but in that one moment it simultaneously froze and cracked. Of course, he remembered his beloved Mala; but he could not let the city know he was alive, and here. Fortunately, an explosive thunderclap blasted at the very moment many elves were turning towards him — the mysterious figure, as they saw him, being called by the blind old soldier.

Felsted, disappeared in that same crowd as they all abruptly ran to escape the storm.

 

The Bravest Elf on Elthenia

Felsted made his way through the arcade, torrential rain pouring on the canvas covered alleyways and pan-tiled roofs of the emporium.

He felt like he had to carry his heart. As if part of him felt betrayed by another part over ignoring his beloved Mala.

He remembered that first day he met the young elf.

The fleet was preparing to sail to Treldiphia — a three-year voyage through the straits of Devalmere where the giant Narcissae learn to hunt in schools and have been known to destroy ships, swallowing up to 20 survivors in a single gulp.

“So, you want a life at sea?” Said a much younger, almost middle aged, Felsted to the then 14-year-old Mala. “I do Captain,” the red faced, pimply Mala replied. His mother was on shore, holding another bairn who was screaming its lungs out, but Mala’s mother remained as stern faced as the money lenders in the shadows of the Citadel.

“Is your mother pleased or unhappy that you wish to join the King’s Navy? It is difficult to discern either way from her countenance,” said Felsted, glancing at the woman on the shoreline with the babbling baby, then looking back to the young elf in front of him who was offering himself as ships boatswain.

Mala had no idea he had walked upon the Kings main ship and was addressing the admiral (Felsted). He was nervous and had addressed everyone he met who remotely looked like a sailor as ‘Captain.’

It was autumn and the harbour clock had struck for dawn, muffled by mist and fierce waves that slapped against the harbour wall.

“Mum is blind Captain,” said the young elf without emotion. Felsted stared at the adolescent for a moment, then at his mother who now rocked the baby in her arms.

“I’m sorry,” said Felsted. “Tell me…” Felsted raised his eyebrows, encouraging the young elf to speak his name, “Mala, Captain, my name is Mala Bringsgate.”

“Tell me Mala Bringsgate, how will your mother care for her baby if you part with the fleet?”

“The bairn is not hers Captain. Caylag, my baby niece, is my sister’s bairn. Mum looks after her while my sister works, feeding the dockworkers. Mum wants me to see the world before… well, before it’s too late, she says, and the world disappears.”

Felsted learned, many years later, that Mala’s blindness was a familial disease, the young elf was struck blind in his 30th year. By then, he had already won the Kings own gallantry medal for saving the crew, not once but twice.

Felsted told the King about Mala. He referred to his first mate as a friend — something that often-brought tears to Malas eyes.

“Admiral Felsted tells me that you are the bravest elf on Elthenia, Mala. And if Admiral Felsted says that, well then it must be true,” the King had said, when he hung the medal around Mala’s neck. His whole family were present in the Citadel that day.

And now, he is crippled and living on the street, thought Felsted, still making his way through the arcades and alleyways of Monikadia, towards the Citadel.

Still, his mother had been right to send him to sea. The elf had indeed seen most of the world by the time he was 30.

Felsted swore he would find his way back to Mala, but right now, he had a more important task. He needed to break into the one place all the elves of Elthenia believed existed, but no more than a handful knew details of, especially its true whereabouts — The Library of Talgahan.

“The final days of November are full of rain,

Then snow comes in December and for winter remains,” whispered Felsted to himself as he stared from the shadows of the basilica towards King Theobald’s Square leading to the side entrance to the Citadel. The rain had now eased and was turning white as if it’s search for substance was finally paying dividends.

The crowds, having now left the Emporium and the Old Town of Monikadium, had left the streets as quiet and as deserted as all elvish cities invariably were during the witching hour. Only the Citadel guards, elite warriors all, stood statue-like at each iron door.

Felsted closed his eyes and meditated for an hour. He then opened his hand and one of the Carmelite orbs, similar to the ones he had taken from his pocket and cast into the fire to replicate himself during the attack of the wolves, revealed itself, in the form of a small pulmonate balanced in the centre of his palm.

In an instant, two mirror images of Felsted formed from the shell of this mollusc. They stood before him resembling how Felsted looked in his twentieth year, as opposed to his 800th. These replications then became a vague smoke-like shadow.

“Siblings of my own spirit and mind,

blend into the darkness, creep under doors, through keyholes and into the catacombs and then into the Dead City, find the secret library hidden thing ancient place.”

Felsted’s thought children fled into the darkness now entombing the Citadel. Felsted was about to find a hiding place where could rest and assist his children as far as possible, when a walking stick made from Guilden-Bog oak, pulled him back into the shadows. Felsted recognised the wood immediately, and that only one elf in Monikadia would have such a cane — his old first mate and friend, Mala emerged from the shadows in the background with his finger to his mouth and an expression on his face that demanded absolute silence.

The fragile elf, who had nonetheless snuck up on his old master and teacher, despite his infirmities, pointed towards the centre of the square. Even though he was blind, it was like Mala had developed senses that surpassed even his masters.

Felsted looked but saw nothing. “Look closer General,” Mala whispered. Felsted did so, and this time saw what can only be described as an invisible shadow. This was not like Felsteds thoughts, that shadow form, could nonetheless be seen; no, this presence would be invisible to all but a master such as Felsted or his blind and faithful student, Mala.

The shape observed with Felsted’s eyes and Mala’s mind went from a little larger than an elf, to that of a giant oak tree, before shrinking back again.

“Yes,” whispered Mala, “It is one of the Lawcundali, my General.”

“It’s as I suspected,” said Felsted quietly, “They have found a way to appear on Elthenia again. If they can harness the source of this power, we may not survive another war dear Mala.”

“I felt his presence here the day before yesterday. When I heard you walking in the bazaar. I’m sorry I called out my General. I forgot my training, it has been so long, my mind…” Felsted put his hand on Mala’s shoulder, a touch that expressed more love and understanding than any amount of words could.

“I praise Boden himself that you are here my General, for I fear the Lawcundali have found whatever it is they have been searching for so long.”

“I fear the same thing, and I think I know exactly where it is. I am here to try and establish exactly what it is.”

Once Felsted found out that Telasupricia had risen to the rank of the Kings personal bodyguard, and would be in charge of protecting the Citadel, his plan to include Tarron in breaking into the catacombs beneath the Palace changed.

“The peregrines will see you Tarron, Telasupricia, master of all the peregrines, will recognise you. They will then know I am alive and the one advantage we have will be lost.”

Felsted had returned to their temporary camp outside Monikadium on Approach Mountain — overlooking the City of Elves. He lit his pipe as he sat under a makeshift leather umbrella fixed to an alder tree. It was raining heavily.

“You need to return to the cabin my friend and help Longshanks watch over Drew.”

“How will I know you are safe Godfather? Why will you not confide in me?” Tarron protested.

“Because, if I am right, you will be in danger and the less you know the better,” said Felsted in a manner that Tarron knew to accept and trust without question. Albeit the owl hung his head in frustration.

“Do you think the young elf really is a healer?” Tarron asked later, wanting to speak to his Godfather before the dawn came and they parted.

“Yes, I think he is. It is no accident he came by our camp. No accident that we came upon the lapis stone at this time and exactly where I decided to build the cabin I had always dreamed of.

The young elf is certainly a healer and maybe more.”

The quietude returned, broken only by the persistent rain pelting against the mountain rock.

“When Robin said he had seen three and a half men, you changed Godfather, at least the mood of your spirit altered, why is that?” The persistent Tarron asked. This time, he caught Felsted in a reflective state of mind. Or maybe it was because the old elf had felt a shadow in his heart and decided he should confide some of what he feared — just in case… thought Felsted.

“Long ago, we found a Uclanzack cave dweller, those giant half bear, half tiger creatures — one of the few races on Elthenia who live longer than mountain elves like me,” Felsted smiled reflectively. “Her name was Suebek. She was a queen of her race. A brave, proud race that rejected the Lawcundali.

She was dying when we found her. I was the last living soul she spoke to before she passed — being in such a position is a sacred duty among Elvish lore, as you know Tarron. Suebek told me that a book existed that explained who the Lawcundali were, where they came from and what they wanted. She said she knew this because she read their thoughts when they took her to the moon. For in their obstinance, they refused to believe telepathy amongst creatures born on Elthenia was possible.

She said that the answer to all questions was in the reflective — those were her last words. I don’t know why the fiends decoded to let her die back on Elthenia? They could have just as well let her die on their moon. I doubt it was a show of respect, probably a fear of infection of some kind.

As she died the snow began to fall, for it was December,” reflected Felsted. “Now you know why we came my friend. But, to answer your question about the three and a half men, it’s the half man that concerns me. I don’t think it’s a man at all, I think it’s her Tarron, the vaticinator.”

 

The Resilience of Two Old Friends

As Felsted and Mala observed the Lawcundali fiend, it began to fade until both elves sensed it was no longer present.

“I have never felt the presence of one of the Lawcundali,” said Mala, still speaking quietly. “I was always of the understanding they could not take form on Elthenia, lest they lose what little form they have. That was why they used their replications sent from up in that moon of theirs; or converted our own sentient lifeforms — those willing anyway — to fight for their cause.”

“They have no cause,” replied Felsted. “Their only aim is total destruction.” Felsted sat back and filled his pipe with bakerlite. “I think it is because they cannot be killed, that they long for death. The countless millennia they have wandered the universe has led them here. I am not certain what they are looking for, although, I have an idea. But whatever it is, such is their loathing of life, they want to end it not just for themselves, but for all and everything.”

He lit his pipe and puffed the bakerlite smoke into the air.

“Is it wise to smoke General? That Lawcundali fiend may have returned to the ghost moon but the Citadel Guards are still in the square, they will smell your bakerlite no? You know the penalty of your return”.

“I do my friend, but the snow will soon plummet down. And the wind currently heads back into the city. The guards already return to their century boxes to escape the snow.

Soon, I will need to concentrate. So, I will smoke while I talk to my old first mate. Then I will meditate, and open my mind to my kin who are, as we speak, descending into the catacombs. Thenceforth, they will enter the dead city. It is my belief, in that subterranean world, they will find the secret Library of Talgahan.”

“And what will you find in there?” Asked Mala. Felsted glanced at his old friend,

“Well, a book would be the first objective.” They both smiled, “but, a special book to be sure.”

“I have missed you General,” whispered the Mala reaching out and touching the Generals long cloak.

“And I have missed you, Mala. Your leg is bad I see.”

“Alas, yes, it is.

Do you remember the attack of those vampire bats in the caves of Lochthundermoor?”

“How could I forget. Their legions stripped a whole battalion of their flesh at the battle of Pellucid Well. We only started gaining advantage over the bats when those farmers from Battlesbridge made us those mammoth ivory whistles, do you remember?”

“Do I remember? I still have mine,” with that, Mala brought from his pocket a small flute like instrument exquisitely carved.

“You’ve added some holes?” said Felsted.

“Well, you taught me music General, but I taught myself to play the Battlesbridge whistle.”

“I like the name,” said Felsted looking at the instrument.

“Such a peaceful, tender race are Elthenian men and women. Their ingenuity has always amazed me. I’ve often thanked Great Lord Boden that they are not a warrior race. I hate to think what weaponry such brains and such craftsmanship of hand would be able to produce. But go on Mala, I strayed, that happens a lot when you reach 800.”

“I prefer your story’s anyway General, but to my leg. One of those vampire bats bit me. Its razor teeth even penetrated my centurion armour — Its venom entered by blood.

The Kings own doctors looked after me when I was in his service; but after, well, old soldiers are soon forgotten when wars end. Elite fighting skills, such as you taught me General, are not as in demand on the streets of Monikadium during times of peace.

Without an income, the expensive medicines that kept the poison at bay for all those years, was no longer affordable. That’s the truth of it. The leg is now a burden. Constantly painful. But I always remember what you said as we were under attack off the Pale Coast and many of the men were calling out for their mothers.”

“What did I say?”

“You said: ‘Pain is real brothers. There’s no avoiding it. But it also lets you know you’re alive. And if one of us survives this battle, that one soul shall tell the world that the imps of hell can be defeated — if you face them with Wexmedian courage.”

“I said that?” Said Felsted, blowing bakerlite smoke into the snow that now fell like clouds over the Elf City.

“Yes General, you did. And those words have sustained me all these years,” said Mala, drying his damp eyes on his dirty sleeve.

“And you’re not even from Wexmede!” Felsted replied, making them both chuckle quietly.

 

[Note from author: This story is being written and posted in real time. It is dedicated to my daughter who is travelling in Australia at the moment.

Do we who write seek escape in our writing? Solace in creativity? I do.

My creation will echo the footsteps, pint pulling, sunlight surfing adventures of Diddy, my daughter. For life is an adventure, and the best adventures unveil themselves one day at a time.

The next 7 parts will be published shortly.]