Eldarion watched his brothers disappear into the trees before he turned his back on the Rëaghor Forest. At the crossroads before him there were two choices for any traveller: travel through the forest or travel around it. Deep ruts led north and south, following the road most often used. But on this road, grass and weeds were matted where people had passed fled into the forest. The forest and its surrounds had been the Erewhar's home for almost as long as their tales remembered. He glanced behind him, checking that the last few stragglers of the Whargahn clan had disappeared into the shadows of the forest; each carrying only a small bundle of possessions. They had no time to wait for a cripple. He clenched and unclenched his hand around the green hilt of his short sword. At least he could hold the Khalvér back for a while and give his people a chance to escape a taint to their souls.
The moon showed only half her face, but the light was enough to see by for the Erewhar. He glanced at the four stars that pointed south to where his people had come from so many generations before; before they had betrayed the Ahma on that fateful day – the choice that had led to their fall. He heard the figures approaching before he took his eyes from the stars. For a moment he wondered if the Erewhar would remember him.
Cursed vermin. Did they truly still think that the Erewhar would join them in serving the ever-cursed Lewjan? The Erewhar may have fallen once, but would never again stoop to that level. His people would be redeemed. He rested his eyes on the dark figures and felt the power of the Talent being awakened deep inside him.
"Stay where you are!" he called to the figures, not expecting them to stop, but hoping that they would step into the road now that they know they had been spotted. Three of the figures did just that. He couldn't make out their faces, but knew the golden sigil they wore upon their breasts. There was no doubt about their identity – Khalvér; and Servants of the Shadow. For all he knew Alzer, the boy they had sent as messenger, lay dead on his way to the Khalné. Would the Khalné arrive in time even if they had received the message? He drew his sword a couple of inches from its sheath and said a prayer for the redemption of all their souls.
One of the Khalvér lifted his hand, but it was neither in greeting, nor in warning. Eldarion felt the air around him thicken and press against his chest, leaving his breathing laboured. He drew strength from somewhere inside himself. The Other, the Elders called the source that the Erewhar was able to draw upon. Part of the Talent that the Khalné used, but it was different in many ways: more potent, but also more unpredictable, and addictive like the Talent was not – tainted somehow by deeds long past. He already felt the Lewjan’s shadow calling to him. He did not move, but pushed against the Khalvér's magic. His breathing became normal once more and he drew his sword fully. They laughed when he took two steps closer to them and they saw that he stumbled as he walked.
"Fight me fair," he said and his voice rang out across the grassy field. He fought off a second Khalvér that tried to bind him, lifting his arm to keep his balance. More shadows appeared in the tall grass. He would never be able to fight them all off and live. His heart beat faster still and cold sweat beaded on his brow. Perhaps he was not meant to live through this night. A strange glow showed in the palm of one of the Khalvér, proving that he summoned his power from the Shadow.
The Khalvér strode towards him. Towards the woods. Towards his people. He had to save his people, no matter what the cost. Eldarion flung out all the power inside him at the Khalvér, striking with his sword at the same time and receiving a pounding in return that sent him to his knees and crushed his fingers around the hilt. He cursed himself for letting them know the extent of his Talent so soon.
The leader of the band of Khalvér, a Werlea, stepped forward. He drew his own blue-black blade from the sheath at his hip. The intricately wrought blade seemed to glow with the blood it had drunk before. Tempered in Ahma's blood, the word went about these swords. And what was Erewhar but fallen Ahma? What was he? He felt his heart quail and the Talent dimmed. The Werlea’s voice was emotionless.
“There will be no peace for the Erewhar. No life. No redemption. You will join with us or die.”
Eldarion’s blade was forced to the ground and cleft into the sand. There were too many, and they were too strong. What was so much of the Lewjan’s magic against his tainted Talent? His heart sank, his breathing slowed, crushed from his body by the Khalvér.
He felt a faint pulse around him. He took a quick gulp of air before it was pushed away once more. Eldarion closed his eyes and concentrated on the faint pulse of Talent.
Fear only seems to lessen the Talent you’re given, he remembered being taught. He pushed once more with all the might he had, joining that faint pulse. Three of the Khalvér dropped to their knees. By their howling he knew they had been stilled and left to face the Shadow’s Lord without their dark magic.
A Werlea stepped up to him. Intricate tattooed patterns partially hid the burst veins and discolouration around his eyes. From his belt he drew a short, twisted blade. The Servant of the Shadow laughed at Eldarion as he tried to lift his sword. But as he struck with his blade at the young Erewhar's heart, the stroke glanced away and threw him off balance. Eldarion’s grip around his sword's hilt loosened, and pain flooded his arm as feeling returned.
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| Photo by Thomas Schaeffer |
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