A swift survey of the cabin showed Turim and Sand that it had a rather empty, but well equipped kitchen. As they walked the hallway, Turim felt as if his steps landed a bit too loudly on the wooden flooring. He didn’t much care for that. But when he saw the washroom, the bedroom, and that they held buckets he could lower into wells below, his mood was pacified.
“That’s convenient,” he commented.
“Aye,” agreed Sand. “Far better than filling water towers with a Wing of dragons, buckets, and endless trips to the river’s edge.”
They also saw signs of previous construction. It had clearly been a part of Dwellinghearth once, though it had since been covered over with a newly built wall. Turim remembered seeing outside, along that very wall, several scattered stone workings, roughly forming the outline of a lookout tower. There were even two steps made of wood, long cracked and splintered.
“This must have been the tower of the old defenses,” Sand observed.
Content with his temporary abode, Turim returned to the main living area, Sand in tow. He dropped onto one of the wooden chairs as the frame braced itself to hold the strange trespasser’s weight. Apparently it hadn’t had to labor in quite some time and was unused to such jostling, a fact it seemed to plainly express.
As he sat there, he removed several pieces of armor while Sand pulled out the last of the food they’d brought—bundles of strawberries and small pumpernickel loaves. Turim kept his breast and shoulderplates on for now and took in a deep breath.
Sand had an amused expression on his face.
Turim looked down to his helm where he had placed it on the floor, then across to the greaves. His thoughts drifted to his father, for this armor, a proud and dignified suit of defense, had belonged to Rorin. He ran his fingers over the helm, smiling as he remembered how his father looked when he first returned home wearing that full-plated suit, so great and noble. How his mother looked at him, even though she’d been upset he’d joined the Knights of the Hawk. He missed him.
It was at that moment that the pangs of hunger began to set in, and Sand joined him across the small table there.
Turim finished gnawing down some of the pumpernickel and cleared his throat “When you get back, there’ll probably be another assigned in Warran’s place.”
Sand looked up with a red strawberry bit on the corner of his mouth. He swallowed down the piece and squinted in the afternoon light. “Yeah. I thought about that.”
“Keep an eye on Artho. This is the second Wingmate he’s lost in as many years. When Timry was slain, it was quite a while before he trusted Warran.”
“I remember,” replied Sand, his brow turned in thought. “I found them knocking each other around the barracks lots of times. They’d usually spent the day squabbling and insulting each other during exercises. So. Do you have any advice? What should I do if Artho does it again?”
Turim stared out the window, looking at Thunderclap and Lasertooth basking in the afternoon sun. “That choice is yours. But you might consider splitting up Bartlet and Breed, and putting the new fellow with one of them, or . . .” His voice trailed off.
Sand raised his eyebrows. “Or let them give each other a few good knocks until Artho works it out with this new fellow?”
“Not quite as I would have stated it,” replied Turim, smiling. “But in a word, yes. It’s Artho’s way, I think. There were few better friends than Warran and Artho, that’s for sure. I think their friendship was strong because they took so many lumps together. It didn’t matter that most of them were from each other.” Afterwards, he let out a long sigh.
“The God’s graces, I’ve never met anyone who hated leave like you do. I wish I’d been sent to Ys.” Sand’s voice gained an edge of nostalgia. “It’s just like I remember it. Do you remember that time we came? Boy was my pa mad.”
Turim nodded, remembering as well. “It’s been a long time. Was that when we made the oath or—?”
“No,” said Sand, drawing the word out. “That was that time we stowed away to Araduín—oh, which reminds me, speaking of elves. Don’t get yourself into any trouble. I keep hearing stories of dark elves, even some from this place.”
“Come now,” said Turim, pushing out his chair when he’d finished his food. “I’m not sure how much stock I take in tales of dark elves traveling this far south—like those told by children and storytelling bards.”
“There’s lots of truth in tales told by children and bards,” replied Sand, half-dejectedly. With a scoot across the wood, he rose and gathered up his gauntlets and helmet. “But I heard it from the farmers at Grendelock Keep. And they heard it in Daltaria.”
“How could they have heard that? The Ambassadors?”
“I don’t rightly know how they hear it, Turim, only that they do—and you know it.”
“Well then, it must be true,” said Turim half-joking as he opened the door and stepped into the green of Ys again, squinting. “I’ll keep my wits about me. Don’t worry.”
Sand shrugged his shoulders, tromping across the threshold and out into the clearing beside him.
As the two approached, the dragons slowly rose to their feet, stretching and extending their wings, turning towards their knights.
“You behave yourself,” Turim said, returning to Thunderclap’s side. “I don’t want to hear you’ve given Lieutenant Rocketblade any trouble.” He made sure to use Sand’s rank for emphasis.
“Trouble?” scoffed Thunderclap, very much as Turim had expected. “Enjoy your vacation, just as I’ll enjoy mine from you,” Still, the blue dragon’s great muzzle brushed his arm.
“I’d prefer you stayed here with me. But I don’t think the Ysians would take kindly to a blue dragon roaming their island.”
Thunderclap closed his eyes, looking as though he was remembering ages long past. “Bah. You’re right, of course, however little I want to leave you alone here. I just wish the folk of the world would see past my color.”
Turim patted his dragon again. “I know. Time will bring about change. You’ll see. The Dragon Army must fall, and then perhaps things will be different for you and any other Chromabacks who’ve resisted.”
Thunderclap took a step away from his Commander. “I certainly hope so… as much as I hope there are others like me.”
Turim made his way over to Lasertooth. He reached up to pat the dragon and gave a last wave to Sand, who’d made his way into his riding shield. “I’ll see you in one week’s time then?”
“Yes sir, one week.” Sand raised a hand in salute.
“We’ll be here,” added Lasertooth.
“I’ll be watching for it.”
At that, the creatures flapped their wings, lifting high into the sky. Turim backed toward the cabin. Leaves and grass blew around, stinging his face, making gentle noises against his armor like raindrops falling into a pail. He waved as the leaves settled, and watched the dragons pass beyond the western trees.
In a short while, Turim closed up the cabin and took a path towards the beach, hoping to find some locals. But when he arrived, the beaches had emptied of folk for as far as he could see. He spent the rest of that afternoon sitting at the ocean’s edge fishing. He breathed deep, cooking the fish he caught, his mouth watering. He hadn’t smelled or eaten any creatures of the sea since his patrols around the fishing village called Tusokan, back home, to the south of Grendelock Keep. In Tusokan, he’d felt a sense of simple peace, a tranquility made by virtue of the strong backs of fishermen, fish cleaners, and hunters that dwelt there, keeping the shores clean and the village folk happy. The thoughts brought him peace, and he realized he’d actually relaxed for a time.
As the cool sea air blew in and afternoon became evening, he took a draught of cool water from his flask, and began his walk back to the cabin in the twilight.
When at last he’d come up the path through the trees and broke into the grass clearing in front of Dwellinghearth, he stopped. Slowly his hand moved to position over his scabbard.
Ahead, two figures crept quickly away from the cabin door, but it was too dark to tell who or what they were. He’d been so concerned with what kinds of monsters or creatures might lurk in the growing darkness, he’d completely left out any thought of intruders. Or perhaps they’re far off neighbors coming to visit? He stood there a moment, half shocked, half observing.
The gait of the intruders drew faster. They’d definitely seen him.
The moment he started forward, they ducked into the shadows of the woods opposite the clearing.
“Wait!” he shouted, but he was too late.
Without faltering, he broke into a run across the grass in front of the cabin and dashed into the wood behind them. “Halt!” Perhaps that hadn’t been the right thing to call out to visitors, but they weren’t staying to greet him. “I mean you no ill-will!”
He glimpsed the figures once more as they ran deeper into the forest, hastening their pace from a trot to a full-blown sprint. They were fast. The branches of low hanging tree boughs whipped at Turim’s face as he ran, but he kept moving, praising himself for removing the extra armor earlier, though a few pieces more wouldn’t have hurt. His body was still un-rested from his many months of endless duty, and now, on top of that, he was tired from the day’s long flight and his walk to the beach and back. Who were these people? Were they dangerous? And did it have anything to do with what Grandmaster Strongthorn had sent him here to find out? Curiosity kept him moving.
“Please, halt!” he shouted, then corrected himself. “Hello, wait!”
As they continued to run, Turim discerned a third in the group he hadn’t noticed before. A small creature. Immediately he recognized the buzzing from the flapping of its wings as that of fairyfolk.
“I promise I have no ill intentions . . . but I wish to know . . . why you were lingering . . . around my cabin!” he yelled again, his words growing breathy with his pursuit.
This time there was a bit of hesitation from the fleeing lurkers. Then all at once, the fairy stopped, flew back, and fluttered around Turim’s head.
He slowed, coming to a halt. He was glad to let his legs rest; it was difficult to run with fairies flitting about one’s head. This however, didn’t seem to prevent the fairy’s bewildering circles.
“We saw you! I saw you! With a blue dragon!” shouted the small, winged creature.
Turim then noticed she wielded a pair of sharpened thorns fashioned into fist daggers of sorts, a common weapon of fairyfolk. They carried these far more often than any true forged weapon. The fairy was clad in green clothing: a tunic with a collar and small, dark green boots. It looked as though the fabric was woven from the leaves, but he couldn’t be sure of that. Thorny vined tattoos crawled up one arm. She was less than a foot tall and was still flitting around, making her difficult to see beyond that.
Then Turim recalled his landing in the forest. “Oh, Thunderclap!” he remembered aloud. “He’s not the same as the other colored dragons. His demeanor is calm—little more than ill tempered when his breakfast comes late.” That was mostly true. “It’s a long story, but he was left to die on the rocks of the Dindaron Mountains, to the west, in my own lands. He would’ve if I hadn’t taken him in.” He waved his hand in the general direction of home.
The fairy lowered her guard, and the other two let fall their hoods, stepping out of the shadows into the starlight. By now that was the only light left. The last sliver of sun had sunk away during their run.
Both looked young, in their early twenty years, and wore dark green cloaks of similar fashion. The larger of the two was a male human with a touch of a paunch, and stout shoulders. He carried a great longbow on his back and, although his eyes were unmoved, he stared straight at Turim with a kindly fire in them. The man’s hair was a dark burning red hue and stood upright.
The other was a woman whose long, dark locks draped as silk behind her. Her green hooded robes bore the markings of forest travel around the bottom, yet her face was stunningly beautiful to behold, her eyes bright and sparkling like a spring of bubbling green. “I warned you, Tartara,” she scolded, her gaze on the fairy. “He doesn’t even wear the armor of the Dark Knights.”
“How was I to know?” The fairy shrugged and sheathed her weapons. “My eyes see a big blue dragon, and what else is there—I thought everyone who dwells here was in danger. And I haven’t seen Dark Knights in years, and neither have either of you!” Her little cheeks flushed.
“It’s still strange that you stay in Dwellinghearth,” the female said to Turim. “Why is it you’ve come here to Ys?”
Turim wondered if he should be more cautious in what he said, and to whom he spoke. But at that moment, he felt safe amongst these three. Sure, they’d been spying in his windows, but they were only interested because of Thunderclap. Besides, he still needed a guide—and local friends. They might be able to familiarize him with the island.
“I’m Turim Gliderlance,” he resigned, “Wing Commander and Knight of the Hawk. I’m from Genova, here for a week, staying in the cabin you seem to be so interested in. I truly didn’t mean to cause trouble. If I have, I give my deepest apologies.”
The robed girl stared into his eyes intently—almost, uncomfortably. “If that is your case, then think nothing of it, and forgive our small friend’s accusations.” She shot an eye at the fairy. “She often jumps to conclusions that aren’t backed by truth or substance. You must forgive her imagination; feyfolk can be… flighty. My name’s Jaffrine Maplebow of Ys. This is Strevan Pickaxe.” She motioned to the large man with a soft smile.
Turim felt as though he was looking at a kind and generous grandmother, but also a young and beautiful lass whose cares were little, and whose heart was merry. It was an odd mixture.
“Greetings, knight,” stated the man quite simply. His voice was quiet but enduring.
The fairy flitted down closer to Turim’s knuckles. Then she shook his finger vigorously as one would shake hands. “I’m Tartara Silverwing, of the tribe of Scargiver. We’re the defenders of Ys—rangers, if you will, as some have called us. We’re not the only defenders of the island, but we certainly have the most eyes. The forest is everywhere. So are we. Sorapin Keep lies along the northern coast, but their knights are far too busy with the dragonite’s attacks to make their way south these days. It’s up to us to keep our lands safe for the people still brave enough to travel the island.”
Turim listened, puzzled by the fairy’s overexcitement. However, as she rambled on, he grew even more certain they had no ill purpose. “I have you alone to thank for my protection then,” He smiled at the fey creature. “I’m a lone knight, without neither guide nor guardian here. I welcome whatever protection is available.”
Instead of responding though, Tartara’s face went blanch. Her ears perked up as though she’d heard something. It wasn’t Turim. The others remained still. Then Turim sensed a noise as well: a snap of twigs and rustle of leaves in the near distance.
The three rangers instantly drew their weapons. Turim watched them, uncertainty filling his mind. His eyes narrowed and he peered into the shadows of the forest.
“Strevan, a torch!” commanded Jaffrine. Her voice seemed to ring forth as a blade from a scabbard.
Strevan flung back his cape to reveal a bag made of the hide of some beast. From it, he withdrew a stalk with the end wrapped in rags, soaked in a honey-like substance. He knelt, taking into his hand a flint rock. Then with an arrow from his quiver, he sparked the torch in an instant. Its flames illuminated the area with their eerie, dancing glow, chasing back the darkness.
Tartara flew circles around the group. She listened, intent on whatever was concealed within the trees.
All that Turim could hear was the slight rustle of wind against the brush, the call of the owlings in the far distance, and the buzzing flit of Tartara’s own wings. The leaves and the grass were tense though—Turim could sense that much. They seemed to say, “Something is amiss. You should take heed!”
He reached for his own blade, drawing it forth from its scabbard. Its golden winged hilt caught the light as he did. Anything these three were so prepared for might well be a true danger, and his sword arm wouldn’t be unwelcome if that were so. But what was out there?
“Did you say dragonites?” he whispered.
He stood ready with the others, peering into the shadows. His heart beat harder. He marveled at the ranger’s resolve, but he also wondered why they’d lit a torch if they wanted to avoid danger. Unless it was some sort of beast, perhaps?
”I don’t mean to make light of your judgment. But is there something we should fear here?” asked Turim. “In my lands, a snap in the woods in the darkness isn’t usually danger. It’s more of—”
“We are not in your lands, Commander,” said Jaffrine hastily. “We’ve stayed out too long. Folk tend to stay close to home this hour. We should go now before—”
Then, without warning, the earth beneath Turim’s feet gave way. He was falling, all balance lost for the moment. Wet mire splashed up, and he tasted its foulness in his mouth. He’d stumbled into a muddy hole. It wasn’t deep—three feet at best—but it was adequate to distract him for a few moments. Why would anyone do such a thing? he thought.
But in his fumbling, three figures sprang from the brush. Without pause, they were upon the rangers with a silent hiss—some elven curse he didn’t recognize. Though he was certain it was elven.
“The pale ones!” shouted Strevan as they came into view.
Strevan’s first arrow missed his swift moving attacker by mere inches. The creature swung a blade of black, sharpened obsidian. It gleamed wickedly in the firelight coming from Strevan’s hand.
Eerie shadows danced against the forest trees as Turim clambered from his hole, and as he rolled out into the open, he saw them for the first time.
Dark elves. Their skin was unthinkably pale, as though they’d never seen the light of day. Breastplates, with mail coats that draped out from underneath, adorned their bodies, all a dark, dirty steel, covered in wrought skulls of dissimilar shapes and sizes. Their expressions were sinister, and Turim immediately felt distrust and uneasiness.
As he tried to shake the astonishment off, the one who seemed to be the dark elves’ leader sprang forward. His wiry frame lunged toward Strevan, while the other two dark elves made for Tartara and Jaffrine.
Tartara darted in and out, dodging slashes. She seemed to be trying to find an opening to make an attack, but the dark elf’s blade was swift. When his weapon drew low to the ground, however, it exposed his upper body.
The faerie must’ve seen it too, as Tartara zipped in, stabbing him deep in the neck. The dark elf cried out in pain but continued his attack, spitting red. He cursed in his harsh tongue. Still she darted like a hummingbird, delivering blow after blow.
Turim wondered how much the dark elf could take. She was relentless. He’d never seen a fairie fight before.
Finally, the pale elf dropped to his knees in the leaves scattered across the forest floor, punctured more times than he could count. The breath faded from his white lips.
Strevan was holding off the leader with his torch and long knife. But a bowman needed support in close quarters. That was where Turim knew he’d be of most use.
Catching the assailant’s weapon mid-swing, Turim slashed the black sword to the ground. With a low hack at the dark elf’s belt, he cut deep. He watched a moment as the dark elves’ leader wilted to the ground, then rounded on the ranger he’d saved.
“Thank you, kind knight,” said Strevan, breathing heavily.
Turim nodded quickly. Then he turned to see how the others were faring.
Jaffrine was exchanging blows with her assailant, wielding her long wooden staff. Her movements were swift, despite the fluttering of robes whirling around her. Turim was mesmerized by the patterns she spun of cloth and wood. Tartara flitted in to help.
While Tartara held the dark elf at bay, Jaffrine withdrew some herbs from her pouch. She dropped them on the ground, backing away. Then she hummed short words in some ancient tongue. At once, the ground began to smoke, and Turim gave up any though of aiding them.
Before his eyes, the dark elf’s arm began to sprout small, green roots. In seconds, they curled, festering from under his skin.
He screamed out in pain, swinging his blade in mad arcs. Tartara darted aside again and again, until ultimately, the vines that sprouted from his own body overtook the dark elf. His life was extinguished and the fight stilled.
Turim and the rangers stood silent for several moments longer. Their breaths slowed, heartbeats lost speed, and arms relaxed. It was calm all around them then. The sounds of gentle breeze whistled through the wood.
“Be at ease,” soothed Jaffrine. “Though for how long our safety might last, I don’t know.”
As Turim cleaned his blade, he furrowed his brow at the suddenness of it all. Quickly, he returned his sword to its scabbard and stood tall, his eyes on Jaffrine.
He spoke nothing of the magic he’d seen. None were permitted to practice the art at Grendelock Keep. The chaplains and clerics who ran the church there didn’t approve of it. He wasn’t supposed to have dealings with users of it either. Still, this magic hadn’t seemed dark or evil—not exactly anyway. Different. It had simply seemed different.
Instead, Turim asked the question that leapt to the forefront of his mind. “Were those the ones they call dark elves? Some say the pale elves have taken hold upon Tarvú, far to the western continent. Do you know anything of it?”
Jaffrine replied, “It’s true. You’ve not seen their kind before? Our forests have newly spawned a bit of their activity. I wish I knew why. We don’t yet know their evil intent here, but this is why we were so on our guard tonight.”
“Are you okay?” piped Tartara, directing her question at Turim. “You’re filthy. You’d best beware of their traps when wandering the forests while you’re here.”
“I will,” replied Turim, examining the mud on his boots and clothes.
Tartara seemed to be considering something, her little finger tapping her chin. “I don’t think they had any true purpose in the attack—save for the looting of our fallen corpses. They would’ve come with more warriors, and likely those reptilian monstrosities they ride, if they had.”
Turim wasn’t certain what she’d meant. But before he could ask more, Jaffrine spoke swiftly. “We should return home, Turim. You’re welcome to stay with us if you so desire. You’re safer with us than in this cabin, so near the edge of the forest. Dwellinghearth proved more defensive than our own Fort in days past. But since the time of Gougemire the Black, the foulest of dragons who ever dwelt upon the island, it’s been ruined of all the protection it once provided.” As she said this, she gathered her cloak around her. She pulled her hood over her head again, shadowing her pleasant features.
As much as Turim would’ve liked to see where the rangers lived, he wasn’t sure about leaving Dwellinghearth just yet. “No, thank you,” he said, making up his mind. “I don’t think I’ll come with you. Though I thank you for your offer, you’re quite kind.” He looked toward the direction of Dwellinghearth, wondering if he’d made the right choice. “No, I’ll stay at the cabin tonight. I’d hate to flee from it during my first night here. I’d feel like a coward. Perhaps we’ll meet again though. I hope to explore the island, make sense of what I can here, maybe find a guide? I have some questions about these dark elves as well. And I’d like to hear more of the days of Gougemire in time, too. However, my questions aren’t pressing yet. They can wait. I’m tired.”
“Very well,” said Jaffrine politely. But she turned sharply to depart. “Don’t be alarmed if some of us come to look over your cabin at times. We shall keep a bare eye for your safety.” Her voice began to fade as the pushed past the branches. “Thank you for your help. I again apologize for our small friend. Sleep well, and be wary during your visit to Ys. There are many dangers here, and the Thalui seem to grow in number day by day.”
“Think nothing of it, and my thanks go with you all,” returned Turim. He remained where he stood, unmoving, his arms folded across his chest.
Strevan put his fist to his chest with a nod, now having donned his own hood. Then he turned to follow Jaffrine wordlessly.
The pair of humans and the fairy disappeared into the darkness.
Turim hadn’t realized how far they’d come into the trees. But within a few moments, he found the trail and took it back toward the grass clearing at the cabin.
When he reached the door, he opened it with the key, locking it behind him. One can never be too careful with dark elves roaming about, he thought, cursing Sand under his breath. His mind was now clearly changed on the subject. But what are they doing on the island?