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Anfalon, of Orloriel
First of the Hallowed
The Imperial Hoplite
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> Sing O’ Muse, so the past’s greatest heroes be remembered
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> Of the Towering Quiceran and Nuala, the Lissome
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> Let thy tongue roll O’ Goddess, so our heart’s desire be tempered
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> Of Ninthalor, the Brazen and the Insolent Baltoris
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> Hum tenderly O’ Garden’s Mistress, of past’s splendor surrendered
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> Of Moon’s sacred daughter thrice blessed and thrice cursed
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> Let thy tongue whisper O’ Divinity, allow a caress tenderly entered
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> Of Master Elas, the Wise and the Great Anfalon, the Sentinel of the egress
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> Still standing guard at your Realm
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> -
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> Zilan psalm, (Song of Dawn*)
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> (Unknown date, probably 2nd Era)
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> -
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> *This older pre-existing version inspired Phinariel’s famed hymn ‘Song of the Third Era’
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> Written more than a millennia later (around 210 NC, or 3416 IC)
[https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOdvBvkylcUzThS4rBj066TZPIvntZcXg0g1tkn8JhtkI9VPNa1dJtu5gx_vreEcwJU0IqV6KcfCqZZiewAugeBzzxuDt9wii27wWn9YP-arKKzeSw3MHpnXUwqZPlgCSX6poJiIzK0PkjDTkdZiCk_tbfgTM028B7J14HODU21c7fpS7ozt4vF9pQ/s1685/Wetull%20PART%20I.jpg]
The sun slowly rose over the Pale Mountains. It stayed behind the towering Ovinet’s Nest for a long moment, creating a golden halo at its tallest point. The jungle now covering the land from Hunter’s Watch to the Goddess Wall and from Wyvern’s Mouth to Merodras River slowly coming alive. Birds chirped, insects buzzed and beasts snarled. A winged monkey cackled behind a tree, then swung over a branch and disappeared.
Anfalon stood up slowly and checked the modest campsite and his possessions. The polished black muscled thorax, same color steel greaves and gleaming black Hoplite helmet with the red and gold crest, appeared drenched from the night’s humidity, so he moved the heavy pieces of his panoply away from the massive mahogany tree’s heavy shade.
Left them on a soft cloth to slowly dry, while he cleaned his weapons. The sword with the front-curve, named Acharn in the Old Tongue, or Vengeance. Made of a single piece of grey steel with a faint red hue, the grip decorated with a thick outer layer of spell-shaped ivory, with hollows for the fingers matching perfectly Anfalon’s hand. The sinister steel spear, named Wraith. Eight feet in length, the blade leaf-shaped and the butt ending in a foot long spike. The Aspis, the heavy round Hoplite shield, named Umbas. All black, but for the Wyvern’s head depicted on its outer surface in crimson red.
He used thick oil for the blades first, finer for the finishing passes. Checked for cracks on the antique steel, but found none. Satisfied and after placing all his tools into a leather knapsack, he put his panoply over his muscled chest, tipped his full head covering helm back, to better see the terrain and started down the Hunter’s Watch.
Anfalon went into the jungle to start his two months long patrol. Down the coast, skirting the gulf at Wyvern’s Mouth first, then he’d cut North through the hostile wilderness, following an ancient road that didn’t exist anymore, towards Merodras unfriendly waters. The route would bring him west next following the riverbank, keeping the mass that was the Goddess Wall, what the Sinya Nore called the Pale Mountains, over his right shoulder. All the way to the deceptively deep acid lake, the Hfrial Depths. A day’s walk from Hunter’s Watch where his patrol would end.
It was a menial task for a soldier of his station, but one doesn’t pick what he’ll do in the service.
Guard the wall Anfalon, the Queen had ordered, until I get back. When the world burned and the others left to help their families, or die with them, he stayed and waited. When they informed him of the Queen’s demise and Empire’s Fall, he increased the size of his patrol to incorporate the coast as well. Anfalon would have guarded everything to the port of Goras, but Goras was no more. So he never went there. Sometimes he would pause on the coast and stare at the misty waters trying to spot any ship approaching.
No ships did, but the Kraken came twice in two hundred years.
It rose silently from the depths, like a small island sprouting inside the gulf and stared with its sole black eye the coastline. It stayed for an hour almost each time, then left probably to return to the temple of Abrakas on Barmont Isle somewhere in the Reefs, where the foul Ticu still worshiped it.
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A month later, Anfalon kicked aside a green-orange flesh-eating Nepthal root and the intelligent plant retracted and followed him from a distance. A bright yellow giant parrot jumped on a branch above his head and stared at him as he cleaned his hard-lined face with a cloth. The parrot didn’t speak, but warned him of someone following him. Thinking it was the Nepthal, Anfalon didn’t bother himself and resumed his journey towards the river.
Merodras River announced his presence with a constant buzzing a day later. The ground turned muddy, the vegetation thicker and poisonous. Anfalon didn’t bother himself with that as well. He was old enough to be immune to the forest’s poisons. The ancient soldier had achieved this remarkable feat the only way one could.
“You get poisoned enough times and survive it,” he told himself, just to wake up his tongue, as he hadn’t talked in months. “Eventually your body adapts.”
Three days later the route turned following the river’s flow away from Ovinet’s Nest shade and the sun turned the jungle into Quiceran’s famed steam baths. Anfalon pressed on, drenched in sweat intending to reach one of Merodras breaking away branches, the one pouring into the Hfrial Depths and make camp there. A three-eyed python almost fifteen meters long, tried to test him during the night, but Anfalon killed him with his spear and ate his flesh raw, kept the sturdy leather to make a new pair of boots.
At the site of the old bridge over Merodras, the stone supports still visible and the walkway covered in thick undergrowth, as many snakes nesting on its deck as ancient hidden tiles, he stopped to rest. Anfalon gathered old wood to make a fire to dry his panoply and service his gear. It took him four hours to get a spark going and he used all his firestones for it, the wood rotten, drenched and unsuited for kindling. He stepped away from the thick smoke and worked on clearing a larger area from shrubs and plants.
Anfalon paused to listen for the Nepthal, but the flesh-eater had found other food weeks back and had left him alone. He glanced at the rising smoke next and then shook his head. It was giving away his position, but no one had bothered him in years.
Everyone knew there was an Imperial Hoplite patrolling these parts and stayed well clear of the area. If there was anyone left bothering that is.
Anfalon grunted and walked to the river, gathered foul water in a metal flask and then brought it back to his fire. He threw the uncorked flask in it and watched it slowly turn red and bubble for an hour. He then used his dagger to pry it away from the embers, left it to cool and sipped a mouthful of foul smelling, bitter water. Again, drink enough foul stuff for a long while and you’ll get used to it.
Satisfied, he found a good fell trunk and put his back on it. He relaxed, glanced at the setting sun for one more time and then closed his eyes to sleep.
He dreamed of war.
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A stem snapping woke him up an hour before dawn. Anfalon opened his silver-purple eyes and listened to the woods and the river flowing. He listened for other sounds, but found none. The soft breeze brought him a tease of sweat other than his own and a whiff of burning sandalwood. One coming from the top of a tree across his camp fire and the other-more cautious one- hidden in a shade. Its exact position veiled from the spell.
Anfalon grimaced and pushed himself up. He stretched to wake up his muscles and then walked towards the thirty meter tall tree, its bark a dark-red, one of many beyond the area he’d cleared the other day. He put a hand on the hard surface, the trunk almost two meters wide, its hidden roots even harder and deep under the soil. Anfalon gave it a push and then stared at the dark canopy over his head. Sighing, he put both hands on the trunk and gave it a proper shove. The tree shuddered, branches snapping and bright green fruits started dropping from above. Anfalon kept at it, the large tree slowly moving back and forth gaining momentum, the ground peppered with more round melon sized fruits and broken branches.
A moment later he let go and walked back some meters, slapping a falling heavy-laden branch away from his head. The fruits were uneatable, by they produced good paint, both for garbs and walls, if mixed with alcohol.
“I can set it on fire,” Anfalon said although he couldn’t, voice raspy from inactivity.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
A fruit bounced off of his helm almost knocking it away, as he was wearing it tipped off his face. Then another, which he slapped away annoyed.
“I almost fell down,” a girl said from above, sounding annoyed.
And very young.
“It’s a small drop,” Anfalon replied a little amused and more than a little surprised. “Your Imperial is atrocious.”
“It’s twenty meters!” The girl hissed. “And I can barely understand you. So we’re even!”
A long leg appeared through the canopy, found purchase on the hard bark, naked toes clasping at it. Then another, a girl’s behind barely covered in a leather loincloth following. Anfalon stepped back and repositioned the helm on his head, while he waited for her to climb down.
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The girl had bright blue hair gathered in a long ponytail that reached low at her back. She wore a leather vest over her small breasts, the skin pale underneath and a loincloth that left her long legs uncovered. While tall for her age, she barely reached Anfalon’s chin. Her face was round, her ears long with a teasing curve at their tips and her eyes had more green in them, than blue or silver. The pout on her lips almost comical and unsuitable for her station.
A child of the woods, Anfalon thought. A stray.
“What’s your name?” He asked, scratching his cheek with a long finger.
“Phina,” the girl replied looking at him with interest. “Phinariel,” she added seeing his frown. “What’s yours?”
“It’s not courteous to ask queries of your betters.”
“Says who?”
Anfalon grimaced taken by surprise, again.
“People living in courts, I suppose,” he finally said.
“I don’t.”
“Apparently.”
“Are you?”
These was the most words Anfalon had uttered in a single session, for a couple of centuries at least.
“I’m not, I suppose.”
“So? Do I get a name, or should I call you fancy armor?” Phinariel probed.
“It’s Anfalon, of Orloriel.”
Phinariel shook her head. “How did you know I was up there?”
“You make too much noise. By the way, you’re not allowed here.”
“Why?”
“It’s Imperial land,” Anfalon explained, slowly losing his patience.
“I don’t know what that is. There are no ruins here,” Phinariel bumbled excited. “But I walk the ruins all the time and no one ever said anything. How can you tell?”
Anfalon smacked his lips. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
Anfalon stood back stunned. “How… are you sure?”
“There’s a tree like this in my village,” she pointed a thin finger behind her. “I scratch a line every time a season ends. My mother started it, I just keep it up.”
This was outrageous.
Impossible.
“Your mother?”
“She’s dead now. The lion got her,” Phinariel replied, suddenly very sad. Her sorrow jumped out of her so strong, it almost overwhelmed Anfalon’s senses and he staggered taken again by surprise.
“What lion?” He croaked, too many things to process at once. His routine ruined.
“The two headed one. It came from the mountains,” Phinariel sniffled, tears running down her cheeks. “Our best hunter is missing and no one can deal with it.”
“Wait,” Anfalon stopped her. He grimaced, not sure how to deal with this, or why he should even care, since she was an outcast. “A hunter you said. A village, where is this?”
“Beyond the acid lake,” Phinariel replied. “People got tired of living in the woods, my mother used to say and decide to come out. Started our village.”
“People… you mean like you?” Anfalon asked.
Phinariel blinked. “Like you,” she replied looking at him. “Without the fancy armor.”
Anfalon grimaced, his square jaw quivering, fury spilling out. “I’m a member of the warrior class!” He snapped insulted and Phinariel stumbled back shocked. “I’ve served for well over two thousand years!” He growled and realized the girl had collapsed on her knees and was sobbing uncontrollably.
Anfalon cleared his throat, the jungle silent around them, the river flowing unperturbed and stared at her again.
Curse the Gods!
“Why did you come here?” He asked her and she wiped her face, still sniffling. “It’s a long way from the lake. Weeks in the jungle.”
Phinariel hugged her shoulders rocking back and forth nervously. The girl had almost turned into a ball at his feet.
“There’s a cursed warrior patrolling the river, was the tale we were told,” she murmured in her incompressible dialect and Anfalon had to stoop over her to listen. “A remnant of the evil dead. A spirit of the ruins. He comes and goes like the seasons. Months pass, before he appears again. People see him coming from afar and disperse. Years after years, he comes and goes. But he never ventures beyond the lake. Some say he can’t,” Phinariel raised her swollen eyes and stared at him. “I told myself if you’re real, I can talk you to help us,” she wiped a tear from her dirty cheek with the back of her hand.
The eyes of a stray, Anfalon thought shook to his core. Uncultured savages.
Kick her away.
Wait…
Arrgh.
“What do your people call themselves?” He asked, crossing his arms on his steel chest.
“Strong breeze amidst the trees,” Phinariel replied in her mix of Imperial and Common.
Strong breeze turned into one word in the Old Tongue.
Zilan.
Ah, damn it all to hells, Anfalon mused, a lump in his throat and stooping grabbed the girl by the arm and lifted her up.
“You clean yourself up now,” he rustled, voice hoarse from talking so much and the emotion that had sneaked up on him. “There’s some dry meat in my knapsack. Have at it. Don’t drink all my water. A sip is more than enough.”
“What kind of meat?” Phinariel murmured, unsure at his sudden change in demeanor.
“Python meat. Very nutritious.”
“Uh. I’ll have a fruit.”
“Negative,” Anfalon replied sternly. The girl needed to shape up her character post-haste. Turn into a proper person. First thing to learn was to listen to commands. “You’ll eat the meat.”
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Anfalon had watched Phinariel sleeping for a while, next to his fire. The Imperial Hoplite lost in his own thoughts. The patrol interrupted. The task left incomplete. Though I’d almost finished anyway, he thought, searching for a reason to justify the detour. Instead of returning to the Hunter’s Watch to recuperate and rest, I’ll travel beyond the lake. Check on that village. We can’t have people up and building on Imperial land. The Queen hunted there.
These people need to disperse, or else.
Zilan, he corrected himself again.
Not birthed by spirits in the woods.
Edlenn was right all along.
The thought sacrilegious. He shifted away from the fire and walked near the woods, his eyes adjusting in the dark, the moons light never reaching under the canopy. Took the helm off his head and placed it carefully on a big root. Placed his shield on the trunk and put his back on it. The woods quiet and eerie still, just like they were all day.
You scared everything away old friend, Anfalon thought with a shake of his head. So much excitement after so many years. Perhaps it is a sign. He reached into his small satchel and got a lightstone out. Anfalon flipped it once in his hand and then placed it on the root, next to his helmet. He stared at the imposing eye-slits, the thin straight gashes down the foreboding nose-guard and smiled, just as the lightstone lit up and the polished helmet’s surface made the shadows dance around it.
“What gave me away?” Old Dar Nym whispered, voice coming from all directions, although the Guardian of the Circle was very near now.
“Ripe sandalwood. It only grows that old in Nesande’s Garden. Nowhere near here,” Anfalon replied, the master assassin’s breath turning into a chuckle in his ear for a fraction of a second and then Nym appeared, long legs crossed, head tossed back in a relaxed pose, sitting on the root next to the Hoplite’s helmet. The light dancing on the youthful -rarely unmasked- face making the indigo eyes gleam.
“Cherished Anfalon,” Nym greeted him with a teasing smile, like the old days.
“What brought Nym out of Elas Study?” Anfalon asked, not falling for the mummer’s trick.
“Visit you?”
“Why now?”
“Will this thing with the girl take long?” Nym changed the subject.
“I have time old friend and an abundance of patience.”
“Aww, now you make me wish I’d killed her. I’d spotted her way before you did. That’s not polite.”
Anfalon crooked his mouth and stooped forward.
“Whatever scheme you have going, I’m not interested,” he told the youthful looking assassin. “I would never take orders from you.”
Nym reached with long graceful fingers for the lightstone. The light snuffed out the next moment.
Nym’s way of showing displeasure had never changed.
“I want to know where the door is,” the assassin whispered a moment later.
“That’s not how it works. Why?”
“I want to make sure someone comes through safely.”
Anfalon snorted. “Any Zilan can make the journey safe enough.”
“Will that one make it?” Nym queried.
The youngling was the Assassin’s meaning.
A masterful dodge, a query concealed within a query. What are you up to?
Anfalon stared at the distant fire and little Phinariel sleeping next to it.
“She’s young and untrained. A child, barely above a fool.”
“But still,” Nym trailed. “With help and a bit of luck. A push here, a bit of poison there. The touch of a blade and the allure of seduction.”
Anfalon frowned and glared at the elusive shadow.
“That’s not how it works!” He grunted and Nym chuckled. The noise coming from above him, the assassin long gone. Nym’s voice remained, myriad different whisperings from the shadows, behind bushes and foreboding tree trunks. Ever changing in gender and age to confuse him, although Anfalon knew very well who Nym was, since their almost common start and ties with Nureria.
Close but not family.
The Master Assassin’s words simple.
You never liked being denied, Anfalon thought. Then it turned worse.
“What if it came from a Wyvern? An Aniculo Rokae reborn,” Nym’s female voice teased, as if to spite him. “Wouldn’t a soldier follow its command?”
It was an enticing query, but Anfalon put the matter aside.
If Nym had a Wyvern, the assassin would have led with that.
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