Yelora

Yelora woke up to a wet tongue on her cheek.

She opened her eyes to Gorlo leering in her face.

“Disgusting creature!” she snarled, boxing his ears. He cried out and scampered to the far corner of the Dwarf raft, sending it rocking.

Yelora sat up, spreading out her weight across the lashed logs to steady them. The raft had carried them who knew how far downriver before finally drifting to the left bank and settling into the shallows behind the remnants of a beaver dam. Yelora’s clothing was still damp and the sky was lightening with the rays of the new day, which meant their exhaustion had lasted only one full night.

One full night, yet still no sign of Kashur. Had they captured him? Worse? Something twisted in her chest at the thought.

She sloshed into the water and dragged the raft onto the riverbank. A pain in her thigh made her wince, and she ripped her pant leg to get a better look at Gorlo’s bite. The flesh was red and swollen, and pus issued from the wound. So her healing spell hadn’t been enough after all. It would need to be cleaned and properly stitched, a poultice applied. Yelora could do none of these things here, and it was time to get moving.

Gorlo’s leash was still looped around her wrist. She gave it a tug. He just glared at her from the raft.

“You’ll quickly find that game unpleasant,” she warned him, awakening her staff.

He growled and loped after to the pine-needle laden trail, cowering at the end of the leash as she pressed her palm to the closest tree trunk, calling on petty magic to help her get her bearings. The tree’s essence pulsed against her palm, and she pulled it back and studied the map drawn there in bark dust. The crash site was due west of her. Stepping lightly around the tree, she found a compass flower and noted the direction its blue blossoms were facing. Now that she knew where to go, she began to hike in earnest, ignoring the pain in her thigh, but was quickly tugged to a stop by Gorlo, who had sat down hard. He made a whining sound as he chewed on a stick, then spit it out.

“Get up,” Yelora ordered. “We’ll hunt for some breakfast along the way.”

He continued to complain, refusing to rise from his haunches. Yelora didn’t have time for this. She gave him a zap in the backside with her staff. He yelped and leapt to his feet.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She suppressed a satisfied smile. “Let’s go.”

He spat in her direction and continued to bellyache as they made their own path through the pine forest. Yelora tried to ignore him along with the pain in her thigh and her worries for Kashur. Perhaps he was fine and had simply gone back to aid his Wizard faction. He’d accomplished what he’d come for, after all—securing an alliance between the Elves and the Wizards. In a few days’ time they’d likely come knocking at the door of her stronghold, expecting a warm welcome. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Allying with the Wizards was one thing, but those creatures they’d created—those Goblins.

She glanced over her shoulder at her own little monster. She wasn’t sure she wanted more than one of those inside the Elven walls.

And what of Gorlo? She had him, now what was she to do with him? He was key to the survival of the Elves, of that much she was certain. Aside from that she was certain of nothing. Perhaps the Elf Mage could tell her more.

In the meantime, she sent a kestrel with a message to her people. The Elves had allied with the Wizards. It was official.

They hiked for two straight days in a straight line toward their destination—Yelora had no desire to waste time, and the compass flowers kept them on track. But as the trees thinned, sounds of civilization began to overtake the quiet of the forest, and patches of dead land appeared here and there—blights where crystals had been used. The same patches littered the crash site. She arrived at one that was too large to walk around.

What had done this? A single crystal or multiple? She pushed thoughts of Creation Falls and the crystals she’d poisoned it with from her mind.

They skirted the dead area, arriving eventually at the outskirts of a poor, rundown town. The Imperial sprawl had been annoying on a good day, but now that they were the enemy, it would not do for Yelora to waltz across it as an Elf with Gorlo in tow. She spun her wrist, creating a temporary shade spell. She’d look like a huntress, and Gorlo, a particularly ugly dog. If only he would keep quiet, they could do this.

She pulled her hood over her head and stepped onto the dirt road leading into town. Her wound throbbed even worse after a rest. While she was here, perhaps she could get a poultice for it. She shortened the leash, keeping Gorlo close to her side. He complained, and she hissed at him.

“These people will put you on a skewer and cook you alive,” she warned him. “Keep quiet.”

She smiled at the worried looks from passing Imperials. “He’s a bad dog,” she explained to one man. “Is there an apothecary nearby?”

He pointed the way, and she crossed the busy street with Gorlo in tow, tugging him out of the way of a passing carriage. The apothecary sign loomed near, but a parchment on the bulletin board beside it caught her eye. It read, Healing Services. That might be better. Her wound was definitely infected. She tore the parchment free.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

A peddler passed by with a sausage cart, and Gorlo gave a long, low mewl at the scent. They’d managed to scavenge some nuts and berries along the way, but the greedy thing was still hungry. Yelora stopped the peddler and paid him for three sausages. She handed two to Gorlo and cleared her throat when the man stared at what was supposed to be a dog, holding sausages in its front paws.

“Where is this?” she asked, holding up the parchment.

“Down this street, past the florist. Take the dirt path to the right. You can’t miss it.”

Yelora ate her sausage as she followed the peddler’s instructions, arriving at an odd-looking business that looked more like a bazaar than a healer’s clinic with wares displayed outside under a long, rectangular canvas shade. There were potions and skulls and items that seemed magical, but upon closer inspection were only made to look so—floating planets held aloft by silk fishing line; purple crystals made of stained quartz.

“A charlatan,” Yelora sneered, turning back.

“Only to the unobservant.”

Yelora spun. Where there was no one now stood an old Imperial woman piled in furs as if it were the depths of winter. She sported every color that ever was. But there was something about her, a thickness of the air. Yelora checked the parchment advertisement. The words were in Imperial characters, but they were written in a distinctly Elvish fashion. She held it up.

“Is this yours?”

“Yes.”

“You’re an Imperial healer?”

“Of course. What else would I be?”

Yelora snapped her fingers to dispel any petty illusions. She was surprised to see the woman doing the same. The woman appeared equally surprised. Yelora smirked at what she saw beneath the facade.

“You would be an Elf,” Yelora said, studying the smooth, narrow face covered in rune tattoos. “And you bear the markings of the Sky Engineers as well.”

“You’re mistaken,” the woman said, clearly flustered. She looked down at Yelora’s leg. “But infections like that have been known to bring on delusions.” She grabbed a glass bottle from a nearby shelf. “This should fix you up. Take it home and apply it thrice daily...”

Yelora wasn’t going to let her off the hook that easily. If this healer was a Sky Engineer, she could press her for answers about the Oracle’s prophecy. And if she was an Elf, even an Elf-turned-Wizard, she owed Yelora answers. Yelora was the queen, after all.

Yelora found a stool and seated herself upon it. “I’d prefer it if you treated the wound yourself... and offered a bit of conversation.” Her glare dared the woman to protest. “Tell me about yourself.”

The woman froze for a long moment, as if making an important decision. When she snapped out of it, she was immediately back in character. “Oh, I’m just a humble Imperial woman of many talents, most notably a mastery of the herbal arts. Some would call me a witch.” Her gaze settled on Gorlo as she gathered her healing kit and pulled up her own stool. “What a lovely animal that is. He must be a true asset on the hunt!”

“I know you can see the disgusting creature for what he is. Do you truly think me such a fool?”

“No, not at all, Miss!” The woman lifted Yelora’s leg and set her foot roughly on top of a crate.

“You are not an Imperial healer,” Yelora insisted as the woman poured astringent into her wound. She leaned forward and knocked the lumpy winter hat from her head. “What Imperial has those ears?”

“It’s a family trait.” The witch fetched the hat from the ground and tugged it back on, before gathering her needle and thread.

Yelora winced as the witch stabbed the needle through her sore skin. “Camphorweed oil is Elven healing, not Imperial.”

“You’re certainly very observant, Miss.”

Yelora gritted her teeth from the pain. “You will address me as Your Highness. I am your queen, not a gullible maiden-in-waiting.”

One of the Elf witch’s eyes twitched as she applied the poultice. “Perhaps we should finish this conversation inside.”

Yelora stretched out her newly treated leg. It was far better already. “Let’s.”

She followed the witch toward a wooden door cut into the hillside nearby, Gorlo trotting at the end of his leash. Inside was a modest space lined with shelves full of dusty books, celestial artifacts, gemstones, and trinkets. A dusty spinning wheel was pushed against the wall. There was a window cut into the ceiling, a large telescope with many lenses pointed directly at it—Sky Engineer technology. A tiny dog dropped a bone onto its tick mattress and ran to the woman, wagging its tail. She scooped it up and, with a glare at Gorlo, shoved it into a cabinet.

“Ten crowns for the treatment. Five for the sewing kit,” she said. “I’m not sure I can do anything else for you.”

Yelora had had enough of the charade. She slammed a hand on the table.“I require answers. You will give them to me!” Petty magic laced itself in Yelora’s words without her intending it. Her voice deepened. The table shook.

That had never happened before.

“It’s the convergence,” the witch whispered, steadying her table. “Please, calm down, Your Highness. Imperials don’t like magic. They’re afraid of it. I have to be very careful. And, with this war, if they knew what I was...”

Yelora took a deep breath and felt her shoulders relax. “Why are you here? Why aren’t you with your fellow Sky Engineers?”

“Is that really what you came here to ask, Your Highness? Because it’s a long story and I’m not sure it would interest you.”

She was right. Yelora wasn’t interested. “Our people are in trouble,” she told the witch. “I assume you know we haven’t had a healthy Elf born in decades. That creature is the key to restoring us. I need you to tell me how.”

Gorlo had curled into a ball on the dog’s tick mattress and gone to sleep, licking the bone.

The witch’s eyebrow lifted. “A dog is to be the savior of the Elven Faire?”

“It’s not a dog!” Yelora growled.

“Sorry!” She shook her head, as if shaking off a dizzy spell. “When one’s entire existence is a mis-speak, ‘tis difficult to break the habit.”

“And the accent,” Yelora added.

“And the accent,” she agreed. She sighed deeply, her demeanor shifting. Her neck lengthened, the worry lines in her face smoothed, her posture straightened until she assumed the regal, willowy air of the Elven Faire.

“These are terrible times,” the witch continued. “When you peer into the future, you will not like what you see.” She produced a needle from her many layers of clothing and motioned for Yelora to hold out her hand. Pricking Yelora’s finger, she carried the dancing drop of blood on the needle’s tip over to the spinning wheel. She touched it to a strand of thread before sitting down to spin.

“Now, my Queen, we will answer your questions.” She gave the wheel a spin, and the Elf-symbols in her skin blazed to life. “Do not say I did not warn you.”