THE WHITE RANGER
Beyond the southern border of the forest of Nilduras were two vast regions of the world which, much like the forest itself, were seldom frequented by outsiders.
To the east was a section of the Gadrial ocean, known as the Bay of Drathnerim, where thousands of treacherous reefs and sharp rocks left very few routes to the shore.
The handful of living sailors who knew these complicated paths through perilous seas were the elves who guarded them, eliminating any foreigners who still dared searching for a way through. Thus, this small northwestern section was mainly left to the rich aquatic life below the surface.
To the west were large plains of burnt grass known as the Prairies of Syleta, upon which the elves had first landed in Simanorion. In the southern section of the prairies, several rivers flowed in from the mountains, following serpentine patterns to the ocean in the east.
Throughout the Prairies of Syleta were small areas with rocky hills. These were often leading up to mountains but could also be found in random parts of the northern prairies, splitting the flat landscape with bluffs.
The prairies had once been home to centaurs, but many had died as armies of orcs raided their lands while fleeing the Skarian armies. A large part of the survivors had joined the Skarian Empire, leaving the Prairies.
The few who remained had travelled south, seeking more peaceful lands. Following this departure, the northern plains were only inhabited by wild animals.
The majestic mountains that bordered the plains to the south and west were known as the Noriondir Mountains. Within these mountains was the fortress of Arendil, a remnant of the Skarian Empire.
The Skarians had mainly left the area, focusing on their many regions further west, but there remained a small garrison to protect the few villages that existed within that region of the mountains.
It had been several decades since anyone had crossed the long bridge that spanned the gorge at the edge of which the fortress had been built. This majestic piece of architecture was the only eastern entrance to the fortress, which had been the primary deterrent for those who once considered an assault on it.
Much like at the fortress of Firildor, the bridge had been used as a chokepoint to force the invading armies to group up, facilitating the task of holding them back and picking them off with volleys of arrows.
It was to this fortress that Alvareth, an elf of the Southern Region of Nilduras, was headed. She was skiing along the slopes to the north of Arendil when she spotted a pack of wolves tracking her.
She picked up the pace, pushing hard on her wooden poles and throwing her feet forward, the elegantly carved skis sliding through the fresh snow.
She spotted more and more wolves appearing on the rocky outcrop to the east, looking down at her, then running further down, closing down on their prey.
She weaved between saplings and short evergreens, trying to throw off the hungry wolves, but they maintained the pursuit, showing no signs of slowing as they barked after her. Thankfully, this slalom technique prevented the hungry predators from reaching her, her sharp turns and the small trees slowing their advance.
She soon exited the small patch of trees, however, arriving in a bare, snow covered valley, where she would be far more exposed. Knowing there was no escaping them, the elite archer was left with one choice. She would need to face the pack of hungry beasts or fall prey to them.
She sped up a bit more, then quickly fastened her skiing poles to her back, pulling her bow out from behind her and notching an arrow as she slid forward.
Alvareth’s bow was made of a pale, cream white coloured wood from a gelvor. It was intricately carved with drawings of animals and the arrows were made of the same wood with white fletching.
Still in motion, she let loose her first arrow, the projectile finding its mark and hitting the nearest wolf in the shoulder. Seeing this, the other wolves switched from their stealthy prowl to a full sprint toward their prey.
Alva, as she preferred to be called, twisted sideways, coming to a full stop and notched a second arrow, quickly releasing it and striking a second wolf, this time in the head. She quickly shot a third arrow but missed her mark.
The elven ranger then turned and took a few more steps with her skis, gaining momentum and sliding down the slope in front of her, entering a wide valley. She bent down, taking a more aerodynamic position, which allowed her to gain more speed.
As the slope twisted right, she straightened her body and began shooting arrows at the wolves once again, the beasts running down a steeper part of the slope, which caused the ones she hit or the ones that were forced to dodge her arrows to trip and fall.
Noticing a steeper slope ahead, she fastened her bow to her back and pulled her poles back out, hoping to lose the pursuing wolves within the rocky area.
Alva gained speed and proceeded in a slalom, confusing the wolves and forcing them to take risks, such as jumping along the large rocks that protruded from the snow as she weaved between them.
The wolves nearly caught up to her several times, but she managed to turn away quickly enough, passing the rocky area, and going straight down the steep descent toward Arendil, leaving the wolves behind as they were incapable of keeping up with her incredible speed.
A few minutes later, Alva reached the rocky cliff above Arendil and climbed down onto a ledge. She crouched and looked down at the Skarian fortress from her high vantage point.
Despite her young age of twelve, or twenty in earth years, her hair was of a pure white. Like, many elves, tereks and halflings, it had been her hair colour at birth.
Her slender face was outlined by her long hair and a white hood which took the shape of a triangle with the edges curved inward as it dropped down over her forehead.
The elven ranger had been travelling along the northern border of the Noriondir mountains for days, skiing along the snowy slopes and climbing up the steep terrain that led south. She had left the forest of Nilduras from her homeland of Ambelaras a few weeks earlier.
Ambelaras, a small southwestern portion of the Southern Region was known as the land of spirits. This was due the fog that typically rolled between the large trunks of the yellow-leaved gelvors within it, covering the ground in a mystical, white coat.
The kingdom of Ambelaras had been at peace for many years and its prosperous people had taken the time to get closer to the gods and to the nature around them. They had also created a sanctum in which they had gathered the largest collection of written works known to the elves. It had been named Nir Dinriel, the word Nir designating one of the five sacred cities of the forest. These were located in each of the regions.
Alva had been born and raised in Camtriel, the kingdom’s capital. As a child, she had felt free and happy in Camtriel but as the years went by, more and more laws were implemented to the daily lives of its citizens as the priests, priestesses and other spiritual leaders gained power and influence over the King.
Alva found these laws overbearing and despised the religious leaders who had imposed them upon her people. Many Ambelarans were happy to follow the rules and felt a sense of accomplishment as they showed respect to their gods daily.
Alva simply focused on her training as a ranger, finding it as an excuse to escape the many restrictions and the monotony of life in the capital. The people in more remote parts of Ambelaras had a far more pure and healthy relationship with the gods and their creations withing nature in her eyes. Furthermore, they were granted far more freedom as the religious zealots gathered in large cities.
However, bit by bit, they too were affected by the laws implemented in the capital and they too were losing their freedom.
She had initially wanted to rebel but found that too few of her peers were willing to do what would be necessary to change the situation. As far as she went from the capital, Alva still felt oppressed by the overbearing government and the religious organization that had seized its power.
Alva then joined the rangers who patrolled the vast expanses of wilderness in and around Ambelaras. Her post had been just south of the forest, in the Noriondir Mountains. However, after two years, she was called back to Camtriel as the high-priests chose to station her there, thinking her talent as an archer would be of use to them in the capital.
Convinced she needed to leave, she considered seeking a new home in one of the neighbouring kingdoms. Sadly, she had heard from those who had done so that life in other kingdoms was often tough as an outsider. The many years of war that had occurred within the forest made elves wary of anyone from a different kingdom and such individuals were often shunned by the locals.
Thus, it became apparent to Alva that her best option was to leave the forest entirely. She knew very little of the world outside of the forest but felt it was simply the best way to live a free and authentic life.
As the rainy months of winter arrived, Alva had travelled through the thick fog to the southern border of Ambelaras and crossed into the Prairies of Syleta. She had passed over the fields of golden grass and made her way into the Noriondir mountains, heading toward the only place she knew anything about outside of the forest, the Skarian fortress of Arendil.
As she looked down at the impressive battlements of Arendil, Alva hesitated to approach the Skarian fortress. All she knew of the Skarians she had heard from old stories which had likely been embellished or twisted over time for effect. They had been presented to her as honourable and just, but she questioned this portrayal of the western warriors now more than ever. After all, they had taken Simanorion by force, seeking power and likely riches.
But, despite the potential danger it presented, this still seemed to be the most promising option, to Alva’s knowledge. She took a few more minutes to observe the few guards who were walking along the ramparts, hoping for some sign as to whether they would be welcoming or hostile. Unsurprisingly, there was none.
Alva noticed that there were few archers on these ramparts. The guards seemed to have long spears with thin, black flags, which matched the incredibly long banners which were set on each side of the gates. These black banners had golden stitching which formed an ornate frame around a golden, winged lion, the symbol of Skaria.
The elf slowly made her way back along the cliff, backtracking to a small goat path she had spotted on her way up. The path was narrow but her training as a ranger of Ambelaras had made her agile and her elven feet were naturally nimble.
The path led down to a small plateau from which she scaled a rocky cliff, moving diagonally in a stair-like pattern to the ledge that would lead her to the bridge which spanned the gorge between the eastern gate of Arendil and the cliffs along which she was moving.
As she climbed, Alva looked to see the two-hundred-meter drop into the dark depths of the chasm below her. The tales she had heard spoke of a river of bones resting at the bottom of the Gorge of Arendil, but the bottom was too dark in the morning light for her to see.
She decided to focus on her climb and ignore the gorge below as the possibility of slipping and plunging to her death unnerved her. She had spent much of her life high in the branches of gelvors and had skipped across the branches of very tall trees, but a certain, crippling fear still set in when her mind was confronted with the possibility of falling.
Alva was able to regain her composure and focused on slowing down her breathing before continuing. She held her focus, using her training in self-discipline to direct her every thought to the challenging descent.
After a few minutes, Alva landed safely on the ledge from which the bridge could be accessed. To her left was the road which led to the bridge. A road she had chosen not to take as it was only safely accessible from the prairies far to the south. Any other way to reach it would have been more treacherous than the twenty-meter span she had just covered over the chasm. Seeing the detour south as a sign of weakness to her potential hosts, Alva had opted for the shorter route.
Alva looked down the path, admiring the tall, rocky cliffs covered in different types of climbing plants. The road was built in a much narrower gorge than the perpendicular one between her and the fortress and it twisted south after the first hundred meters, blocking Alva’s view with a large cliff face.
Suddenly, a horn sounded in the fortress. Its deep, ominous sound was quite different from the higher pitched elven horns Alva was used to hearing in Ambelaras.
She was a bit surprised she had even been spotted, as the guards hadn’t looked to the east once as they walked along the ramparts while she had been watching. Little did she know, there hadn’t been a single reason to look to that path in decades.
She was not entirely surprised of being spotted, however, as she was wearing the white clothes of Ambelaras. These were simply composed of a white tunic, white pants and a white, hooded cape, all of which she had managed to keep fairly clean during her journey.
These simple garments, which had originally been unique to the rangers, had become the standard uniform for any member of the Ambelaran forces. The high priests and priestesses had coerced the generals into removing the metal and leather armour worn by all troops of the kingdom. They had justified this seemingly foolish decision by stating that Ambelaras’ citizens were protected by the gods and did not need armour. Many were furious, but, as with many of the changes in Ambelaras, it seemed no one was willing to truly risk their livelihood in order to prevent it.
Several guards appeared on the ramparts, peaking over the edge as Alva began her slow walk across the three-hundred-meter-long bridge. She walked with her head held high, revealing some of her delicate, elven features, such as her angular chin, as her hood slid back a few centimetres.
The walk felt slow and the Skarians gave her no sign of their intentions. Alva thought they might be shocked to see an elf, while in fact they were shocked to see anyone arriving from the east. Every so often, the elven ranger could hear shouting from the fortress, which she deduced were likely orders being yelled out to the guards.
As she finally arrived within fifty meters of the door, Alva heard the loud noise of the metal door bolts being hammered up from their slots. The loud noise startled her, and she halted, her mouth opening sightly to take in a sharp breath. Her right hand slowly made its way up to rub the back of her neck, her eyes narrowing as she considered turning back.
A strange fear gripped the elf’s heart, and she froze as it began racing. She had felt something similar while climbing across the wall, but this was much stronger, and her mind was flooded with thoughts of the many dangers that might be behind the large wooden door.
She had momentarily lost reason as she imagined illogical events, such as waves flooding through the door or a ball of fire, consuming her as they burst open. These, however, were the easiest to ignore. She also imagined things like an arrow, piercing her heart or a black rider, charging toward her and impaling her with a spear.
Alva had never felt so helpless in her life. She had been in many conflicts over the years, most of which involved fighting off outlaws from foreign kingdoms who were raiding small Ambelaran settlements. She had always kept her composure, calmly wielding her bow to pick them off as they charged, then drawing her scimitars to cut down those who remained, if any. Yet now, she was petrified by the unknown.
The gates opened, creating a loud noise that sounded like a mix between a deep roar and a high-pitched creek. Alva’s eyes narrowed at the unsettling sound and remained thus as she noticed the large cloud of dust the opening of the ancient doors had formed.
The dust, which had clouded her vision between the opening doors, slowly settled, revealing a single soldier. As she began to see him better, Alva noticed that he was an elf with long, wine-red hair.
He began walking forward, his movements elegant and filled with elven grace. His light-hazel eyes remained fixed on hers in a serious gaze every step of the way.
Alva’s pale-grey eyes nearly looked white, which, along with her clothing and her pale skin gave her the appearance of a ghost or spirit. This effect, which was common among the ancient race of elves who initially settled Ambelaras, had greatly contributed to the legends that there were dangerous spirits or wraiths living within the foggy region of the forest. These legends were also thought to be true by many Ambelarans, who believed ghosts of their ancestors manipulated whisps of fog in order to communicate with them.
Alva simply stood still as the elf made his way toward her, visibly confused by her behaviour. She struggled through several attempts to slow her breathing, her rapid heartbeat becoming alarmingly apparent to her.
The Skarian warrior stopped a few meters from her, his well-polished, black armour shining as the morning sun peaked through the clouds for the first time.
“Good morning.” Said Alva in shy voice. “I am Alvareth of Camtriel, though I prefer to be called Alva, and my pronouns are she and her.” Her breathing was uneven as she awaited his reply, betraying how tense she felt regarding this interaction.
“Welcome to Arendil, edrissarnaelis.” replied the elf in a very flat, yet confident, tone.
The word edrissarnaelis was an elven term in the Nilduran language which meant elven lady.
“I am Dassenar, commander of this fortress.” Added the red-haired elf. “My pronouns are he, him, and his.”
Suddenly, Alva found her composure once again, as if his voice had reminded her that he was just another elf and he would likely be reasonable enough to let her explain her purpose here.
Simanor, the common language of Simanorion, was still taught in the elite schools of most kingdoms. Having attended such a school, thanks to her noble lineage, Alva was able to understand the language fairly well.
“What, might I ask, brings a Nilduran elf to the gates of Arendil?” Asked Dassenar.
“Well...” responded Alva, unsure where to begin.
She struggled to produce a response. She was unsure exactly why she had come or how to explain why she had left Ambelaras. For a few moments, she stood before the commander, awkwardly searching the best way to explain her situation.
“You must understand.” Explained Dassenar, sensing her hesitation. “No one has crossed this bridge in fifty years.” He paused, looking down to Alva’s hands as they fidgeted with her tunic. “And I am the furthest east any Skarian has been in hundreds of years.” The Skarian commander smiled, trying to put Alva at ease. “I’d simply like to have an idea of the reason for your visit. I’m not trying to interrogate you.” His voice was much softer now, his head bowing slightly as he finished speaking.
Alva’s gaze dropped in embarrassment, her right hand moving up and sliding to the back of her neck, showing her frustration. She then she lifted her head back up, examining Dassenar’s sculpted face. He was a young, handsome elf. His demeanour seemed very sober, as if he had been hardened by difficult experiences, but his smile still seemed full of life and joy.
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“I’m sorry.” Started Alva, feeling her confidence restored as she fully regained control of her emotions. “Of course, you would require me to state my intentions before passing through your gates.” She continued. “I have come from Ambelaras, my homeland, which is situated in the Southern Region of Nilduras, not far from here.”
“I have heard of the ghost woods.” Answered Dassenar, proud to show he knew the nickname given to the foggy region. Alva, however, was unimpressed as her people associated that name with ignorance. Those who believed the souls of their ancestors still remained in Ambelaras referred to them as spirits, not ghosts. Though, she thought it unnecessary to clarify this with an elf who would likely never set foot in Ambelaras.
“And, what brings you here?” Asked Dassenar, intrigued by the mysterious ranger.
“I left Ambelaras because I could no longer bare the constraints placed by those who rule over it. I was a lady of the Ambelaran court, as you presumed, but I did not feel as though I truly belonged there. I tried to live in the wilderness of Ameblaras for a time, but still felt the restrictions imposed by our government were overbearing and senseless. I thought of starting a life in a different kingdom, as many before me had, but I decided I would rather be an outsider here than amongst other elves. So, I came to the only civilized place I knew outside of the forest.”
“And what is it you hope to find in Arendil?” Asked Dassenar. “Purpose?”
Alva thought to say “yes” once again but she simply couldn’t remember the word. It was such a basic word and yet it escaped her.
“A certain sense of freedom, I suppose.” She replied, then paused, thinking of her next word. “And acceptance.”
“Freedom is a complicated thing.” Explained Dassenar. “It is often a matter of perspective, as one often loses freedom in some ways when gaining it in others. The freed prisoner regains his time but now has the burden of having to work for his food, and often of finding a new place in our world. They are also given the freedom to make decisions, but this can be seen as a burden by those who are unfamiliar. You may escape the constraints of your kingdom here, but we too have laws, and they must be strict in order for our empire to survive.”
“Perhaps the purpose behind these constraints is what interests me most.” Answered Alva. “I didn’t agree with the justifications given for many of the rules in Ambelaras. I hear Skarians are known for being very pragmatic and reasonable. Perhaps you still have what my kingdom has lost?”
“You’ll have to be the judge of that.” Replied the Skarian commander in a dry tone. “The freedom you seek is not likely to be found by joining the regular Skarian forces, as they often stay within our strongholds in order to manage their upkeep and, of course, defend them when the time comes. The type of freedom you seek is one not found in civilized places like this. You would likely find it traveling the wild lands of Simanorion.” He paused awhile, causing Alva to think she might need to say something. But as she was about to speak, he continued.
“Do you have any particular skills in combat or survival?” Asked Dassenar. “Surely you have some. It would be foolish to come here otherwise. But if they are what I hope, I may have an opportunity for you.”
“I was trained as a ranger of Ambelaras for four years in Ambelar’s elite academy.” Answered Alva, her confidence fully restored as she was reminded of her accomplishments and pride surged through her. “I am considered to be one of the most skilled archers in my kingdom.”
“That sounds promising.” Answered Dassenar, a slight hint of excitement in his voice. “Perhaps we should test that, then.”
“Our guest needs a target to show her skills with the bow.” He yelled toward the many guards who were now standing on the battlements, staring down at the exchange on the bridge.
Most of the guards simply looked to each-other in confusion, unsure what might serve as a target. One guard, however, stepped forward, pushing through the amassing crowd of soldiers on the ramparts. She was a tall archer to whom Dassenar had given a handful of figs earlier that day as a reward for scouting the western road.
“I have a fig for her!” Cried out the archer, holding it up in the air as she reached the ramparts. “Will that do?”
“I will do nicely.” Replied Dassenar. “On my signal, you can throw it up above you.” He paused a second to think then added. “Have the court cleared!” He smiled as he turned back to Alva, preparing to ask her if she was ready, but noticed her bow was out, an arrow notched.
“Shall I wound the fig or kill it?” Asked Alva to Dassenar’s amusement.
Smiling, the elven commander replied. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean, but avoiding a fatal wound is likely to be the more challenging option.” With that, he rose his hand, ready to give the signal.
“All clear!” Yelled a Skarian officer on the ramparts.
Dassenar wondered if having the guest shoot an arrow over the ramparts was a mistake in some way. If the arrow fell short, it would simply land in the small, outer bailey, just beyond the wall, and if it went any further, it would hit the next gate and set of towers, which formed the second barbican in the fortress’ defence.
Dassenar had been put in charge of the evacuation, making him Sorvan Berion,c arm commander. This title had given command of Arendil’s entire population and meant he outranked its previous commander, Henedral, whose ancestors had founded the original settlement and held earldom for more than a millennium.
The aging man would now be forced to relinquish his title since Skaria had chosen to withdraw from the region. He would thus retain the title of Berion, meaning commander, but would only regain full command when Dassenar’s task of escorting them west was completed. This was likely a very painful situation for the Earl of Arendil, who had watched over his lands and vassals his whole life, following a long line of succession.
Dassenar, on the other hand, had only visited Arendil once before and didn’t know its defenders well. Thus, he hoped to make a good impression and earn their trust. Causing and injury by allowing a foreigner to shoot an arrow over the wall would likely have a great impact on the people of Arendil, some of whom he suspected already resented him for ordering them to abandon their fortress.
Putting his worries aside and reassuring himself by considering the small chance that anyone would be hurt, Dassenar looked back at Alva once more. The elven ranger confirmed she was ready with a slight nod and Dassenar dropped his hand, giving the signal.
The Skarian archer threw the small fig almost ten meters above the ramparts. As the green fruit came back down, an arrow flew past, whizzing threw the air. Expecting the fig to be torn apart, the woman was in a flinching position, however, it simply fell back down in one piece and the warrior standing beside her stepped back to catch it.
“Don’t worry, we’ll give you another chance.” Said Dassenar, his voice sounding slightly disappointed.
“Thank you.” Responded Alva. “But one was enough.”
Dassenar narrowed his eyes in confusion. Before long, as his comrades were laughing, the man with the fig yelled out to them.
“Look here.” Said the man who caught the fig, yelling to those around him. “She hit it. The arrow cut through the side of the fig!”
Surely enough, there was a long cut on the side of the fig where the red juices were slowly starting to flow out.
Dassenar nodded, smiling.
“Impressive.” Said the red-haired elf as he turned back toward Alva. “Now, I’d be interested to see how you handle those scimitars.”
As he spoke, Dassenar pointed to the hilts protruding behind her shoulders, then slowly unsheathed his scimitar as he stepped back. He had a long, thin scimitar which almost resembled a katana. The hilt was black with a gold outline to match his armour and a dark-red tassel, which was a bit lighter than the colour of his hair. Those who knew him well knew this to be Dark Horizon, an ancient Skarian blade, forged in the distant land of Varniac.
Alva nodded slowly, then reached for her dual scimitars, quickly drawing them. She wore her weapons on her back so they wouldn’t get in the way as they were tree-skipping, as many Nildurans did. This could make it harder to draw them, but it was easier in some situations.
As the Alva lowered the two weapons in front of her, Dassenar stepped forward, swinging slowly in order to initiate the duel. She quickly stepped back, deflecting the blade using both of hers. He then swung a bit faster, giving her some time to react, but also watching her form and positioning. His next swing was even faster, forcing her to dodge it by crouching.
Dassenar then swung the sword back around, swinging diagonally. Instead of jumping back as he had expected, Alva jumped forward to his left side, dodging the blade’s follow-through with a second jump, this time toward the parapet on the side of the bridge. As she pushed off the stone wall with her right foot, rising into the air. As she leaped toward Dassenar, her hood fell back, her long, white hair flying behind her, illuminated with bright sunlight.
Having followed her every movement, Dassenar thwarted the attack with ease, deflecting the blades and taking a step back. He narrowed his eyes, grinning as he stood with his scimitar out wide, ready to strike.
As the two elves stood on the bridge that spanned the Gorge of Arendil, a gust of wind blew from the north, sending their long hair flying across their faces.
Dassenar stared at the pale elven ranger a few moments longer, then stepped forward, swinging his weapon at her several times as she quickly dodged or blocked every attempt.
Alva’s scimitars were shorter and wider. They started off fairly thin near the hilt but widened at the top as they curved. This traditional Nilduran shape was close to that of a dao sword and was typically used by dual-wielding warriors, while single wield scimitars were thinner and longer, often allowing for a two-handed grip. The hilts of Alva’s scimitars were made of the same, cream coloured wood her bow and quiver had been made of.
Finally, after a few more elegant and calculated swings by Dassenar, who was clearly going easy on her, Alva decided to strike back again. She lunged forward, both scimitars swinging wildly and tried to overwhelm Dassenar with a variation of attacks that made him feel as though he was being attacked by more than one opponent.
Regardless of whether her attacks came from above, from below, from the left or from to the right, Dassenar blocked every single one with ease. He held his scimitar upright in front of him with his left hand, his right one outstretched at his side. Moving his body from side to side as he blocked the attacks and stepped back slowly, Dassenar let the elven ranger tire herself out before finding the opportunity to counterattack.
Dassenar’s blade suddenly continued moving after his block and flew rapidly toward Alva’s neck. She ducked, dodging the blade, but Dassenar had anticipated this and curved the blade back to knock her scimitars toward her right as he moved to her left. He stepped in to push her. She tried to dodge the push by crouching, but Dassenar’s knee struck her shoulder and the powerful lunge sent her rolling off to the side.
Dassenar laughed aloud, slowly stepping back. He stood tall and proud, his sword pointing diagonally down at his side. Once again, an arrogant smile appeared on his chiseled face as strands of hair flew across it.
Alva quickly rose to her feet, attacking the commander wildly as anger filled her mind. The ferocious attack caused Dassenar to move much quicker, spinning and jumping off to the side to dodge or block her blows.
Powerful gusts of wind continued to strike at them as they dueled on the massive bridge. Along with the rising wind, The pace of the duel quickened and the blades were now moving at an incredible speed, leaving the guards on the ramparts confused as they now wondered if such an intense fight was a simple test to gauge her skills.
The two elves now began using the parapets by jumping atop them and pushing off with their feet in order to attack one another from above. At one point, both stood on the parapet and swung across the gap in the crenelation.
They fought in a style typical to the elves which resembled a dance. It required a lot more agility and involved all sorts of wide and graceful swings, as well as spins and jumps.
Dassenar was surprised by her ferocity and her ruthless combat style. She still had grace but attacked in what seemed like wild bursts of anger. This was the opposite of what Dassenar had expected from a Nilduran elf. Her fighting style went against many of the things he had read about the inhabitants of the forest. It led him to believe that perhaps his sources were outdated, and things had changed in the forest. Perhaps most of the things he thought he knew of Nilduras were once true but had changed over the years during which there had been no contact between the Skarians and its inhabitants. This led him to realize that the elven ranger might be a way for him to learn many things about the current situation within the forest.
As the fight went on, Alva realized Dassenar was fighting very calmly. His every move was precise, and he never left himself exposed in any way, repelling every attack in the simplest way possible.
As Alva went out of her way to find a flaw and overwhelm him, he simply focused on the defensive, allowing her to make the moves and take the risks. This strategy allowed the Skarian commander to save his energy and expose any weakness he found as the ranger attacked. He found many, his blade often taping against her side to show her where he could have struck. Several times, the long scimitar even bounced off Alva’s neck.
Alva could also tell her opponent was holding back. He was barely making an effort and still his defence was flawless. The young, elven ranger was baffled by Dassenar’s skill with the scimitar. She was, of course, most skilled with her bow, but she had many years of experience fighting with her scimitars and had never faced such an opponent.
Finally, as Alva lunged forward toward Dassenar and he spun off to the side, tapping her with his sword on her lower back, he spoke: “Perhaps this is enough for now.” Said the Skarian commander. “We could pick up another time, if you decided to join our ranks.”
Out of breath, Alva contented herself with a nod.
Dassenar then stepped forward to get closer to the ranger, putting his scimitar away in its scabbard as he said: “It seems you’re quite the archer and you are fairly skilled with your scimitars. How would you like to be part of my personal bodyguard?” He paused, seeing her eyes light up, then continued. “We would travel a lot and spend much of our time in the uncivilized lands of Simanorion. You would need to follow my orders, but I would give you a lot of freedom to make your own decisions and I would listen to your council as a ranger.”
Alva hesitated to answer. She wanted to say yes but this was a lot to process. She knew so little of the outside world, of the Skarians and their commanders or of the wild lands of Simanorion. Yet, it seemed this was the opportunity she had been seeking. Regardless of the danger that might present and how little she knew of Dassenar. This was simply part of the leap of faith she had decided to take.
“Would you be interested in the opportunity?” Asked Dassenar. “If you would like a simple role as a regular Skarian soldier, you could do that instead. I would understand. And if you feel being my bodyguard does not suit you after a while, you could be transferred to a different role.”
“I would be honoured to join your bodyguard.” Answered Alva. “Though, based on your skill with the sword, I wonder whether you truly need one. How many warriors is your bodyguard composed of?”
Dassenar’s reaction was unexpected as he looked down at the bridge, a deep sadness in his eyes. “Unfortunately, my entire bodyguard was killed in a recent battle.” He answered, choosing to be upfront, despite the effect it might have on Alva. “Most of them had served alongside me for several years and I wish I could have saved them but I myself barely escaped with my life.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Replied Alva, unsure how to handle the situation.
“I am sorry you are joining my bodyguard in such circumstances. And I understand if you do not wish to join me after hearing of this. There is still time for you to turn back and return to the safety of your forest. These lands are treacherous and unforgiving.”
“I have made my decision, commander.” Replied Alva. “I swear to serve and protect you.”
“Very well.” Replied Dassenar. “But I’d like you to call me Dassenar. These soldiers of Skaria call me commander.” He added, pointing at the ramparts. “But I am only here to oversee the evacuation of this fortress. I am not normally their commander and do not know them well. Those who serve alongside me call me Dassenar.”
Alva nodded before asking: “The fortress is being evacuated?”
“Yes.” Replied Dassenar. “We have decided this secluded outpost is no longer worth protecting. This decision was further justified by the fall of our closest settlement, a fortress in the Karst of Ramdur by the name of Firildor. There have been great changes in the Skarian command of Simanorion and the lords of or empire have chosen to focus on a different part of the continent for now. The north.”
There was a moment of silence as Alva wondered what the Skarians might be planning. She had heard that their empire had slowly decayed over time and that their strength had greatly diminished.
“Do you have any questions?” Asked Dassenar.
Alva had quite a few questions in mind but decided to keep them for later. For now, she decided to ask a question fed by her curiosity more than anything.
“Where do you get figs?” The ranger asked to the surprise of Dassenar. “We have fig trees along the Drathnerim coast, but they can’t possibly grow in the climate of the Noriondir Mountains.”
Dassenar laughed then answered: “We often find merchants selling them south of the mountains or passing through with them. Most are dried figs that come from the Isle of Tserul or the Dimanor Archipelago, but we sometimes receive fresh ones from the elves in Vithrandel.”
The elves of Nilduras had founded Vithrandel by building an outpost in the area, which grew into a kingdom of its own. As the Skarian Empire fell back, leaving the Nildurans to face their old enemies alone, the Nildurans were cut off from the Vithrandelians and they each remained in isolation ever since, their few cities surviving under the protection of the massive peaks that surrounded them and their elite warriors. Unlike the Nildurans, however, the Vithrandelians still kept in contact with the Skarians, secretly leaving their hidden city and visiting Arendil every so often.
“The Vithrandelians?” Asked Alva, having never heard the name.
“Oh, I’ll have to explain later.” Answered Dassenar, caught off guard by Alva’s ignorance regarding her kin in the south. “But, for now, we should gather your belongings. Where are you camped?”
“I camped in a small glade not far north of here.” answered Alva. “But I lifted my camp, and this is all I have.” She added, guessing as to what he was going to ask. She had left her skis and poles on the ledge from which she had first observed Arendil, but she figured she wouldn’t be needing them anymore.
“Very well.” Replied Dassenar. “My unicorn needs to stretch his legs, and, since the gates are open, I figured I might as well see the prairies before I leave. Would you like to join me? I can tell you of the Vithrandelians along the way.”
“You have a unicorn?” asked Alva, surprised unicorns could be found outside of Nilduras. “I’d love to come along, but I don’t have a mount of my own, unfortunately.”
“That’s no problem.” Answered Dassenar. “We have quite a few horses here in Arendil. The local tamers often travel south to the Plains of Noriondir where there are herds of wild horses. That’s where they find the Dimanorian merchants who sell us dried figs.” As he approached the gates, Dassenar called for Daibelor and one of the new mares to be saddled and readied.
The two elves made their way into the fortress, which was very different than Alva had expected. She had imagined some sort of large courtyard directly behind the gates, but instead passed through a small bailey, then a series of gates and portcullises.
Beyond the many chokepoints which made up Arendil’s eastern defence, was the courtyard she had expected, a large bailey with stables on either side.
As Alva entered the courtyard, a young groom in leather pants and a dirty, red, long-sleeved shirt approached her and said: “Right this way!”
Alva followed the young man into the stables and was presented with an appaloosa mare. The horse’s front end was brown with small white spots but transitioned into more and more white until it became fully white in the back.
The armour on Skarian horses matched the armour worn by Skarian soldiers with black painted iron, edged in copper. The fabric on the saddle was dark, wine red, matching the Skarian capes and standards.
The groom handed her the reigns, staring in awe at her unusual appearance. He had seen many elves within the Skarian army, but none looked quite like this pale Ambelaran ranger.
Alva grabbed hold of the reigns, thanking the groom, and leaping onto the horse’s back. Alva’s climb was a bit too aggressive, startling the mare and causing her to neigh. The elf leaned forward and patted her neck, whispering calmly in her ears.
“It’s alright.” Said Alva, speaking in Nilduran. “I’ll take good care of you.”
After a few moments, the mare calmed down and Alva sat up on her back, pulling the reigns to urge her forward.
As she exited the stables, Alva looked up to see Dassenar on his unicorn. She was shocked to see it was a black unicorn, its entire body shining in the sun as its shadowy mane flowed with the wind. It had a long, thin horn protruding from its armour. Alva had expected a white unicorn. They were rare, even in Nilduras, but many royal families had them as their mounts.
Black unicorns, however, were thought to be beings controlled by the dark god, Essomri, and it was forbidden to tame them. They were considered to be dangerous creatures who brought bad luck and, thus, should be avoided. They were left to live in the wild where the elves could avoid them and the curse which they brought upon those who dared even touch them.
“That is one of Essomri’s stallions.” Said Alva, with anger and frustration in her soft voice. “You should not go near such creatures. They carry with them great darkness.”
“I do not fear the darkness.” Replied Dassenar in a mocking tone. “I am Skarian.”
The red-haired elf smiled, but Alva scowled at him.
“Nirdalune forbids us from taming such creatures.” Alva retorted, trying to warn her new commander. “They are maleficent beings.”
“I thought you didn’t like to follow her rules!” Answered Dassenar, smiling once again.
There were many religious rules Alva disagreed with, but this was one she believed in fully. She was annoyed by Dassenar’s arrogance.
“It is not her rules I disagree with, but those made by certain followers of hers, who turn them into laws that serve their ends rather than those of common elves.” Replied Alva in a dry tone, making it clear to Dassenar that he was irritating her.
“And how can you know that any of her rules aren’t made to serve someone else’s ends?” Asked Dassenar. “Aren’t they all made by her followers?”
“Some are sacred and ancient.” Answered Alva, vexed by Dassenar’s questioning. “Those who shared them with us truly communicated with Nirdalune and have long since joined her in the endless forest.”
“Well, I have ridden Daibelor for years now and I don’t believe I’m cursed.” Replied Dassenar. “Many unfortunate things have happened to me and those around me, but I think I’ve actually been fairly lucky overall. Were I cursed, I’d probably be dead. Now, shall we go? The Prairies of Syleta await us.”
Alva decided to drop it and follow as Daibelor trotted along. She would go along with Dassenar, but she intended to keep her distance with the dark creature he rode.
Before long, the two elves were exiting through the eastern gate, their mounts racing across the bridge. Daibelor was, of course, much faster than Alva’s new mount.
They rode a bit slower through the canyon and reached the prairies in just over three hours. Neither of them truly knew the way, but the path had been fairly clear, despite there being few signs of the ancient road that had once existed there.
They galloped across the open plains, admiring the rocky hills in the north, the seemingly endless expanse of golden grass in the east and the beautiful mountains to the south and west.
Their mounts were clearly delighted to galop freely in the open. They expressed this with neighs of excitement and it was hard to stop them in order for them to conserve their energy.
As they slowed, Dassenar rode up closer to Alva and asked: “Do you have any thoughts as to what you’ll name her?”
Confused, Alva replied: “What I’ll name whom?”
As she spoke, Alva had her mare move a bit further, keeping her distance with Daibelor.
“Your new mare.” Answered Dassenar.
Surprised the mare was to be hers and caught off guard. Alva simply laughed nervously.
“Thank you!” She said, smiling. “She’s a wonderful companion. I’m not sure what I’ll name her, though.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to think of a name.” said Dassenar before urging Daibelor forward once again.
They rode for about an hour then stopped to eat some of the food Dassenar had brought along.
As they ate atop a hill, the crest of which was speckled with large, jagged rocks, Alva looked out into the distance.
Far across the plains, she spotted a herd of wild horses, galloping gleefully. They truly seemed free, both in mind and body. She made the reflection that this was the feeling she was after. She sought a freedom which the constraints of Nilduran society could not offer her.
After having eaten, the two elves turned back towards Arendil, heading into the hills which led to the massive Noriondir Mountains.
Upon their arrival, they rode slowly across the bridge and Alva looked up at Dassenar to say: “Syleta. I’ll name her Syleta.”