The hunting party drew their snow-white horses to a halt at the top of a steep cliff, overlooking an abandoned town that dwelled sadly underneath a starry sky. It was the latter half of the night where the sky was not so dark, and the stars offered dim light to guide their way. Overgrown pine and clove grew from either side of the cliff’s vantage point. Alaric nearly sneezed as a pine needle tickled his nose. He swatted the pine and its branch away incessantly, somehow furious despite the tree’s innocence.

It took the better half of an hour for the party of elves to make it down the mountain. The winding path took them round and round to avoid the steepness of the mountain’s descending slopes. The path was only big enough to fit one horse, so they went one by one, Arokas leading the way. Close behind him was an elf named Ralo, the only elf who bore more arm rings and ink markings than Arokas. He had taken a liking to Alaric even after his humiliation to Elfwin and so he took Alaric on lessons in private. He had Alaric drilled with a bow. They had spent hours practicing, aiming at the thin base of a tree or at a squirrel that mindlessly sniffed their way into his bow’s sights. It was nearly two weeks on from the humiliation by Elfwin, and now Alaric hunted yet again with the hunting party. His reigned his horse forward slowly, just behind Ralo.

The sound of rocks sliding out from under their horses’ hooves was the only sound of their approach aside from the rhythmic chirping of the birds in their nests upon tree branches and the croaking of frogs. The elves arrived at the foot of the path and straight ahead was fifty acres of flat land. Before them was the forgotten town of Erwold—the most recent elvish town to have been mauled by an attack from the wights and so it sat, a gloomy aura about its shabby walls.

A pathetic palisade of sharpened logs lay flat on the ground from the churned soil where it had once stood straight up. Arokas was the first to guide his horse over the fallen palisade and along the dirt path that ran through the heart of Erwold. Half-timbered buildings with glaze-tiled roofs line either side of the abandoned road. Alaric drank in his surroundings with humble abode, somehow feeling guilty that he had never seen the town before its destruction.

The elves rode slowly and quietly, as if paying homage to the town with their sullenness. Turning his head at every alley and every open door, Arokas had his hand hovering above his hilt in the case that a wight or other might emerge. Ralo’s mare snorted anxiously and he patted its main assuredly.

They passed by an arsenal whose doors were still wide open. Inside, shields and swords hung along the walls, but most were clattered on the floor to suggest its last users were in a hurry. Various pieces of armor and leather were scattered just outside the doorway. Yet, Alaric’s eyes were drawn to the other side of the road where a ravaged temple was in ruins. The walls were crumbled to uneven lengths all along its foundation, and overgrown brush and small trees had begun to sprout out of the cracks in its flooring. The thatch roofing was mostly gone. The parts that remained intact were burnt to a crisp in black smoot. The inside bore abandoned relics and forgotten treasure in its innermost room. Alaric glanced at Ralo, who rode in front of him, and his head was faced straight ahead.

Alaric head was angled backward to catch the last of a shrine outside the crumbled temple. At the foot of the shrine was a large crypt where the corpse of the beloved elf lord, Wulfa, lay lifeless. He wondered if her corpse had ever actually made it into the crypt or if it had been shredded to nothing but bone by the wights. A sudden feeling of dread swept through Alaric like a strong wind. His breath came short and he just focused straight ahead as he saw Ralo doing. Arokas paid no heed to the crumbled remains of the town until it came time to settle inside the burnt remains of a brothel.

It was a large building with no roofing, for it had been burned most to the ground. It had many rooms and the walls of those rooms were made of stone. Most of the walls were still tall enough to provide cover to hunters. They kneeled along the lining of the brothel—remnants of the last to inhabit the building scattered eerily along the ground. Alaric felt his knee settle upon a sack of coins. It jingled lightly so he lifted his knee and shoved the sack of coin to his left.

Arokas held his hand up for the elves to lock in. Elves started quietly withdrawing arrows from their quivers and knocking darts to their bowstrings. Peering over the back wall of the brothel, a generous view offered a free vantage point before large, sweeping meadows where deer grazed upon the grasses without a worry in their mind. Scanning the meadows, Alaric could see evidence of hundreds of little creatures scuttling their way through the grasslands, as grasses swelled and then fell under the little feet of busy rodents.

It was some time before a naïve deer and a group of its friends trotted up towards thick grasses near the brothel that hid the elves under the night sky. The cool air brought light winds with it so that the long, dark elven hair wriggled around the elves’ faces. Alaric, too, had his bow raised and an arrow knocked. The naïve deer had come within bow range of his own bow, pricking its ears at the sound of his bowstring drawing tension on the bow. It collapsed to the ground in a heap, three arrows piercing it in three different spots. Alaric’s had been one of them. The other three deer who had perilously followed their mother to the spot ran in fear, but their efforts were in vain as the elves did not miss from such short range. A flurry of arrows whizzed through the air and sunk their brazen tips into the white-spotted backs of the fleeing fawns.

Arokas gave a nod and the elves did little to disguise their movement as they rose from their hiding places amongst the ruin like shadows in a torchlit room. The stars sparkled kindly upon them as they marched through knee-height grasses to acquire their kills. It took two elves to a deer to carry, and so they went about carrying the dead does across the grassy plains and towards a thick groove of trees just beyond the town’s main road. Their boots made hardly a noise as the elves slipped amongst the dark of the forest where the branches overhead blocked out a significant amount of starlight.

From his lessons with Ralo, Alaric had learned much and more about setting traps—and so now his training had proven fruitful. Arokas allowed Alaric to tie up the first deer. The elves helped raise it up towards a nearby branch while Alaric climbed the base of the tree and crept along its thickest branch just above the captured doe. He had coiled rope tied around his thin sword belt. He uncoiled it, wrapping one end around the branch and then lowering the other end to Ralo who secured it around the four limbs of the bloodied doe.

It hung by its legs and its back dripped blood profusely at first. Then, once it had been drained sufficiently, the elves retreated to hidden places amongst the reeds and bushes all around the wooded forest. Some lay flat, others sat crouched, while the last foursome of elven hunters worked to get the other three deer hung throughout the forest. Only two elves stayed behind inside the crumbled brothel, tending to the horses to ensure nothing hunted them whilst the rest of the hunting party waited for a great beast to fall prey to their trap.

First light had begun to dawn on the land beyond Brymeria when the mighty boar was severed into pieces to be carried back to their camp. Arokas had given Alaric the nod when the two watched the boar fall prey to their plan. It had from behind Alaric, startling him greatly when it nearly nudged him in the back with its sniffer. Arokas slowly raised a finger to his mouth, smiling a sort of challenging smile to Alaric—who did well not to make a sound. The boar passed by, distracted by the smell of the rotting corpse of the doe.

It had risen to its hind legs to sniff at the head of the deer. Its nose sniffed busily for a long moment, which had given Alaric time to stalk up behind it with his hunting knife. Once he was within a couple paces, he had flung himself into the boar, jamming his knife into its skull and driving his elbow down into its back as it roared down into the ground. Its head had landed crudely onto a jutting stick, puncturing its eye. Ralo had come from behind with a great spear, screaming with a fierce elven tongue and bloodthirsty look in his eyes. He slammed the tip of the spear down into the boar’s back, twisting and thrusting to ensure the boar would not fight back. It did not.

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The horses were mounted again back in the fallen town Erwold. The elves were in high spirits as they took their mounts, slinging the three chunked of pieces of boar along the rump of their horses. They were in good spirits, for with the emerging day light came the absence of wights—who did not attack in the light of the day because their eyes were poor in bright lighting.

Alaric received a slap on the shoulder from many elves, including Ralo. Arokas gave him the slightest of nods as his eyes met Alaric’s. There was acceptance there, he knew. Arokas had begun to warm to Alaric slowly, despite his spiteful lies to Father Nhed before his humiliating defeat to Elfwin. Arokas had a way of preying on weakness, and he had seen much of it in Alaric. He still did, and from time to time he would leave Alaric humbled and embarrassed, but Alaric found those situations to occur less and less.

By the time the hunting party returned to Brymeria, the cooking elves had already set themselves busy to the task of preparing pots, pans, and a light fire for the boar’s meat to roast over. Clove, garlic, and smelly spices were being mashed together and its smell filled the morning air. Mott was amongst the hurry, delivering a basket full of raw fish to the elvish cooks and exchanging a contended glance with Alaric, who suppressed a wide smile for fear of appearing foolish. Mott had become well acquainted with a few of the fellow elven fisherman over the weeks. He had even begun to grow his mangled mess of hair so that it was almost long enough to push back out of his eyes. He wore the elven clothes of a fishermen and he spent long hours along the river that ran from the Hafforn Sea to Brymeria’s mainland.

Father Nhed was excited to see Alaric and he signaled for him to come sit by him. He was sat along a row of trestle benches that had been gathered in a long row to witness dancing elves who wore little except to cover their parts. The skin of the elves bore markings of elvish language and neat designs which seemed to move in unison with their bodies as they danced to the sound of drums and harps, filling the clearing with an atmosphere of joy and excitement.

Alaric noticed that Galiria watched from a spot along the hills of the outskirts of Brymeria’s border, arms crossed, and eyes fixated on the dancers below. The dancers were mostly younger elves whose legs were still nimble, and they were able to do astonishing acts with their bodies that left Alaric speechless. Galiria covered her mouth as she leaned in to whisper to an elf that Alaric had seen her speaking to before. He was an elf of fair skin and shorter hair (for an elf). His face was bright and full of joy as Alaric tried his best not to seem obvious. He watched Galiria whisper to him as he doubled over in laughter and repeatedly knocked his hand against her shoulder as if to beg her to stop so that he could catch his breath. The words from his mouth were inaudible from the loud drums and soothing harp. He quickly averted his eyes when he saw Galiria in his direction.

Their lessons had continued most nights. She would appear at the end of his tent, and without a word he would follow her out into the night beyond Brymeria’s borders to go about learning the art of the sword. Some nights he was already asleep, and he would awaken late into the night to discover that Galiria must have left without him. Those nights had left him feeling empty, like he had his missed out of a great chance. Doubts would creep into his mind that she would no longer appear as she did, but then she would come again.

She had made fast improvements in the One Tongue. Alaric noticed that elves were very quick learners—stunning him into a loss of words when Galiria had spoken in a full sentence for the first time, “You swing like a human.” She still said “human” as if it were two different words, but Alaric had grown to like the way she said it. It made him feel like a special specimen—and he was treated as such by all the elves when he had come to think of it.

Father Nhed still called him into his tent most nights to have long discussion with him. They would talk of ancient Osknian history, of smugglers and pirates, to what man did in his free time, to the idea of a settlement and a farmstead—to which Nhed could not understand why humans would not just collect food for the entire kingdom and split it evenly rather than hunt for food and grow it on their own. Alaric would simply shrug, allowing it to remain a part of the mystery of man for Nhed to ponder on his own. He was fascinated by Osknian Kings and how they ruled. He would prod Alaric into telling about the darkest and vilest kings of the Osknian past and of lords that were cruel to their people—for the elves did not have such darkness in their history.

One late night when all other elves had pinched at the last of their candlelight and shut their eyes for the final time, Alaric had stayed late inside the confines of Nhed’s tent. Even his two elven guards had been given permission to close their eyes and rest, for the elves slept much longer and deeper than any human. Nhed told the tale of a troubled elf who had grown into a position of some power to the far reaches of the Corpsia arctics—lands which no elf dares to enter for fear of the wights and other dark beings.

The dark elf lord, Golomoth, had accepted mysterious beings into his council—drawing large criticism from his elvish people who did not like the company of beings other than their own. The mysterious beings are told throughout history to have been without a head and their rode black warhorses and spiky helms to disguise the fact they had no head.

Nhed had drawn the melting wax of a candle close to his face so that Alaric would see him as he told the story.

“The Headless Horsemen, they called ‘em. The dark elf, Golomoth, allowed the Headless Horsemen to go about in the night, slaying those who opposed his rule for they had twisted his mind and convinced him of his claim to the realm. There was an uprising that began in his own lands and soon spread far and wide all across Corpsia—for elf had never seen such darkness invade these lands. A resistance formed but Golomoth’s influence had grown too strong. The Headless Horseman could not be killed—it was said they were an empty soul inside plated armor. They took out every good and righteous elven leader, and then the realm plunged into a chaos of ten thousand years. Golomoth existed longer than any elf ever had because he gave up his soul to the Horse Lord. It is said the Horse Lord made him the leader of the Headless Horseman—and from then on Golomoth went about granting influential lands to those who would swear fealty to him.”

“What happened then?” asked Alaric. “You said this was long, long ago…so how come Golomoth is no longer haunting Corpsia?”

“Oh, but he is,” said Nhed. “His rule extended over all the realm until eventually a powerful force stronger than he invaded these lands. The wights began to emerge from the arctic lands under the command of this great and dark foe, and soon the elves who did the bidding of Golomoth were extinguished over time. Now it is said Golomoth has united with this dark foe, dwelling deep inside Corpsia’s coldest lands where he found rest for his troubled soul. His Headless Horseman still do his work, but they have no further duty—for the wights own these lands now.”

Nhed’s eyes had dropped and his tone had become saddened. Alaric searched for something comforting to cheer the old elf up, but he could not think of anything.

“So, the wights serve an unknown power? The elves were defenseless to fight the wights?”

“Indeed. You will soon learn more, for I shall teach you. I have a belief in you, Alaric. I have been around for many years—more than any other elf here. I have seen elves come and go, and many are strong and brave. But none, and I mean none, have the courage and the boldness to try new things such as you. And for that, I am grateful. I only imagine what the spinners of our life’s threads are thinking up above. Perhaps, there is some reason why you have turned up here.”

Alaric’s hands were trembling. It was a lot to take in, but he was starting to comprehend what the old elf was saying.

“Were you expecting me, Nhed?”

He paused. Nhed leaned forward in his seat, taking Alaric’s hands in his own.

“I do not know if it is in my lifetime, or the next, but I do know one thing. The ones who control our fate will return these lands to us. And I think they mean to help us do it. Maybe, if we continue your training, it will, be you?”

“Training? Me? Huh?”

“I see everything, Alaric. Just remember that. You have already raised the spirits here more than you know. Get some rest. You’re going to need it if you are to bring us back another boar!”

Nhed smiled like a father does when he is proud of his child. Alaric gave a nod, retreating a step or two while facing Nhed, and then finally turning to make way for his tent.

Although, he was not to find rest as he might have thought. When he parted the tent flaps there was someone waiting for him.

It was Galiria.

“Let’s go,” she said, perfectly, in the accent of the One Tongue. The two slid out of his tent and slipped away into the night beyond Brymeria’s borders for miles and miles until they were far from earshot.

That night, when the two were already hours their usual routine, Alaric’s sword burst bright with flame for the first time since he had arrived. Both their mouths dropped in awe, nervous laughter filling the air. He pointed to his sword with glowing eyes.

“Flamesword,” said Alaric, nodding his head at the flaming metal.

“Flamesword,” repeated Galiria.