His name was Lysander, and he had a wanderer’s soul. That was what everyone told him, at least. And while it was true that he often went out into the wider world beyond the Sacred Mountain for years at a time, he wasn’t sure he agreed with them. After all, unlike the true wandering elves, who vanished into the horizon never to be seen again, he always found his feet returning home after a time. Often he brought curios back with him – seeds from fruit trees that grew in the far south, where the sun elves made their home in the Great Tree; seashells and other such things from the ocean, where his father had settled many of their people beyond their ancestral mountain homes; and even a shiny yellow rock he’d dug from a river once. That one sat on his mother’s mantle place, above the fire, as she loved the way the light reflected off the stone.
He had expected this trip to not be one of the ones where he brought back something interesting. It was not one of his usual wanderings, after all; he was on a mission for the elders to scout a spot for a new village – one of many such scouts. On his way home as he was, and in a part of the mountains he was relatively familiar with, even months away from home as it was, he didn’t expect to find anything new. Such a thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.
But the unexpected, it seemed, made a habit of finding him.
A sharp whistle cut through the pine forest, echoing across the river. Lysander’s ears twitched at the unfamiliar noise, his head snapping to the side the whistle had come from. That would be a very odd whistle for a bird. He thought with a frown. His canoe bobbed in the gently flowing river, water splashing at the intricately carved wooden sides as he stared off into the forest, his long, pointed ears twitching as he strained them.
Nothing moved in the tall pines groves that marked the flat parts of the valley. Tall golden grasses waved in the wind, driftwood piled up on the rocky sides of the river, marshy grasses obscuring much of the flatland. Maybe half a mile away the flat valley gave way to mountain, steep hillsides covered in dense dark timber interspersed with rocky outcroppings, small, ten to twenty foot cliff faces, and the occasional dark grey shale-slide. The mountain itself was a natural landmark for Lysander as he, in his youth, had affectionally named it Bite Mountain.
This was due to the peak, which rose another hundred feet above the tree line and was still capped in snow, had looked to his childish mind like a bite had been taken out of it. Which was of course not true, but young minds saw fantasy everywhere.
“What was that?” he said after a minute of silence, relaxing a bit. “Coyote killing a rabbit? This time of day?” he mused, looking up at the midday sun. It sure hadn’t sounded like it, but –
Then he heard the scream, almost inaudible from a distance, and a tree was knocked over on the side of the mountain, close to the base. It came no animal he had heard before, and before he could stop himself he found his oar dipping into the river. The current fought him for a brief moment, but his canoe still spun midstream, and with a few powerful strokes of his double-sided oar sent the craft shooting across the water. The hull ground into the stony banks and Lysander was out in a flash, moccasin-clad feet splashing in the water as he hauled it ashore as far as he dared.
He paused only long enough to grab his spear from where it lay on the floor of the canoe, check that his knife was in fact still hanging from its leather sheath at his side, and his sling was still tied to his waist before darting off in the direction of the fallen tree. A hundred possibilities flashed through his mind as he raced across the valley floor, the wind whipping his black hair back over his head, long, reddish flint-tipped spear held tightly in one hand.
A magic beast probably did that. He figured, watching the area around where the tree had fallen even as he leaped over a small stream, green grasses tickling his bare chest. Occasionally one of the treetops would shake violently, often enough for it to be clear something was fighting. Another scream echoed through the valley, and Lysander picked up the pace, his necklace of claws clacking as it bounced against his chest.
The closer he got, the more clear it became that something was fighting. Wordless shouts echoed down the mountain, followed by roars from some beast – sounds like a bear of some kind – and white-hot adrenaline poured itself into Lysander’s veins. His eyes traced the approaching trees, a dozen feet up the mountainside and a few hundred below where the fighting was, already picking out a path to take.
His legs pounded against the dirt, another pained scream tearing through the air - Who is it? Will I know them? – a sudden chill brushing past his senses as he started his climb. He angled slightly left, darting along the trunk of a long-dead tree that had fallen at an angle, and flinging himself into the air, catching onto a low-hanging branch of another tree with his free hand. Pine needles poked at his arms but he paid them no heed, feet scrabbling against bark as he clambered up the tree, higher and higher until he could fling himself to the next one. Years of practice aided his tree-running – jump, catch, push through branches, swing, jump – even one-handed as he was.
Such was his rush that he almost flew right into the fight, it was only luck that stopped him in time. His foot slipped on a branch, forcing him to grasp the trunk of the tree he had jumped into with both hands and nearly dropping his spear in the process, and that was when he saw them.
A frost bear?! Who in their right minds picked a fight with a full-grown frost bear?! He thought wildly – eyes going wide as he clung to the treetop.
A truly massive white and grey bear stood on its hind legs in the middle of a small flat area, the ground littered with white frost and deep claw marks. Two more trees were felled in the area, wooden splinters littering the bare forest floor, all of them covered in ice crystals. Lysander’s breath caught in his throat as the bear roared, snow flying from its mouth like spittle, icicles growing on its impressively sharp teeth.
It was only then that his eyes fully managed to process the rest of what stood in the clearing.
They were not elves.
They were not his people.
Three large orange-and-yellow scaled lizards stood huddled together opposite the bear, weak fires flicking from stripes that ran down the back of their wide, flat heads. Their tails were long and flicked about in agitation, large, yellow eyes fixated entirely on the frost bear. One lay awkwardly, clutching its side, while another tried to get it on its feet. The third, on the other hand, stood before both of them, rising up on its back legs and pointing a crude spear at the bear. A rope belt was slung across its back, and the lizard hissed menacingly, the fire that burned atop its head flaring up in an impressive, if pointless display.
Despite the urgency of the situation, Lysander had to hesitate for a moment. That lizard…was wielding a spear. A spear. The shaft was crooked, sure, and the tip wasn’t flint – instead made of a glossy black stone that shone in the sunlight that filtered through the trees – and was held to the haft with what looked like twine, but it was still, unmistakably, an honest-to-gods spear.
Made by a lizard, and brandished at a frost bear. What did I just find?
The frost bear roared again, the severity of the situation once more catching up with him, but this time he hesitated. A gust of wind rocked the tree he perched in, sending a rain of dead pine needles down on top of him as the lizard started to circle the bear, thrusting at it threateningly, as if to chase it off. Lysander grit his teeth as the bear charged, the lizard leaping out of the way at the last second, narrowly avoiding a swipe that left frost clinging to the ground. The injured lizard was helped to its feet in the distraction, the two stumbling off between the trees as they fled up the mountain.
…help, but remain hidden. He decided, climbing higher into the tree for a better vantage point. He needed a clear shot, and it wasn’t until he was nearly at the very top of the tree, his spear wedged between two branches and feet planted on tree limbs that were worryingly thin, that he found his spot. Trees rose to the left, right, and behind, obscuring much from view, but the little clearing the lizard and bear were fighting in was right in front and below, giving him clear sight over the entire area.
The bear swiped again at the lizard, who scrambled backward and slashed ineffectively with its spear, a sheen of white growing on the spearhead.
With swift hands Lysander unwound his sling from his waist, pulling a stone from the pouch that hung beside it and fitting it into the leather cradle. He whirled it once, twice, then let it fly, the small, round river stone striking the bear squarely on the nose just as it knocked the spear out of the lizard’s hands, knocking it flying in the process. The bear roared in surprise and pain, rearing up on its hind legs as the lizard scrambled to its feet, pulling what looked to be a knife tipped with the same black stone as the spear.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Run you little idiot,” he whispered to himself, fitting another stone into his sling and letting it fly, hitting the bear in the exact same spot with unerring accuracy. The frost bear whined, hitting the ground on all fours and swiping at its nose with a frost-covered paw. The lizard hissed, fire flaring up on its head as it jabbed with the knife, almost looking like it was going to take advantage of the bear’s distraction.
He discouraged any such foolish notions by striking its hand – claw? – with a lightly thrown stone, forcing it to drop the knife. The lizard yelped – actually yelped – the fire on its head flickering as it backed away slowly, wide yellow eyes darting left and right, always returning to the bear and never looking up. With one last hiss, likely baring whatever passed for teeth for a lizard that size, he couldn’t see from his vantage point, the lizard broke and ran.
This time it was the frost bear’s turn to be stubborn. Its hackles raised the moment the lizard turned to run, shaking its head and fixing its gaze on the retreating orange form that swiftly disappeared from Lysander’s sight thanks to his current position. Lysander frowned at the bear as it snorted and shook its head, sinking its claws into the ground. White frost crawled its way across the loamy soil, radiating from the bear itself.
He hesitated for just a moment, shifting in the tree and pulling another stone out of his pouch, not wanting to get into it with a frost bear. Tangling with magical beasts was never a good idea, especially when they were aggressive predators who could easily disembowel anyone foolish enough to try and breathe ice. Then, with a snort, the bear shook itself again and lumbered off in a different direction. Lysander heaved a sigh of relief, waiting just long enough to make sure it was gone before rewinding his sling, tightening the strings of his stone pouch, grabbing his spear and scrambling down from his perch.
As soon as his feet his the ground he was moving forward in a crouch, spear gripped tightly as he investigated the damage of the clearing. The lizards were long gone, but evidence of their being here remained. Not only was there a clear trail leading up the mountain, both from the injured one bleeding and them not having bothered to hide their tracks, but in their haste – not that he could blame them for it – they had forgotten some of their stuff.
The one lizard’s spear and knife lay where they had been dropped, and a reed basket, foraged mushrooms and herbs scattered about where it had been dropped. Blood soaked into the ground beside it showed the injured lizard had likely been the one carrying these. He let out a breath and turned away from those for a moment, the whole thing a bit too strange and big for him to wrap his head around. Instead he focused on the frost bear, leaving the lizards’ stuff lying where it was while he darted off into the forest to follow after.
It would be wise to make sure it was gone, and not going to come back later.
“What has you so worked up, huh?” he muttered, following the bear’s clear tracks. Bits of white frost marked each pawprint, melting though it was in the late spring heat, and Lysander followed the trail for only a short distance – maybe three hundred feet, over the top of a small ridge that looked down on a pond nestled at the foot of the mountain – when he saw it again.
The bear stood over a deer kill on the edge of the pond, thick marshy grasses surrounding it and nearly obscuring the kill from view. White vapor rose from the bear’s fur as it breathed out a stream of ice on the carcass. Ice crystals formed on the edges of the grasses, creating a circle of pure white around the bear as it circled its kill, trying to freeze it solid.
You were just protecting your kill, weren’t you? Lysander thought from his position atop the ridge, relaxing a bit. Makes sense. If you were a momma bear, those lizards would be dead and I’d be running for my life. This, at least, was manageable. He stayed there until the bear was finished freezing its kill, the great white beast shaking itself and sending chunks of ice flying off of its thick fur.
Then, as if sensing something, it looked right up at him. Both elf and frost bear stared at each other for a brief moment, neither making a move. Calmly, slowly, Lysander stood and raised his hands in a placating manner.
“Easy there, I’m not here to cause problems. Just watching,” he said in a low voice. The bear stared at him with fierce, icy blue eyes, then snorted and went back to its kill, clawing it out of the frozen mud and dragging it up the mountain. Lysander fingered the claw and tooth necklace hanging from his neck for a moment, shook his head, and promptly turned on his heel to head back to the lizard clearing.
It was the exact same as he left it, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. If he was extremely honest with himself, which he tried to be, this was nerve-wracking. He could handle a frost bear. He understood that – even if he had no desire to actually tangle with one. This? This was completely different from anything he’d ever faced before.
First he inspected the lizard’s spear, comparing it to his own. Even ignoring the split in the middle of the other spear’s haft from where the frost bear had struck it, the quality left much to be desired.
The haft was crooked and splitting at the end, where the glossy black stone tip had been jammed into the wood and secured with fraying twine and burnt resin. The tip itself was poorly knapped; the stone was misshapen and fat in odd places. It was juvenile when compared to his own spear – his spear’s haft had been sung into existence over the course of a few days, straight and tall and strong. The light wood had grown around the flint spearhead, the hold stronger and tighter than any twine or resin could hope to achieve, and the edge of which was as sharp as he could get it.
How much of this damage is from the fight though, I don’t know. Lysander noted, testing the lizard spear’s edge on his forearm. It shaved a clean swath of translucent hair off with ease, and his eyebrows rose. Sharp as can be though. Even sharper than mine. He gently laid the spear aside, and reached for the lizard’s knife.
It was much the same, though the handle was bone this time instead of wood. Twine and resin secured it in place, though the black-stone blade wiggled a bit when Lysander tested it. He hummed and twirled it in his hand, then promptly set it aside to investigate the reed basket. It, too, looked childish to his eyes. Bits of grasses and reeds stuck out from the sides, there were small holes everywhere, and there was no handle to grasp it. It was plain, but functional.
Lysander drummed his fingers on his legs as he stared at the three items, going over what he knew in his head. He glanced at the sky, watching a single puffy cloud cross in front of the midafternoon sun. Questions brewed in his head but he set them aside for the moment, gathering up the lizards’ discarded items and restocking the reed basket with the herbs that had been gathered; though he did toss the few poisonous mushrooms he’d found hiding in what they had gathered.
Then, stuffing the lizard’s knife into his belt beside his own flint dagger, and holding the reed basket in one hand and both spears in the other, he took off at a light lope up the hill, following the lizards trail. It was a good half mile before he reached where the trail ended – he was half afraid he’d catch up with them, unsure of what he’d do if he did – the footprints fading as they led up to a large shale-slide. The fractured grey stones stretched for hundreds of feet in every direction, leading up to a fifteen-foot cliff set into the mountainside that seemed to ring all the way around the mountain. He frowned as he eyed the shale.
It would be hard to be stealthy going up that. It was wide open and the loose stone liked the shift underfoot, a seemingly stable foothold could easily give way if you weren’t careful. Thankfully he had a trail to follow – even if the footprints had faded, the injured lizard was still bleeding a little. You should have stopped to stem that. He noted idly, finger tapping against the two spears held awkwardly in one hand, staring up at the cliff. Maybe even cauterized it with some of your natural fire. Why didn’t you?
He hesitated for only a moment longer, then with a deep breath slowly made his way up the shale slide.
It took him far longer than he would have liked to find where the blood trail led, spotty as it was. Maybe it was because he was nervous, or maybe his tracking skills were getting rusty, he wasn’t sure. Either way, any notion he may have had of following the lizards further vanished when he spotted the hole they had disappeared into. A round reed “door,” for lack of a better word, was placed haphazardly over a hole in the cliff face, hidden behind a fallen boulder perched precariously atop the shale. It wasn’t very big, Lysander would have to crawl on his belly to chase after them and there was no way he would be crawling into a hole with fire breathing lizards, intelligent lizards or not.
He could be stupid at times, but he wasn’t an idiot.
He examined the ground just outside the hole, identifying at least six different tracks leading in an out, then rocked back on his heels to consider what he’d learned.
…did I just discover a new clan? And not an elvish clan, like the Sun and Moon elves. But a lizard clan, which is…far weirder than anything I could have imagined. He wondered. The trouble was, he got the feeling it wasn’t that they were newly discovered. They seemed like children, from what little he’d learned. He’d need to observe them more to be certain as maybe those three had just been young for lizards, and their tools weren’t standard for their…people. A heavy sigh escaped him, and he glanced up at the sky again, judging the time. He was actually a week or two ahead of schedule; the elders weren’t expecting him back for another three months as is.
And they would want to hear about this.
“I’ll take a week to observe them,” he decided aloud, laying the lizard’s spear and basket of herbs on the ground in front of the hole. The knife he would keep – he needed proof of what he’d found – but even he wasn’t sure why he did what he did next. As his fingers brushed over the lizard’s spear, tracing the crack in the middle, he hummed. Warmth bloomed in his stomach, a tugging sensation in his navel a tell-tale sign of his magic activating.
And the spear mended itself. Wood groaned and creaked as it grew back together, a small branch with a leaf bud sprouting where the crack had once been. Then it was over, and Lysander backed away, shaking off the bit of lethargy that pushed at the back of his mind from using his magic.
As he shot off down the hill, leaping down the shale-covered hillside with steps as light as a spirit’s, only one thought echoed in his head. Why do I always find the weirdest things?