Elora: Prologue (pt 2)

Ethlon strode through the palace as fabric billowed and swirled around him, ignoring the curious stares his distinctive Courier’s cloak attracted. Once he reached the palace gates and passed the guards, however, he unclasped the chain at his neck and let the cloak fall from his shoulders. With a few practiced motions, Ethlon had the massive amounts of cloth folded into a neat square and tucked inconspicuously under his arm. The less attention he attracted in town, the more comfortable Ethlon felt.

After pausing to get his bearings, he took off down a busy merchant row, heading for the inn where he and Elora were staying. Hawkers shouted to get his attention and that of the other passersby, thrusting their wares in his face, complimenting him lavishly, and promising the lowest prices for the highest quality goods. Ethlon brushed past them without a second glance, or even seeming to hear them at all, until he caught sight of an old lady sitting in the shade by a small booth, knitting.

The old lady peered up through crinkled eyes set in a weathered face, and smiled, revealing several gaps where teeth had been.

“What’re you gawping at, boy?” Her voice was raspy.

“Why, at the vision of loveliness I see before me, Gramma Abigail.” He grinned boyishly.

She shook her knitting at him. “Flattery don’t work with me, Courier. And I ain’t your gramma, neither. You be looking to buy?”

“Depends on what you’ve to sell, gramma.” His eyes twinkled with mischief, and he had to step back quickly to avoid the swat of her hand. He laughed and moved to look at the wares displayed on her table.

It was a trinket stall, filled with scraps of lace and ribbon, dried herbs, flowers, various luck charms, papers with written blessings, and other odds and ends. Ethlon sorted through the lace, fingered the ribbon, and read the blessings, all the while keeping a conversation with Abigail. Though she had seen many winters, her wit was still sharp and her insight hadn’t dimmed.

“It’s a bit of something for Elora you’re wanting, ain’t it?” she asked, grinning.

Ethlon nodded. “Aye, gramma.” He picked up a length of blue ribbon. “Now, wouldn’t this just match her eyes?”

She looked at him sharply. “Your daughter has grey eyes, lad. Same as your own.”

“Nothing gets by you,” he laughed ruefully, “but you can’t blame me for trying.”

“Why you have to pick on an old woman is beyond me,” she grumbled, rummaging through her wares.

“I never tease old women,” Ethlon said solemnly. “But even if I did, I see none here.” He winked.

“Best remember what I said about flattery, boy.” Abigail scowled fiercely, but there was a twinkle in her eye. She pulled out a long, dark green ribbon. “Now this would complement your Elora’s coloring nicely. She took a shine to it, last she was here.”

“Then I’ll take it,” Ethlon said without hesitation. “And this.” He touched a travel blessing.

She eyed him. “You going on another ride?”

“Aye.”

“And you’re taking your daughter?”

“Aye, gramma. And if you please, I don’t need another lecture about how journeys at a moment’s notice and breakfast on horseback is no life for a child. Elora and I get along well enough just as we are.” His voice was blithe, but there was a touch of seriousness.

“As you will, then.” Abigail nodded, then abruptly changed the subject. “When are you going to start Following again, Courier? Both you and the child could do with a bit of stability in your life, Someone to lean on when you run out of strength.”

Ethlon’s grin faded to a sober expression. “The One took my wife and Elora’s mother from us, Abigail. Else Elora would have someone to stay with when I go on rides. Following is not worth the price the One demands of you.”

“I never took you for a weak man, Ethlon.”

“I’m not, gramma. But there are some things that are past a man’s ability to endure. Now,” his tone lightened and he smiled again, “what shall I pay you for these treasures?”

~

“Little Rabbit?” Ethlon pushed the door to their room open, hiding the ribbon behind his back.

There was a scuffling sound, and then a round, beaming face peered from underneath the blanket that had been draped across the gap between the bed and the table. A flurry of golden curls, child-sized limbs, and giggles flew into Ethlon’s outstretched arms.

“Daddy!” Elora squealed, squeezing him tightly.

Ethlon swept her up against his broad chest and whirled her around as she shrieked with delight, then gently set her back on the ground.

He looked her over with a father’s concern, then, satisfied she was well, kissed her forehead. “I love you, Elora.”

“I love you more, Daddy.” She beamed at him.

“Were you a good girl today?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

“Yes, Daddy,” she answered earnestly. “We both were.”

Ethlon’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Both?” he echoed.

Elora turned and scurried under her tent, emerging a moment later, clutching a rag doll tightly. “Dinah and I,” she clarified, holding the doll out for her father’s inspection.

“Well, Dinah, I’m very pleased to meet you.” He swept the doll a courtly bow, much to his daughter’s glee. “Where do you hail from?”

“Mistress Nola made her,” Elora answered for the doll.

Ethlon nodded. The rotund, motherly landlady had no children of her own, and spoiled Elora to no end. Often watching her while Ethlon was out, Mistress Nola supplied Elora with stories, treats, and affection in large quantities.

“And did you thank Mistress Nola?

“Yes, Daddy,” she said promptly, and Ethlon had no doubt that she had.

“Well, then,” the Courier crouched beside his daughter, “perhaps we can cut a bit of this for Dinah’s hair, and you two will look as alike as sisters.” He handed Elora the ribbon, and had the fatherly satisfaction of watching his only child’s eyes widen with surprise and delight.

She flung her arms about his neck. “Thank you thank you thank you!”

“You’re welcome, Little Rabbit. Now, you had best make sure there’s enough room for Dinah in your bundle. We leave for Maranth the day after tomorrow.” He straightened, ruffling his daughter’s curls with one hand.

“Are we going on a ride?” Elora’s eyes blazed with excitement.

“Aye, Little Rabbit. We’re going on a ride.”

~

The sun had yet to peek over the eastern horizon when Ethlon swung up on his horse behind Elora. The young child swayed sleepily on her perch until Ethlon wrapped an arm around her and hugged her close. She wore a warm cloak, stitched in red like her father’s, and her hair had been painstakingly brushed that morning. Dinah rode in front of Elora, tied by a scrap of yarn to the saddle horn as a precaution.

Ethlon’s horse—a fine chestnut stallion—bore the weight of father and daughter easily; he tossed his head as if to ask why they hadn’t left yet. Ethlon patted the stallion’s neck absently, then checked his Courier’s pouch one final time to ensure the letter was still secured there. Then he closed the pouch, fastened the latch, and tucked it safely in his saddle bag. Only then did he give his mount free rein. The stallion whinnied and galloped down the cobbled street in fast, space-eating strides.

They rode constantly throughout the day, sometimes trotting, sometimes walking. Ethlon let the horse pick his own pace, but the chestnut seemed to sense his rider’s haste and ran long and fast.

~

In a small village a few leagues from the border, Father Brandon stepped into the kitchen, letting the bedroom door shut softly behind him. Immediately, a young boy was at his side, staring up at him with eyes that showed more years than the boy had seen. His face was serious, and he held a small girl by the hand. She had been crying, and he was taking his job as his sister’s guardian very seriously.

“Please, sir, may we see her?”

Father Brandon nodded and stepped aside. The two children slipped quietly into the room.

“It doesn’t seem right,” the priest of the One said softly to the other man in the room, the village doctor, “that two tragedies should strike one family in such a short amount of time. It’s not been two months since we received word that Jonathon had been killed in battle, and now his wife follows him to see the One. My heart breaks for their children.”

The doctor nodded his somber agreement. “Have they any other relatives?”

“Their grandparents died when they were very young. The mother had a sister, but she married and left the village some ten years ago. We’ll try to send word, but I don’t hold much hope that she will be found.”

“Where will the children go?”

“They can stay with me until other arrangements are made.”

“I’ve heard of a family in a village two leagues north that was looking to adopt a young girl. I don’t know about the boy, though,” the doctor mused.

“No.”

Neither man had noticed the door open and shut quietly, and they both looked up with surprise to find the young, dark-haired boy standing there, a defiant gleam in his brown eyes. It was the first emotion Father Brandon had seen in Daniel for days.

“Pardon?” the doctor asked.

The boy flushed. “I mean, if you please, sirs. I promised Ma and Da that I would take care of Lily. I’ve been in charge of the farm and the chores since Da left to the war, and Lily’s been cooking since before Ma took sick. We can manage on our own.”

“How old are you, Daniel?” the priest asked kindly.

“I’m thirteen last month, sir.”

Father Brandon and the doctor glanced at each other. The doctor shrugged. Father Brandon walked over to the boy and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I think it best that you and Lily stay with me for a week or so. Your sister has a cough that worries me. When she’s well, we’ll make a final decision.” Their mother had at best a day left, and he did not want the children to be alone when the grief set in.

“But the chores, sir. The crops need to be tended, and the animals—“

“We’ll ride out every day and do as needs to be done,” he assured Daniel. “The One never meant for us to be alone, son. You’ll have help keeping your promise.”

Daniel swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you, sir.” He ducked his head and slipped back in the bedroom to be with his mother and sister.

~

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Little Rabbit?”

They were on the second day of the ride and making good time. Ethlon estimated that they would reach the border between Maranth and Duor by nightfall. Because they had covered so much ground, Ethlon had chosen to stop for the midday meal. He and Elora were sprawled on the grass, staring up at the clouds as they ate the remainders of Mistress Nola’s generous lunch from the day before. The stallion grazed nearby, having discovered a patch of sweet clover he particularly enjoyed.

“Will you tell me a story?”

Ethlon laughed. That was the closes Elora ever came to saying that she was bored. He rolled closer to her and pointed to a cloud.

“What does that look like to you?”

Elora squinted at the fluff of white drifting lazily overhead and studied it intently. “Like an eagle,” she pronounced.

“Just so,” Ethlon agreed. “Exactly like an eagle. In fact, it looks just like an eagle whose name was Pehlo. Pehlo lived in the Eastern Mountains of Maranth—“

“Did he have a family?” Elora wanted to know.

“Aye. He had a beautiful wife and three eaglets.”

“Did he have a job?”

Ethlon did not just tolerate his daughter’s frequent interruptions, he enjoyed them. Elora showed more insight and interest in detail than Ethlon would have thought possible in a seven year old, though Elora would have been quick to remind him that she was nearly eight. Father and daughter launched into a long, rambling dialogue about the exploits of Pehlo the eagle which was so evenly divided, it was hard to tell who was telling whom the story.

Pehlo was off hunting food when Ethlon swung Elora back into the saddle, and he was in search of the wisest bird in the world when they crossed the border. By the time Pehlo was an old bird with grand-eaglets, the sun was vanishing below the horizon and Ethlon was building a fire.

“And finally Pehlo settled down into his nest for a long awaited, well deserved rest,” Ethlon concluded. He smiled at Elora, who beamed back, satisfied with the outcome of the story. “Now, eat your dinner.” He handed Elora a wooden plate with dried fruit, venison, and travel bread on it.

While not the most appetizing meal ever—Gramma Abigail certainly would have had something to say about it, it was nourishing and filling. Judging by the speed with which Elora ate, she didn’t mind the food too much.

Ethlon banked the fire for the night, and he and Elora were tucked beneath a blanket when the twin moons made their appearance in the black velvet sky.

“Look, Little Rabbit,” Ethlon whispered, pointing. “It’s the Sisters. Darma, the smaller one, is always being chased across the sky by Stefa, her older sister. They say Darma stole her sister’s halo, and you can still see it some nights.

“And that group of stars to the left is the Fox. He was running from hunters one day and jumped so far he stuck to the sky.” He glanced over at Elora for her reaction and smiled.

Elora was fast asleep, Dinah tucked beneath her arm. Ethlon pulled the blanket up to his daughter’s chin, then lay back and stared at the stars. Even though far weightier matters preyed on Ethlon’s mind than on Elora’s, it didn’t take him long to follow her example.

~

A cloaked figure slipped through the shadows, leading a horse whose hooves had been wrapped to muffle the noise. He had yet to see his quarry, but the blue-cloaked noble had said the Courier knew forgotten trails and secret ways through the mountains. There was only one hidden path through the mountains that a horse could travel, and the silent figure knew that no Courier would leave his mount behind if it could be avoided.

He was making his way toward the entrance to that passage, skirting around open plains and keeping well away from the main road. He still made good time, however, and, judging from the remnants of a campfire he had found earlier that afternoon, the Courier could be no more than an hour or so ahead. He intended to make up that time now, while the Courier was sure to be sleeping in preparation for the long trek over the mountains.

The figure adjusted the bow on his back and let his hand fall to rest on his sword hilt. His task was simple: make sure the Courier did not make survive the journey. A substantial reward awaited him if he brought the Courier’s pouch back as proof of his success. Easy enough to accomplish, but he found himself hoping the Courier would put up a fight. It had been too long since his skills had been adequately tested, but, even beyond that, he did despise cowards.

By the light from the moons, he could just see the beginning of the path. He tethered his horse out of sight and hearing and began to pick his way up through the rocky sides, searching for a sheltered spot to wait in ambush.

~

Ethlon awoke just as the sun’s rays touched his face and glistened over the stubble beginning to sprout on his chin. “Scritchies,” his daughter called them. He lay quietly for a moment, enjoying the stillness of the morning, then looked over at Elora. She clutched her doll tightly, though a small smile played on her lips as she enjoyed her dream. Ethlon waited until he had saddled his mount, packed up all but her blanket, and prepared a simple breakfast before waking her.

Never much of a morning lover, Elora mumbled incoherently and rolled over, pulling the blanket over her head. Her father laughed and tugged it away.

“Time to get up, Little Rabbit. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”

Bleary-eyed, hair tousled from sleep, Elora sat up and yawned. Ethlon placed a plate of fruit in her hands. He found a comb and worked out the tangles in her hair as Elora ate.

They were on the road again before the sun had been an hour in the sky. Elora was slumped back against her father’s broad chest, dozing. Now that they were over the border, Ethlon did not feel the need to push his horse as hard. He knew they still had several days of riding in front of them and was loathe to wear out the stallion. But even though the steady rhythm of hooves had a soothing effect, Ethlon still shifted anxiously in the saddle. Something did not feel right.

There was a nagging sensation between his spine and his skin that made him want to squirm. He glanced over his shoulder ever few minutes, despite his rational mind telling him that there were no people for leagues. Ethlon constantly scanned his surroundings, searching for anything that might explain his unease.

Then he saw it: a flutter of motion high in the rocks. It could have been just a bird, but Ethlon hadn’t seen a single creature since dawn. Caution won over haste, and he reined in his mount.

Elora looked at him questioningly as he slid to the ground, then helped her down.

“I’m going to go look at something,” he told her softly, not wanting to cause her unnecessary alarm. “Stay here behind this boulder. I’ll be right back.”

Elora obeyed without question. Drawing his sword, Ethlon walked towards the place where he had seen the movement.

Though ready for danger, he did not recognize the object hurtling toward him until it was too late. An arrow sprouted in his left shoulder, directly beneath his collarbone, as pain flared and darkened his vision. He gasped and fell back a pace, turning to one side. Another arrow whistled past and struck a stone behind him.

Ethlon gritted his teeth and snapped the arrow’s narrow shaft. Blood stained his sleeve, and his left arm hung uselessly by his side. The rest of his body was screaming to fight, and he raised his sword, shouting, “Show yourself, coward!”

A dark-clad figure appeared from behind the rocks, wielding a bow. Ethlon’s eyes narrowed. He did not recognize the man, but he fit the image of a paid killer.

“Come and fight!” Ethlon demanded loudly.

The man did not reply, but laid down his bow and hefted a sword in its place. Then he was swarming down the rock wall, his graceful ease of movement belying his huge bulk. Ethlon advanced purposefully, silently praying that Elora would stay hidden, knowing he could not dwell on thoughts of her now.

The two men met in a small, open space, and Ethlon was keenly aware of his disadvantage. His shoulder screamed with agony, and this man had had more time to study the terrain. The Courier would have to call on every ounce of strength he possessed, every trick he had ever learned to win this fight.

The assassin’s face was mostly hidden in the shadow of his hood, but his lips were twisted into a cruel smile as he raised his blade and brought it crashing down on Ethlon’s in a two-handed arc. Ethlon’s arm tingled with the force of the blow, but he held his ground. Despite being wounded, he was still strong and could draw on many years of experience with a sword. He twisted his wrist slightly, and the killer’s sword slid harmlessly along the blade and off the tip.

Grunting with frustration, the assassin swung again, this time at Ethlon’s left side. With the skill of long-practiced motions, the Courier flicked his sword to the left, caught the assassin’s sword, and deflected it. Again the assassin attacked, and again Ethlon parried.

Then Ethlon thrust, pressing the advantage when his opponent swung too wide. His blade darted in and sliced through the man’s outer cloak before it was knocked away. Sparks flew as the men fought their way around the small clearing.

Though Ethlon wrenched every drop of strength from his muscles, he was driven back. Once, he was a hair too slow blocking, and his right thigh bled from the cut the killer’s sword had opened. Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes, and his ragged breath roared in his ears like a northern gale. His black Courier’s tunic was drenched and the loss of blood made him dizzy. His shoulder felt as if it had caught fire; pain clouded his thoughts.

Then, suddenly, he found his opening. The assassin dropped his arm a double handspan. Ethlon pounced on the opportunity, driving in hard and fast, realizing too late that it was a trap. The killer’s sword came up under his own and sliced through his clothes, pierced his skin, and slid in between his ribs.

Shock and agony contorted Ethlon’s face. He staggered as the sword left his body. His back was against a boulder now, and he felt his legs buckle. With a snarl, the assassin stepped forward and thrust his blade into Ethlon’s side.

“Goodbye, Courier,” he hissed, and pulled his sword out again.

Ethlon crumpled to the ground, blood oozing from his side, eyes glazing over.

The assassin spat, then turned and strode purposefully to Ethlon’s horse and began rummaging through the saddlebags.

Ethlon heard a soft noise and turned his head slightly. Elora, small, terrified, eyes wide with horror, ran to him. She dropped to her knees beside her father and placed her childish hands over his side, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

Tendrils of icy fear gripped Ethlon’s heart as he realized he would be leaving his daughter alone. He pushed past the pain fogging his sight and looked into her dark grey eyes.

“I love you, Elora,” he whispered.

Tears glistened on her cheeks and her chin quavered as she replied, “I love you more, Daddy.”

“Run, Little Rabbit.” Ethlon’s strength was dwindling rapidly. “Run fast.”

With but seven summers of experience, it took Elora four pairs of heartbeats to understand just what he was telling her. By then, it was too late. The assassin had found the pouch, turned, and caught sight of her. He stalked over to where Ethlon lay and grabbed Elora by the arm.

“What have we here?” he asked in a harsh, raspy voice that grated on her ears. “Have Couriers taken to carting about living shields?”

“That’s not yours!” Elora cried, pointing a tremulous finger at the pouch.

The man smirked. “Who’s going to stop me, darlin’? You?”

Elora bit his hand, her young teeth sinking into his palm, nearly drawing blood.

The assassin let out a yelp of pain and shook her free. He cuffed her, sending Elora sprawling. Despite his rough actions, he couldn’t hide his admiration. “A feisty brat. So much the better.” The noble hadn’t said anything about a child and surely wouldn’t notice if one went missing. “I‘ve a friend who’d be real pleased to have you.” He caught her and draped her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He didn’t seem pay any heed to her swinging feet, her fists pounding his back, or her shrill screams.

The screams roused Ethlon, who was dangerously close to crossing into the lands beyond Time. Helpless rage filled him; he made one last, valiant effort to stand, to fight, to kill the villain who threatened his daughter, to protect Elora! But his head came but inches off the ground, and his right hand twitched slightly, disturbing the blood pooled around it. His anguished cries of protest were voiced only as a soft “no” that slipped between his lips on a shallow breath. Then his head fell back; Ethlon sank into the dark, endless pain and did not move.

The assassin slung Elora across his saddle and mounted his horse. After catching the reins of Ethlon’s chestnut stallion, he set off at an easy canter, Elora bouncing in front of him.