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Icemoon 32, 2603 R.M. —Parola, Litheran
AS HE TRUDGED FORWARD that day, Derith Sylvarado could not help but think of the death he had witnessed the day before. Copinn’s self-sacrifice haunted his thoughts. He doubted he would ever see a more unnerving sight as long as he should live.
The next day would prove him horribly wrong.
Translated from the ancient Ladrian tongue, the Pìncc Laod read, “In the camp of Deaf Listeners, the way to Infinity is known”. Silver was sick and tired of riddles, both from the map and the Wood Gnome.
Despite Searin’s urgency to finish their quest as soon as possible, Silver’s sadness, as well as his curiosity, drove him to visit a nearby religious site. A memorial known as the Fìmn Shrine lay only two hills to the west, so they decided to go out of their way to pay their respects. Silver had never been devout himself, but the shrine was to Fìmn, the hunter god. Legend said Fìmn had taught Humans to hunt in the early days, before ascending to the heavens. As he left, he gifted them a blessed bow called Thendor’il, an Elvin word loosely meaning “Mighty Arrow”. It was known popularly as The First Bow, as bows that came later were designed in its image.
Silver still felt tied to Litheranti traditions. He was both a hunter and an archer, so he wanted to offer his prayers at the altar. Perhaps, he would even have the opportunity to touch the bow hanging there, the first bow of the world. It was said that anyone with a pure heart who touched the bow would be able to find the thing he sought. Since he was seeking the city of Stracht, Silver hoped this legend had at least some truth to it.
He was a little embarrassed at feeling overly superstitious, although he did not let this show to his two traveling companions. The Litheranti belief system was all he knew, and he figured if he could touch Thendor’il, perhaps it would make his search for the Ladrian city easier. Whether the legend of the bow’s magic was true or not did not matter to him. Touching the weapon could not hurt his quest any and could possibly help.
As the morning hours waned on, dark clouds swarmed in to fill the sky. The Queserion in Silver’s arms shivered in the cold wind. By midday, a torrential rain began to pour out from the thunderheads. Searin’s clothes were sodden and heavy. Silver had to hide his face to stop his mark from burning in the rain. He learned from painful experience that he had to change his hair, skin and clothes constantly to stop the rain from seeping in and scalding him.
As they reached the foot of the hill, a dense fog rolled in rendering further travel all but impossible. They felt their way to a large conifer tree to camp and rest under the overhanging branches until the rain stopped and the fog passed. As they had run out of usable matches some days before, Searin rubbed a pair of mostly dry sticks together in hopes of kindling a small fire. He got several sparks once, but the wood was still too soaked to produce anything more substantial. In the end, Silver morphed into a Mercury Dragon and set fire to all the wood at once.
They ate a meager lunch and sat to wait out the storm. The rain cleared up late in the afternoon, but the fog was still very dense. Silver adjusted his eyes to peer through the thick cloud. In the distance he could make out a long narrow stream running all the way down the steep hillside that had formed due to the rainstorm. He could not discern why, but there was something quite different, even eerie about it. If it were not for the thick cloud and the offending torrent, it would be his first inclination to examine it.
When the fog cleared up and Searin too could see, they began the short hike up to the shrine on the hilltop. As they approached the odd stream, Silver heard a strange thought in his head. It penetrated the deep recesses of his mind, a voice that echoed clearly, almost audibly, a voice not his own. Turn back, Derith Sylvarado. Death awaits you. Turn back.
Silver laughed at the notion. How could death await me at a church? he wondered. He smiled to himself and shook his head. It was silly, even preposterous.
He did not think much about the strange prompting again until he reached the stream he had seen earlier. An acrid, deathly smell hung over it like a curtain. Even Searin, whose senses were not as acute, could smell it strongly and scrunched up his nose in disgust. Something was undeniably wrong. The river smelled worse than anything Silver had ever smelled, like a fish that had been left in the sun for too long, but much fouler. He held his nose tightly in his fingers, but every breath through his grated teeth sucked in the stench.
Silver felt the same voice in his head, stabbing his consciousness. Derith Sylvarado, you do not know what danger remains here. Turn back or you will be destroyed. Silver shook his head. The low alto voice in his mind was the same penetrating sound as before. Worried, he told Searin about his thoughts.
His friend merely nodded. “I understand why you’d be nervous, Silver, but I think you should relax. Your mind is just playing a trick on you, playing off your fears. You smelled that river. You and I both know something’s wrong. I say we put fear aside and go see what’s at the top.”
More out of curiosity now than respect, Silver, Searin, and Que-Que slowly climbed to the shrine on the top of the hill. The peak housed the Fìmn Shrine, an enormous monolith of rough wooden boards which could be seen from about halfway up the incline.
As they entered the courtyard and the church rose fully into view, so did an incredibly disturbing sight: the church’s yard was littered by the bodies of a score or more priests. The monks had all died in the exact same way: three arrows to the heart, the death given in Litheran to one who betrays their master or country. Silver realized the rain had carried the blood down the face of the hill. That was the putrid smell coming from the stream.
The carnage had been recent, he guessed, within the past hour. It was like the fog had rolled in only to hide the murderer as he walked along and slew these men like sheep. Bile filled Silver’s throat. “It’s one thing to kill armed soldiers on the battlefield. The killing of unarmed priests is cold-blooded murder.” Que-Que hid his nose in the crook of Silver’s arm. Searin’s face was as stoic as normal.
Part of Silver wanted to follow the voice of warning he heard before and turn back. Another part of him wanted to investigate why and how these men had died such awful deaths. Putting aside whatever fears he might have had, Silver walked toward the shrine.
The same voice as before struck his consciousness. There is still danger inside. Do not enter, Derith Sylvarado. Death awaits. Now, truly disturbed by the voice, Silver halted in his tracks for a moment. His heart was pounding so hard, he could hear it in his ears. He swallowed hard and, despite what the voice was telling him, entered the building anyway.
The inside of the shrine was desecrated as equally as the outside. Candelabra that had once held ceremonial torches now lay broken up and unlit on the stone floor. Several more priests, their blood staining their garments, were dead on the floor, blood dripping from under the arrows. Stones here and there were chipped or smashed or removed entirely. A large stained-glass mural of Fìmn had been pulverized into chips too small to ever restore to their former glory.
Silver let the Queserion down and approached the altar. The podium of hand-carved redwood was split by an axe and cast apart into two lopsided, uneven pieces. Behind the altar, smeared with crimson blood, was a mark: a picture of a glowing halo with an arrow piercing down through the center. The sign was drawn where the bow Thendor’il should normally have hung. The legendary weapon itself was gone.
As Silver was staring at the spot where the bow should have been, Que-Que sprung from his arms and transformed quickly into his monstrous form. By the time Silver noticed him, a man dressed in scarlet livery had emerged from his hiding place. He aimed a shot at Silver with his longbow. Que-Que intercepted the projectile and it bounced from his armor-plated side. The Queserion reared and leaped toward the assassin. He tried to run but the Queserion’s large claws pinned him fast. The monstrosity roared, and the man’s face, covered in black paint to conceal his identity, contorted in absolute terror. One look into Que-Que’s cold, black eyes and the man was totally paralyzed.
Just then, another arrow whizzed by Silver’s face. It had been off by a fraction of an inch. He whirled around and spotted the second assailant as he slipped back into the shadows. He was dressed in similar fashion to the first: crimson livery and black face paint. As he slunk into the dark, Silver noticed a yellow arrow embroidered on his chest, the same as the bloody symbol hanging in Thendor’il’s place. They must have stayed behind just in case someone came after the rest of the murderers. Whoever they are, they’re trying to get away with Thendor’il, no matter the personal cost.
The man stepped out again to fire at Silver. Before his arrow was nocked, Silver dashed toward him and kicked him off his feet. His bow flew several feet from his hand. As the man scrambled to grab his weapon, Silver stomped on his hand. The man yelped in pain and Silver was sure he had pulverized the bones in his assailant’s wrist with his Ladrian strength.
He grabbed the man by the collar of his tunic. He glowered at him and said through gritted teeth, “Why are you here? Why did you kill these monks?” The man did not answer. Silver punched him in the side of the mouth, being sure to cut back his strength. The man winced as blood started dripping from his lip.
Silver glared at him. Raising his fist a second time, the man flinched and confessed. “Alright,” he said, holding up his good hand for protection. “We have come to avenge the wrongs done by these monks to our master.”
“Who is?” Silver yelled.
The man spit onto the ground, blood still coming from his mouth. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Silver cuffed the man again. He confessed this time. “Our master is the great hunter god, Fìmn. He is here to claim what is rightfully his. Mankind has fallen into sin and refuses to be reclaimed. Fìmn shall break his bow and all men across the world will pay for their impudence.”
Silver understood what he was saying. The legend of Thendor’il stated the crimson bow was connected to all bows in the world. If destroyed, all bows would break, and mankind would inevitably starve. While he did not believe the legend personally, it was clear this man did. Whatever crimes this pretender god imagined mankind had committed, they were bad enough for him to desire their slow demise by destroying the First Bow.
Silver’s anger grew. He glared into the other man’s soft, brown irises so long and hard that he could see his own reflection. His eyes had slowly begun to turn red again. These men had desecrated a sacred shrine. The man they followed claimed to be the god of hunters and they were clearly dedicated to his service. Silver grinned evilly. He would show them who the real hunter was. He would track them down and annihilate them all, one by one.
Then again, he thought, it’s not like I’m Human. Why should I care if the people who sent me away die?
A sharp twinge in the back of his mind snapped him out of his thoughts. The same voice as before echoed through his mind. This is not the real you, Derith Sylvarado. The real you knows you still care for the Humans and you desire to protect them. Now, do the right thing.
As he looked at the assassin’s terrified expression, he realized he might be the only one who could stop this madness. If the legend was true, he very well might be the only person able to save the Humans who relied upon hunters to survive. If their bows would never work again, they would starve, and it would be just as much his fault as theirs, for simply doing nothing. His eyes reverted to normal.
The man in his hands was still trembling in fear. The man pinned by Que-Que was paler than newly fallen snow. If I’m going to save Human lives, I can’t start by taking them. He threw the man onto the cobblestone. “Go,” he commanded. He turned to his Queserion. “Let him go too, Que-Que.” The monster snarled but did as he was told.
He looked them both in the eyes and stated, “What you’re planning will never succeed. I will see to it.” He let the blue Ladris Unit appear on his cheeks. “I am Derith Sylvarado, a Ladrian, and defender of mankind. This time, I’m granting you your freedom. If you ever do something like this again, there will be no mercy for you. I’m a master hunter. I came here to honor the great hunter who came before me. If you so much as nock an arrow into a bowstring with the intent to hurt someone, I will know. I promise I will hunt you to the ends of the earth and back. There will be nowhere to hide from me. Now get out of my sight!”
The two men, both terrified and shaking, looked at each other, then back at Silver. They stared at the bright blue crescent marks on his face with awe and perhaps a bit of confusion. After several moments of staring, with Silver standing unflinchingly still, they gained enough will to rise and walk out of the shrine they had helped destroy. The man Silver had hit favored his hand while the other man simply walked in a daze. Having been an inch from death, Silver hoped the two men would rethink their lives. He could not exactly follow up on his threat, but the men believed him nonetheless. He smiled. He liked the idea that he, an outcast in his own right, would have the power to become a defender for mankind.
Silver and Que-Que looked around the room for several more minutes. There was no way for them to determine where the pretender Fìmn had gone. Neither he nor the Queserion were able to find a scent or a trail that could help them to find the man who had ravaged the church. He supposed that was one benefit of attacking in the rain. He doubted he would be able to track the man who had done this, despite his skill as a hunter.
He looked back at the altar where the church’s abbot was lying dead upon the broken podium. He wanted to avenge this wrong. I can’t believe they killed everyone here... he thought.
The same unfamiliar presence as before touched his mind. A voice not his own spoke to him in his thoughts. That is not exactly true, Derith Sylvarado. For you see, I am still alive.
