The Season's Song

WEEKS BEFORE THE EVENTS OF THE SILVAN MIST

The young half-elf walked out onto the porch of the cabin, each step of his worn boots causing the boards to creek. He inhaled a deep breath of the summer air about him. Resting his hand on the hilt of his blade, Alaion felt the various scratches on its worn pommel. The sun was starting its descent, and the season’s insects were making their harsh song. He looked over at Narbad, who was whittling on some spare wood.

          “Where are you headed?” asked the old orc.

          “To meditate on things,” Alaion replied. Narbad simply nodded his acknowledgment and went back to whittling. Alaion moved down the steps of the old porch, taking a bite of an apple as he did. The apple gave under the force of his bite, and the juices poured into his mouth. He stood there for a moment relishing the sweet taste of the fruit and looking out into the vast forest before him. The sky was warm and bright. Not much later, Orso came to Alaion’s side. The half-elf brought his hand down to pet his loyal companion. Feeling the individual hairs run between his fingers, he took another bite of the apple, its sweet scent filling the air.

          The half-elf kneeled to be eye level with the beast. "You want to go to the rock, Orso?" Orso rubbed her bearlike, wolfish face on Alaion’s cheek in response. Alaion got up, ready to leave. “All right then. Let’s head out before it gets dark.” As he said this, he took note of a gnome, Ziipes Longroot. The gnome was sitting on a stump and scribbling something down in his journal. Ziipes was a dear friend to him. The spastic gnome had lived at the cabin long before Alaion.

          “Do be careful! Seeing as night will be falling in a few hours,” yelled the peculiar gnome, waving his hand as high as he could to make sure that he had the elf’s attention.

          “I will! Don’t worry. I venture there often,” replied Alaion.

Alaion and Orso started their journey into the woods. Alaion always enjoyed going out to the rock. It was the spot he visited in order to think, and Orso always went with him. Orso’s company was one he welcomed, because she never judged him. No matter how dark or angry his words were, she only looked at him with those undiscriminating blue orbs. Her eyes said something else, too…something more. She did not look at him as any animal would in ignorance. There was understanding. Orso seemed to know Alaion at a deeper, more profound level. Thus, she was naturally his best friend. She was a friend he could trust to always be there for him even in his darkest moments.

          The place to which they were headed was a small bluff in the forest, a little north of the cabin. It was a tranquil place where Alaion could see over some of the trees and into the distance. The edge was lined with a small boulder facing west. Alaion liked to sit on that boulder and watch the seasons change.

          Alaion made his way across a small creek that lay just below the bluff and onto the path that would lead him to his favorite spot, which he reverently named, "Alaion’s Climb." Ziipes often made comments about the lack of creativity in the name and how Alaion simply must change it to something more suitable. Alaion liked the name, though. He was well aware that he did not have much talent for naming things, and so the name for the rock remained unchanged, to Ziipes’ ultimate frustration.        

          When Alaion finished the climb, he quickly ran to his customary boulder and promptly took a seat. Orso soon found her place beside him, lying on her back with her thick, long arms stretched down toward her legs. Alaion laughed at the site of the large bear-like creature in this position.

“You are ridiculous, you big fuzz ball,” said Alaion between laughs. Orso raised her furry head to look at the grinning half-elf as if wounded, but a few moments later, she yawned and set her head down. Alaion shook his head and rubbed the beast’s belly.

He peered out into the horizon. The sun was imposing an orange tint to everything as it hovered low in the summer sky. Even Alaion’s intensely emerald eyes took an orange hue in that moment. The wind was blowing, causing the trees to dance along with his brown hair. He embraced the wind in his face and breathed in deeply. The trees danced peacefully, gracefully even. A part of Alaion wished he was one of them. He always admired trees, their beauty, their wisdom, their consistency. Trees never committed evil, never willingly killed. His mind thought of his own past and the death of all that he loved. Could life not be as simple as a tree blowing in the summer wind?

“I suppose not,” resolved Alaion to himself, his voice barely a whisper. He thought of his parents and the memories they shared: the time when his mother taught him to sew, or the many hunting adventures he and his father went on. One memory in particular came to mind: He and his father were hunting when these strange humanoids, clad in blue robes, came down from the mountain and gave them a small orso-palore. Alaion realized now that the robed figures were sacarae, for their skin was red or blue, and their heads were adorned with black spiraling horns.

Alaion turned to Orso and scratched behind her ears. He had named her that day. Yet another creative name by the half-elf, as Ziipes also liked to point out. Alaion’s heart was warmed by the memory.

Yes, Alaion thought, things were not so bad. Although many dark memories often haunted him, he also had good memories that warmed his heart…memories of love. Life with Narbad was simple enough too. Though, Alaion desired to adventure and be involved in the wider world from time to time. Life had been cruel to him but also kind. Narbad had been kind.

The cicadas were making their season’s song once again. A song that Alaion very much enjoyed. Its repetitive vibrating sounds soothed his ears, and his mind began to sink back into a distant memory.

…

An arrow sizzled through the air and landed in a tree to the right of the target. Alaion frowned in disappointment at himself. “I can’t do it, father!” Alaion exclaimed.

With a chuckle, his father replied, “Yes, you can. Just got to keep on trying is all. Here, notch your next arrow and aim.”

Alaion pulled an arrow from the quiver that lay on the soft ground beneath him and set it in place. He pulled the string back, his young arm shaking from fatigue. The child aimed and fired once more. This time, the arrow soared even farther off course and nearly hit an unsuspecting squirrel.

“Well, you almost got us some dinner!” exclaimed his father. Alaion did not appreciate the humor. The youngling half-elf threw down the bow and turned away in frustration.

“Now, now, we don’t need any of that,” his father said.

“It’s all of these bugs making noise and distracting me. I can’t concentrate!” cried Alaion with frustration.

 Alaion’s father stood there with his hand on his chin, deep in thought. It had to be in the boy's mind; there was nothing wrong with his form. Alaion’s arm was weak, but that was only from overuse.

Gellan listened to the environment around him, the trees blowing in the wind, the warmth of the sun, the song of the cicadas, and the hammering of the blacksmith in the house not far away. Suddenly, an idea came to him.

“Have you been pushing the noise of the environment out of your mind as I instructed?” asked the older elf.

“I have been trying, yes,” replied Alaion. “But there is too much noise.”

“There is much more noise in battle,” said Gellan under his breath. Then to Alaion, “Disregard what I said before! Try…embracing the noise, soaking it in. Let the season’s song work with you.”

“What?”

“Just try it. Breathe in and absorb the distractions around you.”

Alaion looked at his father with obvious doubt.

“Go on, try it!” his father urged.

Alaion, no more than ten, went ahead and notched another arrow in place on the bow. He gave one more look at his father who responded with a smile and wave. The young elf drew the string back and took aim for the target. He allowed the cicadas’ song and the blacksmith’s pounding to sink into his senses. He embraced them, welcomed them even. Alaion exhaled all the air in his lungs, sending the distractions with it and releasing his grip.

The arrow launched from the bow as if in slow motion. It soared through the air toward the target, interrupting the journey of a falling leaf in the wind along its way. It slammed into the center of the target with a profound thud.

Alaion’s father jumped up for joy, and Alaion stood dumbfounded. They walked over to the target and realized there was a leaf caught half way down the arrow shaft and that it had hit the exact center of the target. Alaion let out a loud cheer and embraced his father with a hug.

His father kneeled and brought Alaion to arm’s length and said, “Don’t ever doubt what you can accomplish, son. Gesú has big things planned for you. You must trust in yourself. You must trust in Him.” Gellan pointed his hand west and smiled. “Trust in him and together you will accomplish wonders.”

Alaion smiled in response, notching another arrow. “Again!”

His father laughed and patted his dear son on the shoulder.

“Accomplish wonders indeed,” said the proud father, his eyes looking west.

…

          Alaion wiped away the tears from the pleasant memory of his lost father and the life he once lived. He pondered on his father’s words…that he would accomplish wonders for Gesú. Would he still? Was it possible given the events that had transpired? He did not find it likely. Alaion rationalized that maybe what his father meant was that Gesú would help him do great things through whatever he did, whether that be as a blacksmith, a hunter, or something else.

          He had asked Narbad when he was younger what the words meant, but the old orc seemed to brush it off as unimportant. Alaion could tell that the orc was hiding something. Narbad knew more than he let on, which only made Alaion more curious.

          As he had always done in the past, Alaion decided to let it rest and live life the way that seemed right.

          He soaked in the scenery around him. The cicadas continued their song, and it soothed his mind as the warm summer wind brushed against his pale face. Slowly, he started to drift off into a slumber. His mind tried to warn him not to fall asleep, for it would be dark soon; but it was too late. He was already asleep. Orso too was sound asleep by his side.

They made perfect, unsuspecting targets to the unfriendly eyes watching from the trees behind.

…

          The area was desolate and black, a world of ash and darkness. Dust was thick in the air, and everything looked dark and plain. Liffs were everywhere, roaming across the baron fields of ash. Suddenly, Alaion was in a large battle wielding his customary sword. There he fought liffs all around. He was not familiar with the people around him; some appeared to be elves and others men. There was a high-elf clad in elven chainmail and burgundy cloth, wielding a black sword with a ruby near the hilt of the blade. He was calling Alaion’s name, telling him to duck. Alaion ducked and an arrow splatted into the liff behind him.

          The scene flashed and the battle was over. Many corpses lined the battlefield, most wearing the black cloth of the enemy. The high-elf with the ebony sword pointed at a black platform with five pillars in the center, forming a semicircle. Each had a blue glowing sphere atop it. Alaion, the high-elf, an older human, a dwarf, and two wood-elves each went to a pillar. When Alaion touched his sphere, it lit up brighter and emitted glowing blue mist. Information flooded his mind: the image of a black tower.

          Fog filled the scene and Alaion found himself in front of the black tower. As Alaion approached the structure, he noticed four people standing in a square facing opposite directions. They wore ragged black clothes, and their faces were cold and grey. Their eyes showed no life and their mouths hung agape. Glowing blue mist poured from between their lips. The figure facing him was an elderly lady with grey hair and many wrinkles. He brought his hand up and touched her face. Alaion withdrew his hand quickly, however, for her skin was as cold as death itself.

          The high-elf with the ebony blade placed his hand on Alaion’s shoulder and motioned him to move on. He seemed to be in a rush and not in the mood for delay.

          When the pair found their way around the tower, there was a camp of liffs cooking something over a fire. They quickly took notice of Alaion and the high-elf and started running toward the pair to attack. Before they reached Alaion, he took off his pack and placed it on the ground, making sure that the green book inside the pack was safe.

Alaion then engaged the enemy, fighting with heart and decapitating many. One liff got in a quick jab and scored a hit on his waist, blood pouring freely from the wound. Without hesitation, Alaion conjured a glowing ball of blue mist and healed the wound. He did not know how he did it, but in the moment Alaion did not question this newfound ability.

          Fueled by his pain, Alaion went on a rampage of slaying. He decapitated one enemy and double-stabbed another. Alaion became a tornado of steel, slaying any that came in his path. The high-elf took cover and healed his wounds by summoning orange glowing mist to his hand. The battle was over by the time his wounds were mended. Alaion was left wondering what the color difference in the mist meant.        

          A female orc with elfish features came to the pair then and told them that the others had engaged in a large battle on the road. Alaion and the high-elf exchanged looks and walked into the dark tower. Dread and worry fell upon Alaion’s soul.

          The dream faded away.

…

          Alaion was awoken by the growls of Orso and the crashing of thunderbolts in the sky. He scurried to get up when he noticed that Orso was growling at the forest behind the cliff. It was dark now, and a storm was nearly upon him. He cursed himself for falling asleep in the wild at such a late hour. Alaion drew his sword from its sheath, the emerald stone near the bottom of the blade flashing every time lightning crackled through the sky. He grasped his sword in both hands, eyes on the woods above. Rain started falling, and Alaion breathed heavily as he realized his true folly.

An ormrillr emerged from the woods and stood only twenty yards from Alaion. Its neck and head were like a moray eel attached to a hulking, grey-blue body. Moving to and fro, its slithering neck bit the air in front of it as if it were imagining how the half-elf would taste. It held in its large arms a giant axe which was about as long as Alaion himself. The threatening beast started toward the ill-prepared and surprised half-elf.

          Orso launched at the beast, willing to sacrifice herself to give Alaion enough time to get away. She landed on its arm, biting and clawing away flesh with abandon. The ormrillr howled in pain, grabbing the three hundred pound animal with its other arm and throwing her to the side.

The ormrillr rushed to finish Orso off. Alaion, however, was not about to let his dear friend die alone. He charged full speed ahead toward the monster. He led with a horizontal slash, leaving a deep gash in the hulking beast’s massive belly. A screech filled the air as the beast brought its hand up to try and close the wound. Alaion, taking advantage of this, slashed its thighs and immediately dove under the beast’s legs.

          The monster fell to its knees as Alaion landed from his leap, now behind the ormrillr. Reversing the momentum from the jump, Alaion spun his body to the left with his sword leading. A smirk found its way on his stubble-laden face as the blade sliced open the flesh with ease and blood fell from the wound.

          The beast’s head peered around its back, and it turned around to face the elf. Alaion’s smirk quickly turned into a frown as he realized this fight was far from over. It would take many more critical hits to bring this beast down. Alaion looked for his companion, but Orso was nowhere to be found.

          “Blast! Where has she gone?” said Alaion with frustration. He knew that she had not deserted him, but he wondered why she was hiding and not attacking.

Alaion received his answer seconds later.

          Liffs started pouring out of the forest in massive numbers and with them a dark hooded figure that Alaion could only guess was a óhrien, a dark mage. If it was indeed a óhrien, this adventure would prove much worse than fatal. Óhrien, as Narbad had told Alaion, were corrupted men who betrayed Gesú for power and magic granted by the Darkness. Their skin would peel and rot, leaving behind black scales. Óhrien would turn into scaled monsters similar to their dark master in exchange for power. Cruel and merciless, they were not to be taken lightly by anyone with a will to live.

          The ormrillr grabbed Alaion with its large hand and brought him up to its extended mouth to eat him. Alaion winced as the creature’s long grey hairs, which lined the back of its jaw, brushed against him. They smelled of rotting flesh and stale saliva. The beast licked Alaion with its long, slimy tongue and chuckled at the elf’s obvious discomfort. It did not eat him, however, for the óhrien indicated that he wanted to speak to the prisoner first. As the dark mage drew near, Alaion could tell for certain that it was indeed an óhrien, for the smell of rotting flesh filled his nostrils.

Alaion could barely withstand it. The odor was so strong that he could taste it. The ormrillr gave the half-elf a good squeeze and chuckled as Alaion hurled and coughed all over himself.

          “Hello, half-elf. I do believe you can help me,” said the óhrien in a wheezing voice. “And if not…I shall kill you.”

The menacing way in which he spoke left no doubt in Alaion’s mind that he would not hesitate to follow through with that threat.

“What is it that you want from someone such as me?” asked Alaion.

          “Information on a local who goes by the name, Gildor Fingolfin. Ever heard of him?” wheezed the warlock.

          “I have not heard of the man,” replied Alaion. “Honestly!” he quickly added as the óhrien eyed him suspiciously.

          The corrupted human drew closer to Alaion, too close for the half-elf’s liking. “Why, then, are you out here so far away from your city, half-elf?” said the óhrien. “Lost, are we?”

Alaion did not reply. He did not want to give away the location of Narbad’s cabin to this villain.

“If you are not lost, then surely you must be a member of the Silvan Mist?”

          “What is the Silvan Mist?” replied Alaion, honestly confused.

          “Don’t lie to me, fool!” said the óhrien, suddenly closing the gap between them. “Do you realize what I could do to you? How much I could torture you?” He slowly drew back his hood, revealing his appearance. Alaion could not help but grimace at the sight. The warlock grinned at the reaction, showing his rotting teeth. Some were human and others reptilian, resembling small daggers and coated red. Alaion could smell the coppery scent of blood heavy on the villain’s breath. His skin was black as the night and subtly imitating darkness, almost like a fog. One of his eyes was human but the other serpentine. There were few hairs still attached to what remained of his former skin. Both his ears oozed puss and looked as if they had been torn off.

Alaion hurled, which only caused the warlock to break out into wheezing, hysterical laughter. “It is painful, I assure you, but worth it. Unlimited power. Maybe you should like to see some?”

The crackling óhrien muttered a few arcane words, waving his hands in the air and pointing his finger at an observing liff. The liff started twitching and scratching at its stomach. Alaion watched in horror as the poor creature fell to the ground in agony, clawing at its stomach even after it had successfully gutted itself. It lay very still a few moments later.

 “Psychological,” said the óhrien. “Making one’s enemy believe there is something eating at their insides. They literally kill themselves with panic. It’s beautiful.”

Alaion spat in the óhrien’s face with disgust. “You are an abomination.” 

The óhrien flew back in anger and drew out a wand from his belt. He pointed it at the hero. Alaion started convulsing and screaming as waves of pain shot through his entire body. He felt as though his bones were repeatedly being broken. The óhrien lifted the wand, releasing the diabolical spell.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, you know,” said the dark mage. “Answer the question. Where is the Mist Walker?”

“I told you, I don’t know who that is,” Alaion replied.

“Do you think me stupid?” the óhrien spat.

Before Alaion even had the chance to answer, the dark mage launched the torturing spell once again. The villain relished in the screams of pain and showed no signs of mercy. “Pathetic,” he remarked after he released the spell once more.

“I don’t fear you. I pity you,” Alaion dared to say. “What unfortunate road brought you here? What misguided ideals made you this way? And if given the chance to turn back, would you?”

The óhrien backed off a bit, caught off guard by the comment. His face showed sorrow and pain, as if his mind recalled some distant memory. It did not take long for the sorrow to turn to anger, however. The óhrien launched the wand’s magic at the half-elf once more and added a spell of electricity to Alaion’s anguish. The enemy smiled as Alaion’s screams took a new volume and pitch. Distracted by this, the óhrien did not notice mist gliding through the forest and over the cliff, the very same area that his forces had emerged from.

          Suddenly, arrows started raining down from the trees. One liff took an arrow in the throat and another in the side of the head. Not long after, a large number of liffs fell to the ground with arrows protruding from their chests. The ormrillr that was holding Alaion was hit by many arrows also but did not fall, for it used its limbs to shield its head and body. The young half-elf tried to protect his head. One arrow found its way to him, however. The bladed shaft went cleanly through his forearm so that the arrowhead protruded from the other end. Alaion grimaced but did not lower his arms.

The óhrien quickly slid to the side and threw some dust in the air around him, creating magical armor to protect himself from the arrows. Then the dark mage entered the fray. Levitating, the óhrien floated to a level equal to the archers. He launched into spell casting, repeatedly bringing his hands together and then apart. When his spell finished, the dark mage clapped his hands together and separated his arms. Flames shot forth in a semicircle of death. The tree line was set ablaze, with several archers running out screaming and flailing their arms.

          Relishing the moment and thinking himself invincible, the dark mage laughed maniacally at the death of his enemies. His happiness was cut short, however, when a soaring white ball of fur jumped out from the flames and barreled into him, biting and clawing as they fell. The magical armor was tested then, each blow or bite taking away part of its strength. The sheer ferocity of the beast kept the mage too frantic to think of any useful spells.

To the mage’s credit, he did manage to pull a wand out of his coat, but by then it was too late. The magical armor wore off and Orso clasped her jaw down on his exposed neck and ripped his throat out.

Orso backed off as the dark mage evaporated into ash. 

          Alaion was too busy to notice the mage’s defeat; however, the half-elf did manage to notice a blonde-haired elf jump down from a nearby tree and land on the ormrillr’s back.

As soon as the elf landed, he drove two black daggers into the eyes of the beast and hopped off, drawing his sword as he jumped.

          Seeing an opportunity, Alaion freed his right arm and unsheathed the seax he kept on the back of his hip. He fiercely stabbed into the beast’s hand. The ormrillr threw Alaion in the direction of the blonde elf.

The high-elf dove out of the way as Alaion flew across the battlefield and into the rock that he had been sitting on earlier, his consciousness waning.

          The ormrillr started forward, swinging its axe to and fro, unable to see. The high-elf quickly recovered and was on two feet soon enough. He ducked to avoid being decapitated by the beast’s large axe. Following this, he tried to make his way around the beast to get at it from behind. The high-elf ran into some trouble, however, as four liffs rushed to greet him. Seeing this, the ebony blade-wielder charged toward them and at the last minute twirled to the left, using the surprised liff’s shoulder as a guide. Following the momentum of the twirl, he brought his sword up and stabbed the liff in the heart. He retracted the sword quicker than lightning, reversed his momentum, launched into another twirl around the now falling body, and used that momentum to slash his sword at the next opponent, effectively decapitating it.

The high-elf launched toward the headless corpse and took hold of it, using it as a meat shield against the swinging swords of the two remaining enemies. Both their blades made contact with the carcass, and the elf shoved the body onto one of the two liffs remaining, knocking him over.

          The liff was quick enough to launch an attack of his own, but the elf spun under the liff’s overarching swing and came up behind the liff, slicing his back. The liff dropped to his knees in pain, and the elf, expecting this, placed his blade along the creature’s neck. Quickly, the blade slit the liff’s throat. Blood spewed forth from the severed arteries, and the beast fell to the cold ground.

The only surviving liff pulled himself back up and charged at the vicious elf. The liff swung horizontally at waist level, but the elf was quick to block and counter with a vertical slash. This move brought them into a blade lock. Each stared at the other, hatred in his eyes.

The elf, with his superior senses, could tell that something was approaching him from behind, so he broke the lock and dove to the side. The liff looked in confusion as the elf did this. A second later, the liff lay on the ground, cut in two by the ormrillr’s giant axe. 

          Free of distractions, the high-elf made his way behind the blind ormrillr. He reversed the grip on his blade and proceeded to run up the creature’s back. Leaping several feet in the air, the high-elf raised the blade over his head and landed to stab into the beast’s neck. The sword poked out the other side of the creature’s thick throat, and the monster issued a pitiful squeal.

The brash warrior jumped down, not letting go of the sword. A cut formed down the beast’s neck as the high-elf descended. He pulled the sword out and plunged it through his foe’s rib cage, deep into the ormrillr’s heart.

          The defeated creature fell backwards and thrashed in pain. It was not long before it lay still on the ground. Other than the rain and the occasional thunder bolt, everything was quiet. The archers from above were down on common level, and Orso had found her way over to Alaion. The victorious high-elf removed his sword from the beast’s heart and a white dirk from its hand. It was then that the high-elf warrior made his way over to Alaion. He kneeled over and sheathed the blades in their respective places, taking care to be gentle. Orso rubbed her head on her friend’s unconscious form, worried.

          “He will be fine, don’t worry,” said the elf.

Orso looked up at him with sadness in her eyes.

“I am Gildor Fingolfin, the Mist Walker. Do you mind if I treat your friend?”

Orso nodded her consent and watched as Gildor snapped the arrow and proceeded to remove the shaft. Blood poured from the wound, but Gildor produced a small leather pouch from his belt. He placed some powder on the opening.

          “The powder should stop the bleeding,” said Gildor with a smile. “I will help carry him back if that is all right with you?”

          Orso came over to him and rubbed her white head against his blonde hairs in response. Gildor petted her face and stood. “Seeing what I have tonight, I can tell that we could use your friend in our cause. He has a good heart," said Gildor. “If he should ask of me or of what happened tonight, take him to the Mistwood. We would be glad to have him and you in our company.” 

          Gildor picked up Alaion and told two of his men, Roy and Findal by name, to help carry the half-elf back. They walked through the rain and the mud back to the cabin, trading off carrying Alaion when one grew tired. When they arrived, Narbad was waiting with Ziipes at his side.

          Narbad led Gildor, who was carrying Alaion, to his bed.

…

          Alaion heard voices in the room. He cracked open one eye and saw Narbad standing by an elf with long blonde hair and a black sword sheathed on his back. He seemed familiar.

          He felt Orso resting her head on his chest, sleeping. He saw Ziipes sitting in the corner with a worried look on his face. He heard the words, “Silvan Mist,” and then all was black.