Children of the Dying Hearth: Annals of Tessian, #1

By Martin R. Nelson

When the world was young, there were the Ancients: primordial beings who shaped the land and bore all life. From the most powerful Ancient came the Imperial Dynasty of Kai'loth, tasked by their creator to govern the realms of Tesseris. For countless generations they ruled justly and peacefully.

 

Then they defied Him.

 

Thousands of years after their Sundering, the empire's story is barely remembered as a legend. The lands of Tesseris are now united only by the Crux, a city-state whose corruption is publicly known and secretly reviled. Yet the Crux's rulers have their own problems. Pirates plague the Verdant Sea, unleashing terror and chaos in their wake. Meanwhile the ancient sands of the Barrens begin to stir, a sign of something far more ancient…and deadly…than any pirate.

 

Yet some see the chaos and corruption as a chance. Whispers spread of a lost heir to the old empire. A select few seek to help a young hopeful whose bloodline could alter the world, but others hope death, not destiny, will find the child first.

 

 

 

Children of the Dying Hearth is the first installment in The Annals of Tessian, an epic, high fantasy series set on the fictional world of Tesseris.

 

What people are saying:

 

BookLife

"Nelson manages to keep readers engaged with a well-paced and easy-to-follow plot. He expertly sets the stage for future stories and reveals just enough about each character to pique the interest of readers who enjoy intricate narratives and immersive worldbuilding–and the heroic quest at the novel's heart proves an inviting way to transport readers through an abundance of extraordinary settings. This elaborate meld of fable and fantasy entertains and surprises."

 

"An immersive fantasy epic uniting magical creatures and humans in a quest to restore an ancient empire."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martin R. Nelson
• Release date: Dec 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201422752

Book preview

EPIGRAPH

Gattir allar,

aþr gangi fram,

vm scoðaz scyli,

vm scygnaz scyli;

þviat ouist er at vita,

hvar ovinir sitia

a fleti fyr

At every doorway

before you enter,

you should look around,

you should take a good look around --

for you never know

where your enemies

might be seated within.

-Hávamál-

PREFACE TO BOOK I: THE ANNALS OF TESSIAN

WHEN THE WORLD was young, there were the Ancients: primordial beings who shaped the land and bore all life. From the most powerful Ancient came the Imperial Dynasty of Kai’loth, tasked by their creator to govern the realms of Tesseris. For countless generations they ruled justly and peacefully.

Then they defied Him.

Thousands of years after their Sundering, the empire’s story is barely remembered as a legend. The lands of Tesseris are now united only by the Crux, a city-state whose corruption is publicly known and secretly reviled. Yet the Crux’s rulers have their own problems. Pirates plague the Verdant Sea, unleashing terror and chaos in their wake. Meanwhile the ancient sands of the Barrens begin to stir, a sign of something far more ancient…and deadly…than any pirate.

Yet some see the chaos and corruption as a chance. Whispers spread of a lost heir to the old empire. A select few seek to help a young hopeful whose bloodline could alter the world, but others hope death, not destiny, will find the child first.

PROLOGUE

THE REAPED

The tremors had grown in number ever since the new moon. Tremors had never stopped the farmers from working before, and like most everyone in his village, Colo was just another simple farmer.

It was not a complaint. In fact, Colo enjoyed the simple life. Knowing he would have his work in the fields each day to greet him brought a feeling of comfort and stability to his mind. The southern coasts of the east could be harsh, but what grew there had been growing for centuries and a long summer or dry winter would not deter them from sprouting from the ground again. Yams, okra, peppers, and beans were all found naturally where the mountains met the sea in the southern Barrens, so growing those crops was never an issue. Even the tremors that had rocked Colo to sleep the night before could not ruin the farmer’s mood, knowing his patch of land and daily work awaited him as he rose before the sun.

He had not chosen the life, rather it was his grandfather who had first laid his family’s foundation, planting roots in the village they now called Dustup. His grandfather had sailed half the world looking for a new home that could be a safe haven to start his family. Colo remembered the etched lines on the old man’s leathered face, the last image of his grandfather before he had died. He had left this world only a year after Colo’s first daughter had been born, another reminder of the harsh land’s ever-present circle of give-and-take. His grandfather’s search for a better land meant Colo’s daughters could live in relative safety, away from the marauding pirates that so frequently plagued the northern coasts of the Barrens.

Colo thought of the old man as he walked through the doorway of the small house that had once been his grandfather’s. It was a sturdy old thing, built of mortared mud and brick like many homes and structures along the Barrens’ coasts. It even had two rooms, though the second room had been added by his father sometime after the house was built. Colo had added to it as well when he had turned fifteen, building a small storage shed attached to the outside where he now grabbed an old iron trowel and a large basket woven from the reeds often found on the banks of the nearby dry riverbeds. Hoisting the basket onto his head, the ground shook once more. As he tried to steady himself, Colo pinched his hand against the wall with his trowel and cursed under his breath. Though just light tremors, they had plagued the village of Dustup for over a week now.

Old Yam says it means the world is breaking again, came a familiar voice behind Colo. He turned to see the smiling face of his friend Giff.

We’ve had quakes and tremors before, Colo replied. Don’t mean no Ancient is breaking the world again.

That’s what I told ’er, Giff laughed as they left the village. But you know how that woman is. I swear the littlest o’ things can mean the end o’ the world to that old bat.

Well, Colo laughed back, sooner or later she’ll be right, I s’pose.

They walked north for some time toward the great mountains that faced the ocean in the south, like a massive city wall to a vast empire beyond. Except the only empire north of the mountains was a never-ending sea of sand, stretching far and wide to the horizon and beyond. Looking south from that great mountain range told a different tale, one of rocks and sand and ocean, with the village of Dustup but one of many settlements dotting the coastline of the Barrens. 

At last, the two farmers reached their plots, tiered into the side of the growing hill and irrigated with tiny streams that found their way through the hidden mountain caverns to the dry brush and arid mountainside. The tremors persisted throughout the day as Colo set about his work. A few yams had come up early and he harvested what he could while he pruned and snipped the disease and rot from the rest of his plot. By the end of the day the hot sun was setting into the long fingers of the mountain range to the west, and Colo’s back was aching and wet from the sweat that dripped with dirt from his ruddy tunic.

Best be gettin’ back, Giff called over. His basket was full of okra and yams, and the muscles on his neck strained as he held the basket steady on his head.

Don’t want to save nothin’ for the harvest? Colo asked, eyeing Giff’s basket before picking up his own and finding his way onto the descending path next to his friend.

Well, Giff sighed, like you said, maybe Old Yam’s right and the world’s breaking. If that’s the case, I don’t want t’be caught with rotten crops later. Best stock up now.

Colo smiled. Giff was always taking risks, like planting exotic fruits or the like in the hopes of selling for a healthy price. It had worked a time or two, but it had also cost him a great deal every time the crops failed to take in the harsh land. I didn’t figure you for a superstitious sort, Colo replied.

Eh. Giff shrugged as the ground began to level out. Yams last and okra does too. More cautious, I’d say. Though these tremors give me a queer feelin’.

The earth shook again as if on cue. The sands on the rocks and boulders that littered the base of the mountain slid onto the ground to a sound like the whispering of snakes. The two farmers steadied themselves and their baskets until the tremor subsided, then continued their march toward Dustup and the sea.

Twisting between the mountain pass that led back to their village, the farmers talked of their families. Colo laughed as he recounted a story of his youngest daughter playing with his trowel and Giff replied with a sordid tale of a night in the local tavern.

You won’t see me with no family, Giff laughed. Too much fun in the world for me to be stuck with the same wench every day.

By the looks of it, Colo replied, you seem well married enough already to that blight you call a farm.

The men joked as they reached the final bend in the path, which opened onto the horizon where the sea shone bright, reflecting the setting sun far to the west. The laughter died as the two men looked out upon the ocean, unobstructed from view by the village that was no longer there.

The hell… Giff muttered.

Everything was gone. The tavern, the shipyard, the inn, the brothel, the row of huts and houses on the west end and the stables that housed the animals of the occasional visitor on the east end. The tide was out and Colo could see the beams of the docks were missing as well, save for a few broken timbers rooted to the seabed. The ground of the village was torn and churned, as if a giant had plowed the dirt with a spade the size of Colo’s house. Every house and building and structure that had once made up their little village was gone.

Lida… Colo gasped, darting forward and dropping his basket, no longer caring for yams and okra and farming. He was so focused on his wife he never noticed the tremor that shook the ground as he ran, nor the cry at his back. All he could think of was his family. If he found his wife, then surely he would find his daughters…but…where could they be? Even the shacks and shanties had disappeared, just rocks and dirt that led from the sand to the sea.

He rushed to the spot where his house should have been. The hardened dirt that had once been the foundation of his home was now turned over and scarred just like the rest of the village. He turned around, hoping to find consolation in his friend.

Giff had vanished. Colo’s basket lay on the ground, yams spilling onto the broken earth next to another basket, its owner absent.

He wanted to collapse. He felt his knees begin to buckle. It was then he realized the ground beneath his feet was crumbling away and his legs slowly sank into the dirt. A great pain shot through his body as the soil swallowed his legs, inching his body deeper into the bowels of the world. The jaws of the ground closed about his chest. Colo lifted his head to scream out at the world, but his lungs filled with sand and dust, stifling his cry, its short call echoing against the rocks of the mountains and across the waters on the shores of the forgotten village of Dustup.

CHAPTER 1

QEL

The fire crackled, wafting the smells of his roasting meal away from the peat-covered forest floor. He peered below onto the bloodstained ground from his high perch in the banyan tree, reflecting on the clean death he had given the animal. Smelling the flesh of the cooking meat, his eyes returned to the fire and followed the smoke and vapors as they ascended into the stygian canopy above to ponder the sky beyond, whose illuminating arrows of light pierced the veil of endless leaves and branches. Qel tilted his head back against the trunk of the tree and sighed with hunger.

He had tracked the beast for hours, darting from one tree to the next, careful to keep his footfalls light and his eyes keen. Attu were jittery creatures, so he had been vigilant in remaining downwind as he tracked the deerlike animal through the dense jungle. Qel opened his eyes and turned his head, looking beyond trees and leaves to the limb where he had crouched low and loosed his arrow.

He had found a place directly above his fallen prey before descending with ease and caution, careful not to spring any traps that might have awaited him on the forest floor, man-made or otherwise. A sprained ankle from a fallen branch, hidden beneath a pile of debris and peat, was a nasty thing to endure. More so during a ranging. Qel dared not think what would happen should he find himself in a trap of men. Men were known to sometimes venture into these parts, and from everything Qel knew of men, amicability toward elves was not in their blood.

Qel's fire flared as the attu’s fat dripped into the flames. He removed his meal from the spit and propped it precariously on the banyan branch to cool next to the fire. The elf smiled as he cut a bit of flesh with his knife and ate greedily.

As he ate, Qel looked upon the fallen beast’s hide. An attu was a curious thing. It was slightly larger than its distant cousins that roamed the eastern plains of Tol'thuran and had no antlers like the great deer of the far north. Its body was a light brown that faded into a white face, and its legs were striped white and black. It made for a beautiful hide. 

I’ll have to make something of this, he thought. Perhaps a belt for my brother when we meet again. He wondered when that might be, thinking hard to the last time he had seen his kin. Qel had a better chance of finding his brother in the wilds than within the walls of Tol'gorul. Though, a homecoming was always a welcome idea in Qel's mind.

As a ranging Tol’rothi, Qel had been taught to never return home unless he had news worth spreading. His first two hundred years had been spent learning the world from the books in the Eternal Library of Tol'gorul. He had been so impatient in the task that he had set about asking every scholar to tell him what was in the books, as that seemed quicker and far more engaging than reading them himself. Every scholar told the tales differently, with some molding the most mundane stories into captivating epics while others turned the best of tales into woefully dull affairs. Of the many scholars that had helped in Qel’s rearing, Ul'Thwas had been his favorite. The elder elf was several thousand years old but had lost none of his vigor. He knew every story and legend, telling each one as if he had been there himself. Often, Qel's brother would joke that Ul'Thwas had indeed been there wherever there was in each particular story. From the ancient empire of Kai’loth, to the Abyssal Kingdom of the Dagothi, Ul'Thwas had told each story as if he had been a fly on the wall.

The ranger had come to learn in those years that very little information was worthy of returning home. He had returned during his first few rangings solely due to homesickness, and the stories he had told his kin were of little importance to those in Tol’gorul. Once, he had told them he had seen men off the coast attacking the Erdi. The Elders had told Qel that the Erdi were a very ancient people who could care for themselves. Sure enough, the next time Qel found that Erdi village, it was unmarred and bustling with activity. Qel remembered laughing when he had seen the Erdi using man-made longships, their primitive canoes left to rot in disuse. Another time he had returned to tell of a great fire rising from the south that was so large, he had thought all of Kai’loth must be aflame. However, when he arrived at the gates of the city, he could still see the smoke of the southern fire. When he recognized this, he thought of returning to the forest but the taste of home was too close and too sweet. Also, a guard had already spotted him.

Qel returned the spit and venison to its place above the dying fire before deciding to climb to the top of his tree and plot his next course. He rose through the tree with ease and reached the top to find a sight completely expected: green. All around him was forest. The vast jungle of southern Tol’thuran lay before him, marked only by the distant mountain peaks to the northwest. The spires belonged to the great spine of a range that ran down the continent and gave rivers and streams and life to everything. When he turned his keen eyes away from the mountaintops and gazed northeast, Qel noticed the only peculiarity in the sea of forest: a small depression on the green horizon. It was a sight that could mean only one thing. No trees.

The depression could not have been larger than an acre but its presence was unmistakable. Most likely a small village with a few huts. From this depression Qel was able to make out a gap in the tree line that stretched far to the southeast. A road. It looked to be only a few miles away. He could be there before nightfall, and by the look of the clouds blowing in from the ocean to the south, a light rain would muffle his approach. If they’re men, then even a plain would hide me. But if they are Erdi, or some outcast Tol’rothi, it will be a different story. The smell of the roasting attu rose through the canopy roof and Qel’s stomach growled. Either way, I must finish my meal.

Qel returned to his fire to find smoldering embers and his meal charred. The meat inside was still tender, but Qel suddenly found his appetite wanting, knowing that what lay ahead was very much unknown. Much of his time during rangings was spent hunting animals and gathering nuts and berries, looking around the horizon, or discovering new hideaways in the mountains or marshes. It was rare he came across people he did not expect to see. The Erdi villages on the southern coast were always friendly to the Tol’rothi and they would give him a meal if game was scarce and the forest cruel. Men were a different story.

Men had made an agreement with the Elders many years ago to enter Tol’thuran and cut a part of the forest for their halls. The finest wood was sent from Axhall, a western outpost for all kinds of foresters and trappers, to the Crux, the great city of men that united the four continents of Tesseris. At least, that was what Ul’Thwas had told him. Once Qel became an Elder, he would be allowed to travel beyond the borders of Tol’thuran and explore all the races and realms of Tesseris, but that would not be for another several hundred years.

Qel decided to stow the rest of his meal. As he wrapped it carefully with some banana leaves from his satchel, the slow rhythm of rain began to beat upon the canopy above. It was a soothing sound. Hopefully it lulls those ahead to sleep. It’ll be easier to watch if they’re asleep in the dark. He scattered the coals of the fire to the forest floor below him knowing the wet peat and debris would not catch a spark or flame. Qel flung his bow over his shoulder and leapt from one branch to another, setting out for the unknown village.

The rain will make a ghost of me, he thought, listening to the growing noise of the rain striking the forest canopy. As he smiled to himself, Qel nearly slipped on a wet branch. Though, maybe in ways I don’t want. Slow and alive is better than quick and dead.

With a slower pace it took Qel less than half the hour to reach a thinning in the forest. Light shone through the gaps in the trees ahead, its brightness blurring his vision. The sun had not yet set behind him, but its light reflected off the breaking clouds above as the rain began to slow. Quiet as a flea, Qel bounced from one tree to the next until at last he came upon a banyan trunk on the edge of the clearing. What he saw made his heart stop.

He had been right. It was a village. Though a dead one. Men always fight men.

Bodies lay strewn and hacked to pieces between four small huts that surrounded a larger, longer dwelling. From what Qel could see, there had been over three dozen men. Foresters by the looks of the huts, though the bodies seemed to be divided. Some wore the cloth-and-leather garb of foresters, a look he recognized when he had once visited a small village north of Axhall. Several others looked as though they were ready for battle, with hauberks over leather jerkins, rusted from the damp forest, a result of raiding in the wet conditions of Tol’thuran. One dead man had been in full plated armor equipped with a cuirass of solid iron, lobstered greaves, and gauntlets. By the look of its coloring and intricacies, the man appeared to be the raiders’ leader. His armor had done little to protect him from whatever caused his death. Qel thought the entire village and its attackers must be dead, but then something moved.

It was a boy on his knees slouching in the mud, his downcast face failed to hide a look of pure shock still etched on his features. He was somewhere near the time of adolescence, though it was hard for Qel to know the boy’s age since he was a man, not Tol’rothi. He wore bland clothing, not the forester’s green and gray, but something befitting a simple peasant, yet it had been splashed and stained red with blood from the battle. Next to the boy lay a dead raider, his face cloven in two by a forester’s axe, apparently the last casualty of the battle.

The boy looked up in alarm as the bushes before him rustled unnaturally. A man slowly emerged from the forest and walked toward him, speaking softly, but the slow patter of rain on the man’s armor made it impossible for even an elf to hear what he was saying. If Qel had thought the dead man in plate was the leader, he must have been wrong. The one that now walked toward the boy was garbed in resplendent black armor, patterned in what looked to be entwining serpents running on every joint, from cuirass to greaves to pauldrons. He carried a black horsehair-crested helm in his hand, its intricate engravings shielded from Qel’s sight. It also gave Qel an advantage and the man a weakness. At this distance armor was hard to pierce unless rusted, and this man’s armor was in a fine state. However, with no helm the man’s head and neck were exposed. He continued to talk as his hand went to rest on a sword sheathed at his side.

Qel glanced around and found a branch that would lead him around the clearing and closer to the man and the boy. He leapt onto the branch and darted across, taking his eyes away from the village.

By the time Qel found a closer position from which to eavesdrop, the armored man was drawing his sword. The boy’s face looked up in mingled shock and terror as Qel heard the man’s voice for the first time, strong and confident, …no man lives forever. 

He’s going to execute the boy! Even amongst men, such a contest between an armored knight and an unarmed peasant boy was considered cruel and without honor. Who said bandits had honor? For a moment, Qel was torn. Rangers were tasked to survey Tol’thuran and its encroaching people, but not interfere in the dealings of men. Yet rangers were also tasked with helping those in need and defending the defenseless…

Qel had no time to consider subtlety. He reached into his quiver and drew an arrow. The man had barely lifted his sword when Qel let his arrow fly. It was the second one of the day to find its mark and struck the man’s windpipe from the side with such force that it blew through his neck and stuck in the mud ten feet away.

The man spluttered and stumbled. Blood poured from his mouth and spurted from his neck, landing on mud and boy alike. Dazed, his eyes drifted toward the forest, wondering at the arrow’s origin. His sword fell limply at his side and he staggered to the nearest hovel. One hand groped for the wall of the little hut while the other reached for his throat, finding only an empty hole where the lump had once lived. His gaze finally rested on Qel, hidden in the trees. 

He said no last words as he slumped down in the mud with his back against the hut. The horror on the knight’s face bore into Qel long after the light had left the dead man’s eyes, eyes asking a sad and sincere question.

Why?

CHAPTER 2

MILES

Ten years he had searched. Ten long years since his departure from Firefall, the volcanic dwelling of the Patient. Ten years since he had become a Knight of Drakes and ten years since his training had ended in the last hearth on the edge of the world. Training that had not quite prepared him for all he had encountered so far.

The first test came with trust. The Patient had told him to trust no one, a lesson they claimed they were unable to teach him or else they would break the bonds already made. When that first test came and went, he cursed those decrepit old men for not finding a way to teach him that harsh lesson. Now the lesson was learned, the girl was dead, and Miles was closer to finding his charge. Or so he hoped.

Next came the companions. The old monks said his task could not be done alone. The Patient trained many knights, but the knights could not rely solely on each other. More fingers make a tighter grasp, more hands a stronger hold, the old monks had told him years ago. Miles knew knights were already out searching, but they were few and far between. It took much and most to reach the end of training, and those who survived it to venture out into the world were often never heard from again. Not the future many would want, but if the prize was claimed and the quest completed, the glory and honor would be legendary. He had set out first then to find his own companions, though his quest was always at the forefront of his mind. 

The first was Alcwyn, an old man as spry as he was sterile and as knowledgeable about the world as the monks who had trained Miles. Alcwyn could tell Miles anything he wanted to know about the cities and realms of men, the old empire, and even knew a few stories of the outer realms of dwarves, giants, and elves. 

Alcwyn had warned Miles of the second companion many times, but Miles had not seen it. A woman of middling birth, or so she had claimed, Miles soon discovered she had a secret confidant and benefactor. Secrets Miles had spilled were soon in the ears of someone he did not know. He had discovered Alcwyn’s brutality the night they found the proof of it and the woman was a head shorter and no longer part of their quest.

It had taken many years before Miles felt comfortable finding another companion, but in the back of his mind Miles knew he must recruit others eventually. Nonetheless, it took far longer than he had expected for the wounds of the woman’s betrayal to heal.

The next companion was Sig. Burly, gruff, and more bear than man, the woodsman hailed from the Long Lake in Jordheim. They found him in a tavern in the Crux one evening with his fellow woodsmen, grumbling over the pentarchs and what could be done to stop their rule.

Not all of Sig’s companions agreed. Words cost nothing, said one whose nasally voice and pointed face gave Miles the distinct impression of a weasel. Action risks everything. I bet you’re no different than any other sniveling peon, kissing the boots of the pents and pissing on their shadow.

Sig had looked at the man as if he was a bug underfoot. What would you say you need least, he had said after a long silence, thumbing the small axe at his side. Ear, nose, or that groveling tongue?

The other man had been so drunk he was slow to pick up Sig’s meaning, answering before it was too late. The nice thing about ears is I have two of ’em.

In a flash, Sig drew his axe, twirled it through his hands and sliced. It appeared at first as if he had missed the weaselly man’s face, but then a thin strip of flesh fell upon the table and blood oozed from the side of his head. The man stared in shock at his own ear lying limply before him.

I asked. You answered. I cut, the woodsman had responded. How’s that for action? Are you ready to kiss my boots or do you care to piss on my shadow? Now who’s the peon?

In any other part of the Crux the scene may have caused a commotion. However, guards were seldom seen in the Ratways and when they were, it was not to enforce laws but to extort their own power and remind others that the city was under the rule of the pentarchs. The city was massive, so a lapse in law from place to place was to be expected. These lawless corners like the Ratways, Scumsuck, Brown River, and Pisspot were the best places to find people for the task given to the Order of Drake Knights. There was no better place for finding people long tired of the Crux’s rule.

That one could be of use, Miles had told Alcwyn. When he leaves, tell him to find me.

The old man had done as he was bid and after a few hours and a few more drinks Sig had joined the two men. Sig’s current information on Jordheim had proved more fruitful than Miles had anticipated. When Sig was an adolescent journeying to Highhearth in the far north, he had seen another man whom he had thought was also in the Order. Unfortunately, there was no news of the Order’s charge.

Miles had decided to go north anyways. If he could find another from the Order or learn anything of finality it would mean much. To rule out all of Jordheim would be something the Patient would need to know. Even if he never found the heir, such information could still give him some renown. 

Their next companion came sometime later during their journey through Jordheim at the crossroads called Twofords. The company of three had stayed at an inn there, where Miles had asked the innkeeper for information and noticed the serving girl took an uncommon interest in his questions. Later that night as Miles closed the door to his room, he found her standing behind it and a dagger soon at his throat.

Call for your companions and you’ll spoil that shiny white tunic, she had said. If you’ll even care once you’re dead.

What do you want? Miles had responded coolly.

I want to leave this shithole. Take me with you.

Why would I take a spider like you?

Because I’ve seen what you seek. 

The knight’s eyes had grown wide with excitement. Very well.

She lowered the knife. The name’s Kendra.

Kendra was lean and nimble and commonly beautiful enough to keep men distracted, but not so much as to draw unwanted attention. She was everything desirable from a youthful, lurking pickpocket. Miles had thought about her more times than he cared to admit, and in the end, he knew it was her information that was important. She claimed to have seen a boy of the right description pass through on the road from Sealport. The boy was with a small merchant caravan that had done uncommonly well at Twofords, so they would need to restock their goods. Kendra had told the knight the merchants were looking to go to Crabber’s Bay, then sail to Tol’thuran to acquire herbs found only in the western continent. 

When they left Twofords, their company had grown by one. Alcwyn did not have the same misgivings as before, though Sig thought the woman would bring about unwanted problems. Miles laughed at the woodsman’s apprehension, and hid his own misgivings by stating any trouble would be easily solved with Kendra’s own abilities.

Crabber’s Bay held glad tidings. Crabbers knew of the merchant band and the child Miles sought. The child would be a hard sight to forget, if they even noticed him. The merchants had left not half a year prior to the knight’s arrival. By the time they booked passage from Crabber’s Bay and left the cold north for the forested homeland of the wood elves in Tol’thuran, Miles’s dreams were filled with visions of glory. It was on that voyage south through the Jordvund Sea that their latest companion joined.

After several nights aboard the vessel, a cloaked figure approached the group while they took their supper belowdecks. They looked suspiciously at the figure, who sat upright and still.

I’ve been told you seek something of great value, Drake Knight. The figure spoke softly, betraying no hint of his person save a glimmering smile beneath his hood.

Who’s told you that? returned Miles, keeping his voice barely above a whisper.

Why, the birds on the wind, of course, said the figure, his smile growing wider.

Sig had a particular hatred for riddles and small talk, and let his enmity show. Want me to loosen his tongue? he asked Miles. 

The man is forward, if nothing else, Miles thought.

The figure laughed a high, boyish laugh, As if you could, my good mountain man. Tell me, would you loosen it? Or cut it off like an ear? Unfortunately, I only have one tongue so I’d rather like to keep that.

Surprise splashed across the faces of the company, even Kendra’s, who had heard the story of the severed ear.

It seems we may have a stalker, Miles sighed. You appear to already know some of us. I dare not ask what else you know, or else you might give our secrets to the entire ship. So who, then, are you?

An old story says that lonely owls will sometimes venture out to sea seeking their deceased mate, the figure replied enigmatically. When the owl calls, I’ll see you in your cabin. You’re all welcome to be there. I’ve no need for secrets amongst you four. Though the rest of the mess in this hall—he glanced around the galley—that’s another story. I doubt I’m the only one who has followed you, or knows some of your secrets. Though, I’d prefer no one else overhear us. Remember: when the owl calls. Have a pleasant meal. With a smile he rose from the table and left.

I’ve never heard about owls at sea, Sig scoffed. Besides, we’re leagues away from any land.

Hours later, as the moon rose in the night’s sky and the stars guided the galley south, Miles awoke in his bed to the sound of an owl hooting somewhere in the distance.

Alcwyn opened the door to the knight’s cabin and stepped in. Sig was wrong, middle of the sea and there’s an owl ‘round here. I can’t guess how that’s come to pass, but I’m positive that was a great western owl. As he shut the door behind him, a hand reached quietly around its edge, staying the door’s closing.

I’m glad it fooled you, old man, whispered a voice from behind the door, barely audible over the sound of the waves and the creaking of the vessel. Miles rose from his bed, suddenly very much awake. The same hooded figure from the mess hall pushed open the door and stepped into the room. Miles spied Alcwyn’s hand shift to the knife at his side as he backed away from the door. Going to stab me now? said the figure. Not very courteous.

What would you have of us? asked Alcwyn.

Not one to mince words, eh? Fine then, neither shall I. The figure produced a small flint and lit the lantern by the door. Moonlight mixed with lamplight, and the man’s lean figure became more pronounced. He lowered his hood and Miles and Alcwyn both saw him for what he was: an elf. 

Long ears held back the elf’s golden-brown hair that fell far past his neck. His beige skin gave way to piercing green eyes playing off a sly smirk that spread from ear to ear, just as it had in the mess hall hours before. He wore simple clothing, an ivory tunic under a light green leather jerkin. His boots were a soft brown that came halfway up his shins to meet beaten trousers, held up by a worn leather belt bearing several small pouches. From what Miles had learned of the elves from the Patient and Alcwyn, the one that stood before them now was a ranger, an elf tasked with journeying into the world past their borders and bringing information back to their Council of Elders.

Your companion was correct in assuming it’s an odd thing to hear an owl at sea, the elf said, strolling