Blood Song

If his senses hadn’t been so alive he would have missed the faint creak of the bowstring. He ducked, the arrow passing over his head in a black streak. The archer leapt from the bushes, hatchet raised high, his war cry shrill and savage. Vaelin’s sword slashed into the man’s wrist, his hatchet spinning away along with the hand that held it, the back-swing laying his throat open as he staggered back in shock. He took only seconds to bleed to death.

Vaelin sagged as his body woke to the end of the hunt, the ache of the battle and the chase seeping into his limbs, his pulse raging in his ears as he fought for breath. He stumbled away, slumping against the stone, sinking to the ground, wanting nothing more than sleep. His eyes were drawn to the archer’s corpse. The lines and weathering in his slack features betrayed him as a man with more years than most of their enemies. Black Arrow? Vaelin wondered but found he was too tired to search the body for any evidence of the man’s identity.

The song of the forest returned as he lay there, head sagging to his chest, the bird song louder now. A sudden warmth in his limbs roused him and he looked up to find the clearing bathed in bright sunlight. Oddly the sun was now high overhead and he realised he must have surrendered to sleep. Fool! He climbed to his feet, making to brush the snow from his cloak… Except there was none. No snow on his cloak or his boots. No snow on the ground or the trees. Instead the ground was covered in lush green grass and the trees were liberally adorned with leaves. The air had lost the sharp chill of winter and through the forest canopy the sky was a deep shade of blue. Summer... It’s summer!

He looked around wildly. Black Arrow’s body, if it was indeed his, was gone. The stone structure that had drawn his gaze when he first entered the clearing was now bare of foliage, revealing a finely carved plinth of grey granite, its top perfectly flat save for a circular indentation in the centre. He moved closer, reaching out to trace a finger along the surface.

“You shouldn’t touch that.”

He whirled, levelling his sword at the source of the voice. The woman was of medium height and dressed in a simple robe of loosely woven fabric, the design of which was completely unfamiliar. Her hair was black and long, tumbling over her shoulders and framing an angular pale skinned face. But it was her eyes that fixed him, or rather the fact that she had no eyes. They were a milky pink in colour, devoid of pupils. As she neared he saw they were shot through with a fine web of veins, like two orbs of red marble regarding him above a faint smile. Blind? But how could she be? He could tell she was seeing him, she had seen him reach out to the stone. Something about the set of her features triggered a memory from a few years ago, a grave, hawk-faced man shaking his head sadly and speaking in a language Vaelin didn’t know.

“Seordah,” he said. “You’re of the Seordah Sil.”

Her smile widened a little. “Yes. And you are Beral Shak Ur of the Marelim Sil.” She raised her arms, encompassing the clearing. “And this is the place and time of our meeting.”

“My… name is Vaelin Al Sorna,” he said, mystification making him stumble over the words. “I am a Brother of the Sixth Order.”

“Really? What’s that?”

He stared at her. The Seordah were renowned for their insularity but then how could she know his language but not know of the Order.

“I am a warrior in service to the Faith,” he explained.

“Oh, you’re still doing that.” She came closer, her brows furrowed, head angled, red marble eyes regarding him for a moment of unblinking scrutiny. “Ah, still so young. I always assumed you would be older when we met. There is still so much for you to do, Beral Shak Ur. I wish I could tell you it will be an easy road.”

“You speak riddles, lady.” He glanced around at the impossible summer day. “This is a dream, a phantom in my mind.”

“There are no dreams in this place.” She moved past him, reaching out to the stone plinth, her hand hovering over the circular indentation in the centre. “Here there is only time and memory, trapped in this stone until the ages turn it to dust.”

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want of me? Did you bring me here?”

“You brought yourself.” She withdrew her hand and turned back to him. “As for who I am, my name is Nersus Sil Nin and I want many things, none of which you can give me.”

He realised he was still holding his sword and sheathed it, feeling faintly foolish. “The man I killed, where is he?”

“You killed a man here?” She closed her eyes and a note of sadness coloured her voice. “How weak have we become? I had hoped I was wrong, that my sight had failed me. But if blood can be spilled here then it has all happened.” She opened her eyes again. “My people are scattered are they not? They hide in the forests whilst you hunt them to extinction?”

“You do not know of your own people?”

“Please. Tell me.”