SciFi and Fantasy Stories: Awakening: Chapter Four

High overhead giant shadowy boughs allied with the new moon to form dark cancerous blotches that swallowed large patches of the star-studded sky. The gloom that stretched out under the guidance of this murky coalition seemed to take on dimensions of its own, giving the impression of actively drawing even the faintest of illumination into its depths, tainting all it touched. Within the canyon, only a few of the boldest lights still burned, hopelessly scattered amongst the handful of towers, edifices and cubbies that dotted the canyon floor, honeycombed the cliff faces or perched amongst the trees. Yet even this most resolute darkness did not stop one determined climber from scaling the canyon walls with the speed and ease of a spider.

She was going to be late, Ariel realised. Only by a minute or two, but late nevertheless. She hated that, for it meant giving her master the upper hand. However her unintentional day-long reflection in the temple had left her little time for much else. No doubt her friends would be wondering where she was, but she hadn’t even had the chance to stop for a meal or a change of clothes, let alone a conversation.

As if on cue, her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t fed it since supper the night before. Well food would simply have to wait, the agile young elf concluded as she continued to climb. While she didn’t object to keeping her master waiting, he’d been in an especially odd mood of late- more intense and more… threatening. He had always been unpredictable at best, but this morning he had seemed to have been ever so subtly more aggressive towards her.

A few pebbles came loose under her grasp, jolting her back to reality. Careful Ariel, she warned herself. It wasn’t just the master she had to watch out for. She knew there were a large number of Furies Heart students who would be overjoyed to see her plummet the hundreds of feet to the canyon floor. Damned if she was going to grant them the satisfaction simply because she had gotten careless while climbing without a harness or the aid of any spells.

Determined to disappoint any of the bloodthirsty barbarians who may have been watching, Ariel focussed on the task at hand, hauling her athletic frame over the rocky lip in a matter of seconds. The effort cost her however, for when she reached the top she found herself slightly out of breath. She did not dare stop though, despite the springy green turf that seemed to beckon invitingly to her, urging her to rest within its cushioning, verdant embrace. She was already late enough as it was.

Instead she hurried on, her lithe, pale form weaving amongst the trees like the Banshee her Pryde had been named for. The silence closed in around her as she moved, a deep and abiding hush that was broken only by the muted roar of the waterfalls a short distance away. Although it reminded her of the stillness preceding dawn, it somehow possessed a different texture- like the saturninity that settled over the forest before the leopard sprang for the kill.

Then, like a glimpse of that elusive hunting cat, a flash of gold appeared nestled in the darkness, signalling to Ariel she had finally reached her destination. The master was waiting for her, she knew, an instant before his almost unearthly voice reached her ears in a hauntingly familiar moon dark serenade.

“Will you dance among the stars with me,
Smile in Luna’s grace?
Look at me through Beauty's eyes,
With pure innocence on your face?
And return to the stars by my side
To our final resting place?”

His eyes were closed as he lay, stretched out on the grass, seemingly oblivious to his student’s arrival. He had taken the time to dress, Ariel noted gratefully, as she surveyed his prone form. Black seemed to be the colour of choice, for mask, breeches, shirt and even his knee-high buckle-up boots featured in that sombre shade. Yet it had always been that way with him, perhaps so he could better blend in with the shadows he seemed to revel in so much. It suited him in that sense, she concluded.

Continued her observation, the keen-eyed elf was able to discern a few more details that she had missed in her first cursory appraisal. The fabric of his shirt- although not made of the fine silk she had seen on some of the visiting ambassadors to the Towers- appeared nevertheless to be made of a high quality yet rougher material she could not identify. Perhaps something intended for minor nobility, she concluded uneasily, aware that there was little she knew about her mysterious master.

His mask too caught her attention. The black silk seemed flawless, the silver vines embroidered on the material flowing unbroken in its twining, seamless pattern. It was as if the great gash she had inflicted on it that morning had never happened.

The young etrielle was puzzled by this, for although the Lionar’s quarters was strictly off-limits- a rule that he reinforced with the aid of several magical wards- Ariel had managed to gain entry a time or two before, when it had been necessary to search it thoroughly. There had been no sign that the strange gold elf kept any copies of the exquisitely stitched cloth, leading her to conclude that he wore the only one.

Yet if that were so why then did it not show any sign of repair, she wondered. Even the most skilled of seamstresses would have left a faint flaw in the mended material. It only confirmed once more in Ariel’s mind that the odd adornment must possess some form of strong enchantment woven into it.

Unaware of the conclusions his patient apprentice drew, the Masked Lionar sang on.

“Will you dance among the trees with me,
Where Nature's children roam?
Cry the sorrow of an age,
Read in Time's great tome?
And seek eternal comfort
In our ever-lasting home?”

Ariel shivered at the poignant lament, remembering where she had heard it before. The verses were part of a final hymn, traditionally performed before one of the People undertook a quest to seek their fate. Such occasions were often troubled ones, for rarely did such a quester ever return to their homeland.

Hearing her movement, the Lionar opened his striking azure eyes, his gaze piercing into Ariel’s own. When she displayed no further reaction, he pulled himself up off the ground, brushing his long golden hair back into place. He then slipped the longsword that was belted to his side out of the scabbard- ignoring the more elaborate one that was strapped to his back- and levelled the blade at his young student.

“If you are ready,” he began without preamble, his melodic voice strangely flat, “Why don’t you tell me why you continue to learn to kill?” He crouched slightly, falling into his customary, aggressive stance as he began to close the distance between them.

Feeling the air of violence that surrounded her volatile master, Ariel also drew her sword. Assuming a defensive stance, she readied herself to parry any blow he might launch her way, unwilling to make an attack of her own or undermine the belief that she now resolutely voiced, “Because sometimes to protect means to kill.”

Stalking toward her like the golden predator she had envisioned earlier, he drew swiftly closer before exploding into action. His blade sliced through the air in a silver flash, slamming again and again into her own in a furious blur of movement.

All conscious thought left the determined defender’s mind, her body reacting automatically, each movement fluid as she blocked her master’s strikes. Despite its speed and power, the routine was simple, one which Ariel easily defeated, the strength of her body and mind uniting in a single purpose.

Sparks flew and the silence of the night was rent by wailing screeches as swords met. The Lionar pressed in on her again, his razor sharp blade severing air as easily as Ariel had seen it sunder flesh. It gleamed once, catching a glimmer of starlight amongst the shadows, as it raced in a horizontal strike at her neck, aiming to decapitate her.

Ducking easily, Ariel mirrored the angle of her master’s sword, catching the flat of her own blade in her free hand to reinforce it as a second blow descended towards the crown of her head. Thwarted in his original intention, her canny master slid his blade down hers, aiming for her exposed hand while his sword screamed eagerly for blood.

However the young warrior had not survived as long as she had to fall for such a predictable attack. Instead she simply let go of the blade, angling it towards the ground and flicking her master’s weapon away. It seemed rather uncharacteristic of him, the thought wormed its way inside her mind, that he would try something so obvious. She was aware the Lionar was going easy on her, for had he truly wanted to kill her, Ariel had no doubt that she would be dead already.

Still, it seemed a little unusual that he had not raised any defensive magics, as was his custom. It was a wise and often necessary precaution that he normally undertook to protect both fighters from any recklessness. However this time it seemed almost as if he was daring her to strike out at him. His attacks were strong, but not committed to killing, instead simply testing, attempting to goad her on.

His assault overcome, the Lionar sprang backwards, rolling out of the melee to come up ready in a low crouch. It was not until then that Ariel realised that her master did not wear the cloak that marked him as an instructor of the Towers. Her delicate blue eyebrows raised in surprise at the observation, while a feeling in her stomach shrieked that she was in danger. However she did not allow it to gain control of her- could not- but instead kept her tawny eyes locked on her masters, allowing her awareness to once again extend beyond them both, keeping her guard.

With a voice that built in its intensity to parallel his attacks, the Lionar spoke again, “Anariel, why don’t you tell me why you murder?” He punctuated the last word by charging at the waiting elf-girl, his pace harder and faster than before. A dizzying array of slashes sliced around her body, each seeming progressively faster than the last, but all defeated as the pale skinned etrielle, who seemed little more than a child, rose to the challenge.

The Lionar’s casual dismissal of her reply burned in Ariel’s veins, fortifying her resolve and sharpening her focus. It was as if the world had suddenly become clearer, she realised, noticing each shadow-cloaked crease in her opponent’s mask, each imperceptible flaw in his blade.

The ringing clashes of their weapons sounded in her ears in a strange cacophonic harmony, and oddly inspired, Ariel began to sing. It had been a longstanding habit of hers, first started perhaps out of a nervous reaction to the deadly situations she had faced so young. Yet even from an early age, she had found magic in music, had felt its strength working in both her body and soul. It was not until she had reached the Towers that she had learnt the true power of such a seemingly eccentric quirk.

“Come on, this isn't it,” her master taunted as if seizing on a weakness. “This is child’s play. Show me how to kill.” A lightning fast head high slash narrowly missed Ariel as she twisted nimbly aside. “Songs are for children and mothers!”

He screamed the last as he pressed back at her once more. His attacks were growing in ferocity, his blade taking out several low hanging branches, as Ariel dodged dexterously aside, her graceful steps seeming as elegantly choreographed as an ancient elven dance.

“Is this how you intend to defend people,” he jeered at her when she did not rise to his bait, “By running away? By using your sword to stop my harm? That’s not why I taught you how to use it, Anariel.” He lunged forward, thrusting venomously at her heart. Stepping aside easily, Ariel soon found herself off balance, forced to spin frantically away as he reversed his slash, narrowly missing her back.

Her hair swirled about her in a sapphire curtain of shadow, dangerously obscuring her vision for a moment. Knowing she was in trouble, and hoping to buy herself some time and space, she launched herself in a back flip, somersaulting effortlessly through the air.

Not a moment too soon, for as she executed the tumble, she heard the distinctive swish of his blade cutting through the air where she had stood. Flipping a second time for good measure, she landed lightly, sword held ready as she doggedly met her master’s malevolent gaze. For a moment she considered making an attempt at disarming him, a move that was distinctly unusual for the usually straight forward fighter. Then she remembered the lesson she had learnt that morning- it could be dangerous to the point of fatality to attempt a technique that she was neither trained for nor familiar with.

As if seeing her indecision, the Lionar continued his mocking, content to keep his distance and attack his opponent verbally. “You are as conceited as Nailyn with his non-violence talk,” he ridiculed her scornfully, referring to one of her fellow Pryde members.

Trained in unarmed combat, Nailyn, like the rest of the Banshees, had the potential to become one of the deadliest fighters of their generation. However the peace-loving wood elf disdained using his abilities, instead neglecting them for a pacific path that had occasionally landed his Pryde members in trouble when he had failed to come to their aid.

It had always puzzled Ariel, why someone so dedicated to peace did not see that it was sometimes necessary to use force in defence of that peace. It did not make sense to her, particularly when coupled with the fact that he had chosen to study at the Towers- an elite academy that taught specialised forms of combat training.

Thinking that he may have found a chink in his students armour, the Master of the Banshee’s Loft continued his taunts, “A blade like a warrior hungers for the blood of his foe!”

“Perhaps your blade does,” Ariel retorted contemptuously, nodding to the double pronged sword that still lay strapped across his back. She had long despised the unusual sword- almost as a living thing- more for the unknown enchantments that she knew it to possess than its bizarre design. The twin shining blades- crafted of what Ariel suspected was mithral- trailed a sinister darkness when wielded, and had also been responsible for an attempt on her life.

It had been stolen by a junior instructor of the Furies Heart- the same one who had been left in charge when the newly formed Banshees had trespassed on their territory, intending to study their technique. He had broken into the Lionar’s quarters while the instructor had been away and lain in wait for them at the Banshee’s Loft. Sensing something was wrong, the Banshees had quickly discovered and disarmed him.

Yet it was not the attack against them that had been the most disturbing part of the incident. Indeed the Banshees had almost come to expect the occasional ambush by groups of the enraged barbarians seeking revenge- at least when the single minded fools thought they could get away with it without being expelled. No, the most sickening part of the whole distressing debacle had been the fact that he had also slaughtered a whole patrol of his own students.

Once he had been disarmed he had claimed that the sword had been to blame. While Ariel customarily followed her master’s belief that a tool was but a weapon- and hence never guilty of the crimes it committed under the guidance of its wielder- she couldn’t help but feel that perhaps there was an element of truth in his claim.

“Do not deny the truth, like Nailyn. Only a fool believes that a blade can save a life,” the Lionar declared, his blue eyes glittering spitefully over the black silk of his mask, as he leisurely advanced. “This madness you profess will surely cost you a life, if it persists!” With the speed of a striking cobra, he lashed out at her, using a rapid one-two combination, first aiming high at her eyes, then dropping down in an attempt to disembowel.

Yet music and anger blazed on in Ariel’s spirit, pushing her to new heights. Each parry was in place, executed with a pace and force that would have astounded the young student had she stopped to realise, as she violently pushed her master’s blade away. “Better I fall victim to this madness than another of my people fall an unnecessary victim to my sword,” she vehemently spat, as she shoved the finely honed body of her instructor back.

“If you do not bloody me, then perhaps I should truly draw my weapon?” he sneered, gesturing to his enchanted blade, still strapped tightly to his body. “How will you feel when your kindred fall to my blade then? Death absolves nothing.” He stepped back once more, lowering his sword baitingly towards her, his eyes filled with a preternatural fierceness she have never seen before.

His words evoked a memory, long buried under a swarm of others. It had been after the… death of Anowyn Oakwhisper, the student of the Furies Heart. Having tracked her down and convinced her to return, the Lionar had accompanied Ariel back to their training ground and quarters, the Banshee’s Loft. Princess Amaralia Mairara- head of the Furies Heart order- had been waiting for them, ready to claim blood for blood.

Unwilling to send his student to certain death, the Lionar had invoked Pryde law, thus taking Ariel’s place. A bloody and vicious battle had ensued, with the barbarian princess largely dominating the skirmish, while the uncharacteristically apathetic Lionar fighting like one who sought his death. Perhaps there was something within his past that urged him to seek early passage to Arvandor, Ariel concluded, but, as he himself said, death absolves nothing.

“Perhaps you should remember that more often,” she voiced her thought, before continuing to sing, waiting for the attack she expected would be his last.

To her surprise, however, it never came. Instead his eyes softened, turning the warm shade of a summer sky, as he sheathed the ordinary longsword at his side. “Perhaps you are right,” he acknowledged her point.

The midnight silence dropped over them in a sudden wave, as master and apprentice studied each other through the cloak of darkness. Fearing some kind of trick, Ariel remained on guard, making no move to attack, but neither sheathing her blade. Always be prepared, she repeated to herself in an attempt to quell her uncertainty, as her master’s eyes trailed over her face, watching each action and movement.

Finally he spoke, his melodic voice seeming almost gentle after the harsh ringing of their swords. “Celil once told me that fortune favours the bold,” he began, referring to the headmaster of the Towers, with whom he shared a peculiar friendship. “It was a fact that was never contested until this day- when someone who prepared themselves faced me. I shall be happy to inform him that my apprentice is both compassionate and wise when I see him next.”

Startled, Ariel lowered her blade, sincerely shocked to hear such high praise of herself leave her master’s lips. Seeing her surprise, the golden skin at the corner of the Lionar’s eyes crinkled, in what she could only guess was a smile concealed behind the silver-patterned silk, before smoothing out as he continued more sombrely.

“When a swordsmith tests a blade, those that are found lacking are discarded. Those with the greatest potential can be honed to a cause. The greatest swords by far, however, are those that begin with a cause, and then are honed. Yours is such.”

Meeting the astonishment in Ariel’s amber eyes, the unpredictable gold elf further shocked his student by entering a deep and reverent bow, his long, tawny hair tumbling off his shoulders like a waterfall. “It would be my honour to assist in honing your skills, to carry out your cause, Etrielle Anariel.”

Rising he brushed the long waves back, allowing the younger moon elf to see the humility that shone in his eyes. “If you still believe there is still some semblance of worthiness within me after this test, please meet me here just before dawn.”

It was the only time, Ariel realised, that she had seen her master humble himself. Just as it was the first time she had ever been struck speechless. Peering up at the gaping hole of the new moon, the Lionar was turning to leave, before the stunned elf-girl finally found the right question to ask her master. “Is that why I am still here?”

Giving no reaction, he began to walk alone into the darkness beyond the grove they had fought in. Devastation surrounded, his feet moving lightly over a carpet of shredded leaves, while his path was framed by broken branches, hanging drunkenly as crimson sap dripped like the blood neither combatant had shed. Finally, slippng like ink into water, he slowly melted away, leaving the forest to deliver its own answer in a warm breeze and a soft kiss.