© 2004 by Alissa R. Ivanovich

            Tendrils of mossy green light burned through the quilted black clouds and ebbed in their last moments as dusk resigned to darkness. It was this eerie empyrean display that gave King Treyen’s world the name Greenshadow and he couldn’t even see it. Dancing in hollow shades, devoid of its celebrated color, it appeared to him only as the reflection of water off ebony stone.

            Of two eyes, his attacker had somehow chosen to blind the one which could perceive the color green. Irony had never been so cruel to Treyen. Green was not the only thing he had lost.

            Eleven years as the King of the City of Soldiers and this was the first assassination attempt that succeeded in reaching him. It had barely been a week since his cloaked attacker had caught him by surprise outside of his children’s bedchamber. His bodyguards were swiftly slain and Treyen himself had taken a clean slice through his eye. Tonight, he could still feel the pain marring his life. It throbbed through his eye socket, his skull and his pride. Dizziness swept over him, blotting out bits of sight in his remaining eye and mocking his image as the elite King of Soldiers.

            Treyen knew in his soul that if his mind had not been softened by the affections of his four young children, he would have crushed the lunatic who did this to him. Shed him of both his eyes, wound and leave him a cripple to wander a deep prison in darkness and shame.

            Merciful even now. he thought smugly.

            The truth of the matter was, his assailant escaped, clean and swift. Nothing an enforcer or bounty hunter couldn’t clear up by another three days time.

            Two lanky skeleton cranes glided past his window issuing a harmonic lament to warn of nightfall’s approach.

            They did this every damnedable night.

            Treyen closed the window and looked over the countless law and taxing papers stacked on his desks and tilted mapping tables. Black ink blurred and splotched together as if his study was suddenly caught beneath a downpour. His head ached and threatened to split in quarters.

            He cursed and threw the papers from his desk with the sweep of one arm. He softly touched the bandaging over his right eye and took deep breaths to regain control of his frustration.

            The broad study was packed with books, framed maps, desks and low, round cushioned chairs felt closed and stagnant. He returned to the window to reopen it, but it merely rattled in defiance. He applied pressure, but the iron frame did not give way and the thick, mottled glass was irremovable.

            Treyen thought briefly of breaking it open, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He could still hear the skeleton cranes outside.

            There was a knock at the heavy, carved doors.

            “I told you, I’m not seeing anyone tonight!” Treyen barked in aggravation.

            “Your Majesty. We should...” the muffled words of a guard became inaudible through the thick doors.

            Treyen felt outraged that a simple guard would address him, disregarding his order of solitude. “If you speak to me out of turn again, I’ll have your position! I didn’t become the King of Tennan on luck and a flattering smile!”

            The door creaked open and the armored guard stepped through.

            “Highness, we should be closer to better protec...to better protec...” the guard stammered.

            “Insolent and moronic. You were supposed to be Tennan’s best. I’ll have your captain off his position for assigning a stuttering idiot like you here.” Treyen declared. His head hurt worse than ever.

            The guard released the door, staggered forward and swung to the ground; blood pooled on the floor beneath him and he did not move.   

            King Treyen had a blade in his hand in half a second.

            One of his men ran toward him. “Stay where you are Highness. We have this under control.”

            Treyen heard the sound of air and sidestepped, avoiding the length of the savagely pronged spear that would have skewered him along side the twitching body of his confident guard.

            A figure stood in the open doorway, dark and without detail.

            Though his vision was not able to discern whether the large man standing beneath his family crest was one of his own soldiers or a stranger, Treyen’s vast battle experience told him an enemy was at hand.

            “Who are you?” the King demanded, already in battle stance.

            “Your death.” the man replied in a low, gravely voice.

            Treyen laughed. “I find that hard to be-” he stopped himself short and parried a three sided throwing dagger that spun through the air, aimed at his throat. It clanged to the floor and blood trickled from his neck.

            He deflected the dagger, what had happened?

            His free hand went to the side of his throat and tore a thick dart from the vein. The motion was painless. The poison was already in effect.

            The dart rolled from his hand. It was dark brown with scarlet stripes and stringy green feathers. He recognized it quickly. A paralyzer laced with fever-poison!

            A terrible rush of searing heat and hypothermic cold waged war from his feet to his head; bones to skin. He felt as though three tons of pressure was suddenly pressed upon him. A lesser man would have crumbled instantly, the King, no small creature, went down slowly. The vision from his remaining eye threatened to fade out under the stress, as did his consciousness, but Treyen allowed no such weakness from his assailed body.

            Before hitting the ground, King Treyen watched the man approach; darkness hung on him like a wet cloak. He could recognize no features but that of a tall, strong soldier.

            A boot enlined with steel kicked him onto his stomach.

            Unable to see, Treyen could hear the back of his shirt slice open. He could hear a long, breathy growl and the gnashing of fangs. He could hear the skeleton cranes singing beside his window. He could feel the delirium of fever.

            He could feel the acid being poured onto his back.

            The King of the City of Soldiers clutched a deadly sharp blade in his hand, a breath away from his enemy, and lay completely helpless to fight.

 

 

*   *   *

 

           

            Tennan, the City of Soldiers did not impress Elthea Di’Ania. For all of its imposing statues and towering architecture, she had seen greater things in more modest displays.

            The city had served a noble purpose upon its founding, but that was long ago when Vile-spawn demons regularly invaded the north. Since then, the sturdy stone walls and turrets had been added upon to a superfluous degree, encrusted with bronze and topped off with a flurry of banners and flags. Nothing more than commercial vanity.

            Still, Tennan did produce skilled fighters. A handful of whom where escorting Elthea’s canopied coach to the House of the King.

            One of the several handmaidens seated with her in the coach bowed her head and asked gently, “We’ve nearly arrived, are you feeling alright Radiance?”

            “I’m fine.” Elthea said in a tone she reflected as being slightly too strong.

            Sometimes she felt as though the maidens were too eager to find her unwell in hopes that she might release herself from the glorious curse as Oracle, and pass her talisman and power to one of them.

            One day that moment would come, and she would die as did the Oracle before her. Much as she felt the release of death would be welcome, she certainly wasn’t going to expire in a soft, satin coach after a three day ride.

            When the carriage team of spiral horned Voloru came to a dancing halt, Elthea did feel ill. Not from the carriage or the horse-like creatures that pulled it, she felt sick from experience.

            Elthea Di’Ania had survived 35 years as the Oracle and she knew when something terrible was going to happen. She knew without Looking. Perhaps this place would mean her death.

            It couldn’t be... she thought, trying to combat the feeling. Not yet.

            The door to the coach opened. One of her priests, a guardian, nodded respectfully. “We are here your Radiance.”

            Elthea followed her procession of priests and maidens from the landing into the grandiose House of the King, still escorted by a handful of darkly armored soldiers.

            She had never seen the inside of this King’s House, but she had been within the home walls of three other kings and a queen in her lifetime. It would be simple to assume that this place would be lavished with extraordinarily costly decor, as were the other royal houses; over-stuffed with expensive trinkets, furniture, servants and gregarious courtiers.

            Treyen’s house boasted no excessive displays of wealth, but rather, accomplishment. There must have been nothing short of two hundred cased and displayed weapons in the front entry alone. Exotic black and silver furs reshaped by twisted metal frames hung as decorative art pieces from the walls. Skeletal suits of hollow armor loomed at the corners of the wide room and were respectfully viewed by a casually passing soldier.

            Framed perfectly by a pair of granite stairways, there hung a deep and dark painting much too large to be mistaken for a humble piece.  

            A perfectly realistic likeness of the King stood tall, atop a mound of demon bones, the sun triumphantly rising out of the darkness over a green moor behind him. He clenched a chain in both of his balled fists, each leading to a monstrous black Island Lion that roared beneath him as if under his control.

            One of the most vicious creatures in Greenshadow, it was a very rare but very prestigious thing to have an Island Lion domesticated enough to sit beside you and not rip your spine out of your throat.

            Elthea stared at the long twisted horns, the thick rumpled skin and unforgiving eyes of the deadly creatures depicted. She doubted the King’s sanity if he had willingly sat anything less than three miles from one of these beasts uncaged.

            Her thought and attention was called away by a greeting.

            “Welcome to the House of the King, Lady Oracle.” said a portly nobleman as he approached. He was dressed in a very expensive assortment of river-quail furs, purple and cream, jeweled with bronze ornaments. Long strands of the finest woven silks flowed freely off the hem and lining of his vest and low sweeping coat tails, as was the current Tennan trend.

            The group stopped walking and immediately took formation, priests in the back, handmaidens ahead of them, and Elthea Di’Ania, foremost. Tennan’s soldier escorts stood awkwardly at the edges of the triangle of guests and waited.

            Everyone in Elthea’s party wore a uniform or gown of white and diamond blue. The Oracle herself had on an elegant dress that trailed slightly behind her. The hood of her day cloak arched to allow a honey brown braid of hair to reach the back of her knees. If not for the ornate silver jewelry that dripped from her hair and ears, she would have looked like an ordinary young girl. The freckles over her nose and cheeks made her face appear even younger, but anyone with true intellect could see the horrible wisdom that resided in the depths of her grey eyes.

            The nobleman who greeted them swiftly proved himself to hold little intellect.

            “By the Smiling Lady, you’re just a child!” he exclaimed and laughed somewhat nervously.

            “I’m fifty five years old, sir.” Elthea said flatly.

            The nobleman looked truly astonished. “Maybe you could consider passing your Stone of Power to my wife, Lady Oracle.” he began to laugh nervously again.

            “Your name?” asked Elthea unamused by such an open display of ignorance. There was a time when she wouldn’t have minded the joke, but that was 30 years ago when the weight of the universe threatened to rip her fragile human mind apart only occasionally.

            “Oh, forgive me; it’s just so wonderful to actually meet you. I never thought I would. My name is Aurgos Mondoc, cousin to the Queen of Roswind.” he sounded proud of the relation, and would have puffed up his chest if he didn’t have so much gut in the way. “You have had a long ride. Is there anything you require before you meet the King? Food? Rest?”

            “You may lead us to our quarters, but we will not be staying long. I don’t enjoy invitations at the point of a spear,” Elthea said glancing at the stoic guards standing at attention around them.

            Lord Mondoc led them through the east wing to their large, but considerably plain rooms and sent them refreshments immediately. Elthea, as always, was forced to share a room with her handmaidens, as they were to be by her side at all times.

            “Before you report to the King, Lord Mondoc, tell me what has happened to him.” she requested.

            Mondoc laughed.

            “Tell you. So you do have a sense of humor Lady Oracle,” he chuckled. “Me tell you what happened?”

            Possibly to save the man from a second reprimand, one of Elthea’s handmaiden’s spoke up. “Lord Mondoc, calling on the Sight saps large amounts of energy from the Oracle. She should not call on it more than once in twelve hours. She is saving that energy for the question of your King. Secondly, it has been rumored that horrible things have happened to the King. If her Radiance Looks to see what has happened to him, she would endure every moment of pain in the same way he did. She feels what she Sees. We must help her avoid such horrible strains.”

            Lord Mondoc sobered quickly. “My apologies, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t wish what happened to King Treyen on anyone. Three weeks ago he was attacked outside of his children’s bedchamber. It was a surprise attack; both King Treyen and his guards were taken completely unawares. The guards were killed quickly and his Highness lost an eye in the fight. The assassin fled without a trace.”

            “Thank you, Lord Mondoc,” said Elthea after he fell silent for a time.

            “Wait Lady Oracle, there’s more. At first we thought it was simply a failed assassination attempt. Unlike cases of this type we’ve dealt with in the past, our agents could not discover the culprit behind the ploy. Our investigators could do nothing to track down the assassin himself. Then a little more than a week ago, he returned! The guards were better equipped this time, but not one of those protecting the King were spared. This assassin darted the King with a fever poison that would prevent him from moving his body, but not render him unconscious. Using an acid from the deep forest, he burned the shape of an Island Lion’s head into the King’s back. Our King is an elite fighter among men but under the influence of the dart poison, his Highness couldn’t even defend himself.”

             There was something horrifying happening here, something was begining, she could feel that much without Looking. She could taste the danger, it was personal to her.

            No, she reassured herself. I’m not going to die yet.

            “Were any clues left this time as to who this man is?” Elthea asked.

            Lord Mondoc’s face was pale, no hearty laugh would light up his pudgy cheeks now. He stroked his shortly trimmed beard nervously. “No. Not one. He left a spear through the center of one of our men. We had it studied by our finest weapons experts, but none could identify it. It’s likely he crafted it himself. As for him, no one so much as saw his face. The King described him as being tall, cloaked and armored, and followed by heavy shadows.”

            Mondoc’s face looked grey now. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “His Highness heard the breathing of a beast. This may be no man at all. May the Smiling Lady Anuessa protect all of us- it may be a new demon! New Vile spawn.”

            “I doubt that. I don’t need my Sight to know that the demons haven’t mutated in one-hundred years and are far to the south. But thank you for the information Lord Mondoc. It’s becoming late and we’re tired.”

            “Yes, of course Lady Oracle. Whenever you’re ready, the guard outside of your room will lead you to his Highness. Don’t mind the hour if it’s late, he doesn’t sleep anymore.” Mondoc said and left the room with a courteous bow.

            “Pyria, Hostyn and Urial go to the priest’s room and tell them what Lord Mondoc has told us, then retire. I know you’re all as tired as I am,” Elthea  said, closing the doors quietly.

            She was right, they all were as tired as she was, but she would not be resting tonight. After her handmaidens were very fast asleep, she slipped from the room alone and asked the guard to lead her to the King.

            The over-eager handmaidens she traveled with were smothering her to an unbearable degree, seeming to wish her death so that they may become the next Oracle. She couldn’t stomach their presence one more moment.

            Her smooth gown trailing behind her, Elthea Di’Ania followed her guide to the north wing, graceful and silent, like a white ghost in the House of the troubled King.

            Passing officials and doctors stopped to stare at her as she went by, but she paid them no mind. She often got similar attention from bystanders when summoned.

            Of all the summons she had responded to and the meetings she attended, she had never gone alone. If she died, unable to pass on her stone of power to another woman or girl, it would mean the end of the Oracles. It was her responsibility to keep the line of Oracles in existence. Each step she took compounded her understanding of her own recklessness. What made things worse was how strongly she could sense death; even more potent with every stride. She had never felt it like this before.

            Knowing full-well of the danger she faced and the consequences that could result if the worst should happen, the defiant Elthea walked through a line of heavily armed guards, into the chamber where awaited the King of the City of Soldiers.

            “The Radiant Oracle Di’Ania. At last. Welcome.” said the King, rising from a giant burgundy chair.

            Elthea did not respond to his greeting but briefly studied King Treyen. He was six-feet and two inches tall at the very least, and the way his over-threaded black shirt bunched, he seemed well muscled. The strings of his dark eye patch disappeared into thick midnight hair that was sparsely salted with silver, and the one eye that did show was dark blue and calculating. If one only judged his health by his movements and body language, one may believe that this man was fit and healthy as an ox. But his skin, unhealthy and grey, was the only visible signature of the torture he had so recently undergone.

            This is a strong man. thought Elthea. Who could have done this to a man like him?

            “Lieutenant, send in our other guest.” the King instructed flatly, and the soldier complied. He resumed his seat but did not lean back in his chair. “Lady Oracle, make yourself comfortable. Would you like something to eat? Dinner is some kind of marinated wild game, with wine.”

            “I’m not here for gourmet dinner or light conversation...Highness,” she said without expression, and took a seat on one end of the oval dark-wood table.

            “Lady Oracle, you are after my own heart. I was attempting to be polite, but I’m glad I don’t need to play that game with you.”

            “No, indeed you don’t.” she agreed.

            “You’ll find I’m a direct person. Where is your entourage?”

            “Is that your Question?”

            “Hopefully you don’t need to activate your power to answer that.”

            “They are resting. I decided to meet you alone,” she answered confidently.

            Treyen raised his eyebrows, one of them was scarred. “The Oracle alone? I’m flattered. Don’t worry, my guards will protect you better than those priests of yours.”

            “Let’s not just talk about me.” she said seriously.

            “We won’t, I assure you. The first thing you could do is help me identify someone,” he said, leaning slightly against the arm of his chair.

            “I thought that’s what I was here for.”

            “Of course, but a man arrived here two days before you, with a bold claim. He says he knows you.”

            As Treyen spoke, the only door to the windowless room opened again.

            “Here he is now,” said Treyen.

            A thin man, about the same height as the King, walked through the doorway. He had short, dark brown hair, a trimmed goatee and icy grey eyes. The twenty-seven year old man was a charismatic artist, writer and actor who always wore a ready smile. Elthea knew him very well.

            She turned and stood slowly. “Vellan?”

            “Hello Elthea.” he wielded her first name smoothly and without its customary honorifics. His grin was present as usual.

            Her hood fell back as she embraced him. She felt the first smile in months pass over her face.

            “It’s been so long,” she reflected.

            “You could be easier to find,” he said, giving her braid a soft, childish tug.

            “King Treyen,” Elthea said turning to face the head of the table, “this man is the Prophet.”

            “So he claimed,” said the King, unsurprised. “Good. As they say, with Prophet and Oracle at your side, the keys to destiny rest in your grasp.”

            Treyen made a motion with his hand and much to Elthea’s surprise, soldiers stepped out of the shadows, shoulder to shoulder, forming an arch around the entire room. One by one they filed out of the room and secured the door.

            “The precautions I have to live with now,” Treyen commented emotionlessly. “I wanted to have a meeting with the two of you in private. It’s impossible for me to know who my allies and enemies are anymore and I must discover the name of this assassin.”

            Vellan sat beside Elthea and slumped comfortably in his chair. “That you will. You could ask Elthea for it, but I’d advise you not to waste your single Question to her. Not until after I tell you a story preserved by the shared memory of the Prophets before me. I believe the story of this man may lead you to the identity you are searching for.”

            “By all means, tell me your story, Prophet. And don’t lag about, I don’t have time for poetic chagrin and senseless rants.”

            Vellan smiled. “Of course not. But no interruptions, if you please. The story that I am about to tell you is not an idea of the future, but of the past. It’s the story of a young man named Ranedar Waxdrin. Don’t get too excited about this name, Highness, death has long overcome him.

            “I won’t start at the beginning, because they’re often boring and uneventful. So I’ll begin where it matters most. Ranedar Waxdrin was an extremely talented soldier, ahead of his class, and trained in the arts of weaponry and combat in this very city. He probably lived on the other side of town with his wife and daughter.

            “As soon as his training was complete, he was deployed to eradicate the last remaining Demon Lords of Tarrel’s Fissure, in the southern deserts. He and two others were the only survivors of a thirty-five-man mission. I’m sure he would never care to reaccount the horrors that he had faced and survived there. He probably resigned as a soldier to be nearer to his wife and child, and enlisted to guard wealthy families and merchants on their journeys on the Safe Roads through the wilderness.”

            Vellan took a glass of wine from the center of the table and had a drink. His audience was respectfully silent, and Elthea found the Kings expression unreadable. His brow remained thoughtfully furrowed, like he was trying to memorize everything that Vellan said, and his only movements were to stroke the stubble on his hard face.

            “Good stuff.” Vellan remarked with a smirk and then continued in a sobered tone. “On one of these such journeys, his troop escorted the caravan of a Lord and his twelve year old son. I believe their destination was Titheral, but our memories aren’t what they used to be.” he flashed a quick smile and winked at Elthea. “On route, they were attacked by brigands. The troop of guards may have defeated their numbers, if the brigands didn’t have with them a young Island Lion. Wild and vicious creatures that they are; it broke its chain, turned on both groups and mauled anything it could catch. It slashed the throats of the voloru that pulled the caravan and tore down brigands and guards alike. The Lord’s wagon had tipped on its side, with he and his son still in it. When the lion caught sight of them, it charged.

            “Ranedar struck down the brigands he battled and rushed to save the Lord and his son. Before he was within range, the Lord pulled his boy out from behind him in the carriage...”  Vellan paused as if he too was hearing this story for the first time. His next words were grave and regretful. “…and threw the child into the open jaws of the ravenous lion. In his desperate panic, the Lord managed to save his own life, for Ranedar arrived in that instant and hurled a javelin through the beast’s neck.  In a bloody rage, the Island Lion barreled toward Ranedar, lashing out with its huge and terrible claws. He jumped backward to avoid the attack, but it only lessened the blow. The hit he took was a terrible one, three of the monster’s claws raked across his face, tearing out his eyes.

            “The Island Lion must have let out a horrifying roar as it dragged itself into the forest to die. Ranedar laid on the ground in agony, calling out to his wife and daughter.

            “He could probably hear the Lord’s staggered footsteps approaching and pleaded for his aid. When the Lord reached him, I believe he said in a shaken voice, ‘This is the way of the world’. A knife was driven into Ranedar’s back, and before he lost consciousness, he could faintly hear the Lord ride away on the last surviving Voloru.

            “Five miles away, a Landwalker discovered the body of a young Island Lion, dead in the deep forest. It had a broken barbed chain around its head, swords lodged in its back and a javelin skewering its throat. Wise in the ways of our dangerous wilderness, as many are not, he stripped the lion of its hide, heart, teeth and claws. He could use all of these things for various purposes, or sell them for a good price to merchants who wouldn’t dare to step foot off the Safe Roads.                              

        “Curiosity drove the Landwalker to trace the lion’s tracks and see what had happened to the beast. He was scarcely surprised to find the massacre. By the time he had arrived bandits had already looted the wealthy caravan, the soldiers and brigands alike. It seemed that all who laid in the blood-pooled road were dead, but the Landwalker checked each of them anyway. His suspicions were proved correct, until he found Ranedar. He had been mauled terribly, a knife protruded from his back, and his breathing was shallow at best.

            “Still, the Landwalker decided to care for him, and probably used a self-made litter to drag him to a temporary lair. Through the Landwalker’s unique knowledge of medicines, cures and antidotes, all of which he could concoct from sources in the forest, Ranedar began to mend. At a point, the Landwalker left for a time and returned with a small wormlike parasite.

            “What he had brought back, was the larval form of a creature called a Fendril. I don’t know much about the creature itself, but as the story goes, the Landwalker allowed it to burrow into Ranedar’s spine and after a few months, it matured into some kind of serpentine creature who’s neck joins the back of his own and cover’s its host’s spine beneath the skin. It seems like a torturing atrocity, I know, but the Landwalker had only good intentions. The Fendril may be a frightening parasite, but it lends its host its own inhumanly keen sight.

            “As Ranedar healed, the Landwalker taught him about surviving in the wild; rare and precious information. Once Ranedar was well enough to hunt and collect food on his own, the Landwalker abandoned him without a word or goodbye.

            “Well enough to depart, Ranedar set off on foot to Tennan. He concealed the Fendril as he entered the city and hoped for a modest welcome, though he deserved that of a hero’s for all that he had done and survived. He first went to speak with his superiors but the barrack gates locked him out and he was kicked aside like a dirty beggar. With this face he was not recognized.

            “He attempted everything he could to convince them of his identity, but he was only abused further. To escape further scorn, he fled home. Of all people, his wife would recognize him for certain. He arrived that evening and sat in the front-room of his house. His wife must have been laying their daughter down to bed. He left the lights dim so as not to frighten her with his appearance, but when she found him there, she rushed to embrace him and felt the thick body of the Fendril over his spine. He tried to reassure her, but his cloak fell away revealing his face and the bird-like reptile that protruded from his back. I’m sure she panicked and it took a lot of calming and coaxing to bring her to ease, though her tears never dried and her hands probably shook with fear for the rest of the night.

            “Thinking her husband a tortured husk of who he once was, and that he was  possessed by the strange beast inside of him, she resigned, with much sorrow, to save him. That night she poisoned his dinner, which took effect as soon as he slept. It was the first peaceful sleep he had since the tragic massacre on the Safe Road, but he was awakened early as the Fendril’s body detected the poison within him.

            “When he forced himself awake, he found his house empty. His wife had taken their daughter and fled. Pain worse than that delivered by the lion’s claws raked through him. The full effects of rejection and betrayal coursed through him faster than the poison itself.

            “The man probably lay there for a time, resigned to let himself fade from this world. Stronger than his resignation, however, was the Fendril’s instinct to survive, and it drove him to a less reputable part of the city to find the antidote. Likely, there he could trade some things of decent value, for he had no money to visit a traditional healer.

            “He lingered in the dark part of town, until he was well. At this time he was approached by a less-than-reputable man. He was looking for men without fear of death, to travel to Roswind and ‘aid’ plague victims.

            “Unfortunately, Ranedar learned a few things about the plague after arriving in the merchant city Roswind. It spread fastest and farthest from a person who was either dying or dead, from its last stage. Incurable, the only way to stop it from spreading, would be to kill everyone who had it, before its final stage. This was his task, and the task of the other broken down men who had accepted the job.

            “The most humane way to do this was to first drug the victim with numbing and sleeping solution, then take their life as cleanly and quickly as possible. Ranedar must have killed dozens upon dozens. From old men, to the young; women and children, and babies alike; even some of his fellow ‘Mercy-Killers’ who had been affected. Some of the Mercy Killers with weaker stomachs quit but Ranedar stayed until the disease was eradicated and the job completely finished.

            “As the last bodies were lined in rows for burning, a mourner found a message written on a nearby wall. It read, “This is the way of the world”, and it was scribed in the blood of the plague victims. It was a message left by Ranedar, and the words of the Lord who left him to die for his heroic bravery.

            “After that, Ranedar vanished.”  said and took a long drink of wine.

            Elthea was shaken by the story. She sat perfectly still and did not say a word. Silently, she was very glad the Prophet had spared her a look into that man’s life. It would have taken her days to recover from the trauma that had not even been fully expressed in Vellan’s words.

            The Prophet put down his third glass of wine, and squeezed Elthea’s hand with a warm smile.   

            “I thought you said this man, Ranedar is dead. I don’t have time to listen to long-winded stories that lead nowhere,” King Treyen said, his short temper beginning to flare.

            “Oh, Ranedar is. He was a brave, honorable father and husband. That man is dead. Another remains however. You see, when the lord of mortality came to claim the life of that tortured man; when the two met face to face, it could be said that Death Ran.”

            “I don’t have time for your riddles and poems. I’m through with you wasting my time.” The King rose from his chair and ushered Vellan to leave. “Thank you for your nonsensical blather, jester. See that you find your way out of my House.”

            “It is not nonsensical,” said Vellan, rising from his chair.

            Elthea hoped he wouldn’t leave, she didn’t want to be alone with the King when he asked his question. He made her very ill at ease.

            “The story was a Prophecy, passed to me by those before me in our shared memory. It is very important.” Vellan continued. “I’ve told you the history of the man who hunts you. He knows who you are, as do you and I. You were the Lord. Its imperative that you-”

            Vellan choked on his words. There was a dagger in his stomach.

            Elthea screamed as the Prophet scrambled backwards until he hit the wall, franticly pawing at the weapon as if it would undo what had happened. He stared down at his hands in shock and pulled the blade from his flesh with a blood spattered cough.

            The King stood coldly in place and said nothing.

            Visions of Vellan, her friend, flooded her mind and pleaded to consume her, but she was too wise for denial. Blame that he would not be lying there if it weren’t for her was quickly dissolved. She knew better.

            In less than an instant, she sat beside Vellan and cradling him, tried to suppress the bleeding from a deep and mortal wound. He looked up at her, salt-water welling in his grey eyes.

            Elthea looked at the King as a mother looked at her child who just burned their house down. Humankind was capable of the most horrible things. Anger overwhelmed her. “Why?” she cried.

            “That disgusting cowardice, were it known, would have cost me everything!” Treyen spat, his rage showing for a moment. He regained composure as if remembering he owed no reasoning to anyone.

            Blood soaked gradually into Elthea’s pure white gown. The blood of a man who had long been her friend and closest equal. She quietly pleaded with him to live and  the Prophet smiled.

            “Elthea,” Vellan whispered. Revelation swept over his sweat beaded face. “I love to sail. But the water in coming years will be riddled with orange pirates. The types who would harbor at Dal’Stoke and imprison a nice woman like you.”

            “Save your strength Vellan, you can explain it to me when you’re healed,” Elthea said softly, kissing him on the forehead. Her hands were shaking.

            A strong grip clenched her shoulder and ripped her away from Vellan before throwing her to the floor. The King leered over her, a black smile on his lips.

            “Interesting day you chose not to bring your attendants, Oracle. Is it true that the only thing you cannot See is your own death?” The King was clearly gloating now, as he had gloated in that painting over the Island Lions. When she didn’t reply he answered for her. “It is true. How interesting, the Radiant Elthea Di’Ania in her infinite wisdom,” he mocked, “ends the long line of Oracles.”

            “You wouldn’t kill me,” she said with a vehement glare.

            “Like I wouldn’t kill him?” he said arrogantly, issuing a shrug over his shoulder at Vellan. The Prophet’s eyes were closed, his breathing seemed erratic.

            “The Prophet,” she said with sorrowful regret, “will be awakened in another as soon as he takes his last breath. If you kill me, my line will end.”

            “Demons piss on your line! I don’t care about the long history of the Oracles and I won’t care once all of you are dead and gone!” he shouted and whipped the back of his hand across her face.

            The force of the hit sent Elthea against the wall.

Though rapidly fading, Vellan twitched. “Don’t h-hurt...her,” he  pleaded weakly from where he lay.

    

            There was a heavy knock on the door, but the King ignored it.

            “Do-n’t hurt her!” Vellan repeated more strongly and flung the bloody knife in his hand at Treyen. It barely grazed the side of the King’s leg, merely ripping the cloth of his pants before bouncing off the opposite wall.

            The King picked up the knife and came rapidly toward Vellan.

            “I was finished talking with you, Prophet,” Treyen said and stepped on Vellan’s open wound with his boot. The Prophet cried out in agony.

            “No!” Elthea screamed.

            Treyen rushed back over to her and slammed her against the wall.

            “Answer my question, Radiant Oracle, as is your duty,” he addressed her formally to invoke her powers, ignoring another knock at the door. “How do I kill this man, Ranedar Waxdrin, who hunts me?”

            With a rush of light, images of possibilities rushed through Elthea’s mind, blotting out her vision. As a window being opened in a storm, reality and truth flooded into her like a blast of raging wind. The answer came to her quickly. Due to its unexpected simplicity, less energy was expended in its retrieval.

            Elthea Di’Ania breathed heavily with her back against the wall. The glow of wisdom settled over her eyes and she smiled spitefully. The knocking on the door became ever more rapid.

            “You don’t.”

            Confusion tightened his face, his dark brows laced closely together forming creases on his forehead. Treyen lifted the dagger to Elthea’s throat, pressing it against her delicate skin. A drop of the Prophet’s blood dripped from the blade.

            “I only speak the truth,” she smiled grimly.

            Finally the door burst open, and a soldier stepped through. “I’m sorry for the intrusion your Highness, but the man, your attacker, he has turned himself in. We have him detained on the first floor in the great hall. Should we take him to the cells?”

            The King lowered the dagger from Elthea’s throat. “No, keep him where he is. I’ll deal with him now.”

            “And Highness, the Priests of the Oracle are demanding to know where the Lady is.”

            “Keep them back, I have no time for their intrusions.” As the soldier left, Treyen smiled, smug. “Your lies end now.”

            As soon as King Treyen strode to speak with the soldier, Elthea rushed to Vellan’s side. He lay trembling and pallor. Color had drained from him along with precious life blood. His eyes focused on her for a moment and he smiled.

            She held his hand and he squeezed it tightly before releasing and slipping away. Vellan the Prophet was dead.

            Tears flowed freely from Elthea’s straight face but she did not sob or cry. She understood everything now. It was not her own death that she sensed so strongly here, but the death of her closest equal, the Prophet.

            There was no time to mourn.

Treyen swept across the floor, his strides long and smooth. He wrenched Elthea from the body of the fallen Prophet as a Bloodhawk would lift its prey. With all of his force he flung her backwards into the wall and stood close by, nearly glowing with vicious strength.

         Elthea lost her breath to the impact, and struggled to stand upright. Her eyes didn't move from Vellan.

         "The failure of Oracles," was all he said. Those short words could not by far conceal the understated ocean of disdain that motivated them.

        He wanted to disprove her prophecy. She had seen this type of ego driven denial more often than she wished. This time it would be different, this time her querrent had a mind to kill her.

        A cold hand gripped her upper arm tight enough to leave purple bruises. Treyen unsheathed his dagger again and held it to her throat, pulling her along out of the room.

        In the hall, he instructed his guard to "escort" Elthea in the same manner and follow him to the main hall where the prisoner was detained.

        The walk back to the grand entrance seemed much shorter than she had remembered it. In a blur of moments she found herself standing atop the north wing landing, staring down at the wide hall. Night had descended and the room seemed haunted with its white lights too few and far between. Dark shadows blended with the black armor of thirty guards, their shackled prisoner's deep hooded cloak, and the painted portrait of the exalted king beyond them.

        Blade at her throat, the Radiant Elthea Di'Ania descended the stairs along side the battered King of Soldiers. Deep red blood stains muted areas of her luminous white dress and cloak, but didn't prevent her glowing in the darkness.

        When they reached the ground floor, the King glared at her before stepping forward.

        "Permission to interrogate him sir?" a particularly rough soldier inquired.

        "That will be unnecessary. I have learned he is working for General Amarden. It has always been obvious he opposes my politics and methods, but I never thought he would go this far. He must be charged and disbarred," King Treyen said smoothly. He was obviously very good at twisting and tainting the truth. "This man is Ranedar Waxdrin, a lethal assassin. The Oracle has broken her vows and lied to assist these two villains. She has told me I can not execute this man, she will be disproved and tried as co-conspirator."

       Elthea's blood began to boil beneath her cold clammy skin. "He lies! Don't-" her words ended as the knife was pressed harder against her throat.

       All the while, the accused perpetrator stood with his legs apart, unmoving and silent. Elthea stared at him. He was a huge, solid figure. His massively muscled forearms were wrapped in dark leather bandages which closed over the palms of his hands, and the dull glint of steel could be seen on his thick black boots. His deep hood enshadowed his face completely and in the dim light, many other details could easily go unnoticed.

       "Disarm him," the words of the King came suddenly.

       A pair of soldiers exchanged weary glances, but the others, led by their captain, moved forward without hesitation.

       The sound of a low, deep throated growl filled the room as the soldiers neared. A slow, resonating hiss followed.

       The captain proceeded undaunted.

       The hooded figure was still, until the captain of the guard reached out to touch his cloak, then, everything seemed a blur.

 

*  *  *

 

       The tall, lean man grinned brightly down at Elthea and said something. She had been sitting alone all night, her priests and maidens in a loose circle around her. It was an arts festival and she could barely enjoy it in her solitude. She felt as though her brain was numb with boredom and alienation. Her eyes focused on the man as he repeated his question.

       "This seat taken?" he asked informally with a smile.

       "No," she said, unsure of the stranger. She couldn't remember the last time a person addressed her in that way.

       "Good." he said taking a seat on one of the low cushioned chairs beside her. "You're surrounded by people, and sitting alone. That’s a crime where I come from."

       "Where do you come from?" she asked, relaxing.

       "Home."

       "Oh? And who might you be?"

       "Vellan," he answered with a broad smile.

       "It’s good to meet you, Vellan of Home," Elthea said, returning the smile.

 

*  *  *

 

       Ranedar moved with an inhuman speed for his size and muscular bulk. The captain of the guard lay on the floor unconscious. His men advanced.

       He deflected the first attacker, sidestepping and then ramming the guard with his chained fists.

       A second and third came at him together. One, wielded a fanged dagger, the other, a sword. The man with the dagger reached him first, and in a quarter of a breath, Ranedar had his chains around the guard's dagger wrist and used this hold to wrench him in the direction of the other attacker. A solid kick to the solar plexus pulled his arm out of its socket and pushed him backwards onto the third guard's sword.

       Ranedar released the chains and paused, waiting. The inhuman growl that came from his hood grew steadily louder and then stopped abruptly. The silence was chilling.

       Shaken, the sword wielder pulled the body of his friend away and tried, in vain, to stop his bleeding. 

       The King stood by and watched, his gaze searing with hatred. Elthea looked between them, unable to discern which monster was more frightening.

       Treyen nodded his head once and a mass of guards rushed at Ranedar from all sides.

       "No! Stay away from him!" Elthea ordered and a small few of the guards hesitated and stayed back, but the great majority surged upon Death Ran.

       He fended off the first several but was overwhelmed by their sheer number, and Elthea could not see him in the mass of bodies. 

       Terrified screams erupted suddenly and soldiers stumbled backward out of the fray, several scrambling to escape.

       "Enough!" the King shouted, and the remaining soldiers backed away.

       Ranedar was down on one knee, bodies all around him. The shackles that clamped over his wrists were empty. He was holding them and strangling a guard with the width of the chain. As he dropped them, a pair of keys fell to the floor at their side.

      Elthea knew why the guards had screamed. His hood had fallen back revealing the Fendril, though it was obscured from her view.

      Chills ran over her spine as she stared at the man's face for the first time. As Vellan had described, three horizontal scars were deeply carved into his skin, marring it horribly. The pain he must have felt.

      As she looked there, the world faded away and she saw the claw marks melt revealing the rugged but not unhandsome face of a younger Ranedar Waxdrin. An honorable soldier, and loving father. But as quickly as the vision had come it shriveled away, as if eaten by agony, horror, betrayal and metamorphosis. Vellan was right in his telling. The man, Ranedar Waxdrin, had died long ago. This was someone else. Death Ran.

      The Fendril raised from the shadows of his shoulder. Serpent-like, or bird-like in some way it had both scales and feathers of black and red, rich with exotic markings. Its face came to a multi pronged beak that seemed menacing as a weapon in its own right and its large double-pupil eyes glowed in the darkness reflectively. It dropped its jaw open and snapped, hissing and then issued a shrill scream of warning. Blood dripped from the point of its beak.

      Death Ran rose to his feet and waited again. He faced straight ahead, but it was the Fendril's gaze that searched the soldiers, its head turning and tilting until its fierce gaze rested upon King Treyen. Death Ran turned his body in that direction.

      Patches of blood spattered on the floor from somewhere beneath his dark garments.

      King Treyen's smile was brief and grim.

      With the Fendril following his every movement, Treyen moved to the nearest wall and pulled from it an exquisite broadsword. He strode toward Death Ran.

      "You simple minded fool. You have no idea who you're dealing with," the King said confidently.

      "A dead man," Death Ran replied, his voice deep and gravely. As he spoke, the Fendril emitted a low growl, blended with clicks and hisses.

      "I think not," Treyen said smugly, and gave a signal to his guard.

       Five soldiers surrounding them pulled heavy dart-guns from their belts and aimed them at Death Ran.

      "Stop! This man is not your enemy!" Elthea shouted but it was too late, the guards fired thick, barbed darts into Death Ran's chest and neck.

      The large man staggered forward, struggling as if a hundred steel weights were pulling him to the ground. He fell heavily, not three strides from the feet of his prey and ceased to move.

       Elthea watched the smug King Treyen survey the fallen man appraisingly. He did not forget to smile horribly at her in her failure. Stepping over the motionless hulk on the floor he announced, "Enough redwater poison to kill a goliath-stag. The "immortal" assassin is dead, and the Oracle disproved."

       Murmurs of awe filled the room.

       "You coward! You haven't changed at all. This man, your King," Elthea said raising her voice. "Is nothing but a coward and a murderer!"

       Treyen gripped Elthea by the arm and towed her to the defeated man laying on the hall floor. She could not deny she had felt pity for him, but instinct reminded her that this was no innocent laying on the floor in front of her, he was a killer, deadly and remorseless.

       "They won't listen to you. You are nothing now." the King whispered, "Maybe I should keep you as a pet. My talking parrot to answer any question I can devise. After you are publicly humiliated for your failure, it would be a pleasant alternative to death."

       Elthea's stomach twisted, but she glared up at him with vehement defiance. "I'm not wrong. Nothing I have ever said has been wrong." she said loud enough for all to hear.

       The scraping of metal against marble alerted Elthea and King Treyen's attention back to the man on the floor. Death Ran grasped a fallen guard's sword and lunged at the King.

       "Immunity..." the Oracle breathed as the man returned to life before their eyes. That second was all she had before King Treyen pulled her in front of him and threw her at the killer's blade.

      The Fendril caught the movement instantly and both it and it's host's faces hardened. Instead of running her through, Death Ran caught the Oracle in one arm and spun her away from the King. Treyen's swift strike would have impaled her on the blade's path to Death Ran's midsection.

      Heart pounding in her chest, she looked briefly up at Death Ran. The sight of the jagged scars that mutilated his face brought stabbing pains of empathy. She lost her breath entirely, staring up at the closed flesh that smeared over the space where his eyes once were. His expression was a cold preditorial grimace, so severe it almost made her feel safer with an Island Lion. But his attention was not on her. The glowing eyes of the Fendril were rested intently on King Treyen.

      In a moment he had released the Oracle and set himself against the King, swords meeting with a resounding clash of metal against metal.

      With each blow of Death Ran's sword against his own, the King was pushed backward, but managed to respond with his own quick attack.

      Finally, the sword of the killer hit with such a force that King Treyen's blade twisted from his hand and clanged to the floor. Elthea saw a glint in Treyen's hand as he gripped the dagger in his belt. It was the knife that had killed the Prophet.

      "No!" she screamed before she could stop herself.

      Death Ran caught King Treyen's arm with his left hand and in one deft movement, snapped his forearm backwards and forced Treyen to stab himself through the throat.

      Gagging, the King slid to the floor and shuddered in a pool of his lifeblood.

      Death Ran's Fendril looked down. "This is the way of the world," he said loud enough for the King to hear as his life slipped away and into the hands of the God of Death.

      During the fight, a handful of guards recovered barb-rifles from a battle cabinet and aimed them at Death Ran. Murmurs of the soldiers and arguments for leadership and action filled the hall.

      "Shoot him, he has killed our King! He's an assassin!"

      "No! The Oracle was not disproved, he may be no enemy!"

      "No enemy? How many of us has he slain?"

      "He is a monster! Put him down!"

      "No!" the Oracle called out. "Do not kill him! There are things you do not know about your King! If anything is going to happen to this man, it should be a fair trial!"

      "He killed our King! He is a murderer!"

      "Your King was a murderer! There are things you must know!" Elthea pleaded.

      The gunmen had their fingers resting lightly over the trigger, their weapons trembling slightly after the death of their King and the confusion that followed.

      "Shoot him!" someone commanded authoritatively.

      Death Ran was silent to his fate, waiting for the first move, sizing up his enemies when the five-inch barb was shot from the gun of a shaken soldier. It whistled sharply through the air until it struck the soft flesh of the Oracle, its shaft lodged through her shoulder.

     If she had not thrown herself in front of Death Ran in that instant, two unfortunate things may have occurred: Death Ran would be struck through the heart and killed, or more likely, he would have massacred the ignorant soldiers.

     Pain surged through her shoulder, then her arm and spread to her whole body but she would not allow herself to crumble. 

     "Enough!" she shouted, her wounded arm, sagging. Her patients had been spent. There had been enough senseless death. She smelled it all around her, on the bodies of the fallen soldiers, the King, on Death Ran, on herself. "I will not let you simple minded, slack jawed, bastard children of imbeciles kill yourselves! And by Votro's cold claws of death, I will not let you kill this man!

     "I am the 21st Oracle of Greenshadow, Elthea Di'Ania. For thirty years I have wielded the power stolen from the Vile who annihilated our nations five-hundred years ago. It was this power that aided their defeat and our victory!" As she spoke the blue gem embedded in her chest began to glow. The white light spread to illuminate her skin and shined from her eyes.

     Gasps of awe echoed from the soldiers all around her as her radiance filled the room.

     "Before you take this man's life, you should know it for yourselves!" she declared. Taking in a deep breath she focused all of her energy on the door of knowledge in her mind. "Show me the life, past to present of Ranedar Waxdrin, Death Ran. Show them all!" she said to herself, issuing the mental command to tap into her powers. A numbing pain burst into her mind as she overthrew the walls protecting the minds of every person in the Great Hall.

      There may have been shouts or screams from the Tennan soldiers but Elthea did not hear them. Her agony was so great, it made her pierced shoulder feel like an itch in comparison. Through this, she stood firm and allowed the flood of experience to channel through her and into her subjects.

      There was a warm flash of Vellan the Prophet, which disappeared as quickly as it had shown. Then the minds of the people in the Great Hall in Tennan's House of the King, were flooded with Ranedar Waxdrin's life.

      They saw and felt everything; the entire story told by the late Prophet. Ranedar's family, his happiness, the ambush on the road, the Island Lion, the Lord. It moved through his near death shielding no mind from every measure of the pain he felt. Vividly they experienced his recovery, the landwalker, the Fendril, the abandonment of his home, the "mercy" killing and all that had followed to the present moment.

      Never in her life had Elthea Di'Ania used her powers in that way. In their five-hundred year history the past Oracles never recorded that they had telepathic abilities. As Elthea's consciousness left her body, she mused that many of them had probably found out for themselves, as she did, and left it at that.

 

*   *   *

 

      "Wake up Lady..." the words came to her as if they had traveled a million miles.

      Her mind still somewhere in the darkness, the Oracle wondered if she was dead.

      "Listen to my voice," she heard the man say. "You must wake up."

      Yes. It all made sense now. She was dead, and this was Votro, the God of Death, coming to lead her to the Smiling Lady and the afterlife beyond.

      She could hear other voices too now but they were garbled and incomprehensible.

      "Radiance..." another voice said gently. It was Olen, her High Priest. "You must come back to us."

      She could feel the Talisman stone embedded in her chest holding her spirit, keeping it from releasing. But her body told her that it was no longer a good place to reside, saturated in physical and mental pain, exhaustion and sadness.

      "No, Olen." she thought. "I can't come back, I'm just too tired."

      She fought to allow the stone to release her. She could somehow feel it straining and beginning to stretch under the pressure of her fierce will power. Then it stopped her short and refused to allow her to go any farther. She knew it would hold her to her body until she passed the stone to another.

      "Her Radiance... is she... dead?" one of her demure handmaidens asked.

      Her handmaidens. Those sweet tempered  vultures that waited with their well manicured claws for her to die, so they might have a taste of power. Idiotic children! They wouldn't last a day as the Oracle, even if she gave them the satisfaction.

      "No!" she thought so loud, the effort pushed her back into her body and she shouted the word back at them.

      She shook violently with chills. Her skin felt frozen, but her blood burned with fever. Pain webbed out from her shoulder, to her neck, down her arm and into her back. Her eyes refused to focus and she sucked in erratic breaths.

      "Radiance!" Olen the High Priest shouted with joy.

      Through the haze she could make him out, kneeling beside her with a man who must have been a healer, and five of her senior handmaidens.

      "We are ready for the ritual," one of the handmaidens said, opening her palms.

      Elthea pulled herself up to a sitting position and slapped the girl's hands away from her. "I'm not dead! Get away from me you insolent little scavenger! All of you!" She paused to catch her breath. "Go, now!"

      "What an amazing recovery," Olen mused as the frowning handmaidens scuttled away murmuring apologies.

      "It was the salve that someone used when they bandaged her shoulder. It is very hard to come by and expensive when you do. The herbs come from the deep wilds." the doctor said. "If I had more of that, my job would be well simpler."

      "Who? Who bandaged my shoulder?" Elthea asked now seeming much more weary. "What happened?"

      "I'm not sure, Radiance. We were all locked in our rooms until one of the soldiers released us. It looked as if he had been weeping." Olen explained. "When we arrived here, the House was barred from the inside. We found the bodies of the King and some soldiers, and then saw you unconscious. We asked the other guards what had happened but they wouldn't speak to us. They did cover the bodies, however, and brought a doctor to see to the wounded. That was five hours ago. That is all that I know."

      "Who bandaged my shoulder? What happened to Death Ran?" she asked.

      All of the soldiers stared at her. It was as if each and every one of them was in a state of shock, like they had all seen the ghosts of their forefathers. One of them came to Elthea.

      "I don't remember much, Lady. After you showed us..." he paused and did not elaborate. "You fell. He caught you. Then I felt sick, from... and I don't know what happened. But he is gone, and we will not follow him. He will have amnesty here."

      Death Ran had saved her. What a strange thought.

     "Lady- Radiance..." another soldier approached her. "We- I was an ignorant fool. When you... opened our eyes, it did something. I am a simple man and do not have the words to explain it. Some of us wish to join you."

     "You must be better protected!" a younger man said. "We may not have been able to beat... him. But we'll always train, and believe me... none but an elite's elite will be able to challenge us."

     "We pledge our lives to you, Radiance." another piped up from the back of the group. "Please do not deny us."

     Elthea was overwhelmed. She had not planned any of this, and had not for a moment thought of the practical repercussions of her actions. Still, these men saw truth and would be loyal to her.

     "Well, it is true, in long years past, the Oracles of the ages had a guard," she told them. "For the First Oracle, it was an army. It grew smaller and smaller as the years passed, and my predecessors simply became more reclusive with less protection. There has not been a guard in two generations. Your protection would be welcome."

    "Thank you, Radiance," they said to her.

    Exhaustion swept through her body as the pain in her shoulder subsided to numbness. From the salve no doubt. She looked at the floor trying to relax her eyes.

    "Its over," she breathed.

    The sound of scraping and ruffling feathers attracted her attention. A skeleton crane stood hunched in an open window on the far side of the room, with the dawn behind it.

Copyright © 2004 by Alissa R. Ivanovich. All rights reserved.