Prologue
She crouched alone in the dark, the wind rustling the grass around her soft leather boots, causing the grass to whisper in the eerily silent night. Her green and brown mottled cloak served for concealment, yet this had to be accompanied by sheer skill to work. The deep cowl of her cloak concealed her face, which was smudged with mud to darken her olive skin, and stop the gleam that all skin inevitably gives off. Her hazel green eyes searched the darkness restlessly, her hearing attuned to the seemingly silent night. One lock of auburn red hair slipped out from under her cowl. She waited and listened silently and patiently, until she heard the sound that she was listening for, and she silently moved down to the well worn track, staying concealed in the long grass beside it. There was the thud of heavy footfalls, and she crouched low as the man approached. He was in a hurry, and on foot. Black cloak swirling, he kept at a steady jog as he made his way up the well worn track through the dark woods. Mist swirled about his boots as he moved, adding an eerie feel to the atmosphere. As he neared she seemed to shrink back from him, into the shadows. He had but just passed the young woman in the grass, and she watched him but for a moment. Then there was a gleam of steel, and she had leapt upon him, holding a small dagger to his throat from behind.
"Hello, Jalkain, fancy meeting you here?" she hissed as she pressed the dagger to his throat.
However, she was to be surprised, for the man named Jalkain was quick to outmanoeuvre her, and he flicked the dagger from her grasp and threw her from his back, spinning to watch her look of shock as she watched her glittering dagger go spinning into the foggy darkness. There was a whisper of steel as Jalkain drew his sword, and would have thrust it between the young woman's ribs had she not jumped back and drew her own slender blade and aimed a deadly stroke at his throat. However he managed to parry her lethal blow, and sent her wheeling backwards yet again.
"Ah, Arya of the West, the Wraith of Darthmyre, using the shadows as your weapon yet again I see." He said to her, and her chin went up into a dignified position.
"Wraith? I am no wraith! I need not the power of sorcery to conceal myself in the darkness or the light, I need not the power and strength of men to fight, for I possess more skill than those half-witted soldiers, those men." she said hotly, then more calmly "So is that what they're calling me these days, Arya of the West, the Wraith of Darthmyre? Has a certain poetry to it, does it not? Surely, though, my blade will sing true to you in your last moments more beautifully and poetically that even the elven folk would covet the beauty of it. Sing true, Asindar!" She cried, wielding her slender blade as she leapt towards him. She feinted a blow to his head, then quickly pulled out of the swing and thrust towards his abdomen, the poetic movement of her blade emphasising her words. The blade cut through the leather of his clothes and burrowed hungrily into his flesh. She grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him towards her, the blade sinking deeper and deeper through him until it met no more resistance as it had gone straight through him. By now Arya's lips were by Jalkains ears, and the dying man heard last a soft, sweet voice that was also unnaturally low and interlaced with the might of the elves. It was the voice of Arya of the West, the greatest warrior the world had yet seen. . . and the bane of empires.
"Your men shall fall," she whispered prophetically, "for I shall not permit them to bring Alura to its knees. It is the end, Jalkain, ruler of barbarians, for you have crossed Arya of the West."
And so the fall of the great empires began, for it was not the end...
Arya hated it when her blade got stuck fast like this, and she pressed her boot against Jalkains still chest, both hands wrapped around her blade, Asindar, and heaved. The blade came free of the dead man, and blood ran in streams down the blade in a sinister spidersweb. She wiped it clean on the grass, then turned towards the dead man yet again... she really did hate to do this. It made her feel like some common, dishonest looter. A theif, a bandit... yet she had no choice. She bent over him, evidently searching for something. After about a minute or two she appeared to find what she had been searching for. She lifted the green jewel up, and the elvish emerald sparkled in the moonlight. It was encased in mythril silver and beautifully wraught, crafted by the skilful hands of the elves. The precious pendant hung from a delicate mythril chain, and Arya slipped it into her pocket, for she daren’t wear it. It's power was not destined for one such as her.
"Filthy thief!" Arya muttered, kicking the corpse of Jalkain before turning to stride off. As she strode she let out a piercing, beautiful whistle.
It was not long before her dappled silvery grey stallion came galloping towards her. She stopped and stroked his muzzle before swinging up into the saddle and galloping off into the mist.
It was early morning, an hour or so before dawn, that Arya of the West reached the ancient city of Darthmyre. There was a copse of trees nearby, and she left her horse there in order to sneak over the walls of the city unnoticed by the city guards. She made her way stealthily and patiently across the grass field towards the city. She easily climbed the walls and crept through the sleeping streets of the ancient city until she came to her destination. There she left the jewel, from where it had no doubt been stolen by Jalkain or one of his many pirate/bandit underlings. She returned to her horse by dawn, muttering about the idiocy of the barbarians that bother to call their society an empire. It was known that there were many empires outside of the lush land of Alura, although the other peoples of the world rarely associated with the Alurans, as the elven folk did not favour foreigners, even of their own kind. There were many peoples, non-Alurans, foreigners, who lusted for the riches of Alura. They lusted for the many benefits of the land, and also the gifts that the land had to offer, namely gold and mythril silver and precious and magical jewels. It was part of Arya's duty to protect the land. She was the chosen one to do it, and one day she would pass this on to her daughter, as has been the custom for generations. The women of the west would be trained and tested to their very limits, and rarely did the bloodline fail to produce a skilful and worthy daughter to take up the task. They were the direct descendents of the elves, and perhaps that explained some of their peculiarities and their beauty. There is much more to be said of these noble sword-maidens, although perhaps it would be wiser to leave it at that.
Arya mounted her steed and set off at a full gallop.
