23 Sword of Light

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Termon didn’t know what to expect with these soldiers of Falas. But their mouths flashed cheerful smiles. A healer among them treated Termon’s arms with the skill of a seasoned priest. They walked for a few hours. The beings carried Anoran and Termon on boards).

Anoran woke up a few hours after they departed the site of the battle. When he saw strange men carrying him, he screamed. But the sight of his friends calmed him.

The soldiers were strange at first, somehow above and aloof, not really like men. Their very appearance was different: more noble, taller, and stronger. Their skin glowed with an unearthly light. But as they started off, they began to boast of the battle and their accomplishments. A few had been injured, none severely.

They started to question Termon about the journey. Normally, he’d relish the chance to embellish the story, but he was tired. He regretted it wasn’t his best performance.

The soldiers seemed particularly interested in Termon and his family. What he’d sworn his grandfather didn’t matter in this place, among the folk of Falas, so he spoke freely of the Al’Ammiel clan and the Manor and the accomplishments of his fathers. The listened intently.

Pelan and the others also seemed to see him in a new light. Anoran, in particular, looked at him with wonder. He regretted keeping himself secret for so long, whatever he had promised back at the Manor. Surely, surely he could have told them earlier.

“Where are we going, anyways?” Kohal asked.

“Why must men be so impatient?” one of their rescuers said. “We will be there soon. Our words would not do justice to the Valley. Just wait.”

“How’d you find us?” Kohal asked.

“Falas sent us out one week ago when he sensed you coming into his realm. Termon’s beacon led us to you. This whole time, the force of his will has worked against the servants of Vorlo, hindering their efforts.”

That night, the fire was warm and wonderful. Termon had no idea where the wood had come from (since there were no trees), but he didn’t care. The warm meat cooked over an open fire and cheered his body. The warm speech and laughter cheered his soul. He ate until his stomach could bear no more, then he slept within inches of the warm coals.

In the morning, Termon and the other three were the last to wake up. “So the sleepy heroes are ready to depart,” one of the soldiers said with a laugh.

The morning didn’t feel cold. The air held a moist, warm feel.

That day, they took a trail that sloped drastically downward, and the warm breeze wafted from their destination. Life returned all around them, first bushes, then pine trees and animals.

Termon approached the gruff bark of an apple tree and picked fruit from it. It tasted sweet and ripe.

They followed countless turns and switchbacks. And then a little before noon, they came around one final bend, and before Termon spread a sight more beautiful than his eyes had ever beheld.

In all of Kanel, as the legends say, there is no beauty, no relief, greater than coming through those treacherous peaks and seeing displayed in glory the Valley of Falas. And many say, though I have never seen the place to be able to confirm it, that the passage from the south is most beautiful of all.

Before you lies that downward sloping bowl, ridges and hills rippling the sides painted endless green. But never cliffs. They are gentle slopes, not harsh like the surrounding mountains. Flower fields cover the northeastern slopes, forever blooming white and yellow and pink and blue. Trees scatter all parts of the valley, each bearing rich fruit, blossoming year-round. Deer and livestock, tall and fat, graze the slopes.

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