*note that this is a draft. Errors will occur and the story is subject to change*
Jarrer pushed his mount a bit harder. "I know you're tired girl, but you can spare me a bit more." Grudgingly, his narneck lowered her head and galloped through the heavy trees. Almost there, Jarrer thought. He hadn't seen his former home since he'd left to fight in the first war. He'd missed it terribly when he'd first come to the BloodMountains. That's why Bomin had sculpted his walls into a replica of his home. In time, he'd come to love the desert, but every day that drew him nearer his former home had awakened the Elve in him.
Easing back on the reins, Jarrer dismounted to walk beside his narneck. She needed a breather. Now on foot, his Elven pace quickened, as the mare dutifully followed behind him. He could feel it in the very air around him—Elvendom was near. Finally, Jarrer crested the last line of trees before the vast open meadow of Urelle, bordering the forests of Lourel. Stretching as far as even his sharp eyes could see, the Meadow of Urelle would never grown anything taller than high grasses, for the trees of Elvendom were jealous creatures. They would permit nothing as base as an ordinary tree to approach their enchanted forest and so snuffed out every sapling that dared breach the space between the enchanted trees and the regular ones.
At the other side of the meadow, Jarrer paused for a moment—well aware that many an Elven eye fixed their gaze upon him. He breathed deep the heavy air. His desert home only hung with water in the moments before a storm, but he was about to enter the lush vegetation and thriving forests ingrained into the very fabric of his soul. The ocean! He thought. Oh, to see her powerful vastness spread before him again! To feel her waves against his flesh! "I would speak to your Queen!" Jarrer called loudly.
He had hoped they would answer his cry, but only the stillness of listening reverberated back to him. "Very well," he said softly, knowing the breeze would carry his words to his fellow Elves' sharp ears. "If you'll not welcome me, I'll find my own way through." With that, he remounted, clucked to his tired narneck, and stepped into the Elven realm.
The Elves were masters at their Gift, for they'd had centuries of practice to perfect their art, but Jarrer was no Ungifted fool. Any other would quickly become hopelessly disoriented in the ever shifting trees. But Jarrer knew the forests secrets. Instead of focusing on the tree's as landmarks, he watched the ground or the sky, or simply relied upon his instinct to tell him where he was.
Jarrer traveled that way all day, only stopping when the deep of the night settled upon the land. Wishing desperately that he could spend the night in the safety of the Enchanted Tree's boughs, as he had so often as a young Elve, Jarrer searched the area for the Gifted animals that called no one king. He found no immediate danger. Wrapping his cloak tightly around him, he rested, but did not sleep. Ever watchful of the treacherous wood, he waited for the light of day to send the terrors back to slumber.
Fortunately, Jarrer passed through the night without encountering any of the perilous dangers that often accompanied the darkness in Lourel. However, when morning came, the yellow eyes of a she wolf bore down on him. He felt the ticking of fear tear into his heart, for these were not like the wolves that roamed through Nonae. No these were descended from a more ancient race. Their coats were spinier, and they were much, much larger. Easily half the size of a full-grown horse. "What manner of Elve dares transverse our land in such pitiful numbers?"
Undecided whether she be a threat or no, Jarrer kept his words noncommittal, "True, only the most desperate of my kind would accept such risk."
"Shall we have a chase then?" she said playfully.
Jarrer knew this chase would be no game, for it meant his life if he lost.
Without waiting for his answer, she lowered her head and then tipped it back, letting out a long mournful cry that chilled Jarrer to the core and frightened his narneck out of her wits.
Lunging for the reins to keep her from bolting, Jarrer held her tightly as her eyes rolled in fright. Murmuring soothingly, he placed a reassuring hand on her forehead to recover her from the fear that had laid claim on her.
When he'd settled her enough to be confident she wouldn't bold, Jarrer turned back to the she wolf. He considered grabbing his bow and ending it there. But before he could, his eyes caught sight of wolves bounding through the distant trees, and he knew his only hope lay in outrunning them.
Flipping the mare's reins over her head, Jarrer launched himself into the saddle and then dug his heels into her trembling sides. Exhausted though the mare was, her fear was stronger. She bolted. Pressing himself flat against her back to avoid the low-lying branches, Jarrer concentrated on dodging the massive trees.
In the open, the wolves would have been hard pressed to catch her. But their bodies were more compact, and therefore better able to maneuver in the tight space. Every time Jarrer looked, the wolves were closer. Unable to carefully study the landscape, he had to rely solely on his instinct to find the Elven Path.
After leaping over a fallen tree, Jarrer chanced a look back. The wolves were nearly on top of them. Abandoning his efforts to head for the path, he dropped the reins and whipped his bow around while fitting an arrow. Now nipping mercilessly at the mare's hocks, the wolves tried to bring her down.
In rapid succession, Jarrer fired into the tangled knot of wolves. One, two, three, four, five wolves dropped to the ground, before the other wolves took to the shelter of the trees. Watching ever so carefully, Jarrer scanned for a flash of grey fur before letting another arrow fly.
Suddenly catching sight of the she wolf, Jarrer took careful aim. But just as the arrow left his grasp, a wolf leapt from the cover of trees to sink his sharp fangs deep into his right arm. It took every last ounce of strength he had to stay mounted on as the wolf tore mercilessly into the flesh above his elbow. Jarrer felt the unmistakable sensation of a tendon snapping, and then the muscles in the back of his arm contracted into a tight ball. Unable to contain the scream that tore through his throat, he fumbled for his dagger, found it, and stabbed the wolf's side.
With a sharp cry, the wolf fell, crushingly, to the ground.
Grasping his now useless arm, Jarrer grimaced as pain washed over him. Somehow, he'd managed to hold onto his bow, but he hadn't the strength to pull the string. Blood ran freely from the torn flesh, and the smell of the wound seemed to make the wolves even more aggressive. They tore from the trees and lunged at the exhausted mare's hocks. Desperately, she halted and slammed her hard hooves into her attackers.
Using his uninjured arm, Jarrer lifted his sword, sorrow that he'd failed Ara paining him more than the fear of his impending death. But then he caught sight of something. Desperately fighting through an opening, he righted the mare's course, his last hope at survival looming before him.
The wolves saw it too, and became more desperate in their attempts to stop them, but to no avail. He passed from the forest into the protected Path of Lourel. Pulling the trembling mare to a stop, he dismounted and turned to face the wolves that dared not cross the tree's border. Growling threatening, they taunted him, but Jarrer's stance dared them to test the patience of the Elves. Eventually, none but the enormous she wolf remained.
"I'm very sorry that our game had to end. Will you come play again?" she asked.
Jarrer had forgotten the playfulness of the Gifted wolves. They loved and respected their prey right up until the time they crunched the soft marrow from their bones. "Perhaps another time."
Her lips curled back in what he knew to be a smile, but it more closely resembled a snarl. "I look forward to it master Elve." With that, she turned and trotted back into the wood.
Realizing that he'd somehow earned the she wolf's respect, Jarrer rubbed at his cramped arm as blood dripped from his fingertips. Closing his eyes, he tipped his head to the sky. I am alive. He sighed and turned with the intent of remounting his mare, but her legs were trembling, her sides heaving, and her head hung as if it were too heavy to lift. He doubted she could bear his weight.
He patted her neck fondly and faced the long trek that awaited him. The Elves of long ago had enchanted the ground so that nothing would grow to clutter the way. The tree's here were enchanted as well. Stretching high, their branches grew and twinned together to create a living ceiling. All the trees were perfect replicas of each other. Beautifully crafted, they created the only way to reach the Elven city, Lourel.
Jarrer walked on through much of the day, though the constant cramp in his arm slowed him considerably. As evening fell, he found the last reserves of his strength depleted, so he remounted. She reluctantly took his weight and then trotted when he clucked to her. Exhausted as she was, she willingly began a ground-eating trot.
With a crash and a blinding light the rain began. Unlike Jarrer's arid home, it rained often in Lourel. But this was no ordinary rain. The Elven Queen, Catara, had called upon this storm. The first drops pounded mercilessly at him. He was soaked to the skin in seconds. Though the air was still pleasant, Jarrer found himself shivering as the shock of his wound weakened his ability to keep warm.
The splashing rain hardened and stung him as it turned to hail. Steadily, the size of the hail increased until some of the stones grew to the size of his clenched fist. Irrespective, the hail pounded both Jarrer and the mare. Unable to stand it any longer, the she bolted to escape the torrent, and would have left the path had Jarrer not held tightly to her reins. Then one of the stones struck her between her ears and knocked her silly, for never would a narneck in their right minds abandon their masters. Jerking to free herself, her eyes rolled in fear.
As the ever increasing hail pounded her, Jarrer cursed them. "You don't understand what you're doing," he said through clenched teeth. Finally, the mare had been pushed past her limits. She reared over backwards—her legs thrashing at the air. Jarrer barely managed to dive out of the way. He could have held her, but she would have been nearly useless in her fear and confusion, so he released the reins and let her go. She immediately bolted into the darkness of the forest. "Her sire was Darkmith, her mother Charcushe. To let the wolves have her would be a crime unspeakable!" Jarrer shouted at the Elves he knew were listening. She did not deserve to share in his fate of death, if death was indeed what awaited him.
Finding what shelter he could in one of the tree's forked roots, for he dared not wander from the path, Jarrer used his good arm to protect his face as the stones beat down upon him like a hundred fists. The wind bellowed like an enormous monster and pounded him all the harder. "I won't turn back!" he shouted at them. "You can beat me, blind me, rob me of my narneck . . . I have a message for the Catara, and she'll hear it!"
Still the storm didn't quail. Jarrer couldn't be certain how long he huddled there with his cloak drawn about him. But when the fury of the storm finally passed, he stood to shake the melting clumps of hail from himself. Stretching his limbs, he surveyed the damage. Perfectly round bruises covered his arms and back. Looking around, he noticed someone had stolen his pack. He would have no food or water for the rest of his voyage.
Knowing how desperate he would become before his journey's end, Jarrer sucked on hail bits while he walked. Until they all melted away. He didn't stop when night came, though exhaustion begged him to. He had to make it to Lourel before he died of thirst. This meant he kept going. He intermixed jogging and walking—eating away at the miles betwixt him and his quarry.
Finally he saw it—marble as white as the crusts of the pounding waves, and green with ivy, Lourel rested on the highest rise atop the towering cliffs that overlooked the ocean. Despite his exhausted and beleaguered state, Jarrer gloried in the sight of his former home. The city stretched for miles, and beyond it—the sea. He could already smell it. He increased his pace, when a nimble Elve dropped out of a tree and into his path. Jarrer stopped. He knew her immediately.
"I am Lark, Keeper of the Path. You may not pass."
Jarrer squared his bruised shoulders. "I know you, Lark. Though you were the Princesses Trainer then."
Lark registered no reaction to Jarrer's words.
Seeing she would not acknowledge him, Jarrer mimicked her hardened countenance. "I am Jarrer of the Blood Mountains. I have a message for Catara."
Lark drew her sword. "Our borders are closed Master Elve—even to those who used to call our fair realm home." Her eyes glimmered with latent anger.
Jarrer caught the hint of betrayal in her voice. Remembering Ara's lesson, he now realized that his betrayal came when he abandoned all Tallin fought for, not when he'd left Lourel to live with Man. After Tallin died, he closed his borders much the same as the Elves had done after Coya died. They had both practiced isolationism. Yet Ara had broken down his wall. Remembering how she'd done it, he began. "It does our dead no honor to abandon the paths they fought to clear."
"Turn back Jarrer." Lark's eyes sparked.
Slowly, Jarrer drew his sword. "I do not wish to fight."
Lark wasted no time drawing hers. She said nothing, but stood unbending in his path. He tried to step around her, but she blocked him. He tried another way, but again, she stepped in front of him and held her sword under his chin in a warning. Jarrer deftly knocked it away. Resigned to having to fight her, he backed up a step and swung hard for her side. She blocked him. He aimed low and rammed into her like a wall. She staggered then swung for his calves. Again, he blocked her. She punched him in the gut, but he twisted to the side and it most of the force glanced to the side.
On and on they sparred. Jarrer fought his thirst, hunger, and pain as well as Lark. Grateful that he'd spent the last two years honing his sword skills with Ara, he swung hard for Lark. It was then that she made the slightest mistake. In pulling back her sword, she let it slip down his blade. He used her error to hook her sword and wrench it from her grasp.
Lark dove for it, but Jarrer blocked her much the same as she'd blocked him earlier. Spinning, she dove again, but she had to stop her momentum or run through his blade. She arched her back and took a step back to avoid a gaping hole in her chest, remembering how she'd done the same to him some moments before.
Through ragged breathe, Jarrer panted, "In exchange for your life." He paused to gulp for air. "I'll meet with Catara." Then swallowing desperately at his raw throat, he added ". . . and have some water."
Lark made the slightest movement and her hidden accomplices dropped down and, swords drawn, surrounded Jarrer. "I will kill her before your strokes fall."
"Put it down and leave Jarrer. No one has to die." Lark said.
Jarrer shook his head. "I promised her I would not fail."
"You would kill me and die rather than simply go home?" Lark asked.
Slowly Jarrer lowered his sword. A look of triumph leapt into Lark's eyes. But
Jarrer continued, "I won't kill you, but you'll have to kill me."
Lark's eyes widened in surprise. She nodded to her men, and they lowered their weapons. "You have kept your way in the deceiving forest, outrun the snarling wolves, stayed your ground amidst the storm, marched on through hunger and fatigue, fought bravely, and stayed true to your cause. You've earned a right to see her."
She nodded to an Elve, who handed him back his skin of water. He drained it and they gave him another with a bit of elvish travel food. He tore into a hunk of elvish dry bread and gnawed on it as they walked toward Lourel. Many fair folk stopped to stare at this travel worn Elve, whom they'd known in his former glory. "Jarrer." The whisper spread across the city.
But Lark didn't immediately head for the Catara's Castle. Instead, she led him to a well-kept home and rapped on the door. It opened to the face of an Elve Jarrer didn't recognize. Instantly, the Elve appraised Jarrer's injury and he stepped back to allow him entrance.
Hesitantly, Jarrer looked to Lark, but she made no move. Seeing no other option, he entered the room.
The Elve gestured for Jarrer to sit, and he obeyed. Then, without a word, the Elve dug his fingers into the wound in Jarrer's arm. Jarrer tensed and tried to pull away, but the Elves grip was like iron. Tears sprang unbidden into Jarrer's eyes as he stifled a screamed.
The muscles, which had been tightly cramped for over a day, were now being lengthened out by the man's Gift—with the added assistance of his fingers. Beads of sweat broke out on Jarrer's face, as the muscle fought. When the man's fingers were almost out, some of the pain suddenly abated, and Jarrer relaxed a degree.
The Elve completely released his hold on the muscle. It held. Grunting his satisfaction, he placed his fingers over the wound and worked at knitting the last of it back together. Over an hour had passed before the Elve leaned back in exhaustion.
Hesitantly, Jarrer extended his arm. Though the throbbing pain that remained couldn't compare to the sharp, intense pain of before, he still felt a little nauseous. The Elve disappeared from Jarrer's sight for a time. When he came back, he had a cup of cloudy liquid. Holding it out for Jarrer, he said his first words since Jarrer's arrival. "It tastes acidic, but it will help with the pain and swelling."
Hesitantly, Jarrer lifted the liquid to his lips, and instantly recoiled as the first drops hit his tongue. It tasted like ashes soaked in water. Jarrer tipped his head and swallowed it in one gulp. Shaking his head in revulsion and grunting like he'd swallowed hard liquor, he handed the cup back to the Elve. "Thank you."
He nodded curtly.
Suddenly reluctant to face Catara, Jarrer hesitantly faced the door. Then steeling his will, he squared himself to face the company of Elves still waiting for him outside. Without a backwards glance, he followed Lark up the sloping streets. The company of Elves stopped just short of the castle wall. He and Lark proceeded alone. Seeming to know exactly where she was going, Lark took him to the queen's garden. Opening the ornate gates, she bid him enter then closed them behind him. Finally, his test had ended. He now stood before Catara.
Catara didn't look up from laboring over her garden as he entered. Indeed, she waited until she was finished with her task before even acknowledging his presence. She hadn't aged a day since Jarrer last saw her, except her ancient eyes. It was like his own dead eyes staring back at him after Tallie died—emanating pain.
"Why have you returned Jarrer?" Catara asked quietly.
"I've come to convince you to fight."
She laughed without merriment. "Then you have wasted your time." She twisted round to continue working in her garden.
Her dismissal wasn't lost on him, but he hadn't yet delivered his message. "I'm not finished." Catara started at his lack of respect, which bought him the time he needed to continue. "The Unicorns have again graced us with a Nightstar."
Catara removed her gloves slowly. "I never thought the Unicorns would trust another after Coya and Celeste died. The girl's name?"
"Ara." Jarrer stated. "It was she that sent me to you."
"And what would this Ara have me know?"
Jarrer licked his lips. "The Kanovians are like a plague of locusts. Even now, the Kingdom of Nonae teeters on the precipice of utter destruction. They make their final stand in the high mountains at a place called Bondell. If they fail, there will be nothing stopping Kanovia from then turning on the Elves."
Catara went back to her gardens as if he'd just told her a dead fish had washed up on shore. "I sorrow that Nonae would fall, but that's not an Elven concern."
"Do you truly believe that?"
Catara turned in surprise. She wasn't used to being questioned. "We sacrificed everything in the last war. It brought nothing but pain."
Jarrer studied her for a moment. Her spirit as unbending as her body, "Then the question is whether you honestly believe you can live in this world without being a part of it."
"No one could defeat our defenses. We are well protected here."
"You're a fool!" Jarrer cried. "Kanovia will overturn Nonae and his next stop will be Elvendom."
Catara's dead eyes seethed. "You think the mightiest army in all the Lands so easily defeated? Kanovia is a mere pest compared to us." Catara stood and her glory filled the room. "And you will do well to respect your Queen!" she threatened icily.
Jarrer rose to his full height. "Will you answer the call for aide?"
Catara regained her lost composure. "No."
Conflict raged inside Jarrer. Essenia had made him swear not to reveal Ara's identity, but Ara had charged him with bringing the Elves into this war. He couldn't follow both orders. Thinking of his son's inevitable death if he failed—Jarrer shuddered. Dropping his head in shame at what he knew he must do, he said softly, "You're not my Queen."
Her blue eyes flashed dangerously. "You may no longer live in my realm, but I will always remain your Queen!"
"On the Princesses' twenty first birthday, she became Queen," he answered.
"Both Princesses are dead." Catara said flatly.
"No Catara." Jarrer lifted his eyes to study her.
Catara's eyes widened, the ever lingering hope flickered momentarily before she covered it. "We found both their bodies."
Jarrer ignored her. "Twenty years ago a child was found by a rancher. He and his good wife raised her until her eighteenth year. The Unicorn, Kodan bonded with her. And then the Kanovian Assassins came for her. Before she fled, her father gave her a Unicorn cloak—woven by the Elves of long ago, and given to Princess Coya as a Gift by her mother at the announcement of our betrothal. This rancher also gave her a chain made of Mlythevere, hanging from that chain, the Nightstar itself. Long has it been worn by the Queens of Elvendom."
Catara reeled back and reached numbly for her bench.
Jarrer continued without interruption. "It was this woman, this Half that ordered me here. So you see Catara, I am doing the bidding of my Queen."
Jarrer watched, as Catara slowly closed her eyes and whispered inaudibly to herself. She opened them and met his gaze. "Ara?"
Jarrer nodded.
Catara voice was barely above a whisper. "Her mother named her Catara after me. They sometimes called her Ara." Then her brows furrowed, "How did she come to this man?"
Jarrer shook his head, "Ara only said she was found in a boat by the river."
Some of the shock at Jarrer's words wore off and Catara's gaze threatened his. "Swear by it."
Jarrer knelt before his former mother-in-law. "I swear it, Catara."
Her shoulders collapsed as all her composure melted from her. "Leave me now," she managed weakly.
Surprised, Jarrer quickly stood. Almost, he argued with her, but the crestfallen expression on her face stopped him. Swiftly, he crossed the garden and just managed to shut the doors behind him as Catara erupted in uncontrolled sobs. At the sound of Catara's tears, Lark threw open the side door, sword in hand. She looked in confusion at Jarrer, "My Queen?" She called through the door, unsure if she should call for the guard or leave.
"Leave me be!" Catara sniffed.
Lark sheathed her sword. She stood protectively between him and the door.
Still unsure whether Catara would join them in this war, Jarrer wandered through the palace he'd known and loved for so many years. Suddenly saddened by the thought that Ara had never known Lourel, Jarrer paused for a moment to look over the sea. Whether or not the Elves would ever accept a human raised half as their Queen, he couldn't say.
But as Jarrer watched the rhythmic motion of the waves, he remembered Ara's love for the water. Perhaps he should have told her, but Essenia had cautioned him not to. "The knowledge will lead to her downfall." In the end, he'd trusted Essenia's. She had the Gift of foresight and a deep love for right. She wouldn't ask him without reason. Frustrated, he rubbed his forehead between his fingers and thumb, wondering if going against Essenia's prophecy would condemn Ara.
Then the sound of soldiers marching resonated down the hall. Grimly, Jarrer turned to face the door as the footsteps became louder. So Catara hadn't believed him after all. He had failed.
The doors were thrown open. Lark stood, sword drawn, a large detachment of soldiers behind her.
Sighing deeply, Jarrer drew his own sword. Would there be no respite granted the world of Men?
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