Nkayt'hei

Many thousands of miles north and east of fabled Nymyños, in a time long parted from the legends of the Everwood and the Assassin, lies the land of Aanloein. Overrun by humans, only the far east and far west of Aanloein remain to the elder races, and while the dwarves are content to sit in their stone halls and ignore the rest of the world, the elves have retreated to the west where they brood in bitterness. Led by Maurgahth, King of Elves and powerful Kingshade, the elves have turned into a dark, hated race feared by humans and dwarves alike. As Maurgahth strengthened his reign and his black power, he created a super race of elves called the sævulen, individuals with secular powers of immense strength. Each sævulen is marked by a tattoo representing their power, the ink mixed with the blood of the sævulen so that Maurgahth can control them.

Strongest of the sævulen, and pride of Maurgahth is Tryztyn Nkayt’hei, known as the Archer, an infallible warrior from Vundranis. Raised from childhood by the Kingshade, Tryztyn has known nothing but the will of Maurgahth, the feel of string and bow and sword, and the feel of coin bought with blood. He has never loved, never known joy, never found the bloodlust his brothers find in the kill. Unhappy, but knowing nothing else, Tryztyn continues to report to his foster father and king.

On one such day, the elf strides down the massive corridor of the king’s residence in Vundranis, his black boots making not a sound on the marble floor. The guards in their overlapping scales of silver and white capes passed him without hesitation, knowing well his appearance and weapons. With his wine-red hair, burnt golden skin, and metallic, silver eyes he stood out even among the other sævulen.

Nkayt’hei, one of the guards murmured as he opened the door to the king’s chamber.

The elf nodded in acknowledgement and stepped through. The room was dark, lit only by three orbs of light that floated near the high, vaulted ceiling. White and red tapestries lined the walls, falling to just a few inches above the floor. Maurgahth stood in the center of the room, clad in black and gold robes that wafted gracefully with each motion the king made. He turned and saw Tryztyn approach, his eyes widening in pleasure.

Ah, my son. I am glad you were in residence and came so quickly. There is an urgent matter of which I need you to take care.

As always, my king. What need have you? Tryztyn asked as he bowed sharply from the waist.

There is a foe of mine, a fool who wants to take my place. He has many friends, and I need them removed. You will find them in Aberastel.

How many?

Maurgahth gave him a cool look, his gold-flecked black eyes shining ominously. Some dozen, perhaps, plus Andomiel. Are you turning craven, Archer?

Of course not, my liege. I simply wonder how many arrows I will need to take.

The king laughed, a dry crackling sound that echoed eerily through the chamber. I see. Go to Aberastel, finish off these…miscreants for your king, and I will see you rewarded.

Maurgahth moved up to his slave and ran one fine-boned, milk-white finger along Tryztyn’s jawbone. You like the rewards, do you not? The she-elves I provide? I know you do not revel like your brothers do, but perhaps eventually you will learn.

I need only gold in payment, my lord, not flesh.

The king laughed softly again. Ah, Tryztyn you are my prize and my pain. Go, then, kill your father’s enemies, and I will see you have gold enough in which to bathe.

The Archer bowed and strode out of the chamber. He retrieved his horse from the palace stables and rode out, burgundy hair flying free as his black hood fell back in the wind. His horse moved solidly beneath him, her strides sure and powerful as they raced across the hinterlands of Elfaeddlan toward Aberastel. He arrived the next day and stabled his mount at an inn. The Archer walked into the common room and silence fell. Half a dozen well-dressed elves sat around the tables, cradling mugs of steaming cider or wine, a minstrel sat in the corner strumming on a lute. In the silence, an Aberasteli elf glided up to Tryztyn, her large sea-foam colored eyes steady on his face.

Greetings, dark traveler. Welcome to Topiary Garden, I am the owner, Eriah. How may I serve you?

Tryztyn scanned the six elves dotting the room with his silver eyes, then glanced back at the proprietor. I will need a room for the night.

Eriah smiled wantonly. Of course. She brushed back her long sunset yellow hair and gave him a sly glance. Anything else, my lord?

Tryztyn replied shortly. No. He brushed by her and unhooked his bow from his back.

There was a collective intake of breath when the weapon was spotted, and two elves hastened out of the room. The bow was nearly as famous as its bearer, a four-limbed behemoth that blended both long and recurve bows, with the shorter, curving limbs sliding in and out of the taller, wide longbow arms. Only the Archer can draw it, and only with his custom arrows.

Tryztyn ignored them and walked up the small set of stairs to the rear hallway, the she-elf following. She pointed to a door at the end and reached around him to unlock it, her arm brushing his. Would you like to join the others in the common room for dinner, or do you prefer to have it sent up, my lord?

Send it up. Only food and drink, mind you, nothing else. Do you understand?

The owner blushed and she ducked her head. Yes, of course my lord. It will be about forty minutes. If you have need of aught else, simply tug on the pull rope here, she pointed around the door, then departed.

Tryztyn locked the door behind her and tossed his bag to the floor by the foot of the bed. He propped his bow against the wall, but kept it strung. With a sigh, he sat down on the edge of the thick mattress and ran his fingers back through his collarbone-length hair. Maurgahth had always told him that the color of his hair was brought on by the blood he was meant to spill. The elf quickly tied his hair back with a bit of broken bowstring, but the shorter strands fell forward to frame his face. He bent to his pack and detached his quiver, pulling out two dozen arrows and laying them out on the bed beside him. They were just at three feet long, fletched with bright red feathers from the Blooded Owl, a fierce predator with red and black plumage. The heads were made of blackened steel, two inches long with three razor-sharp edges that spiraled out from the main body in curling arcs, narrow toward the center chisel tip and wide at the base.

Inspecting them, Tryztyn dipped each head into a tiny vial from his pack, and then let them dry. The black metal turned a bit dull rather than its usual glossy sheen, and the elf gently replaced them in another quiver, this one smaller and made to attach at the hip rather than on his back. As the last arrow was placed in the quiver, someone knocked on his door. The elf set his weapons aside and answered the knock, taking the tray of food from the apprehensive female. Just as he moved to shut the door, she put her hand out, pale eyes narrowed.

I know who and what you are, my lord. You are not going to cause trouble here, are you?

Tryztyn grabbed the edge of the door and set the tray down on the table beside it. My business is none of yours, lady. I would suggest you walk away.

She opened her mouth and narrowed her eyes. They say you are the only one who does not take pleasure in flesh. Are you broken? Or do you desire a different kind of partner?

Neither.

My name is Nilia. I do not know your purpose here, but I can make it much more pleasurable. She stepped under his arm and pushed the door closed, sealing them both in the room. She doubled her arms behind her and loosened the strings on her bodice, which gaped forward. With a deft motion, she slid her entire ensemble down to her ankles and braced her hands on her hips.

Tryztyn looked at her coldly. You cannot force me.

Nilia stepped away from her dress and put her hands out to touch him. The Archer slapped her hands away, grabbed her by the back of the neck, and slammed her up against the door. He pressed his body against her and placed his mouth against her ear.

You repulse me, you and all like you. I have paid for a room. I did not ask for a whore.

She whimpered and wriggled her hips against him. Please, I just want to share the night with you, nothing more. I can make you very happy.

Tryztyn growled and shoved away from her. He grabbed her arm, opened the door, and pushed her out into the corridor, naked. She spun and scrabbled against the door as he slammed it in her face, locking it. The elf turned and kicked her dress underneath the bed, disgusted. He ate his dinner to the sounds of her pleading on the other side of the wood. Eventually she left, departing with a violent curse. Tryztyn snorted as he placed the empty tray back on the table and climbed into the bed, kicking off his boots and unlacing his trousers, but staying dressed.

He awoke a few hours later with a start, and swore. Fingers clawed at his lower belly, tugging on his pants. Nilia was straddling him, naked again. The male grabbed her hands and twisted harshly, a twitch away from shattering her wrists.

Why? he demanded quietly as she rolled her hips, trying to entice him.

Because you are a legend, and I am a widow now for twenty years. You took my husband, Dynalis. Do you remember?

Tryztyn growled low in his throat. Your husband was a rapist.

That girl was asking for it. Dynalis never would have touched her otherwise. She accused him of raping her before he ever did, so he went and took from her what she had him punished for. He was a good soldier, a good husband.

Tryztyn dropped her hands. How can that be? He raped a girl, not yet twenty years old.

Nilia tore open his shirt and pressed her hands to his warm, tawny chest. You owe me the pleasures a husband would give me, so just give me this night and I will consider your debt paid.

I have no debt to you.

The maid grabbed a fistful of hair and pressed her lips to his, hot and greedy. Tryztyn simply lay there, refusing to rise to her administrations. Finally she broke away with a gasp, then yanked at his pants.

I would suggest you not go any further, the sævulen warned softly.

Nilia pulled his pants down from his hips and reached for him. Tryztyn cuffed her upside the head and she slithered off the bed and to the floor. The elf quickly redressed, bound the naked female with bowstring, shoved her against the wall, and returned to bed for a few more hours of sleep. When he woke, dawn was still an hour or so off, but the female was awake and glaring at him. The Archer rolled from the mattress, stomped into his boots and adjusted his clothes, retied his hair, then bent down and untied Nilia.

She groaned as she straightened her limbs. Why will you not lay with me?

Because I do not know you, much less love you, Tryztyn responded as he swung his pack over his shoulder and situated his weapons about his body.

Nilia barked a laugh. Love? What fool believes in love?

I do, he said as he walked out of the room.

Nilia caught up to him at the door, dressed in the clothes he had shoved beneath the bed earlier. Will you be back?

No, the archer muttered, and left her behind.

He walked to the main city market and after a few conversations, knew the location of his targets. The elf moved to the southern side of Aberastel and found the public baths, where wealthy elves gathered to soak and relax in the steaming, perfumed water. Tryztyn scouted the area, then climbed up onto a building. He jogged across the roof, leapt up onto a taller building, and squatted down to inspect his shot. There were fifteen that he could see, all focused on one elf basking in the glory of attention. Tryztyn squinted, and suddenly the soaking elves leapt closer in his vision as he called upon his individual power. Without waiting, the elf pulled out his bow and nocked three arrows onto the string. He took a breath and released the string. Three arrows went speeding off, pinning three individuals. Their bodies bobbed in the water in spreading pools of blood while the others shrieked and panicked. Another arrow took a fleeing elf in the lower spine, and a heartbeat later a fifth died with an arrow through his throat. By this time the elves were grabbing their own weapons. Tryztyn ducked and ran along the roof, then crouched again, firing off another three before they figured out where he was. Again the Archer took off, leaping along the tiled rooftops, firing an arrow every time he stopped, and each time an arrow sung from the bow, an elf died. Within moments only two remained, huddling behind shields while their comrades lay in wet puddles of blood that ran in dozens of tiny rivers to mingle with the bath waters.

Who are you? one of the hiders shouted. What do you want?

I am Nkayt’hei! All I want is your lives.

One of them cursed and tried to run. Tryztyn followed him and let fly. The elf turned at the last second and avoided getting an arrow through the ear, but it skimmed him along the back of the head. He ran a few steps more then fell, screaming and clutching at the tiny cut. He thrashed and shrieked, his fingers clawing into his own scalp, ripping hair and scalp alike. Several moments later he stilled, blood spreading out beneath him in a parody of wings. The last surviving elf moved carefully, holding the shield between him and Tryztyn.

The Kingshade sent you, did he not?

He did, the Archer agreed, holding his fifteenth arrow ready. You are Andomiel. Why do you go against your king?

Andomiel laughed darkly. Because he is a tyrant and a mutant, a coward and a fool. He should gather his people and retake Aanloein, rather than sit here like squatters at the edge of the land. I would lead our people to greatness once again! Humans would be our slaves as is proper, and we would rule all the world.

You are the fool, then, Tryztyn murmured, and let go of the string. His arrow punched through the shield and tore through Andomiel’s chest.

The sævulen leapt off the roof and quickly collected his arrows, cleaning them off in the bloody water, and then returned to the Topiary Garden to retrieve his horse. He was back in Vundranis by midnight.

I have heard that Andomiel and his cronies were butchered while they relaxed in the public baths. I am sad to say that I do not mourn for their deaths.

Tryztyn remained on his knees, head bowed. I am glad to have pleased you, my lord.

Yes, you have. As usual. You always please me, Tryztyn. I would like to please you.

I am glad to serve my king.

Maurgahth smiled serenely. I watched you for a time. I saw what happened at the inn.

Tryztyn grimaced at the floor. His king could watch through any of the sævulen, though it cost him a great deal of energy. A door opened and shut behind him, and two pairs of footsteps approached.

It was a bit of a task, getting her here faster than you returned. I had to send Athrys.

Tryztyn looked up and froze. Nilia and the teleporter, Athrys stood before Maurgahth, the latter clutching the arm of the female. The maid looked cataleptic with fear, her body sagging in Athrys’s grip as her knees failed to uphold her. The king laughed and dismissed Athrys, who disappeared with a slight warp of air. Without the Wisp’s support, Nilia collapsed to the ground, her skirts spreading beneath her. The king moved to her and crouched, clutching her chin.

I understand my son took your husband, and then refused your due.

Your…s-son?

Ah, yes. Not of my flesh, but of my blood. As your king, I feel it my duty to pay my citizens what they are owed. Come, come.

Maurgahth drew her up and toward Tryztyn. As they walked, her clothes simply fell away as though drawn off by gentle hands. She gasped, but was held sway by the king’s power. Tryztyn watched them, wary.

Touch his face, Nilia, just brush it. Maurgahth’s voice was a croon, barely a whisper.

The female knelt in front of the sævulen and pressed her fingertips to his cheek, her eyes clouded. As soon as the connection was made, Tryztyn felt his body stiffen, his mind fall under control of Maurgahth. Nilia cried out in ecstasy and she shuddered, gazing blindly into Tryztyn’s metallic silver eyes. Maurgahth leaned back, reveling in the pure control he had over his citizens. Tryztyn gasped as his mind tricked him into feeling Nilia’s body, feel her writhing and bucking beneath him as he took her. She cried out, moaning and shuddering on her knees, her fingers glued to Tryztyn’s cheek. Their torture, a pleasure so intense it was painful, lasted through the rest of the night. Nilia screamed out Tryztyn’s name even as she hemorrhaged blood out of every orifice, then collapsed sideways, lifeless.

Tryztyn groaned and lurched forward, catching himself with his hands before he face-planted. Blood dripped down from his mouth and nose to spatter against the marble floor, mingling with Nilia’s. He felt weak, his legs trembled and his arms shook, his stomach felt empty and his seed spent. Coughing, the Archer avoided looking at Nilia’s body, and found his king instead. Maurgahth looked sated, his eyelids heavy.

You should have taken her at the inn, boy. She would still be alive. Why do you insist on holding to these miserable ideals of yours? Your life would be so much sweeter if you took pleasure in normal things like a female’s warm piece.

I am not a rapist, Tryztyn spat, spraying blood.

She offered it willingly, even climbed on top and tried to take it. Fool.

The Archer moaned as pain lanced through his body, a gift from the king. "You kill, you take life so beautifully, but you cannot take pleasure in it, and this makes me angry. You rail against all I have taught you, all I have given you. I am weary of it."

Tryztyn screamed, falling forward to press his face against the floor as the sensation of his skin being peeled from his body overwhelmed him. His ragged breath sent tiny waves across the blood beneath his cheek, a fine spray dancing across the scarlet surface. Strands of wine-red hair curled in the liquid like veins. He sucked in a desperate breath and choked on the cooling blood that came with it. Tryztyn shuddered violently as Maurgahth’s gaze bore into him. He was a quivering mass of fleshless nerves; he was being put to the torch; he was being encased in molten silver. He lost consciousness before long. When he came to, he was in his rooms, stripped naked and free of injury, though his body screamed with agony every time he moved. Fury washed through him, and he sat up despite the pain. Nilia’s cold molested body flashed across his mind and he howled in rage. Fingers trembling with hurt, Tryztyn reached for his bow, his silver eyes cold with the need for vengeance.

Tryztyn

Tryztyn wiped the back of his hand across his cheek and stared at the blood that stained his knuckles. Getting over the wall had been more of a trial than he had expected. Maurgahth would be furious his favorite pet had escaped, but Tryztyn was done with being a murderer. So much blood stained his hands already it seemed nearly pointless to even try starting over, but that was exactly what he intended to do.

Slowly, painfully, the elf straightened and rolled his shoulders to loosen the muscles that had been constricted in fear and agony. He hitched his pack up and jogged toward the dark forest that grew several yards away from the walled city of Vundranis. He was only a few feet away from the sheltering darkness when a new pain blossomed in his calf that nearly took him to his knees. Tryztyn stumbled the last few steps into the trees and then collapsed; biting his already torn lip when the arrow that protruded from his leg caught on the underbrush and tugged.

Ironic, he thought, that the last injury he received while escaping would be an arrow wound. Gritting his teeth, the elf grabbed the arrow and pulled. Searing pain shot up through his calf and shin, bad enough he nearly cried out. With a resigned sigh, Tryztyn readjusted his grip on the shaft and, with a great amount of stubborn willpower, shoved the barbed arrowhead all the way through. When it broke free of his flesh, he snapped it off and yanked the rest out, his breath ragged. With shaking fingers, Tryztyn tore a strip of his shirt and wrapped it about the injury, doing his best to control his pain and panic.

Too close to the edge, Tryztyn, he muttered to himself. They will find you by morning and you will be back where you were. Get up.

Cursing himself all the while, the elf got to his feet and limped further into the forest, his vision watery and unreliable, his head filled with a roaring sound that intensified the longer he walked. When the first weak signs of dawn made their appearance through the thick foliage, Tryztyn let out a sigh of relief and began to search for a place to rest. When the dreary sun finally made its appearance, he was settled into a stone grotto. Gritting his teeth, he unwound the blood-soaked cravat and inspected his wound. The shot had been poorly made, for it had missed his bone and it appeared to have missed his tendons and ligaments as well. Muscle bulged out of the entry wound though, and the exit was still bleeding freely.

Tryztyn started a fire and poured some of his water into a cup from the bottom of his pack. When it was boiling, he dipped another strip of his shirt into it and pressed it to both openings. Then he shoved a wad of cloth into his own mouth, and poured some of the water into the entry wound. The elf panted into the cloth, sweat rolling unnoticed down his face as pinkish water trickled out the back of his leg. Struggling to stay conscious, he wadded the clean wound with more of his shirt. When he finished bandaging himself, he rinsed out the bloody strips and laid them out to dry. That dealt with, Tryztyn went to work washing the blood from his face, his lips, his fingers, even his ears. There was an alarming amount of dark red on the rags when he finished. Surprised he was even still alive the elf bunched his cloak up under his head and finally fell into a fitful sleep.

Days melded with the nights for Tryztyn as he wandered through the woods, barely aware of the fact that he had no idea where he was going. Away from Vundranis. As long as the city stayed at his back he kept moving forward. His leg throbbed and his face felt swollen and tender, but fear of being captured and returned forced him onward when all he wanted to do was lay down and die. Three days after his escape, Tryztyn stumbled upon a grouping of carefully painted wagons parked in a tight circle within a small meadow.

Between two of the wagons stood a pair of heavily muscled men, thick curved swords shoved into their wide colorful belts. Tryztyn held his hands up and walked out of the covering foliage. The men started, their hands went straight to the blade hilts and tightened.

Please, I am in need of aid. I do not intend you harm, Tryztyn said carefully, keeping his hands up.

You’re an elf. What are you doing out here? one of them asked, his words thick with a foreign accent Tryztyn did not recognize.

I have fled from Vundranis. Please. Do you have any water? I can pay you.

Mort? What’s going on? asked a woman who appeared from behind one of the wagons.

She was short and healthy looking, her hair covered with a dull green scarf, though wild curls of red escaped from beneath it. When her eyes landed on Tryztyn, they widened in shock. An elf?

My name is Tryztyn Nkayt’hei.

What do you want, Tristan? she asked, her arms folded tightly.

Tryztyn. I just need some water, aid if you are willing, but water would be greatly appreciated.

Aye. Come on then. Can’t have you bleeding to death on our doorstep, pointy ears or no, she said, her voice low and her eyes narrow with suspicion, though she seemed kindly enough.

My thanks.

I am Karla, and this is my brother Mort. This is our family, she said, her arms spread wide when they entered the ring of wagons.

People sat around a large fire, eating, drinking, and laughing. Silence fell immediately when Tryztyn became visible, and he sighed quietly. He was a skilled fighter, but he was also very weary and wounded. Karla poked him in the ribs, as unafraid of him as one might be a beetle on their shoe.

Sit. Everyone, this is Tristan Nikhaytee.

Tryztyn sat, narrowing his eyes at the butchering of his name, but remained quiet. Karla plucked at his cloak. You want me to check your injuries through your clothing or what?

I apologize. I am not used to being…checked.

Well if even half the rumors about your kind are true, I’d be damned surprised to find out you were. Off with the cloak, the pack, and the shirt, kiddo.

A little dumbfounded, Tryztyn carefully removed the specified items. When he tugged off his shirt, all around the campfire people gave gasps of horror. He looked down and saw the bruise-riddled flesh of his torso, punctuated now and again by angry red welts and half-healed lacerations.

By the sun. You’ve at least…three broken ribs. Ah. Four, Karla muttered, firmly pressing her fingers to his skin. Your flesh is hot. Can you get fevers?

Yes, but it takes a great deal for it to happen. Usually poison.

Hmm…Pearl, get me my sewing kit. Is it possible you were poisoned? Another woman popped up from her seat and went into one of the wagons.

Tryztyn shook his head. No. I inspected myself for the signs. Besides, any poison we use does the trick within moments. No waiting around.

Of course, Karla muttered.

Pearl reappeared a moment later with a large basket, which she handed to Karla.

What are you going to do to me? Tryztyn asked as the woman began drawing thin black thread through a curved needle.

Never had stitches, kiddo?

No. Our cuts are cauterized and left to heal on their own.

Hmm.

Karla bent over him, the needle poised. She paused and looked him in the face. She blinked. You have silver eyes.

Yes, I know.

How unusual. They’re quite stunning you know. Metallic. Are they natural?

In a way, yes.

How fantastic. All right kiddo, let’s see what you’re made of. I do apologize, this will hurt.

Madam, I believe I am older than you.

Karla pinched one of his cuts together and aimed the needle. Maybe, but you look like you’re eighteen, that’s my daughter’s age. So I’ll call you what I wish and you can take it.

Tryztyn sucked in a sharp breath when she jabbed the threaded needle through his skin, but remained quiet afterward. It took a long time to stitch all his cuts closed, and many had to be broken open and reformed.

To minimize scarring, Karla informed him when he let his head fall back in pain. Blood spotted the ground all around him, and there was now a basket of soaked rags by his knee. You are a mess. What happened?

Tryztyn rolled his head to look her in the eye. I escaped.

Yes. Obviously.

Vundranis is where Maurgahth spends most of his time, and I was often at his side, a friend, if you will allow such a mockery of the word. My unscheduled departure did not please him. He has powers you cannot fathom, and anger to match. No one touched me, but for the arrow in my leg. This he did with his mind, with his will, and with his city’s magic. Why do you think no one ever leaves?

You managed, somehow.

Tryztyn snorted. The alternative was worse.

What was it?

The elf moved his gaze over the large family, most of whom had returned to their conversations, but a few still watched him. I was done killing for him.

Karla sat back on her heels, the bloody needle pinched between her finger and thumb. You were a murderer?

Of sorts, yes. A tool. A puppet. A pawn.

Well, you broke his ties to you, yes? This is good, a moral victory for you. Lay back.

Tryztyn stretched out; felt the cool, soft grass beneath his bare flesh. You do not fear me.

Why should I?

I have the blood of hundreds upon my hands, I am of a violent, dissident race, and I am an oddity even among them.

You mean the red of your hair? The silver of your eyes?

Aye, and my general outlook on life.

Karla bent over him once more, threading the needle along his hip. You are alone, for one. Injured. I see sadness in your eyes. Your coloring is of no import to me, kiddo. Humans come in all sorts of colors. Why should elves be any different?

"I am malformed. Svonwy, he muttered the elfish word for what he was considered, a…demon."

Hardly. Demons don’t wince when they get stitches.

How do you know?

The woman finally smiled, shaking her head as she chuckled. I can’t imagine. Well, kiddo, you’re all stitched up. How do you feel?

Like I have been slashed at by a lunatic. But better. My thanks Karla.

You’re not done. Let’s look at that leg. She pulled up the leg of his pants and winced, her face going pale at the blood-encrusted wounds on either side of his leg. Oooh. Nasty.

It was a barbed head. I had to push it through or risk tearing more than just muscle, Tryztyn told her as she gingerly inspected the wound.

You have some grit, I’ll say that for sure. All right. Pearl, I need some more clean water, and vinegar.

The other woman brought another bucket of water and a glass jar of white vinegar, then sat down on the other side of Tryztyn. You say your name weird, Tristan.

I say my name properly. I believe I would know how to pronounce it, having grown up with it. It is spelled like this. He traced his name in the dirt by his feet, careful to use the human glyphs.

Trizz…tin. It’s…exotic.

Pearl, run and get me some tea. Dose it with poppy, Karla said stiffly.

When Pearl left, Tryztyn looked at her. Is she your apprentice?

In a way. She is my daughter, the one I told you about. She is but a child.

Yes, she is. I seem to interest her, Tryztyn said, watching as Karla finished wiping off the crusted blood around the arrow wound.

The woman chuckled. You are an elf, something few of us have ever seen, and even less have lived long enough to talk about, and you are incredibly beautiful.

I am not. I am hideous, and she should flee from me.

Karla sat back and rested her forearms on her knees. Now why would you say something like that?

Tryztyn shrugged. I am malformed, scarred, and marked.

Marked?

The elf shifted so she could see his left shoulder. "I am sævulen, the way Maurgahth controls his pawns."

Karla studied the cream-colored tattoo with a slight revulsion. It was a three-pronged spiral, each delicate arm connected to a ring, the center of which was positioned over the tip of his clavicle. How does he control you with it?

Tryztyn sat back and brushed his dark red hair over it. "It is linked to my ability. The ink that is used is infused with drops of blood from Maurgahth, and all he has to do is place a droplet of his blood on an image of the sævulen mark he wishes to reach, and then he can do with the wearer as he pleases."

But he cannot reach you here?

"No. The sævulen is only affected within the walls of the elven cities; or when he sends us out willingly. That is why no one ever escapes. The pain is…unimaginable. I barely survived, but once I was over the wall, the pain simply stopped. The lingering affects remained of course, but no new pain came. This happened just as I reached the forest, a final effort to stop me."

They would not chase you down? Surely they could overtake you, injured as you are. Or is your ability super speed, or invisibility?

No, it is not. It takes time for Maurgahth to prepare soldiers to get outside the walls. He made it difficult to leave even with permission. Only he is truly exempt from the pain.

So how did you survive it? Karla asked, looking up as Pearl returned with a clay mug of steaming tea.

Tryztyn shrugged. All my life I have had a high tolerance for pain and a resiliency to disorientation. The latter is part of my…talent. I believe that my survival is at least partially due to that. The rest I attribute to my desperation to escape. I am certainly not the only elf who yearned to be free, but I am the only marked one. The rest revel in their power, wallow in the haze of moral immunity. It is revolting, truly.

Well, Karla said as she directed him to drink the poppy-infused tea, you are free now. Where do you plan to go?

Tryztyn drank warily, not wanting to lose his head. I do not know. I have never been outside the cities, rarely been out of Vundranis. I have studied maps but I realize that is little help in reality. And I am not so sure that my presence will be as warmly accepted in the rest of Rhanwin as it has been by you.

Karla made a face of agreement and then gestured at the cup in his hands. Drink it all kiddo. You’re going to want it.

He shook his head. I will bear the pain and keep my awareness. Do what you need.

Karla shook her head once but picked his leg up and placed it on her lap. You could go to Giuerland, or Weivtan. Perhaps Osel.

I do not know of Giuerland, or Weivtan, but I have heard of Osel. It is a large city in the northern mountains, is it not? Tryztyn said, squinting as he thought.

Aye, ‘tis. Are you ready?

The elf nodded and then clenched his jaw when she pushed a steaming rag of water and vinegar into his wound to clean it out as he had back in the forest, but days of wandering had allowed in more dirt. She poured more water and vinegar over the injury, and then dug in again. The pain made him lightheaded, but he stayed conscious, his breathing rough and his body tense. Pearl knelt beside him, her hand obliviously resting on his shoulder over his mark. Such a gesture confused him, and he shifted his gaze to hers.

You do not have to hide your pain, Tryztyn, she said softly and ran her finger along his jaw, careful to pronounce his name properly.

I hide nothing, he told her roughly and pulled his head away.

The young woman smiled sadly. You are hurting, both inside and out. What do you need from me?

The elf frowned. I do not know you nor do you me. Why do you presume I need anything from you?

Pearl blinked, her expression confused. She looked at her mother. I am sorry if I offended you, Tryztyn. Do you not find me beautiful?

No offense, child, but you are very young. Keep your youth and your innocence as long as possible. Do not believe your only worth to be that which you can provide physically.

I am nearly done, Pearl. Why don’t you go get your dinner? Karla said, gesturing with her head at the rest of the family.

Pearl sniffed but she did as her mother said, moving off to join her relatives around the campfire. Karla shook her head. I am sorry Tryztyn. She is young and has only just experienced her first love affair. I appreciate you letting her down easily.

I do not want to hurt anyone more, but I am not accustomed to being approached by someone who does not understand what such acts mean to elves in general. Love and affection have little to do with it.

As I said, she is young. All right kiddo, you’re all patched up. How do you feel now? Karla said, deftly dodging the subject of violent love.

Tryztyn sat up and took a deep breath. I am well, thanks to you. I certainly did not expect this level of care from strangers, humans at that. You are a kind person. How much coin in return do I owe?

We are travelers, gypsies with little in the way of need. We are happy in our solitude and glad to help good people. You were an unexpected excitement, and we shall remember this encounter for all of our days. Such things are priceless. Now, let’s get you some vittles and rest, and you’ll be almost good as new.

No please, I have taken too much from you already. I will be on my way.

Karla lightly smacked his shoulder. Nonsense. Can you stand?

The elf carefully got to his feet and tested his footing. Well enough.

Good. Come on then, let’s get you seated, she said as she took his arm and led him to the fire. Louis, would you fill a plate for Tryztyn please?

A rotund man the elf took to be the cook grunted and did as asked. He held the plate out to Tryztyn with an odd, suspicious look and grunted again when Tryztyn accepted the plate. The elf hobbled over to a seat and carefully began eating, careful to avoid eye contact with anyone despite the stares directed his way. The family talked boisterously, laughing and cajoling for a long time while the fire crackled and spat. He finished eating and sat in silence while the others continued their joviality. They were a mixed group; dark and light, skinny and fat, tall and short, but there was no visible line of separation.

Karla noticed him sitting stiffly in silence and smiled to herself. He was the first elf she had ever met, and though his accent was queer, his words were sincere and full of suffering. She took his plate and handed it to her daughter for washing. Pearl pouted for a moment before going off to the cook wagon. Karla touched his arm and helped him up, supporting his weight, which was startlingly light.

Come, you’ll get some rest.

Please, I-

Shush. This one here, she guided him to her wagon and helped him up the steps. Karla assisted him into one of the narrow beds, which was slightly too short for him so he had to curl up on his side, and patted the blanket near his shoulder. You should sleep soundly. You are safe here. Sleep.

Tryztyn looked up at her, his vision fuzzy, and tried to thank her, but his mind was already shutting down as exhaustion took its toll. Karla smiled as his head slumped against the pillow, his features softened from the guarded stoicism he had worn since entering the camp to relaxed unawareness.

Sleep well, Tryztyn, and let your dreams wash away the nightmare of your life, she whispered and left him alone.

Tryztyn jerked awake, sucking in a breath as he tweaked his stitched torso. He was surrounded by warm blackness, laying on something soft and yielding. It took him several moments to remember where he was. He held his breath and closed his mind to all thoughts, listening. There was a faint rustling noise on the bed across the small aisle and the alert breathing of someone awake. Tryztyn sat up and combed his fingers through his shoulder-length red wine-colored hair. The effects of the poppy had worn off and he could feel every ache and sting, but ignored them as he swung his legs over the edge of the narrow bed.

Tryztyn? Pearl breathed in a small voice.

The elf froze. Go to sleep, Pearl.

But I can’t, the young woman sat up and looked at him in the dark.

Though he knew she could see only vague images, Tryztyn could see every detail of her face, her nightgown, and the lust in her eyes.

You sleep so quietly, she murmured. You don’t even move. I was worried you were dead for a little while, and then you sighed, so softly.

Uncomfortable by her observance of him in such a vulnerable state, Tryztyn folded his arms and stared down at her. Where is your mother?

Out. She often sleeps under the stars. Claims it helps her to understand the nature of things. I don’t get it. I would rather sleep in a bed, with blankets. Where it’s warm and soft, and shielded from prying eyes.

Pearl stood and the small space suddenly seemed far too narrow to Tryztyn. He slid by her and stepped into the middle of the wagon. Go to sleep, Pearl, he said again.

Her small hand lifted and pressed against his bare chest, above his heart. It beats so slow, so steady. Does it ever beat faster?

Tryztyn plucked her hand away and dropped it. Yes. But very rarely. Usually when I am anticipating a kill.

Oh, Pearl gasped. No other times?

No.

Will you let me try, at least?

Tryztyn shook his head. No. That would be unwise.

While she pouted, the elf pulled off his one and only piece of jewelry from his thumb. It was a silver band, etched along the length with the flame symbol of Vundranis. He handed it to her and pressed her fingers closed over the heavy ring.

Make sure your mother gets that, he told her.

Are you leaving? Oh please don’t. Please stay. Please, she pleaded.

Tryztyn shook his head. I must move on. To stay would place you and your kin in the line of danger.

Pearl’s bottom lip stuck out and she looked up at him through her lashes, but the expression had no effect on the hardened elf. With a shake of his head, Tryztyn made sure he had all of his belongings, bid goodnight to the moping Pearl, and hastened from the wagon. Relieved that only two people were still awake outside, presumably guards, Tryztyn easily slipped by them and back into the forest. Though the dawn was still several hours away, he felt more rested than he had in days, perhaps weeks.

He was two days away from the gypsies’ camp when he heard movement behind him in the dense woods. Tryztyn paused to get his bearings and then dropped his pack on the ground near the base of an ancient tree. The elf took his massive bow from his shoulder, strung it, and drew an arrow from his quiver. He waited, patient and calm, his heart beating steady and slow. It was several minutes before his pursuer came into view. The elf moved silently into the area Tryztyn had chosen and came to a stop, his eyes calm on the arrowhead aimed between them.

Are you alone? Tryztyn demanded in their mother tongue.

No, the elf said coolly.

Tryztyn smirked. He could see the lie in the elf’s eyes; hear it in his voice. Yes you are. Maurgahth was not sure I was still alive, so why waste the energy to send more than one out to find me?

Your irreverence is legendary, Nkayt’hei.

The silver-eyed elf lifted an eyebrow. Among other things, I suppose. Who are you?

Kian Sontil’ma.

I know your name. You are a well-known tracker, are you not? Tryztyn said, the arrow still steady and aimed.

Kian nodded.

Then Maurgahth does not expect you to survive, so I shall oblige him, Tryztyn told him.

Kian shrugged. Others will come, others more fit to this duty.

Let them, the Archer challenged, and let fly.

The tracker dropped like a log, the arrow buried deep in his forehead, the fletching quivering slightly. Tryztyn breathed out and walked over to the dead elf. He quickly found his purse and riffled through his pack. There was one decent map, a few useful survival tools that Tryztyn already had, but spares couldn’t hurt, and a compass. Such a rare object, the elf studied it for a second before pocketing it. Finished with his rooting, Tryztyn grabbed Kian by the arms and dragged him deep in the woods. He quickly tossed a few leaves and branches over his body and left it there. The grim task done, Tryztyn shouldered his bow, hefted his pack, and continued on his way.

He traveled for days, his eyes often on the map he had taken from Kian. It was obviously from the days of the Incursion, the violent elven invasion of the human empire, Rhanwin, for there were towns marked on the paper that Tryztyn knew for fact had been utterly destroyed. At last, he exited the forest and blinked in the dim sunlight. Tryztyn glared at the gray sun and then scanned the horizon. With a glance around to ensure that he was alone, the elf prepared to do that which he had avoided since escaping Vundranis. He called upon his ability.

Tryztyn’s left pupil split into three prongs and spiraled inward, looking similar to the marking on his shoulder. The metallic silver of his iris widened and then narrowed, focused in on the far-distant horizon. He scanned the skyline and smiled faintly when he saw the squarish outline of a wall. He blinked and his eye reversed the process and returned to normal. Hoisting his pack higher up on his shoulders, he started off toward the city, and a new life.

Trouble

Tryztyn tugged his hood further over his face and walked into the inn. The previous three places had thrown him out before he was even allowed to speak, and he held little optimism for this one. He walked up to the bar and sat down with the faint hope his plan would work. Still shrouded, he slid three gold coins across to the man who walked up to him wiping his hands on a rag.

That’ll buy you more drink than you can stand, he said, not picking up the money.

I do not want drink. I want a room, privacy. I swear to you I will cause no grief. I simply need a place to stay for the night, and some food.

Who are you to need such an introduction?

Tryztyn looked up at the man and shook his hood back a slight margin. I mean neither harm nor disturbance, but I need a place to stay this night.

An elf, huh? Well…money’s money to me, don’t matter whose hands it comes out of. I’ve got a room for you. I can have someone bring up a plate later, if you so choose.

I appreciate it.

Still more than it’s worth, the man said and slid one of the coins back to Tryztyn.

Keep it. For your troubles. And honesty, he wanted to add.

The innkeeper lifted an eyebrow but he swept the money off the counter and into his pocket. Your room is up the stairs, to the right, last one down the hall, he handed him an old key. I’ll get your dinner to you within the hour.

My thanks, Tryztyn said and stood. He followed the man’s directions and entered his room, studied the narrow bed and rickety table with unease. He sat on the wobbly chair and opened his pack. He dug through the few items he had to reach the very bottom. Encased in a treated bit of wood was the object that carried the most fear for him. A phial of murky blood glowed up at him, bits of fog-like substance floating in the space between the liquid and the cork.

Taking a deep breath, Tryztyn set the phial on the desk and leaned back, not wanting to start until he knew he would not be disturbed. He waited for nearly an hour, and then someone knocked on the door. He opened it to find a young woman standing there, a tray covered in a linen cloth trembling somewhat in her hands.

Y-your dinner, sir.

My thanks, Tryztyn muttered and took the shaking tray from her. He cocked his head as she continued to stare at him with wide eyes. Are you all right?

Yes. I…I’m sorry. Excuse me.

She pivoted, stumbled, and hastened away, looking over her shoulder every other step. Tryztyn sighed, shut and locked the door and returned to his chair. He flicked the cover off the tray and mechanically ate the stew and bread, his eyes riveted on the phial. When he finished, he set the tray on the floor and picked up the phial. With a deep breath, he removed the cork and dipped his little finger into it, his eyes squeezing shut when the abnormally warm blood touched his flesh. Shaking, making sure he didn’t lose any of the blood smeared on his finger, he replaced the cork, set it down, and brought his pinky to his lips.

Tryztyn’s eyes snapped wide open and this time his right pupil began to spiral inward. He gasped for breath as the room before him spun and then disappeared; his hands clutched the small table so hard the wood splintered somewhat under his fingers. Blackness engulfed him for a mere moment and then he was within another room, this one made of cut marble. Low torchlight illuminated the object standing in the center, encased in a magical aura, protected by a dozen lethal elven guards.

Suspended in the aura was an arrow. Its haft was made of white oak; the fletching was from the rarest of all fowl, the silver hawk, the feathers luminescent even in darkness. But it was the arrowhead that drew the eyes Tryztyn looked through. Made of purest diamond, it sparkled as the many facets caught and threw the firelight.

Maurgahth walked up to the enclosure and pressed his pale, slender hand to it, his eyes half closing in ecstasy as he felt the power that emanated from the arrow. When united with the magical Flame of Ordanthal, that diamond arrowhead would magnify the light so mightily it would free the miserable gray world from its murky prison; the barrier that kept the sun and sky from sending down true light and warmth. But Maurgahth refused to let that happen. He would keep the world enslaved in shadow. He would keep the world at his feet. With a deep sigh, the elven king turned away from the casement and cricked his centuries-old neck.

Damn Tryztyn anyway. His desertion truly meant nothing, really. He had been his greatest warrior, his strongest arm, his best pupil, but he had been tainted by a code of honor that really got in the way. Constantly questioning his orders, sequestering himself in his quarters after nearly every kill. It had been annoying. So damn him. Maurgahth chuckled dryly, a crackling hiss that echoed through room. Damn him indeed.

Tryztyn retracted his gaze with a gasp, jerking backward hard enough that he sent the chair over, and landed with a thud on the floor. Grimacing, the elf rolled onto his side and pressed his cheek to the cool wood. So, Maurgahth really did have the Arrow of Ordanthal. It wasn’t too surprising, but it was unfortunate in the gravest of senses. Until the Arrow was returned to its rightful place in Citadel Baan’glyth, the world and all its inhabitants would remain cast in shadow and gloom.

Tryztyn picked himself up from the floor just as a knock sounded on his door. He opened it to find the innkeeper drywashing his hands and looking concerned.

Is there a problem? the elf asked quietly.

I heard a clatter and worried you might be injured.

Tryztyn turned slightly to look at the chair that was still on its side, drawing the man’s attention. I tripped.

Tripped?

Aye. I have a wound in my leg and I lost my balance.

Do you need a physician?

The elf shook his head. It has been seen to. Thank you for your concern.

The innkeeper nodded and left, looking back over his shoulder until Tryztyn shut the door once more. It worried him the man was keeping such a watch on him, but figuring there was nothing he could do about it, Tryztyn righted the chair and sat back down, his elbows braced on the table. Maurgahth had the Arrow of Ordanthal, and therefore complete power over the world. The elf buried his face in his hands, knowing, and hating, what that meant for him. Tryztyn was the only elf with strength enough to go against the Kingshade, perhaps even win, who was outside Maurgahth’s control. He had no other choice. Tryztyn would not consent to live under the power of Maurgahth for the rest of his life. He would take back the Arrow, and end the tyrant’s reign.

Tryztyn snuck downstairs before dawn in the hope he could avoid any run-ins with the other occupants. He had been kept awake nearly half the night by the voracious activities of the couple in the room next to him, and was in a foul mood. His plans were somewhat foiled when he reached the bottom step and saw the innkeeper wiping down tables.

You’re up early Master Elf.

Tryztyn. So are you.

The man straightened and stretched his back. Oh, I like to clean the place before the day begins. What can I get for you?

I am on my way out.

Let me fix you some breakfast at least. You can come into the kitchen if you want to avoid being seen. Besides, I wanted to talk to you about your gold. You go about Rhanwin with all Elfaeddith coin…you’ll have more problems than you need.

Tryztyn accepted the offer and followed the man, who finally introduced himself as Mordan, into the large kitchen. An apron-clad cook was checking on loaves of bread in the oven when they entered. She turned and eyed Tryztyn with a cold gaze, but said nothing. Mordan dismissed her with a promise that he would watch the bread. Tryztyn propped his bow up against the table and dropped his pack next to it on the ground.

That’s quite the weapon, I’ve never seen one like it, Mordan commented with a gesture at Tryztyn’s bow.

The elf glanced at it. It is the only one. I made it myself. I needed the advantages of both long and recurve bow, so I blended the two. It has never failed me.

I don’t doubt it. Now, I’m assuming you have only Elfaeddith coin.

Tryztyn nodded. Why?

Mordan pulled a large chest from beneath a trap door in the floor and placed it on the table with a heavy thud. When he opened it, the elf saw the gleam of gold and silver. The innkeeper put a scale next to the chest and put one of the coins Tryztyn had given him in one dish. Then he piled Rhanwin coins into the other dish until they fell level, which resulted in four gold and two silver coins. Tryztyn looked at the man with surprise. He chuckled.

I will change half of whatever you have, if you want, the man said, scooping the coin out of the dishes.

Tryztyn pulled free his belt purse, then grabbed his larger coin bag from a side pocket on his pack. Mordan’s brows rose at the large bag, but said nothing as he began to change them out.

Will not my coin cause you the same problems? Tryztyn asked after he had changed a handful.

I will take them to the city bank, and they will melt it down and pay me for the weight of the metals. I am not concerned.

They sat in silence for a time, and then the elf sighed. Does not my presence bother you? You seem worried for me. It is unexpected, Tryztyn stated, unable to help himself.

Mordan shrugged, stood up, and started a fire in the cooking hearth. I have seen a lot of good people and a lot of bad people in my life. It sort of comes with being an innkeeper. Humans and dwarves can be just as nasty, violent, and greedy as any elf; if you’re all as bad as the stories say. I have learned, over the years, to see the person under the flesh. Your eyes speak volumes, Tryztyn. I see regret, bitterness, shame, and an incalculable amount of pain, of all types. But I also see passion and strength. You’re going to be a catalyst of change in this world, I can tell you that right now. The normal citizens of this world probably won’t notice much, but those of us watching will see the change.

Why do you watch, Mordan?

He stared at the skillet into which he had just cracked a few eggs. A few moments passed before he responded. I was not always an innkeeper. When I was younger I was in the Osel Special Forces.

Tryztyn’s eyebrows rose in surprise and admiration. That is one of the elite branches of the human military, is it not?

It is. I watched a lot of people die, friend and foe alike. I’ve fought humans, dwarves, and elves, and now I just want peace. I think you will bring it to us.

Why? I am just one elf.

"An elf marked by the sævulen."

Tryztyn leaned back, suddenly very wary of the man across from him. How do you know about that?

Mordan smiled faintly. When I came up last night to check on you, your shirt was askew, off your shoulder. I saw the marking, he