Preorders are now up just in time for your final sample chapter. Here we resume following Benrethor as he has another dark encounter the twisted heart of the Evellon:
Chapter 3:
Benrethor’s stomach was insistent on reminding him he had not eaten in two days. The ache had been easy to silence during the chase because of his adrenaline. Since he began following the path of the Deep-Woods, it refused to shut up.
Fruit sprung from the branches around him, however, Benrethor knew better than to trust its offer. His body told him to ignore his mind. The fruit was the only thing unaffected by the taint of the woods. The apples were practically glowing red. They were large and healthy, perhaps the best Benrethor laid eyes on.
Whenever he reached for an apple, a high-pitched scream rang in his ears. Benrethor recoiled every time. The forest didn’t want the elf eating. Eventually, the fetus of hunger grew too great. Benrethor yanked an apple from a tree before the forest could scream. It tasted good. His stomach welcomed the food, happy with a small amount. It growled for more.
Benrethor acquiesced, eating two more apples before a shriek wailed from behind him. The elf dropped his food and ran down the path until he collapsed.
His lungs burnt from the toxic air. Once his breathing returned to normal, Benrethor continued to follow the path laid before him, ignoring the fruit reaching out to him.
After a long trek, Benrethor finally saw where the path was leading him. Up ahead, lay a small dilapidated cottage. Cheery, Benrethor thought sarcastically as he approached.
Knowing whatever the forest was leading him to dwelt within, Benrethor cautiously approached the cottage. He gently knocked on the door. When Benrethor did so, the door swayed open with the creak of ancient hinges.
The interior was cluttered with various scrolls and bottles containing liquids of every hue and various pieces taken from multiple species. All covered in dust. In the center of it all was a cauldron. Underneath the cooking utensil were the remains of a fire that had long since burnt out. The only sign of life was the rats that scattered when Benrethor took his first step into the decaying building.
A series of candles flared to life as the elf entered, causing him to jump. The room was now full of dim light that projected a dance of shadows throughout the cottage. It took a moment for Benrethor to spot that the coals under the cauldron had become relit embers.
He gazed at what was in the cauldron and the elf felt his brow furrow in confusion. Candy? Benrethor thought as he picked up a handful of the contents.
“Well, well, well,” two voices said simultaneously. A quiet and deep man’s from what felt like the elf’s head and a dominant woman’s from behind. Benrethor turned to face the latter and beheld a pale woman in a black dress with emerald eyes. She had the beauty of an elf with her high cheekbones and slightly pointed jaw, while also having a more round and human face. Her dark brows pointed inward towards her arched nose while her cheekbones were the target of her cruel smile. Her emerald eyes had both the pleasure of hypnotic beauty and the terror of one looking directly into your soul.
The Witch of Evellon. She was real.
“Not many elves, let alone pureblood are foolish enough to enter my domain.” The two voices spoke as her mouth moved. Benrethor assumed the woman’s voice was what the witch sounded like in an age long since past.
“Are you the one who led me here?” he asked, trying to appear as innocent as possible. If she didn’t view him as a threat, she may let him go. Hopefully; and hoping was all Benrethor could do at the moment. Hope his acting worked.
“You came to the Deep-Wood before I guided you to me,” she nodded. “But still, only fools or brave souls come here. Which are you?”
“Neither, my lady,” hopefully the title would help cajole her. “I just wanted to,” think, boy, think! “see if the rumors of your beauty were true.”
The witch laughed. The combined voices made this a sound Benrethor didn’t identify with joy, for himself anyway.
“Oh, they are,” she whispered in a catlike purr. Then a smile stretched across her face, highlighting her already prominent cheekbones. “Among all the others.”
Benrethor felt the familiar tickle of a bug walking multiply across his entire body. As if conjured out of thin air, spiders crawled all over him. The elf knew they weren’t real, but they certainly felt real. Dropping the sword, Benrethor threw himself on the ground and began to roll in an attempt to crush the phantom arachnoids.
Again, came the frightening laugh, “As much as I admire your flattery, I know you came for another reason. Tell me.”
The spiders were no more, however, Benrethor’s fear remained strong as ever. The elf picked up the sword and knelt as though he were a knight. Come on, Benrethor. Think! He did his best to hide the trembling of his voice. “The Caesar’s men chased me here.”
The witch chuckled. Oddly enough, the man’s voice was the louder of the two when she did so. Another sound he never wanted to hear again.
“I sense something more,” she knelt to where her emerald eyes were level with his glowing blue ones. “You did something to provoke the Caesar’s men. Helping another perhaps?” When he didn’t answer, the witch snickered. “Interesting… Was she dear to you?”
The elf’s gaze snapped up. How did she know? After taking a moment to compose himself, Benrethor replied, “Yes,” a hint of sorrow in his voice.
“So she didn’t make it.” Was that sympathy in her voice? “Was she a friend, your sister, or perhaps… something more?”
Benrethor decided the truth was best considering the witch had ‘guessed’ as much as she did. “A friend. I hoped for her to become something more.”
“Young love,” The witch chuckled as she rose. “There is nothing more adorable and foolish.” She inhaled deeply as she began to circle the kneeling elf.
Benrethor felt her drifting inside his head as if her hands were reaching past his skull to touch his mind, feeding on his fear. His… anger?
“Interesting,” the witch whispered, her voice the same volume as the man’s. “I feel great sorrow in you for this woman,” she inhaled once again. “I can practically smell your fear, but that is not your primary emotion.” The witch smiled. “There is much anger in you, but not at me. Not quite enough at the men who killed your beloved. No,” she paused. “You are angry at yourself for being unable to do anything,” another pause. “Do remember the drop bear?”
“The one that tried to kill me?” Benrethor said more boldly than he was feeling. “Yeah, what about it?” he said with the anger she addressed. Where did this come from? What is she doing to me?
The witch laughed again. “So you do not know.” She leaned in to whisper the next part in his ear with sinister pleasure, “That was all you.”
“What?” The elf stood. “I had nothing to do with that thing, other than trying to stop it!”
“Your naivety amuses me,” the witch chuckled. “Ah, I wish I could keep you boy, but unfortunately my master has a strict rule. None are to enter my domain and live.”
Benrethor felt his blood begin to boil and he collapsed to the floor of the hut. His pale skin turned red along with the whites of his eyes. His mouth began to foam as his body tremored like an earthquake. He slowly felt his insides begin to melt to putty. The elf tried his best to free himself, but he knew he was dealing with a force far greater than him.
He wasn’t sure if the pain lasted for hours or days. Perhaps it was only seconds, despite the torment of decades. But, eventually, he broke through the agony.
“What?” the witch cried as Benrethor rose to his feet.
Taking advantage of her shock, the pureblood charged out of the cottage, leaving the sword behind. The trees began lashing out at him from all directions. He dodged the obstacles by sliding under or vaulting over them. He ran. The bushes of thorns attempted to trip him. The elf jumped and flipped over any that came near his feet. He ran.
He reached the hill and noticed the wall of thorns preventing his earlier escape was no longer there. Benrethor took this as a sign from the heavens to go that route. The elf then ran up the hill in a crawl.
Halfway up, a score of vines began tangling their way around his limbs. The pureblood tried to pull himself free, but the vines continued to wrap around him.
As the thorns crawled along his body, cutting through his clothes before cutting his flesh, Benrethor managed to keep a hand free. The elf took hold of a root and pulled himself forward with his arm. But the strength of one arm was no match for the score of vines digging into his skin.
When they began to crawl up his neck, Benrethor remembered how the witch talked about his fear, how it was really only anger at his inability. She was right. He wasn’t so much afraid as he was upset that he could not escape.
Benrethor screamed in rage.
The vines loosened their grip and retreated. Not waiting for an explanation, the elf finished running up the hill.
He was out of her domain and yet Evellon wasn’t getting any brighter. Looking up, Benrethor saw the stars. Night had fallen. Curse it! How long was I there? Benrethor thought as he stopped to catch his breath, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead.
The Caesar had a strictly enforced curfew to keep the elves ‘safe.’ Normally Benrethor could conjure up an excuse that left him alive. However, the blood on his hands coupled with his injuries would make that a difficult task.
Additionally, his mother was secretly leading the resistance. Furthermore, tonight just so happened to be a meeting among the resistance leaders. If Benrethor was caught outside and escorted home, they asked where his family was and investigations would follow. Benrethor doubted he could resist their torture for long. Part of the enforced curfew were patrols of armored knights.
As if on cue, two such knights spotted him, their silver armor gleaming in the moonlight. “Hey, you there!” one shouted. Where did they come from?
Their horses galloped toward Benrethor. Luckily the forest was still relatively thick, so he had a chance. He ran, avoiding them the same way he did the infantrymen.
When he looked back to see how close the horsemen were to catching up, Benrethor failed to spot the tree directly in his path. That being said, he sprinted to meet it head-on. The collision broke his nose and drew blood. As the elf fell, his vision blurred with his dazed mind. By the time his vision cleared and he returned to his feet, the knights had caught their quarry.
“What are you doing out this late, elf?” one knight asked. From his tone, Benrethor knew they were already planning on killing him. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t conjure up a believable excuse like normal. Besides, there was the slim possibility they were legitimately concerned for his wellbeing. Not all knights are like the ones who murdered his father. Those were Mordaunt’s elite.
It was worth a shot if not the brief time it bought him.
“I was just looking for the nearest barracks,” Benrethor answered, wiping his bloodied nose on his sleeve, “to get help. The witch kidnapped my sister.”
“Then why were you running?” The knight replied with suspicion.
“I thought you were her,” the elf mentally shrugged. Seemed like a good enough excuse.
“Not racing to your mother, hoping to get there before Mordaunt?” So the knight knew who he was then. Wait. They knew about the meeting? If Mordaunt, the Caesar’s sadistic Hand, was heading the attack, then this wouldn’t end well. But there was always the possibility they were talking about another elf…
“My mother?”
“Cathillyn,” the knight said his mother’s name coldly. Crap. So they do know.
Benrethor had caught his breath by now and was thinking of a way to escape this predicament: Run? Knew how that ended. Fight? There were two on horseback heavily armed and armored while he had nothing, not to mention their superior training (meaning actual training). Climb? The pureblood began planning a route when he noticed a ranger in the trees observing them.
Rangers were the hunters of Caesar Jason himself, some even went so far as to call them assassins. They wore leather armor and a dark green cloak, effectively camouflaging them to the woods. They were skilled in fighting with a sword, bow, and even their bare hands. They were also unrivaled trackers.
So that’s how they found Benrethor.
The knight, thinking his sudden change in expression was a reaction to his answer, jabbed his double-ended spear at Benrethor. Then something strange happened. The elf wished the vines entangling the trees around him would help him escape his situation, much like they had tried to kill him earlier. A stupid thought.
Until they did.
He felt them suddenly move down to hang the two knights in a natural noose. Within a swift second the knights were hoisted in their stirrups, snapping one’s neck while the other managed to get his hand up in time to prevent the vine from killing him instantly. His feet were locked in his stirrup as if clinging to his horse would save him.
Ignoring the mysticism of the moment, Benrethor pulled the dead knight’s feet free and mounted his horse. Hopefully, it would cut his journey home down to a single night.
As the choking knight held back the vines slowly squeezing the life from him, he whispered, “What… are… you?”
Benrethor ignored the question. It couldn’t have been him. It had to have been the witch. He didn’t wait to find out, knowing the ranger could easily shoot him any second. He rode. Rode to warn Cathillyn, his mother.
***
Had Benrethor hesitated to look at the ranger, he would have seen his bow was not drawn. The ranger showed no signs of terror at his allies being slain. No. They were no longer his allies. The ranger had abandoned Cincara long ago, only wearing the uniform as a reminder of his past and a way to infiltrate the enemy.
This elf intrigued him. Maybe it was his nobility that often got him into trouble. Possibly the only fear he displayed was pragmatic and well under control. Then there was what Benrethor just did.
The ranger did not pursue the elf nor draw his bow or make any effort to stop him. The ranger simply smiled at the knights’ death or rather how it happened.
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