The Facets of Might
Part 2 of The Windrider (read Part 1 here)
By Becky Minor
As the distant mountains slowly slipped away beneath me, I sat amazed at
the matchless serenity of flight. Or it might have been serene, were it not for the intermittent caterwauling of the barnacle fastened to the backplate of my armor. The prophetess who rode double with me clung to my torso with such earnestness I was sure her arms must be screaming in pain after hours of exertion; and yet, every time our silver dragon mount banked one way or another, she squeezed even harder and let out a keening wail that rivaled the cry of a banshee.
I am no less subject to the gentle wiles of a maiden's touch than the next elf warrior, but nothing in the way this prophetess gripped me stirred the least sensation of tenderness or thrill. She had already irked me to the limit of my patience in the enigmatic way she spoke to me when we met just a few short hours ago, and her persistent miauling in my ear rendered powerless any subtle allure her closeness might have stirred in other circumstances. I could not wait to arrive in the capitol city. Free of chalice, free of her.
"How much further to Delsinon, friend dragon?" I called above the rushing wind and the beating rhythm of the creature's wings.
"Perhaps another three hours," the dragon called back. "But when we near the place, I shall need your help. You are the only one among us who carries a talisman of passage."
Amazing, I thought. A trip that would have taken days on horseback, reduced to a mere eight hours. I could see this dragon-riding had its advantages.
"Three hours?" the half-elven maiden whined. "Is it really so long?"
"I could fly faster and try to cut down on the time," the dragon replied.
A dark smile curved my lip.
"No!" she blurted. "Your current pace shall suffice."
Pity.
We careened on, over forest and plain, past rivers and through misty banks of cloud from which we emerged damp and chilled.
"We exchanged no introductions when we met," I said. "Both of you clearly know who I am. What shall I call you?"
"My name among elves is Majestrin," the dragon offered.
Fitting.
"You may call me—" The prophetess' words broke off in another squeal as an updraft buffeted us higher. She buried her head in my back. "Veranna. My name is Veranna."
As the sun sank toward the horizon, I recognized beneath us telltale landmarks that assured me we drew nigh to Delsinon: the forking of the river Nuruhain that gave birth to the smaller, swifter Arin, along with the ever thickening tangle of forest canopy. Soon, I alone would see the graceful spires of my ancient home rising from the forest. Only my guidance could bring us to the gates.
"A few more miles, and you will have delivered me to the end of this crucial leg of my quest," I told Majestrin. "Will you not accompany me to the door of the king's palace and receive your due accolades?"
"No, Captain Ecleriast. With the long generation that has passed since your kind and mine have shared civil discourse, I think it best you approach your city on foot. I will not be far, and you shall find me again."
"After all, this fits Creo's purpose," the prophetess added.
Does it? I wondered. The turn of today's events still swirled in my mind. What exactly did the Creator want from me in this "Windrider" arrangement?
We drifted down in slow, lazy circles. Despite Majestrin's careful maneuvering, branches of the dense old-growth forest still slapped at us as we passed through the canopy. As his fearsome talons touched the ground, his claws dug into the forest floor. The rich smell of turned earth filled my nostrils. I breathed deeply of it; it was good to be home.
I alighted from the towering creature's back, then turned to assist Veranna. Whether I cared for her or not, decorum dictated I assist her in the long drop from the dragon's height. She slipped to the earth, her trembling hands merely an echo of the tremors that afflicted all her weary muscles.
With her feet now firmly on the ground, she straightened. The aloof expression I had seen in the cavern before returned to her face. "Shall we set out for the gate?"
My jaw went slack. "We? You mean--you and me?"
"Of course. Majestrin already said he would not come."
"Well," I blustered, "it may be unwise for you to come along. Relations between your kind and mine have often been more strained than the associations between elves and dragons."
"Nonsense. The Creator wills that I should accompany you."
"You make it impossible to argue, when all you assert supposedly comes from Creo's lips, not your own."
"You are wiser than you look," Veranna said. She gathered her long skirts in one hand. "Which way?"
"Very well," I said. I would offer no advocacy for this irritating herald of Creo's will. If she faced a contest with the gatekeepers or anyone else, her defense was her own. "Mind that you stay beside me. It would be a shame if city's enchantments drove you to wander off. Disoriented outsiders have been known to circle the area for days."
We had not walked more than a quarter mile in the deepening dusk of the forest before the thunder of hoof beats reached my ears. Out of the cover of the undergrowth trotted a pair of sentries, two towering centaurs. I smiled in greeting.
"Hardril, Gaelmoth! Well met, my friends!"
"Captain Ecleriast!" Hardril replied. "Your return is swift."
"But you come in unfamiliar company," Gaelmoth said, his grip tightening on his glaive. "Certainly without those who departed Delsinon beside you."
"The tale is long in the telling, friends," I replied, sudden remorse washing over me. "But it shall have to wait for less urgent times. I press for immediate audience with the king."
"I am Veranna, prophetess of Creo," the half-elf said, heedless of the discourse between the centaurs and me.
Gaelmoth's eyebrow shot up. He muttered something to his partner, in the throaty language of the centaurs. I had always meant to learn their tongue, but never found sufficient time to commit to its study.
"Very good," he said, turning back to me. "We shall convey you both through the gates."
Doubly now did I lament the language barrier. What exchange could have passed between the guards that gained this outsider such immediate trust?
With an accusatory glance at the centaurs, I said, "That is all that you require? A simple giving of a name? Has the control of our border grown so lax?"
"Creo paves the way through even the most crooked of places," Veranna replied.
The throne room of King Saransaeloth glowed with the warm light of braziers. The young king himself sat upon his throne of many-faceted crystal, the flickering firelight playing continually upon its surface. He rose as we stepped inside the long hall; Lerendir, his Chancellor of War fell into step beside me as we made our way down the aisle. The tinkling of Veranna's tiny bells drifted through the chamber, whispering in contrast to the clack of my sabatons as they rang on the marble floor. As we drew near the king of the Delsin, I clasped my fist over my heart and bowed deeply.
"I see you found him," Saransaeloth said.
He spoke not to me, but to the diminutive prophetess behind me.
"Indeed, Your Majesty," Veranna replied. "His quest did not founder in the wilderness."
I glared at her. "'Creo's will?'" I snapped. "More like an assignment from my superiors, you charlatan!"
Veranna's face blanched. She took a moment to compose herself before saying, "Can not the will of Creo intertwine with the design of mortals? Indeed, is there anything his creation devises that exists outside of his wisdom?"
I shook my head, stuffing down the fury that threatened to brim over. I reached into my pack and drew out the black chalice of Gherag-tal. "The object of the journey, Your Majesty."
Lerendir took the chalice from me, holding it gingerly between as few fingers as possible. "Very good, Captain. You have performed well. Now we can get to the meat of what lies ahead for you."
"Another assignment?" If it was something I might attempt in my new camaraderie with Majestrin, I was prepared to leave in the next moment.
"Of sorts," King Saransaeloth replied. "As our enemies grow in strength, so must we, if we are to hold them at bay. Veranna has brought it to our attention that Creo wishes to raise up a company of Windriders, under your command, as one facet of this bolstered might."
"So you see," the prophetess said. "I could not let the dragon-kin slaughter you in the mountains. The loss of the chalice would have been tragic, but far less so than the loss of your life, Captain Vinyanel Ecleriast."
Conflict tugged at my spirit. The prophetess had just paid me a great compliment indeed, but my inability to come to grips with who she was and what she represented nagged me and made me feel somehow exposed. Her apparent misrepresentation of her duties to the king also troubled me.
"So, it is as you told me in the cavern. Creo wills that I should, from the back of a dragon, be an emissary of his justice?"
"And his mercy. You forget that part with ease, young Windrider."
I turned to the king and his Chancellor. "I am… humbled," I said with an effort, "but I shall see this done." Where to begin? I thought. My trepidation must have registered on my face.
"You are strong enough in arms for this duty, Captain," the Chancellor said.
"But far too green in spirit," the king added.
The king spoke truth, I had to admit. That did not prevent its utterance from cutting to my core.
"I attained might in battle in the hands of a mentor. So shall I do with matters of the spirit. I will go to the temple of Creo and—"
The Chancellor trod upon my thought. "That will not be necessary. A suitable mentor has already been chosen for you. You will begin your study of Creo's will and word under Veranna's tutelage."
His words ran me through like a blade. Speechless, I stared at each person in the room in turn until at last, my astonished gaze fell upon the half-elf. Riding upon a dragon instead of a horse? This, I could appreciate. Taking on the weighty mantle of a commander of a wholly new division of warriors? Even that, I could begin to envision. Spending countless hours as a subservient learner to this grating, frail, confusing maiden of dubious parentage?
It appeared the first lesson Creo wished to teach me was humility.
Becky Minor has always been a storyteller, whether in the retelling of epic conflicts to friends on the school bus, drawing character sketches in her sketchbook or scribbling down anecdotes about those characters. She graduated from the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, PA in 1997 with a bachelor's degree in animation, proceeding to tell more stories through impossibly cute talking animals and their comrades.
Soon after graduation, she married her husband of nearly 11 years and started a family, which now includes three little boys. Life as a homeschooling mother has squeezed creative endeavors into fewer hours of the day, but she still finds time to pursue visual art in various forms, to dabble in music, and to write whenever she can get her fingers on the keyboard.
She is an enthusiast of all things fantasy, and hopes to have her novel, The Sword of the Patron, published in the near future. The book is the first in a trilogy, which follows the adventures of a young alchemist's daughter as she flees the wrath of the forces of Darkness, as well as seeks liberation for her beleaguered people. You can read more about Becky's thoughts on fantasy fiction at her blog: www.callofthecreator.blogspot.com.
Part 2 of The Windrider (read Part 1 here)
By Becky Minor
As the distant mountains slowly slipped away beneath me, I sat amazed at
the matchless serenity of flight. Or it might have been serene, were it not for the intermittent caterwauling of the barnacle fastened to the backplate of my armor. The prophetess who rode double with me clung to my torso with such earnestness I was sure her arms must be screaming in pain after hours of exertion; and yet, every time our silver dragon mount banked one way or another, she squeezed even harder and let out a keening wail that rivaled the cry of a banshee.
I am no less subject to the gentle wiles of a maiden's touch than the next elf warrior, but nothing in the way this prophetess gripped me stirred the least sensation of tenderness or thrill. She had already irked me to the limit of my patience in the enigmatic way she spoke to me when we met just a few short hours ago, and her persistent miauling in my ear rendered powerless any subtle allure her closeness might have stirred in other circumstances. I could not wait to arrive in the capitol city. Free of chalice, free of her.
"How much further to Delsinon, friend dragon?" I called above the rushing wind and the beating rhythm of the creature's wings.
"Perhaps another three hours," the dragon called back. "But when we near the place, I shall need your help. You are the only one among us who carries a talisman of passage."
Amazing, I thought. A trip that would have taken days on horseback, reduced to a mere eight hours. I could see this dragon-riding had its advantages.
"Three hours?" the half-elven maiden whined. "Is it really so long?"
"I could fly faster and try to cut down on the time," the dragon replied.
A dark smile curved my lip.
"No!" she blurted. "Your current pace shall suffice."
Pity.
We careened on, over forest and plain, past rivers and through misty banks of cloud from which we emerged damp and chilled.
"We exchanged no introductions when we met," I said. "Both of you clearly know who I am. What shall I call you?"
"My name among elves is Majestrin," the dragon offered.
Fitting.
"You may call me—" The prophetess' words broke off in another squeal as an updraft buffeted us higher. She buried her head in my back. "Veranna. My name is Veranna."
As the sun sank toward the horizon, I recognized beneath us telltale landmarks that assured me we drew nigh to Delsinon: the forking of the river Nuruhain that gave birth to the smaller, swifter Arin, along with the ever thickening tangle of forest canopy. Soon, I alone would see the graceful spires of my ancient home rising from the forest. Only my guidance could bring us to the gates.
"A few more miles, and you will have delivered me to the end of this crucial leg of my quest," I told Majestrin. "Will you not accompany me to the door of the king's palace and receive your due accolades?"
"No, Captain Ecleriast. With the long generation that has passed since your kind and mine have shared civil discourse, I think it best you approach your city on foot. I will not be far, and you shall find me again."
"After all, this fits Creo's purpose," the prophetess added.
Does it? I wondered. The turn of today's events still swirled in my mind. What exactly did the Creator want from me in this "Windrider" arrangement?
We drifted down in slow, lazy circles. Despite Majestrin's careful maneuvering, branches of the dense old-growth forest still slapped at us as we passed through the canopy. As his fearsome talons touched the ground, his claws dug into the forest floor. The rich smell of turned earth filled my nostrils. I breathed deeply of it; it was good to be home.
I alighted from the towering creature's back, then turned to assist Veranna. Whether I cared for her or not, decorum dictated I assist her in the long drop from the dragon's height. She slipped to the earth, her trembling hands merely an echo of the tremors that afflicted all her weary muscles.
With her feet now firmly on the ground, she straightened. The aloof expression I had seen in the cavern before returned to her face. "Shall we set out for the gate?"
My jaw went slack. "We? You mean--you and me?"
"Of course. Majestrin already said he would not come."
"Well," I blustered, "it may be unwise for you to come along. Relations between your kind and mine have often been more strained than the associations between elves and dragons."
"Nonsense. The Creator wills that I should accompany you."
"You make it impossible to argue, when all you assert supposedly comes from Creo's lips, not your own."
"You are wiser than you look," Veranna said. She gathered her long skirts in one hand. "Which way?"
"Very well," I said. I would offer no advocacy for this irritating herald of Creo's will. If she faced a contest with the gatekeepers or anyone else, her defense was her own. "Mind that you stay beside me. It would be a shame if city's enchantments drove you to wander off. Disoriented outsiders have been known to circle the area for days."
We had not walked more than a quarter mile in the deepening dusk of the forest before the thunder of hoof beats reached my ears. Out of the cover of the undergrowth trotted a pair of sentries, two towering centaurs. I smiled in greeting.
"Hardril, Gaelmoth! Well met, my friends!"
"Captain Ecleriast!" Hardril replied. "Your return is swift."
"But you come in unfamiliar company," Gaelmoth said, his grip tightening on his glaive. "Certainly without those who departed Delsinon beside you."
"The tale is long in the telling, friends," I replied, sudden remorse washing over me. "But it shall have to wait for less urgent times. I press for immediate audience with the king."
"I am Veranna, prophetess of Creo," the half-elf said, heedless of the discourse between the centaurs and me.
Gaelmoth's eyebrow shot up. He muttered something to his partner, in the throaty language of the centaurs. I had always meant to learn their tongue, but never found sufficient time to commit to its study.
"Very good," he said, turning back to me. "We shall convey you both through the gates."
Doubly now did I lament the language barrier. What exchange could have passed between the guards that gained this outsider such immediate trust?
With an accusatory glance at the centaurs, I said, "That is all that you require? A simple giving of a name? Has the control of our border grown so lax?"
"Creo paves the way through even the most crooked of places," Veranna replied.
The throne room of King Saransaeloth glowed with the warm light of braziers. The young king himself sat upon his throne of many-faceted crystal, the flickering firelight playing continually upon its surface. He rose as we stepped inside the long hall; Lerendir, his Chancellor of War fell into step beside me as we made our way down the aisle. The tinkling of Veranna's tiny bells drifted through the chamber, whispering in contrast to the clack of my sabatons as they rang on the marble floor. As we drew near the king of the Delsin, I clasped my fist over my heart and bowed deeply.
"I see you found him," Saransaeloth said.
He spoke not to me, but to the diminutive prophetess behind me.
"Indeed, Your Majesty," Veranna replied. "His quest did not founder in the wilderness."
I glared at her. "'Creo's will?'" I snapped. "More like an assignment from my superiors, you charlatan!"
Veranna's face blanched. She took a moment to compose herself before saying, "Can not the will of Creo intertwine with the design of mortals? Indeed, is there anything his creation devises that exists outside of his wisdom?"
I shook my head, stuffing down the fury that threatened to brim over. I reached into my pack and drew out the black chalice of Gherag-tal. "The object of the journey, Your Majesty."
Lerendir took the chalice from me, holding it gingerly between as few fingers as possible. "Very good, Captain. You have performed well. Now we can get to the meat of what lies ahead for you."
"Another assignment?" If it was something I might attempt in my new camaraderie with Majestrin, I was prepared to leave in the next moment.
"Of sorts," King Saransaeloth replied. "As our enemies grow in strength, so must we, if we are to hold them at bay. Veranna has brought it to our attention that Creo wishes to raise up a company of Windriders, under your command, as one facet of this bolstered might."
"So you see," the prophetess said. "I could not let the dragon-kin slaughter you in the mountains. The loss of the chalice would have been tragic, but far less so than the loss of your life, Captain Vinyanel Ecleriast."
Conflict tugged at my spirit. The prophetess had just paid me a great compliment indeed, but my inability to come to grips with who she was and what she represented nagged me and made me feel somehow exposed. Her apparent misrepresentation of her duties to the king also troubled me.
"So, it is as you told me in the cavern. Creo wills that I should, from the back of a dragon, be an emissary of his justice?"
"And his mercy. You forget that part with ease, young Windrider."
I turned to the king and his Chancellor. "I am… humbled," I said with an effort, "but I shall see this done." Where to begin? I thought. My trepidation must have registered on my face.
"You are strong enough in arms for this duty, Captain," the Chancellor said.
"But far too green in spirit," the king added.
The king spoke truth, I had to admit. That did not prevent its utterance from cutting to my core.
"I attained might in battle in the hands of a mentor. So shall I do with matters of the spirit. I will go to the temple of Creo and—"
The Chancellor trod upon my thought. "That will not be necessary. A suitable mentor has already been chosen for you. You will begin your study of Creo's will and word under Veranna's tutelage."
His words ran me through like a blade. Speechless, I stared at each person in the room in turn until at last, my astonished gaze fell upon the half-elf. Riding upon a dragon instead of a horse? This, I could appreciate. Taking on the weighty mantle of a commander of a wholly new division of warriors? Even that, I could begin to envision. Spending countless hours as a subservient learner to this grating, frail, confusing maiden of dubious parentage?
It appeared the first lesson Creo wished to teach me was humility.
}
~~~~~ <~
}
About the Author:
Becky Minor has always been a storyteller, whether in the retelling of epic conflicts to friends on the school bus, drawing character sketches in her sketchbook or scribbling down anecdotes about those characters. She graduated from the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, PA in 1997 with a bachelor's degree in animation, proceeding to tell more stories through impossibly cute talking animals and their comrades.
Soon after graduation, she married her husband of nearly 11 years and started a family, which now includes three little boys. Life as a homeschooling mother has squeezed creative endeavors into fewer hours of the day, but she still finds time to pursue visual art in various forms, to dabble in music, and to write whenever she can get her fingers on the keyboard.
She is an enthusiast of all things fantasy, and hopes to have her novel, The Sword of the Patron, published in the near future. The book is the first in a trilogy, which follows the adventures of a young alchemist's daughter as she flees the wrath of the forces of Darkness, as well as seeks liberation for her beleaguered people. You can read more about Becky's thoughts on fantasy fiction at her blog: www.callofthecreator.blogspot.com.
