Araloki's Corner

Darkmoon’s Voice

araloki — Wed, 28 May 2008 10:27:06 +0000

In a thunder of hooves and sweet horn calls, the elves burst from the trees, their eyes and arrows alight with fire. The flaming shafts tore at the creature’s hideous flesh, and it shrank back from the onslaught.

It was then Drake struck.

With a mighty cry he whirled about, his sword carving a trail through the writhing tendrils as he sought the heart of the oozing mass. He raged with each strike, turning his body into a roaring pillar of flame, the nature’s wrath embodied. The monstrous slime wailed in its incoherent language, and desperately tried to escape its tormentor, but to no avail. Drake was now consumed in his flame fury, his sword a red and orange blur in the mid morning sun. Seizing the spear that had been so ineffectual before, he raised it aloft, barely a foot away from the creature’s main bulk. Instantly the weapon was enveloped in white-hot fire, and with a savage cry of triumph, the warrior drove it into the writhing beast.

All was silent for a moment, and as Drake’s roar died, it was replaced by a great and terrible scream. The creature shrieked its rage; rage at its forced entrance into this painful world, rage at the white beings with the searing points of light, and rage at this man of flame for tormenting it. With a final, ineffectual lunge at Drake, the monstrous blob fell, bursting and scattering like a gargantuan rain droplet on the blackened ground. With its host now gone, the portal shimmered, then sealed itself, then vanished. Peace reined once more on the Scorched Plains.

His aura of fire fading quickly, Drake turned to the elves, who now stood in silence, unmoving. His breath was ragged and erratic; his knees trembled under his own weight. Sweat coursed from his brow and made his sword slick in his hands. Darkmoon came to stand next to him, concern in his deep, dark eyes.

They know the law. He thought, returning the emotionless stare from the elven warriors. I must be seized on sight, or killed. But why do they wait?

Captain Gryth gazed at the human warrior with a mixture of awe and repulsion. The tale was well known among his kind; the human child had murdered the young noble Jarr D’Avon, almost twenty years ago, and then escaped his punishment by fleeing into the forests. Gryth was cousin to King Tyrion, and had been present at the trials. Studying the man’s face, he recognized the same serious, defiant, yet somehow sad expression that he had never known a child to possess. It had once filled him with a deep sorrow for the small boy, tempered with a deeper respect. And unlike men, the passage of decades does little to change the heart of an elf. Gryth knew that the human was exhausted, on the brink of collapse; he had fought valiantly against a foe that even the elves feared. He knew that should he try to capture him, he would do it easily. But that was not the way for such an honourable warrior to die.

Gryth turned to his men, who waited patiently for his order. Some were even fingering their bowstrings absent-mindedly.

“We return to Syannodel. I shall inform the King that the Devourer has been defeated, and the portal to its dark world sealed, for the time.” He gauged the reaction of this news. Most of his men stood calm and indifferent, their loyalty and trust to their Captain absolute. But several others looked stunned, shocked even, and one spoke out.

“You cannot let that murdering demon to escape! He must come to justice!” The speaker was Elaianon, a young scout from a powerful family close to the D’Avons. He had known Jarr when they were children. “The King’s law demands that we slay him!”

In a sudden move the elf raised his bow and strung an arrow. He took aim, and Gryth seized his arm. Elaianon stared at him in hatred, wild eyed, but then grudgingly lowered his bow. Satisfied his command has been restored, the captain addressed his men.

“I am very aware of the Kings law, and of the crimes of this human.” He gestured at Drake. “But under no circumstances is he to be harmed this day.” Startled mutterings came from his men. “When the Devourer first came, over eight hundred years ago, this land was part of the Elvandar Wood. In three days it had done this.” He spread his arms, indicating at the desolate plains they stood on the brink of. “Few of you are old enough to remember that dark time, but I do. Our magic was useless against it’s black hide, and we could not even restore the land it destroyed. Hundreds of our people died fighting it. Hundreds. It was only by the combined wisdom of the Elders were we able to banish it back to its evil realm. But now this man, this human, has destroyed it utterly, saving us from another Blight. He deserves our respect this day.”

“But the King shall hear of this!” It was Elaianon again, now backed by several young rangers. “He shall know of your… your treason!”

“The King shall also know of your insubordination on a task of utmost importance, whelp!” Gryth roared at the upstart novice, his blood boiling. Elaianon’s supporters quickly dwindled. “I shall take responsibility. Now go.”

His troops now flitting silently into the wood, the ageing captain turned and approached Drake.

The warrior raised his sword defensively, expecting an attack, but the sudden movement off-balanced him and he fell to his knees, exhausted. Leaning on his blade he struggled to stand, but his acheing body simply had no energy. His magic and furious attack on the ooze beast had drained him completely. He was at the elf’s mercy.

As Gryth approached, Darkmoon snorted wildly and stood defiantly between his friend and this new enemy, but the wizened elf merely raised a hand in sign of peace. The dark horse took a step back, but stood close to Drake.

“You have a loyal friend, a rare thing to come by in a warhorse, Araloki.”

Drake looked up suddenly, shocked. “I… I have not heard that name in a long time… a very long time. Are you not here to finish me?”

At this the old elf gave a sort of laugh, though to Drake it sounded more sad than jovial. Gryth placed his hand on his shoulder, although it was an awkward, uncomfortable movement. “You… are an honourable warrior, Araloki. You and your horse fought today with bravery and reckless abandon for your own lives. You have slain a great enemy of the elves, and you have my gratitude.”

He reached into his cloak and pulled out a thin gold band, set with a single red stone. Drake stared at it in wonder. Even with his mind in a foggy haze, he recognized it as a Crown of Brotherhood, a regal heirloom among the elves. In ages past members of the royal household would use enchanted bands such as these to communicate with their winged steeds in battle. Thus the two would become one, each knowing each other’s thoughts without a word between them, a wonder both graceful and deadly on the battlefield.

“From your gaze you know what this is. My father gave me this before he died, and I planned to pass it to my own children, but… I have not been blessed. I am old now, and a child of my own is no longer a prospect. I am giving this to you, Araloki. You and your steed rode together as partners and fought as brothers. You deserve this. You both deserve this.” He added, after an indignant snort from Darkmoon.

He handed the precious object to him, and Drake took it in silent wonder. It had been so long since he had received a gift of any kind, but one so grand…? What this elf had given him was beyond words. For years he and Darkmoon had grown together, become as close friends as he could ever remember having. Yet the barrier between man and beast had been too great an obstacle for even their bond to overcome, and many a lonely night had Drake spent longing for another voice, a voice that was not filled with hatred, or fear.

He looked back at Gryth, tears coursing down his cheeks. Silently the elf turned and mounted his own white steed. Without looking back, he called one last time.

“Next we meet, Greyraven, this would not have happened. We will be enemies once more. Farewell.” He added, and then rode off into the trees.

Drake sat there for a long time, staring numbly at the Crown. A gentle nudge of Darkmoon’s snout, and he rose, shakily. He stood before his life-long friend and companion. He slid the simple golden band down onto his head, and it fit perfectly. He gazed at Darkmoon, then concentrated a thought on him.

Darkmoon?

Yes, Drake. It is I.

Elation filled the warrior’s soul at the sound of the horse’s voice. It was rich and deep, strong and focused. It was Darkmoon.

Drake, there is something I wanted to ask of you, for a long time.

Yes, my friend, anything.

Do you have to dig your heels in so damn hard when you ride!?

The Captain’s Story

araloki — Wed, 28 May 2008 09:20:12 +0000

I always get the shakes before a storm. Ever since I was a lad fishing with my father, I would get the trembling right before a storm hit. It’s no different now.

My hand gripped the rail as the first thunder claps rolled off in the distance. The pen slipped from my quivering fingers and landed in a messy blotch on the logbook, and began rolling across the pages with every dip and rise of the ship. Cursing softly I tried to pick it back up, but the damn shakes had my fingers wriggling like yesterday’s catch. A knock at the cabin door was cause enough to hide the rebellious digits beneath the fancy oaken desk – you never let enemies see weakness, and the same goes for men under your command, especially in a storm. Every man has to have faith in his ship’s officers, or we’re all for hell.

“Make it important!” I barked.

“Jus’ letting you know a storms coming Cap’n.” The rain-drenched face of Skipper Johnson peered sheepishly around the door; still keeping it half-closed to save my cozy room from the chill wind outside. Gregory Johnson, a good man, a finer skipper ne’er to be found in all of Britannia. He was a swarthy little man who looked more like a clerk than a crewman, but I’ve seen him tackle two berserk sailors so big he had to reach up to grab them, crack their heads together like coconuts, and step back out of the way while they fell. He commanded the respect of the entire crew, as a skipper should, but was mindful enough to take measures as to not overshadow his captain. I gave him the orders, and he got the men to do them without complaint.

“Tell Jolly to serve the men up an early supper. It’s going to be all hands on deck for this one. Oh, and have the boy bring me some stout.”

“Aye.” He left with a laugh, pulling the door shut behind him. I lifted my hands from beneath the desk. Still trembling, but it would hopefully ease up as we entered the storm. To keep myself busy I cleared my desk and dumped the various items in the chest below my bunk. No need having pens and charts flying about the room in a storm. A second, very timid knock at the door stirred me from my chore, and called the ship’s boy in. My son.

“I brought the beer you wanted father. Anything else?” He asked as he placed the bottle and glass on the table.

“Boy, what have I told you!” I roared. He knew better than to address me as anything but captain when aboard, regardless of whether or not we are alone. The only reason he was even on this bloody ship was so I could keep an eye on him while his mother was sick. And now the idiot child couldn’t even behave as a sailor. Every job I had given him so far he had messed up. He burnt the food as Jolly’s assistant, got vertigo in the crow’s nest, fell off the rigging too many times than is pleasant to recall, and now he couldn’t even address a superior officer correctly!

“I-I’m sorry fa-captain! Won’t happen again sir, I swear.”
“See that it doesn’t, sailor! You may be my son, but don’t think you won’t get lashes like any other man on my ship if you do it again. Now go and tell Johnson you’ve got extra duty. Go!”
Now, I’m not heartless to the boy. I felt for him as I watched him slink back into the rain, and off to face his punishment. But it’s the only way to learn. I started off as a cabin boy, and worked like a dog for my father. I earned my promotions, and the crew knew it. You can’t just make a boy an officer, even if he shows more talent in his left thumb than you’ve got in your whole body. It would cause too much reason for grumbling among the men, and they’d never listen to the poor lad, and that spells death when all that’s between you and the sea it a wooden tub and a handful of men. I had high hopes for him, like any father, I suppose. He would eventually take the ship from me, and carry on the family trade. He was a bright boy, if a bit clumsy. Yes, he would make a fine captain one day.

Suddenly the ship lurched, and my face slapped against the floor of the cabin, but I was on my feet in out of the door before I felt it. Rain lashed down from blackened heavens, obscuring my view of the deck. Another lurch sent me into the metal railing on the edge of the ship, and for one horrifying moment the sea seemed to rise up to swallow me whole, but another pitch slammed me back onto hard wood. Using the railing as a guide, I staggered onto the fore deck, where shouts and cries echoed through the darkness. I reached it, and the rain let up slightly, allowing me to open my eyes fully.

What I saw was chaos. All around the deck the crew of Her Majesty’s Pariah clinging onto anything at hand; ropes, railings, masts, even each other. Like a bucking horse the ship attempted to throw them off, as the waves crashed onto the hull. I spied Johnson darting between the men, shouting commands, slowly bringing order out of the madness. I struggled forward, and bellowed out my own orders as I approached him.

“FURL THE SAILS! ALL HANDS ON DECK! BAIL OUT THAT WATER! FURL THOSE BLOODY SAILS!” I shouted until my throat was red raw, but the words barely passed my lips before they were swept away by the howling wind. The ship was creaking now, a terrible sound for any sailor to hear. The very planks beneath our feet

seemed to sway and buckle. A hand clapped on my shoulder and spun me around. It was Johnson. He shouted something at me; a sort of terror was in his eyes. But I didn’t hear him. My ears were filled with a deep roaring, and I turned just in time to see a towering wall of water crash down onto my fragile ship.

I only remember bits and pieces of what happened next.

The wave was sucked back into the roiling ocean, taking a good part of the crew with it. The men kicked and screamed as they were dragged overboard, to disappear beneath the black water. I snatched at Johnson’s outstretched palm as he slid down the deck, and managed to hold onto him. Yet the rain and seawater had made it impossible to grip, and we both looked at each other in the same way. We knew at the exact same moment that he was going to die. As his fingers slipped through mine, he calmly gave me a nod, as if to say “it’s alright, me old mate.”
Not once did he cry out as he was dragged down.

The next thing I remember is a great crack, greater than any thunderclap could hope to achieve. I looked up, watched as the mast, a massive timber of solid wood, was snapped in half like a twig. It happened in a dream, as the mighty behemoth of wood fell, so slowly. I felt distant, detached at that point, a watcher. I remember a vague feeling of annoyance that no one had furled the sails. I saw ‘Jolly’ Rodger, the ship’s cook, his face contorted in a mixture of shock and confusion, a jagged, broken rail protruding from his belly. The ship’s dog, Daisy, her body crushed by the falling beam. I then saw the last remnants of my crew, desperately trying to save the ship as a monstrous wave prepared to engulf them.

There was a moment when two oceans seemed to collide in turmoil. There was no pattern to the waves or winds. The breath of the world lashed at us, threatening to snatch the clothes from our bodies, and the hair from our heads. I was deafened by the onslaught, and fell into nothingness.

I awoke days later in a hospital in Portsmouth, I forget which. Apparently I had been drifting on a chunk of deck and had been discovered by some fishermen. But I didn’t care for the details, not at the time anyway. I had lost everything, my son, my ship, and a family I was supposed to protect. Not a soul save my own had survived the storm. I didn’t go home, not for a long time. I didn’t want to see the wife; I couldn’t, not when her heart was so weak. How could I tell her I had let her son die? It would kill her, too.

So I spent a lot of time travelling from bar to pub, from pub to bar. A meager existence, but one I reveled in.

It was when she found me, swimming at the bottom of a bottle, that the pain of what had happened disappeared. The hospital I had stayed in had contacted her, and she came looking for me. Sick and all. She took me back and banished the guilt, the pain, and the fear. We mourned the loss of our son, and I privately mourned the loss of my crew in equal measure.

A year and a day since the storm, my wife died.

Her heart was weak, the doctor said. The funeral was a tasteful affair, I was told. I didn’t go. I ran away again, back into the bottle. I wanted her to find me again, and make everything better again. And, in a way, she did.

A parcel came the day after the funeral. It was a small, brown thing, addressed to my wife. I didn’t open it at first. Just felt wrong to do so. I did open it, eventually. It was a plaque, a beautiful brass thing on a mahogany back. I still have it now. Etched on its surface are the names of my crew, from Johnson to Jolly. But that is not what made me better. At the bottom of the list, proudly inscribed there, is my son’s name. He is one of my crew now, and always will be.

My hands don’t shake anymore, when storms approach. I sail rarely now, but when a storm does come, I hold my hands up to the dark clouds and watch them carefully. Not even a flicker. I suppose it’s like I said; you never let an enemy see weakness.

The End.