The Forgotten Ones

               She appears frail. Lyrical limbs and delicately turned features peek from under a shrouding cloak of strangely glimmering cloth, which hangs heavily to the top of her soft grey leather boots. Her platinum hair cascades around a gently pointed face and completely down her back in an ethereal nimbus. When they are open, her eyes are like quicksilver and flit about, easily distracted. Floating along on choreographed movements, she takes no prolonged notice of the forest in which she travels. Or so it seems.

                It is all masterfully crafted illusion. Her strength and grace are that of a hunter rather than a dancer. And as a hunter she moves lithely on silent feet, her athletic body along with a large quiver of arrows hidden beneath the strange cloak. The silvery curtain of waist length hair camouflages the most obvious signs of her heritage: softly pointed ears and a burled wooden bow. Her eyes dart from shadow to shadow, moving on so quickly it appears that she could not possibly notice much. They are the trained eyes of a Tracer, however, and she notices everything in minute detail. Indeed, she spies something and her airy footsteps pause. A dark figure hulks out of a copse of trees. In one fluid motion, she reaches across her back for her bow and to her hip to part a slit in her cloak. Again, liquid movement as she grabs an arrow from a quiver hanging at her thigh, strings it, and lets it fly with perfect aim into the throat of the man sized wolf that is her target.

                She moves purposefully forward, her leather clad legs visible in the side vents of her cloak now that she has lengthened her strides. And although she still maintains the silent glide that is peculiar to her race, her knee high boots scrape along the twigs and needles on the forest floor as she crouches next to the mangy corpse.

                Her voice is unexpectedly sultry and resonant as she cracks the silence with one word, "Lupen."

                It is as if the forest hears her: birds panic into the skies, squirrels chitter into their nests, the very trees seem to curl up, drawing in their branches.

                She stands and grips the silver shaft of the spent arrow. Twisting, she violently yanks it out of the crumpled creature and brazenly wipes the remaining traces of vile juices on its own matted fur. She looks over her shoulder as she returns the arrow to the blue leather quiver.

                "Are there more?" This is spoken to the large grey tiger as it pads from between two trees and over to the lupen, sniffing at the oozing wound in its throat. Slanted green eyes make contact with round lavender ones before the cat lopes back into the trees with the huntress bounding behind.

                They do not run far. The cat stops abruptly at the edge of a clearing and growls a complaint into the air. The girl can smell it too. The metallic stench of many dead bodies wafts around the clearing as if confined by the ring of trees encircling the meadow. It is colder inside the ring, and even though there are no trees to shade the sun, it appears darker and more dismal than it should. This is what she has been tracking for three days. This eerie coldness. Five times she has crossed its trail. Each time a small collective of one of the lesser races was butchered, the gruesome pieces left strewn about a confined area: twice a gully and three times now a meadow. Since the Lupen live in the forest and the Orcan live in the hills, the gullies and meadows are the ideal places in those habitats to stage an ambush. But what could butcher these creatures like this, using no apparent weapon?  The bodies appear to be torn apart. The only race large enough and smart enough to stage the ambush and carry out the violent rage would carry off the bodies for feasting, not leave them lying to rot. And she has not heard any of the drunken rioting that heralds a Grogan war party.

                The hairs prickle at the back of her neck. Icy fingers weave down her spine. The cat can feel it, too. Fear has become foreign to this pair, yet she sees it mirrored in the green eyes of her companion. It heightens all of her senses and what she hears weakens her knees just as the cat crouches to the grass.

                "Dor landa, Nightfang! Dor landa, et sirda vandadas!" 

               

                Never before has she uttered that command. But what she feels has her screaming it at the cat.  "Run, Nightfang. Run and do not come back."

                Years of training have given them the focus to think under pressure. Years of conditioning have given them the strength and agility to accomplish whatever feat they must to survive. Years of drilling have honed the skills that are now instinctive. They do not worry or hesitate. They act.

                Taking off in a dead sprint in opposite directions, weaving high and low through the trees and brush, they flee. As long as that icy keening can be heard, they will run. It grows louder and seems to follow in the two directions that the girl and cat choose, north and south.

                Her breath is heavy, but not ragged. She is terrified, but in control. She does not see the ravine in time to alter her course, so she tucks her legs up and rolls down the rocky face gathering bruises and cuts with every bump, but as soon as she slows, she gathers her feet back under her and continues running. She is well past the ravine when she realizes that she is not being followed. The keening has stopped and so does she, with her hands on her knees, examining her battered arms as she settles her breathing. She begins walking, taking note of the sun filtering through the treetops. The chill is gone. The smell of fear that seemed to seep from the forest floor is gone, too.

                She makes her way to a stream. Examining her tattered cloak, she locates a portion that doesn't appear quite as filth riddled as the rest and tears it free. Crouching, she soaks it in the cool water and then begins tending to her numerous wounds. It isn't long before she needs to tear another piece from her cloak, and then another after that. By the time she is clean and the oozing from her injuries has stopped, the sun is falling from the sky. Pushing the remnants of her cloak under a bush, she resumes her trek. This time, she heads east. The cat will also return to the village. 

                As she jogs, her tired mind returns to the scene in the meadow. The chill. The bodies. The keening. She has never come across anything like this before. It seems as if she was chased away. The pursuit did not last long., just long enough to put distance between her and the clearing. She has been confronted by many angry mother bears and that is what this feels like. Something was protecting that clearing.

                The daylight ebbs and her curious purple eyes can be seen glowing in the dusk. Night vision is unique to the Elvan. It allows her to continue her fast pace and she reaches the village before the third moon makes its appearance.

                Nightfang is crouching by the gates as she approaches the settlement. He trots to her and brushes against her smooth leather leggings. Smiling, she bends to rub one hand between his ears and the other under his chin.

                "I am glad to meet you again, as well, ma fal'onda."  And she climbs the ramp to the village in the trees.

*  *  * 

                "I am telling you, Falon, we were chased."

                "Lyrrica, sister, I think this comes from too much time spent cavorting with that cat in the wilds.  It is very understandable that you panicked. A scene that gruesome would instill fear and paranoia in the most seasoned tracker. You need a warm bath and a heavy meal and a night under a roof. Then, tomorrow you can take Jalyth and his Band out to investigate with a clear mind."

                Falon never gave his sister credit. She was his younger sister. But she had seen 14 cycles since she was inducted into the elite group known as Tracers. And like all Tracers, she had been a village tracker for 10 before that.  She had shown such talent, the village had nominated her for the position of village tracer, and she had traveled to Dorvaan for five years of extensive training. There were only three tracers per village at any time, and she was the youngest. She was also the best. It was a distinction Falon chose to overlook when dealing with her.  In his eyes, she would always be the skinny, accident prone younger sister in constant need of guidance.

                "Falon, I am hungry. I am tired. I have spent 12 moons 'cavorting with that cat in the wilds', as you put it. I would like nothing more than to push this off on all of that. But I know what I felt. I had been tracking this…whatever it is. The scene was not new to me. And yes, tomorrow I will take Jalyth and the Band out to see what they can make of it.  And most likely the thing will be absent as it has been the four times previous. But that doesn't undo the fact that I was pursued. Nightfang, too. He was as scared as I.  You mark my words, there is something in the woods the likes we have not seen before. And since it is attacking and butchering the creatures that live here, we should take it seriously. And that is my professional opinion." 

                She couldn't resist reminding him. It always made his eyes go wide and sometimes he even turned a mild shade of pink at the reproach. But even at this grave time, she said the words with a gentle light in her eye and a delicate half smile on her lips. For all his bossiness and presumption, he loved her and she treasured that.  It was a tough world and had been for as long as she could remember, so it was nice to be looked after and fussed over every once in a while.She wouldn't change her brother for anything in the world. She just needed him to take her seriously from time to time.

                "I still think you are looking at this with weary eyes. And that is my professional opinion."

                "Yes, Dr. Falon." She stretches on her toes to gently brush a sisterly kiss on his smooth cheek.  And he grudgingly reaches over and ruffles a hand against her silvery hair.

                Grabbing an apple from a nearby bowl, she leaves the room on tired legs.

*  *  *

                The man draws the stump of arm closer to his nose. Or maybe it is his eyes. It is difficult to tell exactly what sense he is using to examine the macabre evidence. He seems to hold the hunk of decaying flesh close and scan it with his whole body before abruptly standing and dropping it to the ground with a dull thud.  Clearly it has told him as much of the tale as it is going to and serves no further purpose to him.   

               

                "I see no sign of a weapon, either crafted or natural. There is minimal bruising which points to a death before the bodies were sundered, however there is no sign of what actually killed them. Strangely, nothing has entered this meadow since you were here, Lyrrica. The dry season has resulted in many hungry predators willing to eat anything to survive, yet nothing has attempted to feast on these remains even when the stench of death can be smelled almost to the edge of the streams."

                "Also…" and here his brusque voice wavers. He becomes visibly uncomfortable. For Jalyth to be uncomfortable  is unheard of.  He clears his throat and begins again.

                "I must mention that I feel something…cold. Unnatural?  Yes, distinctly unnatural."

                He again falls into the act of speaking and regains his confidence, peering through his thick ebony eyebrows at Lyrrica, "And that is impossible here."

                The enormous forest and all of the surrounding border are naturally blessed. One might even say enchanted.   It has been this way since the beginning of time. Well, at least since the Greenfather declared the Elvan the most treasured of his children and rewarded them with the Six Cities. Each one of the Six Cities is buried deep in the center of a forest that holds anything unnatural or potentially threatening at its border. It is futile to attempt to journey into such a place, for the paths will mysteriously dump the trespasser out again at the entry point. To be accepted into the forest, the traveler must be native, marked, or escorted.

                Lyrrica looks deeply into the trackers green eyes and nods. Her lips firm at the memory of those icy fingers of fear clawing at her spine.

                "The noise was one I have never before heard, Tracker. And I was overcome." 

                There is a shameful pause at the words. For a Tracer to be fearful is as unheard of as Jalyth's discomfort.

                "You are humbled, but do not feel ashamed, Lyrrica. I feel the source of your fear. It has unnerved me as well."

                Scanning the collected group of leather clad Elvan he continues further, "I am even willing to be as presumptuous as to speak for this group. There is something here that we all sense should not have been capable of entering.  And whatever it is disturbs us monumentally even in its absence.  I cannot imagine what it would be like to encounter it directly."

                Each member of the tracking party does indeed look nervous. This is yet another unheard of condition since the Elvan are an arrogant, self assured race, seldom afflicted with nervousness or a wavering countenance. The day seems to be filling up with exceptional situations and everyone is unsettled.              

                "You say you have been tracking this for twelve moons?"

                "Yes, Tracker. And each scene is similar to this: bodies torn and left untouched by even the carrion eaters, all occurred in either a meadow or gully,and each time I could make out no mark left by a weapon, crated or otherwise. It is just as you determined."

                "The only victims are the lesser races?"

               

                "Yes." A single, sharp nod sets her unbound silver hair bouncing.

                "And they all occurred far from the outlying villages?"

                "The closest is this one, Tracker." Quicksilver eyes sweep the meadow.

                "So there is no apparent purpose. These creatures have no wealth or cultivated land to fight over.  And although predatory, they simply act as predators, only attacking to protect their territory or to eat."

                Jalyth dips his head in thought. After a moment he tilts it back up enough to look into Lyrrica's childlike face.

                "Pack your weapons and enough food to last until we reach Saadra'naar."

*  *  *