Forfolyn snorted once more then gingerly picked a path between the fallen rubble and unstable soil. Elk were smart; smarter than deer or horses or even mules, it was said, but Forfolyn had also been granted a gift from the Mother. Just how much the stag understood when Serenthel spoke, the elf remained unsure, except that it was likely Forfolyn understood more about the world than should be questioned. So, without further discussion, Serenthel carefully followed the path set by his faithful companion. Truly, whoever began the myth about superior Elvish eyesight in darkness had not thought to compare it to any living creature other than humans.
Humans. Serenthel had seen his first human three days ago after stepping foot on the Orynthian side of Lath’lemnier’s wall. A human trader had come to stand before the White Stag Gate, his own awe reflected in Serenthel’s wide eyes at his first sight of the two giant rearing elk stags, carved from white stone and facing one another to form an arch some eighty feet off the ground with their front hooves. The stags’ heads and antlers reached another twenty feet higher, but even they had been shadowed by the great sentinel trees and their Elvan archer towers. To his dying day, Serenthel swore he’d never forget the feeling of being so small in a world so big, and the human’s expression said he’d felt much the same.
The human had been told to wait with his oxcart of goods for a purveyor to hear his petition to trade and determine if the Elvan people had need of what he sought to sell. That could take days, or even weeks, but the human had sighed and pulled his oxcart off to a small camp of other humans who had also been told to wait. With weariness in their dim eyes, they’d all watched Serenthel as he passed by riding Forfolyn’s back. They seemed a ragged group of frail and harmless creatures, even though some were armed.
But, Serenthel had been told the stories; he had been shared the memories of those elders who had come before. Each tale held a similar lesson. Man’s strength had never been physical in nature, but a gift of the tongue and a creative spark that could lead to both wonder and ruin. The words they spun should always be trusted with a grain of salt and a river of caution.
Such caution was also warranted when crossing a cold river in darkness. As luck would have it, the spring melt had been mild and the river remained low enough in places that Serenthel could pick and choose a path across the larger stones with barely his boots getting wet. Forfolyn trudged through, not minding the water and eyeing Serenthel’s hopping, balancing figure as wasted energy. Serenthel gave him a dismissive look upon reaching the shore. Hooves were an easy thing to dry, after all. Boots, not so much without a campfire.
Staring up at the collapsed outer wall and its long ago looted iron gate, Serenthel thought perhaps a campfire wouldn’t be such a bad idea. He hadn’t eaten supper yet, and trail rations were becoming a stale, monotonous affair. The gathered field vegetables in Forfolyn’s pack would make for an excellent soup, even if Serenthel’s earlier effort to snare a rabbit had been unsuccessful. Hunting had never been his strength, and in truth he enjoyed watching the rabbit bound away through the field after expertly dodging a poorly timed bowshot. Forfolyn had enjoyed the entertainment as well, Serenthel was certain, by the way the elk’s antlers had swayed.
Tonight, the big elk stag stood motionless, his round brown eyes aimed at the empty stone gateway. Serenthel took a step forward, but the elk did not budge. Forfolyn’s ears twitched and he nervously raised one back hoof from the ground, as if he could smell a wolf and made ready to bolt for safety.
“Come now,” Serenthel admonished. “Not frightened of ghosts, are you?”
Forfolyn’s withers twitched, sending a sheen of moonlight cascading over his grey fur. The elk sniffed the air then gave a low rumbling snuffle. Slowly, his back hoof touched the ground, but his eyes looked no less leery.
Just as the elk seemed to settle, a bush nearby rustled. Startled, Serenthel bit down a gasp and turned to the sound. The shadow of something darted along the wall too quickly to determine its shape. Forfolyn shook his head and grunted, as if to say ‘see, I did smell something’.
“A rabbit perhaps,” Serenthel whispered, more to soothe his own nerves than the elk’s. “With any luck, my supper soup will become a stew.”
Serenthel retrieved his short bow and three arrows from Forfolyn’s harness then took silent steps into the ruins. Tentatively, and with another snorted argument, Forfolyn followed. Despite moonlight caressing the crumbling walls and a path of broken tiles, shadows lingered in every corner. Dense vegetation had used the past thousand years to reclaim its hold over the land. Tenacious vines crawled their way up long faded murals, and scraggly trees grew near walls that remained tall enough to protect their gnarled trunks from sea spray and ocean-driven storms.
Serenthel paused by one hunched tree whose bottom branches hung not a foot from the ground, its trunk twisted by a hard life of punching up through the stone floor only to be whipped endlessly by salted winds from the nearby sea. Behind it on a half fallen wall, thick vines clung to the bottom of a painting covering the remaining stones. The painting had been partially protected by its leafy destroyer and shielded by the stunted tree. Around its border, Elvish words told the middle of a story that the painting had once depicted, but the beginning and the end had long ago been lost to
