In the Shadow of the Storm -Chapter 1-15

Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - Althalos

Reaching the room he had been designated within the barracks, Althalos lay down on the rough straw mattress, and was asleep almost instantly. The next day, Althalos went to the room at the end of the corridor, where Modred was quartered. Knocking on the door, there was a pause before it was answered. The Modred who answered the door was bleary-eyed, despite the fact that it was nearly mid-morning.
“I was hoping for a sparring partner, but if you are otherwise engaged...”
With a wry smile, Althalos made as if to turn and go, before Modred called him back. “No, no, I will come. Meet me in the Liberty Square in ten minutes.”

As the door hastily shut again, Althalos turned away, smiling widely. Making first for the nearest armoury, he retrieved a sword and scabbard from a grizzled quartermaster, and resumed his journey to the training yard. The walk was pleasant enough, with the sun streaming in through the tall, narrow windows. The plain, stone halls were nothing like those of his home, despite how impressive they looked. Here in Laternas, buildings were designed for functionality rather than any beauty; a stark contrast to those of his own Astypalaea.

Having arrived at the training square, Althalos was unsurprised that he had to wait a full ten minutes before a somewhat unkempt Modred approached.
“More awake now?” This with a wry grin that made Modred scowl.
“Why am I here? We both know you are a far superior swordsman to me, to what end do you want to spar with me?”
Suddenly losing his grin, Althalos looked first to his crippled wrist, and then to the sword which was mounted abnormally on his right hip, to be drawn left-handed.
“With my right hand, perhaps, but definitely not my left.”
Modred drew his sword, as did Althalos. Having never fought Modred, he had no idea of his capabilities, no more than he did of his own, left-handed ability.

They circled each other cautiously before Modred moved forwards, dancing in, to lunge high and right.
Moving his sword up in clumsy block, Althalos only just got there in time. He was surprised at how enfeebled he seemed to be – it felt as though he was moving through water. A little clumsiness was only natural, but the sword in his left hand felt alien, just plain wrong.
As Modred moved forward once again, Althalos realised that he was going to leave the training yard with a lot more bruises than he had arrived with.

He returned to the same yard at the same time the next day and received a similar number of bruises.
On the third day, when Modred met him, it was without a blunted sword.
“Not today. I won’t hit you anymore; you aren’t getting any better. Today, I’m taking you to a physician, to see if he can do anything for your wrist.” Althalos felt somewhat despondent at this, having felt that he was improving, if not much. He was about to say as much, when he realised it would just be better to accept it. At best he would regain the use of his wrist, and hopefully his martial ability, and at worst he would experience no change.

Having both retrieved their horses, Althalos and Modred rode out of the enormous gate and descended into the main city. As they moved easily through the city, Althalos’ senses were assailed by all manner of sights, sounds and smells.
Children ran around the streets, chasing each other through the narrow side streets of the outer city. Stalls were set out with all the various produce of Laternas. Bread and fruit were set out, with shopokeepers selling their wares.
The air was heavy with competing scents; freshly cooked bread, ripe fruit, mingled with the flowers on display around many of the shop fronts. The mix was not enough to mark the overwhelming stench of dried and drying sweat, as well as the unpleasant odour of human excrement which was prevalent as they moved further from the inner city.
As they travelled further into the outer city, Althalos became aware of the extent of the city, and just how many people were crammed into such a small area. The press of humanity was at once exhilarating and smothering.

The two rode in silence and eventually turned off the wide, main avenue and began traversing some of the side streets. As the quality of the surface deteriorated, Althalos became somewhat apprehensive as to the credibility of this physician which Modred had found. As he was finally going to give voice to this, Modred gently squeezed his reins to bring his mount to a stop.
As he followed suit, Althalos looked at his surroundings, glancing up at the encroaching buildings on either side. They seemed to lean in on either side, narrowing the strip of bright sunlight streaming down on to the street. A few dangerous-looking men were lounging around at the end of the road, but they did not look altogether out of place. Althalos got the feeling that it was just as well that both he and Modred had brought swords to this area of the city, although the latter’s was strapped to his saddle.
“Perhaps you should remain with the horse, I will see myself inside.” With a final glance to the men at the end of the street, Althalos ducked inside.
***
Qira

Qira was jerked awake as something landed on her. Alarmed, she was about to kick out with both legs to free herself, before it became clear what had disturbed her sleep. She looked down, and there was Lillah, head nestled on her stomach, lying perpendicular to Qira.
“Lillah! How did you find me?” Qira let out an uncharacteristic girlish laugh. Only her sister had this effect on her, and Qira was grateful that she was able to revert to her younger self.

Lillah pretended to be asleep, letting out some loud, affected snores, and so Qira poked her gently in the ribs.
“Oi, I know you’re awake, you just woke me up.” The snoring continued, but a broad grin appeared on her sister’s face. Eventually, she could not maintain the facade any longer, and opened her bright, hazel eyes.
“I’m just tired after all my lessons this morning. History is boring.” She got up to all fours, and moved until she was sat behind Qira, where she started to braid her hair. Having been washed, it seemed to shimmer in the midday sun, and they both enjoyed plaiting and braiding each others’ hair.

Qira smiled, but said “History is important, you need to learn about where you come from, and how.” She spoiled her father’s tone with a giggle at the end, and Lillah laughed as well.
“I bet your month has been more fun than mine.” Lillah was eager to hear the story of her hunt. It had become a ritual over the past years, and Qira enjoyed sharing her experiences. Lillah was the perfect audience, gasping at the right parts, asking questions only rarely and focusing entirely on Qira’s words.

She relayed the events of the last month, leaving nothing out, and by the time she was finished, Lillah had worked all of the luscious, dark brown strands of hair into a beautifully intricate braid.
“You are far too good at this. Do you concentrate at all in your lessons?” Qira was only joking, and Lillah played along, shaking her head vigourously.
“Of course not, its boring. I only like the lessons with father, they’re really interesting.”
Qira nodded, knowing the feeling. Their tutors for history, reading, writing and numbers were all stuffy old men who were undoubtedly intelligent, but unused to teaching small children, particularly when those children were singularly disinterested.

Their father however always managed to find ways to get them interested. Admittedly his job was easier to make interesting: he was teaching them how politics worked, and trying to pass on some of his good instincts. It was something he was passionate about, and neither of the girls wanted to disappoint a father who they both idolised even before they had been taught about the achievements of his life.
“What about you, what has happened while I’ve been gone?” Qira was keen to get an alternative view of events from the report-like account she had been given by her father that morning.
Lillah proceeded to tell Qira of the last month in her world. It seemed she had taken to archery a lot more recently, and had been practising with the aid and guidance of her myriad ‘uncles’. They had set up a target about halfway down the range upon which they trained, and had provided a small, old horse bow for her to use.

Aged twelve, her shoulders and arms were not quite strong enough to draw it fully, but she was getting better, so she told Qira. Proudly, she showed the red marks underneath the knuckles of the first two fingers on her right hand. These indicated just how much practice she had been doing, and Qira resolved to make her some gloves from the deer skin she still had tucked away in her room.
As well as this, Lillah informed her that her lessons were all boring, but she was getting better at her reading and numbers, although she was still experiencing difficulty with her writing.
They spent the afternoon lying in the sanctuary of the garden, talking about anything and nothing, uncaring of the seemingly wasted time. It was only when Lillah’s stomach gave a particularly angry grumble that Qira realised she was also starving. They both got up and returned inside in search of food.

When not eating with their father, an often enough occurrence, the girls generally went in search of food down in the kitchens. This pursuit had endeared both of them to the kitchen servants, and they were often treated to the rich foods, perhaps more than they should have been.
They ate well, exchanging pleasantries with the kitchen servants and when they finished, the girls returned to Qira’s room together. She showed her sister the fruits of her hunt once the door had swung shut. Lillah liked the soft, doe skin the most, and Qira realised she had found the recipient of the gloves she was planning on making. The meat in her pack had already been removed at some point, and presumably given to the kitchens.
The girls talked long into the night, and eventually Lillah fell asleep curled up in Qira’s arms. It was not long before Qira drifted off too.
***
Modred

As the two of them walked to the stables set into the bowels of the fort, Modred threw a sideways glance at his companion. He realised that he knew nothing about him, or his kind. He did not know whether or not a physician was to answer to injuries among the elves, or if they even existed.
When he asked on the journey back from the front, Althalos had simply smiled. “We do not rely on poultices and potions. We hold to the old ways, and the old gods.” The comment had illicited only a puzzled silence from Modred. While there were those in the Republic who followed various gods, they were far more regional; the god of this stream, or that tree, nothing more. There was certainly no central pantheon, and if there had been; in the Time of Oppression, then their names had long been lost to history. The way he had said it too made it seem as if he should know what they used as an alternative.

Casting back to the childhood history lessons he had attended as a result of his birth to a minor nobility family, he struggled to remember what he knew about the elves. From what he knew, the elves were accomplished healers, although there was nothing about their methods in the histories.
Upon reaching the stables, Modred found his horse waiting ready, alongside a slim, dark bay gelding that was to be Althalos’. Checking first that a sword was buckled to the saddle as requested, Modred led his horse out of the stall to the ramp which led to the main courtyard.
He knew exactly what kind of area Stearc lived in, but the need to wear swords was well worth it; he was among the best at his trade, and Modred knew from personal experience that he was highly competent when it came to treating damaged bones. He mounted up, Althalos following suit, and set off up the ramp and into the main courtyard.

Turning right out of the main gate, the pair rode easily down into the outer city. The familiar sights from his childhood washed over him as they travelled in silence. He knew where to go, but rather than breaking to a trot, he let his horse pick its way slowly through the streets, avoiding the myriad pedestrians. In the outer city, it was mainly rough-spun woollens, with the wealthier citizens, generally the merchants, being marked out by a smattering of silks. Most of those dressed in such were accompanied by at least one armed and armoured bodyguard, left to swelter in the bright sunlight so typical of a Laternae summer.

City watchmen were visible every now and again with their short spears, and swords belted over leather jerkins. Ignoring the disgruntled looks he received from the people on foot, he nudged his horse so as to forge a path through the dense press of humanity.
After twenty minutes of silence, they arrived outside Stearc’s house. Swinging down from their horses, Modred was very aware that Althalos was judging Stearc on the appearance of the area.

After a few muttered words to watch the horses, Althalos disappeared inside. As he did so, Modred secured the two horses before moving out of the glaring sunlight and into the relative cool of the shade. He made a show of leaning casually against the wall, all the while watching the people on the street. As time passed, he became aware that the street was growing busier and that the new additions were almost exclusively men.
Nervously loosening his sword in its scabbard, Modred silently willed the physician to succeed. Althalos’ martial ability would be a great help if it came to it. It was not simply the presence of so many people, but the fact that they were not really doing anything. A few were conversing amongst themselves at one end, while others were apparently negotiating with a shopkeeper over his prices. None of them were moving overly much though.

Modred jerked around at a sound to his left, hand flying to his sword. Relaxing slightly as he realised it was merely Althalos returning, grim faced.
“Bad news?” As Althalos nodded, Modred felt overwhelming sadness for him. Despite himself, Modred had grown to like the elf and had begun to realise just how important  proficiency with blades was to him. Glancing around, Modred noticed that all the men had gone. Cursing himself for a fool, he decided that it was simply the area of the city.

There were a few areas of Laternas, where the community was made up of so called ‘Dangerous Men;’ communities of mercenaries, thieves and assassins. They lived in exclusive areas so as to band together, and it was from these districts that the majority of the local free companies formed.
As they both swung up into their saddles, Modred turned his horse to begin the return to the barracks. As they reached the end of the street, he began to ask Althalos how it had gone. “What did he-“
***
Althalos

When Modred failed to finish the question, Althalos turned.

And drew up, shocked.

A crossbow bolt had sprouted from Modred’s throat, smashing through the back of his neck so that the tip protruded out the front. The force of it knocked him forwards into his horse’s neck.
Althalos reacted instinctively, his right hand reaching across to fumble at nothing but air. Swearing, he moved his left hand to draw his sword from the sheath at his right hip. However useless a gesture, it felt somehow reassuring to be holding it.
As he looked around for opponents, men appeared out of doorways both in front and behind. Crossbows were levelled, but he heard only a solitary twang. His horse screamed and collapsed, red blood suddenly matting its chest. It fell awkwardly, pinning one of his legs. Disorientated, Althalos had a moment to see the men closing in on him before the butt of a crossbow was brought down and everything went dark.
***