Chapter 3

Passing the Torch

Amerye helped Bregaros to his home, which was nearby in a hollowed tree bottom. The solid oak door was locked, but Bregaros had the key ready in hand when arriving.

“Enter and be welcome, friends,: he offered as he stepped into the humble home. “Take a seat, please!” Bregaros walked into his small kitchen. He opened a small box on the counter revealing a selection of labeled potions. He grabbed a vial with dark blue liquid and drank it in one gulp. The wounds on his body almost vanished instantly.

“You are both old enough to be out, right?” he inquired, hoping that they could stay after dark. Both nodded in unison, smiling to each other.

The archer started a small fire, in which he cooked a stew from rabbit meat and some grown vegetables. The black pot hung on a solid metal hook, where it would simmer until the dinner was ready. After Bregaros hung the pot there, he turned to his guests.

“I was quite amazed on how you two handled those orcs. I want you two to take these, as gifts.” He walked into a small space in the hollow and pulled out a white, runed bow.

‘The bow is made of Vittrian oak,’ the ranger explained. “the hardest and most rare of the Elfwoods. It has a special magical enchantment that makes it shoot straighter. Nothing quite like Fairheaven’s, but a good start for one such as yourself.”

Reaching back into the cubby he pulled out a mace, glimmering with an enchantment of light. “This mace serves three purposes, healer friend. The first is obvious. It has split many orcs’ heads and will no doubt do so again.” He handed it to Amerye.

“So light for a heavy mace,” he proclaimed, holding the large mace in one hand. “It is mithral, right?

Bregaros nodded. “The finest of the Dwarven craft. It has been here for along time, and I think it should return to the world again.” He smoothed his hand across the blunt head of the mace.

“As I was saying,” Bregaros said softly, “the second purpose is that it lights much like a torch does, with strong radiance. The third is the true magic to it. When you strike undead with this, at times it obliterates them completely instead of actually damaging them.”

Both of them were speechless about the weapons they were just given. They simply stared at the elegant weapons.

“Dinner is almost ready,” he explained as he stirred the pot. “It’s rabbit meat and vegetables, with some spice from the southern coasts. I hope you like it.”

“It smells wonderful,” Amerye spoke confidently. “Did you use Anyanspice, by chance?”

Bregaros looked up suddenly. “You know Anyanspice? I thought it rare in Elven lands.”

“I know that Anyanspice has magical healing properties when used in poultices. We have a little in the East Vale Temple.”

“A wonderful spice. I am using it for these wounds I have. That Human was crafty using that poisoned bolt. You’re right, Amerye. I would have died. This,” he said, holding a topaz pendant, “bolsters my body from poison. It saved my life.”

Amerye looked at the pendant for a moment, “Such magic is common among the leading governors. You must work for them,” he spoke bluntly.

“Yes,“ he admitted. “I am the protector of the lands East of the Vale. The Human you saw was one I tracked in and out of the Vale. Somehow I doubt he was here on a pleasure trip.

“I followed him into the East district but lost him when he noticed me watching. I fell back and lost the trail. I think he was headed towards the market district. Wherever he was headed, it was trouble he was after.”

“Well, he’s not up to it now,” Avarion spoke up. “Probably strong-arming some of the merchants.”

Bregaros and Amerye both nodded, sitting over the magical broth inhaling the aroma from it. The sweet smell invigorated them all as it filled the house.

“It’s done!” Bregaros cheered. “Let’s eat. You both must be famished. Dishing out bowls of the stew, Bregaros fed the two some of the magic stew. Each took a bite eagerly, and smiled wide.

“This is amazing!” the two said in unison, and then looked at each other. Bregaros chuckled at them.

“It’s not my best. After Harvestmoon you should return and taste some of my deer steaks. I use some garlic and phoenix featherings. The steak recharges the heart and soul. I’ve heard that it can even take years off you, but that’s a Human’s saying.”

The two younger Elves were too engrossed with the stew to hear. They ate with a slow pace, eating their fill and a little more, and enjoyed every bite.

They conversed for over an hour about how the Humans have been getting bolder by that day, encroaching on Elven lands. They discussed magical weapons, and talked about Avarion’s wings and the bood they are to him.

Conversation was winding down, and Bregaros knew his guests were getting anxious to return home.

“You two should be headed back,” Bregaros spoke after setting his empty bowl down. “It’s dark out. Can you find your way?” He picked up the three bowls and walked to the kitchen.

“Yes. I can see in the dark,” Avarion told him.

“In the dark?” Bregaros asked in return.

“Yes,“ he replied. “Somehow the same heredity that gave me the wings also gave me the night sight, too.” Avarion stretched his wings out a little to display them for Bregaros.

Placing his hands on them he could feel the feathery thickness to them. “They are incredible. You don’t know who your father is?”

Avarion silently shook his head. Bregaros frowned a little. “I’m sorry I asked.” Avarion stepped towards the door. Bregaros walked to it, opening it for them. “Thanks for everything today. If you ever need anything, let me know.”

“Thank you, Bregaros,” Amerye said, holding the mace in his hand. “This will help light the way.”

“And this will deter the creatures of the night,” Avarion added on, holding the magical bow. “Many thanks, Bregaros. I will return to visit from time to time.” The two stepped outside of the dwelling.

“You do that. By the way, when you get to town, I would like you to speak with a friend of mine, Enzerran Brudenan. He was with me when I was learning the art of the bow. You have much potential, Avarion Windseeker. You should study it.”

Avarion nodded, and smiled. “I shall do that. Have a good night,” he spoke as he turned away. Amerye followed behind, and the two heard the door to the structure close.

The two headed into town through the dense forest, though both knew the forest well enough that they could get back. And as both had planned, the trip lasted exactly as long, too. Three hours and fifteen minutes later they arrived at the outer line of homes in Prezel Vale.

* * *

“Sallet, I don’t need to remind you what we have going on here,” the shorter, thinner man spoke to the man dressed in clerical robes. “This is important for all the people in Prezel Vale.”

“I understand, Governor Thelek. The tithe is holy money. I can’t just give it to you. The High Clerics have to approve all spending of the tithe. I can’t just…”

“You will,” Thelek interrupted, pointing his right hand at the cleric. “You will or this church will burn to the ground.” Thelek’s eyes were burning with fury. The ring on his finger emanated a slight purple haze.

“I will do as you ask,” Sallet hypnotically spoke the governor. “No need to make threats. The money will be available for you by sundown. May I ask what it is for?”

“No, you may not,” the governor snapped. Sallet simply nodded, then his face turned into a small, sly smile. “I figured you would know better not to ask.”

“As you wish, governor," Sallet replied with a sneer. “You are, after all, the man in charge of this mess.”

Governor Thelek smiled wide and walked away into the night air. Sallet looked at the mirror on the wall, and realized for the first time that it was not him staring back.

* * *

The next morning came and Avarion slept late, well into the afternoon. Upon waking, Avarion noticed the sun well past south, fading into the western sky. Rolling out of bed, he readied himself with a small meal and water.

After finishing his late breakfast/early dinner he proceeded into town. He lived on the southwestern edge of Prezel Vale. His home was really just five rooms, two of which were bedrooms for him and his mother, one a kitchen, a family room, and a dining area.

Avarion’s mother Ellista was out of the house working at the bath house. The work was easy, and the money it made was enough to keep a good living. She cared very much for her son, however different he might be.

He took the time to recount the past day, thinking about the Human that he killed with Fairheaven, though he wouldn’t dare tell anyone. Nobody would believe him anyway. He looked at his bed and saw the gift that Bregaros had given him, and was reminded that he could not dismiss it as a dream.

He walked to the side of his just-made bed, picking up the runed white bow with his left hand. He pulled on the string, which felt tight and strong. The full draw took a lot of strength, almost the limit of his prowess, but felt comfortable.

The thought of Enzerran came into his mind, rushing to the forefront of his memories. He had never heard the name Enzerran until the night before. He thought of the bowyer that gave him the gift in his hand, and wondered how the names weren’t public knowledge. He decided that it was time to find out.

He stepped outside of the wood-crafted home looking to the sky. The center of town was the best starting point as any, so he pushed off hard and took to the sky. He held the bow firm, not wanting to drop it in fear of breaking it. He set off to the Centerwood, the heart of the Vale.

He flew a little lower today, looking for any place that might resemble a school of archery. From the sky it was easy to tell, for the long stretches were dead giveaways.

He saw one, with a mass gathering nearby. A tournament, he thought as he flew over. Best that I make a subtle entry.

He landed a good distance from the tournament area, and attracted only minimal attention. He folded his wings as tight as he could, making himself as small as he could.

He could see some of the archers taking the line, though a lot of spectators blocked the sights to the targets. He heard the announcer calling out the names of the competitors, He didn’t hear the name he was looking for, so he waited.

He didn’t have to wait ling. Only two rounds later Enzerran stepped to the line. Standing as tall as the tallest Elves, Enzerran walked with a sure stride. Carrying an oak bow provided by the tournament he took the line, and the arrow waiting in the wicker basket.

He nocked the arrow on command from the tourney judge, took aim, and loosed on order.

The arrow stabbed through the straw target almost perfectly in the center. The spectators cheer echoed so loudly that they were heard far into the West Vale. Enzerran set his bow beside the basket and walked to the podium.

“Enzerran has done it again, folks!” the announcer shouted. “With his usual skill he has once again won the Centerwood Tournament. Three cheers!” he shouted, with a following trio of cheers from those gathered.

Enzerran stepped to the raised platform where the announcer stood and accepted his trophy, a simple silver medallion with an archery target on it. “This is the third year I have won this competition, and as of this year I will no longer compete. I have decided to take on a student. Is there one who is willing?” The whole crowd erupted again at the offer, hands flailing wildly in the air.

“I seek a beginner, one that has never trained on such a weapon.” Hands dropped by the multitude. Only one hand was still raised. “You,” Enzerran spoke directly to Avarion, noticing immediately the uniqueness of him. “Who are you?”

Avarion stood there, among five hundred people, and was all alone. Everyone was staring for the first time at this winged Elf standing among them.

“Yes, friend,” Enzerran spoke over the mumblings of the crowd. “Advance and be recognized.” Avarion stepped forward, through the opening path made by the spectators. He heard many remarks on his walk, some inquisitive, some demeaning. He was tolerant of it, though, as he had done his whole life.

“I am Avarion Windseeker. I came seeking you, Enzerran. It is strange that you seek me as well.’ Enzerran’s eyebrows raised a little from this comment.

“Who sent you to seek me?” he inquired of Avarion. “Only now have I decided to begin teaching.”

Avarion stepped forward to the master archer, face to face. “Bregaros has sent me.” The crowd was instantly silenced.

“Bregaros sent you? Why would he do that, I wonder?” Enzerron walked behind Avarion, noticing the bow on his back. “Bregaros indeed. That bow was his first enchanted bow. He must believe in the potential of you, Avarion.” The crowd simply listened in silence.

“Very well. Garantus Dea has destined this meeting, and in the honor of the Elves I shall train you in the art of the bow. Let us get started!” The crowd erupted and parted the way for the master and the student.

Avarion had no idea what he was getting into.

* * *

“Cleric Amerye, can I see you for a moment?” Sallet asked him. Amerye stopped the poultice he was preparing and walked to the cleric. “I need a hand with the Wintermoon ritual. Do you remember it?”

“I do, High Cleric Sallet,” he called as he set down a potion he was brewing. “What part of it? I was the Southern Voice last year.”

“The setting here seems wrong,” Sallet thought. “Are the candles in the right place?”

“Yes, but I think the bundle of wheat is wrong,” he said, pointing to the bundle sitting on the table. “It should be on the Western Quarter.”

“Oh, right!” he agreed as he picked up the bundle, moving it to the right spot. “I knew you could help. You have always had a sharp memory and a good control of the divine magics. Tell me, how are you progressing with the warding circles?”

“I have them down well,” he said pulling the sleeves up on his robes. “Perhaps I should conjure one for you to examine?” Amerye prepared to cast the spell.

“That is quite alright, Amerye,” he said, holding his hands out in defeat. “I trust that you can do it. How are the rest of your studies faring?”

“The potions are taking a bit longer than planned, but they are turning out well. The supplies of the temple are adequate for the coming season, and the tithes are in order for taking to the Centerwood Temple. Shall I take it tonight?”

“No,” Sallet said immediately. “I have a meeting with the High Cleric’s today. We’re planning the last parts of the Wintermoon Festival. I will take it then.”

Sallet walked to the desk in his office, pulling out a small pendant. “How long has it been since you saw your friend?” he asked genuinely, putting the sapphire pendant around his neck.

“Avarion?” he asked, sure that he was the subject in question. Sallet nodded. “Five years. He wrote me a message saying that he was off with some master archer learning how to use a bow. He said he would return when he was finished.”

“Strange, but he was himself a strange creature.” Sallet grabbed a small sack off the nearest table. ”The tithe is heavy this month. The Clerics will be pleased.”

“We had a donation from an anonymous person. The dropped five hundred in gold discs in the coffer.” Sallet smiled slightly. Amerye changed the subject. “Will you be leaving soon?

“Yes. I will be taking this the High Clerics tonight,” he answered.

He took a small piece of burlap out of his robe pocket. He unfolded it on the table and dropped the sack of coins into it. The coins fell through the burlap and vanished from sight “Awful handy, these are.” He folded the burlap back up and placed it back in his pocket. “Please lock up when you go tonight.”

“As you wish. I am almost finished here. I will see you tomorrow. Good night, Cleric.” The high cleric nodded and waved.

Amerye walked out of the temple and wondered what caused the recent line of questions.

* * *

The Dwarf stood in the Elven hall looking at the artwork on the wall. “Rather dull to my liking, really. I prefer the stone halls, though it’s been years since I’ve seen them.” The Elf beside him only smirked.

“Of course, Granki,” Thelek spoke laughingly. “Your exile from the Dwarven realms has certainly prohibited you from looking at your beloved halls of stone.” The Dwarf cringed at the blatant reminder.

“You’d be less loose with that tongue if you weren’t so well off,” Granki slithered. “I needn’t remind you that my contract is only for a month.”

Thelek wriggled for a minute. “Quite right. Let us go to see our friend Sallet. I believe he has a gift for us.”

* * *

Avarion had spent nearly every day for five years learning about archery. He had never had such dedication to anything in his life, but he knew that this was different.

The daily routine started before sunrise with a jog around the training area. Considering that Enzerran was well-studied in distance archery, the range itself was over 1600 meters long. Avarion could have flown the distance in much quicker, but the training was specific. Enzerran would be watching, and cheating had brought only more running.

In the first three months he hadn’t even picked up a bow, learning the power behind the curve, the recurve, and stronger bows. Everything was based on the longbow. He learned how to craft one, from a raw tree branch, knowing the precise angles to bend the staff. He was required to make his own bow before training, despite the magical bow he already had.

After three months he was tested. The test went well, with Avarion cutting a limb from a high branch in a tall oak. He shaped it properly over a low fire, bending and flexing the staff until it was perfect. Two days it took to make the staff perfect.

Another three days was spent collecting silk strands from the forest creatures. The strands were collected and treated with the right amount of curing, creating a very strong line.

At the end of the five days, he had created a bow that many bowyers would be envious of. The draw was strong, far stronger than the usual longbow. Avarion was pleased with himself, knowing that this would be acceptable to his mentor.

His guess was not far off. Enzerran took the bow in his left hand, measuring the weight and feel. He pulled an arrow from the quiver, fitted it to the strong, thin white string. He drew the string back with his right hand, testing the resistance. Sighting in on the thousand-meter target, Enzerran loosed the arrow.

The arrow struck the target dead center.

“Impressive, Avarion,” he congratulated. “This bow is by far the best I have ever seen a student bowyer make. Are you sure you’ve never done this?”

“I swear it!” he responded, almost hurt by the question. Nodding, Enzerran handed the bow back. He drew an arrow and handed it to Avarion.

“Your turn.” Enzerran was ready to see how much the student actually knew. Avarion took the bow, much like his mentor had just done, and nocked the arrow. He pulled the string back, sighting in on the target that felt so far away. Raising the bow to about the same height Enzerran did, he loosed the arrow.

It dropped almost thee hundred meters short.

“And excellent try. You pay attention well. We will discuss what you did differently later.”

For five years he learned the mistakes he made that day. The twist in the shaft, the proper lineup on the target, getting behind the arrow, and becoming one with the bow were daily lessons. He learned as fast as Enzerran could teach him.

Over that five years he had written letters on occasion, receiving replies only once in a great while. He had only one friend, and his mother was leaving Prezel Vale for Winterwillow. She had only bore him seventy-five years prior, still young for an Elf, but he was more mature than many twice his age.

He never took a day off unless Enzerran made him, and even then he spent most of it making arrows and shooting them across the range. He took the time to learn arrow-making, a skill any self-respecting woodland archer knew, and Avarion had the benefit of a lifetime supply of feathers. Every arrow he made, which was only about a hundred a month, was fletched from his own molted feathers.

He had even learned how to integrate the little magic he knew into his archery. After learning how to magically see an enemy’s intent he had started to integrate it into the bow. At times he had Enzerran almost impressed by the shots he had been taking across the entire range, until he caught on. One day he came out with a magic lens, which detected the abjuration almost immediately. Avarion ran the circuit for hours for that one.

Near the end he was taught how to feel the bow, know it’s power, and become a part of it. He was almost there. He knew that there was little more he could learn from Enzerran, and that he was soon to take up a life for himself.

Enzerran knew this as well. Five long years and a good friend made, he wanted to see the winged Elf off in proper fashion.

Avarion walked into the rest hall and saw Enzerran standing there holding the magical bow in his hand and a bundle of arrows in the other, contained in a fine quiver. He held them out, waiting for Avarion to take them.

“It is time for you to go, friend,” Enzerran said sadly. “Five years, and you have learned what it took me fifteen. You are a true bow master, better than I will ever be. You can shoot at angles that I will never see. You always have high ground, and your talent is just barely tapped. I can teach you no more, and the worldly experience is what you need most.”

Avarion was speechless. He knew his time was ending, but he was expecting the end in another month. His mentor knew best, and as always he trusted Enzerran. If it was his time, then he was leaving this day.

“It is time?” he whispered, though both heard the question crystal clear, both knowing the answer. Enzerran stepped across the room and embraced him, knowing that this would likely be the last time he saw the young winged Elf.

The parting took another five minutes, with very little else said. Avarion took the bow and quiver, embraced Enzerran again, and left that day.