The Evening Tide Page 11

  Then came an elf and an elvess. They were not young. They were sombre, and clearly afraid. The elf had his head bowed, his hat twisted in his hands. The elvess clung to him and made one glace towards Asharal before locking her gaze to the floor. For some odd reason, the atmosphere changed upon their entrance, and I couldn’t understand why until they knelt before Asharal and began speaking.

  “Hail, the new Father of the Sun,” said the elf, his voice lacking all enthusiasm and conviction.

  I glanced at Asharal and I saw a change in his expression. Then I looked at the two before him and I felt a sneaking suspicion that Asharal was displeased indeed to have these two in his presence.

  “What would you petition of the Father of the Sun, ruler of the Sun Elves?” asked Sharal

  The elvess kept her face cast down. She had begun to weep softly. The elf next to her looked up and I saw tears brimming in his eyes.

  “We would have the body of our daughter,” said the elf.

  That was when I realised who these two were. The hall had grown incredibly uncomfortable and Asharal, surprising me, looked as if he had become very restless.

  Sharal prepared himself to speak, though he didn’t immediately, and I picked up that, perhaps sensing Asharal’s unusual stirring, together with the request of the two new petitioners, he had grasped the situation.

  “The elvess Elwyn?” he asked.

  The elf bowed his head to the floor, nodding.

  “You will receive her body,” said Sharal.

  Asharal flicked his wrist again and Sharal gave permission for the two to leave. When they got back to their feet, they bowed and walked backwards, but then something happened. The elvess straightened and stopped. She looked on Asharal, her eyes red and puffy from her tears. Spilling out from her gaze I could see absolute hatred.

  “She loved you,” said the mother of the elvess Elwyn.

  I looked at Asharal and he was quiet, but his eyes reviled she who now addressed him.

  “She loved you more than life itself.”

  Asharal leaned forward. “She betrayed me,” he hissed.

  I was shaken by how low and vehement his voice had become. I had seen this side of Asharal before. It was during his intrusion of Wind Tower. He had hated the Winds as he hated these parents before him.

  The elvess lost herself. “She loved you!” she screamed. “She loved you! She could not have refused the Son requesting her presence. She could not have refused him. She loved you! She loved you!”

  The elf came forward hurriedly to restrain the elvess, but he was too late to prevent her from uttering her last mistake.

  “Curse you, Asharal Evening. Curse you!”

  Asharal leapt up from his throne, commanding that the two to be taken from the hall. As they were led through the doors of the throne room, the Father shocked us all by sentencing them both to death.

  “Have them both executed.” Asharal looked up and glanced directly at the Sunblades still inside the hall. He then waved a peremptory gesture to them and they left immediately to see to Asharal’s decisive orders.

  The silence that filled the hall was tangible. Asharal, though still in his fury, was yet able to perceive it.

  He sat down at the edge of the Sunchair. “The Seer suffered a well-deserved fate for prophesying death to an Evening. A peasant before your eyes cursed me, her Father, and so must tread the same path.” Expressing his vexation, he declared in a loud voice so that none here would forget for years to come, “The Evening Tree is of higher birth than any elf on this island!” His piercingly pale eyes, now filled with wrath, surveyed every one of us. He said slowly, as if believing someone here would challenge him, “Our deeds can testify to that. Our standing where we are gives testament.” Asharal leaned back in his throne, both arms upon the armrests. “We, the Evenings, are the highborn,” he announced. “Let all who seek to address us acknowledge that fact or they will be put to shame.” There was a defining pause in Asharal’s breath. Then he spoke again, but with a placating tone. “Let the entire world know that the Highborns are eternal.”

  ###

  Author’s Note

  I have been writing fictional stories since my first years of ‘big school’ and what began in those days as a not-so-serious doodling, to pass the time whilst simultaneously accommodating what imagination I have credited myself with, I am not at all surprised to find myself where I am today; broke in the real world, yet omnipresent and all-knowing in a world one can only imagine. Literally.

  Assuming you have actually read this book and not just flipped to the end, you as the reader, I am pleased to see, have stepped into this imaginative world, and though brief has been your time here, I can assure you now that there will come opportunity again to return. However, this time, you will find yourself on a different island, one far greater and, in my opinion, more exciting than the tiny strip of land which the Sun Elves call home.

  Yes, I have only just begun shaping events that take place on these different pieces of land, lands that are indeed inhabited by elves, my favourite race. Soon, just like Asharal Evening will too discover not too long into his reign, you will meet these ‘other’ elves, and if you’re anything like me, you will be pleased when you do.

  And so, I would ask you to keep a close look out for the books that I promise are on their way, books that will take you to places like Alepion, Aminiouse Glare and Descending Star, home of the Moon, Sand and Star elves who, just like the Sun, seek to rise to the highest height.

  Turn the page to read an exclusive extract from Jeremy Forsyth’s soon-to-be-released full length novel

  Upon the Sands

  The Warden

  The dark dense forest housed an ominous mist. A curious smell of perverted bark was thick in the air; the tainted woods reeked of old power, sour and foul, making the hairs on the Thronemaster’s arms stand tall, fear rippling up his spine.

  Echoing beneath the boughs was a faint growl of sorts, low and cunning, like a snoring beast. The sound was coming from all directions – faint, yet close. The woods creaked and the winds whispered hauntingly as sweat beads formed above the Thronemaster’s pointed ears and there, beneath depraved looking leaves, he went cautiously by himself.

  His name was Alanis Malgan Wingflow. He was the Thronemaster of Aminiouse Glare, home of the sand elves. His was a family of prestige and ultimate legacy, who had ruled their people for centuries.

  As well as his mantle of Thronemaster, Alanis carried the mantle of Warden of the Trees – these trees, the trees which had for over a hundred years been the confines of the land’s most nefarious and hideously crafty sorcerers, the Urathins.

  The Urathins were why Alanis now intruded the woods. They were his family’s keep and they were his family’s last resort at winning the War. Since his family’s dethronement at the fall of the city of Malgan, Alanis’s father had lost every battle. So, it was no wonder they were all led north to Desert Falls and further beyond, to this forest called Moon Leaf.

  The Gate of Desert Falls was where Alanis’s father waited whilst Alanis and fifty of his father’s remaining warriors ventured to Moon Leaf in order to return with its sinister occupants. It was Father who believed the Urathins could win the war for them. It was Father who had convinced them all that the Urathins would be the scourge of all their enemies. In contrast, Alanis deep down expected hostility, and anticipated that a desire for vengeance upon the Wingflow Tree would outweigh any desire for freedom.

  We put them here, after all…

  The air was thin and scanty, and in front of the Thronemaster dark haunting pools broke off into narrow, sinister brooks. The tall twisted trees bent over as if their dangling vines drank from the water. The forest was quiet and still. Nothing moved and though the wind moaned, no leaf rustled. The Thronemaster continued with absolute vigilance, his hand gripping the hilt of the greatblade slung across his back, ready to draw it up before him.

  He glanced over his shoulder, sensing not for the first tim
e that someone was following him; the feeling had been apparent ever since leaving his frightened warriors at the southern edge of the forest. It felt as though eyes constantly burned the back of his head with subtle heat.

  The Thronemaster looked forward again, his resolve steadying, his steps more determined now. As Thronemaster, he was his father’s heir; though he was not the last of his father’s sons, he was the one upon whom his father laid all his hopes.

  Alanis’s eyes scanned the treetops above him; then, looking down, his heart racing relentlessly, he whispered softly, “They cannot hurt me,” trying to reassure himself. “They will not harm the blood of the Lost Oblian,” his voice went softer still, not even a twitch of his mouth as evidence; he did not want those with eyes on him to hear his words, lest they prove him wrong.

  I am the Warden of the Trees, he reminded himself. The Urathins will not hurt me. If they do, they will never be free. By the dead gods, they will die here; every last one of them. His nose creased into a snarl. Cursed creatures! Where are you?

  The ground was rising steeply before him as he advanced; but it remained soft as if rain had fallen the night before. There were leaves blanketing the ground, as sick and as apparently infested as the leaves above which dressed the trees, and now blotted out the sun. Alanis peered up. Vaguely, he noticed that outside of the forest, the morning was waning and just now, he wished for an opening above the canopies; one large enough for the sun to grant light to this dreary place and, perhaps, serve him by flushing out the cursed residents from their dark and unseen hiding places.

  The Thronemaster’s grip upon the hilt of his greatblade tightened as his eyes searched the deep shadows of the forest.

  “Come out, wretches,” he whispered, cautiously. “Come out.”

  After he had walked undisturbed for some time, a strangeness came into view. The mist of the morning had long since dissipated as the sun had risen beyond the treetops; yet now a fog, moving casually across the forest floor from deep within, passed long and ghostly fingers over him. Alanis saw vague scenes were being depicted in it.

  To his surprise, Alanis first saw himself leaning over the banks of a river and pouring something that looked like milk. He narrowed his eyes at the scene. The image slithered away, out of sight, beyond where he stood; and when he looked forward again, he saw elves rebuilding a burnt structure in an open field, their garb modest and stained, their brows glistening from a day’s labour. Then came an elf staring wistfully to the horizon, arms folded, appearing troubled. But, like the scenes before it, it passed the Thronemaster to make way for others.

  There came next a minor skirmish in the sands when the world was still dark and Alanis saw his father’s friend, the Higher of High Song, Gandis Goldenwind. Alanis recoiled slightly to see Gandis die at the hands of a moon elf, the elf’s eyes shining like moonlight. The elf was the biggest and most belligerent warrior Alanis had ever laid eyes upon.

  Then the Thronemaster saw an elvess of small stature surrounded by a company of other elves who, just like the elf who had killed Gandis in the scene before, had shining eyes, identifying them as the Moon Elves of Alepion.

  These moon elves walked towards a simple tower with a simple curtain wall. Rasdeal, Alanis thought, recognising the structure. When the elvess turned to look back over her shoulder, Alanis was struck by her beauty.

  There came another elvess, this one whipping an elf who knelt before her, his hands chained up above his head, grimacing at every lash, tears in his eyes. The elvess had gleaming, bronzed skin and wore a cropped, black wig. Alanis narrowed his eyes, recognising the elvess as one of those putrid star elves of Descending Star.

  Another star elf appeared in the fog. Alanis was intrigued with this image. The elf he saw was armoured in golden mail over white leather, crowned with a jewelled band. The star elf walked into a room and there he ripped the clothes off a trembling elvess who had a downcast gaze.

  Reaching the embankment, the Thronemaster glimpsed another elvess hooded and cloaked within the serpentine loops of the fog. Beneath her cloak, she was clad in thin silver mail, surprising Alanis, even more so when he saw a bow slung across her slender back. The elvess was weeping bitterly over a stream.

  Alanis pressed on, considering all that he had seen. He thought of the elvess at the outpost of Rasdeal, Gandis dying in the sands, and the star elves with their bronze skin. Standing on the edge of the embankment, Alanis suddenly realised that all around him, a different sound stirred – that of running water and a vague echo of a frog croaking. The earth at his feet widened as he leaped across a brook. Alanis found that he had come into a small glade, anointed by rays of sunlight streaming in from where the canopy of leaves cracked open, making it look a magnificent place. The smell of corruption that polluted the air and the strange fog that haunted the soft grounds was filtered out.

  The Thronemaster stood still, his eyes scanning to and fro whilst his heart beat anxiously. His throat was dry but his resolve to meet without fear whatever his greatfather’s Father, the Lost Oblian, had trapped here, remained ever firm and intact.

  He forgot the visions in the fog and listened for any sound that was out of the ordinary. A fluttering of wings caused him to swirl around, drawing out his greatblade, the steel gleaming in front of him.

  Champions of the Sand Elves, Father had called the Thronemasters. Yet never had he referred to Alanis as such. But he would.

  When this war is over and Father sits on the Black Throne, he will see me for what I am: a champion.

  Alanis stood still, staring. He saw a tall, dark figure watching him at the edge of the glade. With his heart racing and nerves taught, Alanis waited and watched – but nothing happened. The figure was still.

  Perhaps the shadows were playing tricks?

  Then, very slowly, the figure took a step, its eyes gleaming and fixed upon Alanis, the intruder. Alanis watched and then, straightening, he prepared his mind and body for a fierce encounter. The Urathins were sorcerers, powerful in magic, old and dark. But they had been defeated by the magic of Alanis’s greatfather’s Father, Bulgar Malgan Wingflow, the Lost Oblian, whose power had bound them here. Though the Urathins needed a Wingflow to set them free again, Alanis deeply feared that the promise of freedom wouldn’t outweigh the need for vengeance.

  I am a Warden of the Trees, he reminded himself. A Thronemaster, blood of the Conqueror and the Lost Oblian.

  “At last, my keep presents itself,” cried Alanis, in a loud voice. It felt odd and unnatural to have the silence of the forest disturbed in such a way.

  The Thronemaster received no reply. Instead, the figure kept moving amidst the shadows, its breathing raspy and loud. The figure took a step forward, manoeuvring its way around the beams of sunlight, moving into the open glade. Alanis shivered, though the chill in the air from the morning had long since passed. The figure stopped a few feet in front of him and Alanis had to tilt his neck to see that the creature was smiling. The figure was taller than anyone had right to be. It was taller than that Moon Elf Giant who had killed Gandis in that fog vision.

  “Your warden calls for an audience,” the Thronemaster declared.

  The creature made a gruff sound and took a single step closer. A wave of nausea crept over Alanis but he stood his ground, gripping the greatblade tightly before him, his hands sweating, a voice inside him pleading for him to run. Shivers came again, like Fear itself had run a sharp and pointed finger along his skin.

  I am a Warden of the Trees, a Thronemaster and heir to the Black Throne. My father is the rightful ruler of the Sand Elves and rightful Oblian of Aminiouse Glare.

  The creature’s legs were bent; its arms, hands and fingers sinister and long. It was swathed in ragged cloth of darkest green, tattered and torn and dirty.

  “Where are your brothers?” Alanis bellowed suddenly, hoping to mask his fear with contempt.

  The creature did not respond immediately. Rather, it leaned forward, its face strong and disturbing as it came into th
e light, reeking of corruption. It possessed a leering smile that stretched towards his pointed ears. The creature’s eyes were small and gleaming, dark and amused; anger brewed behind them. Curtaining its long face were threads of thin black hair that fell down past its bold, broad shoulders.

  “Everywhere,” it replied.

  Its voice was nothing like what Alanis had ever imagined when growing up and hearing his father and greatfather tell stories of the Urathin elves. It was low yet screeching, like two voices speaking as one. The sound vibrated through the air, piercing Alanis’s bones.

  In a flash, the Urathin grabbed the Thronemaster by the throat and jerked him up into the air, leaving him dangling above the ground. Alanis dropped his weapon as the creature, gripping him tightly, brought Alanis’s face right up to its own, its breath fouler than the air.

  Alanis tried to recall a spell that would save him; but as the air was being choked from his lungs, his mind went blank.