Rolling Shadows - Chapter 6

The sun shone brightly over Elselthinor. It had been a beautiful summer which was now nearing its end. The day had been hot but now as the sun moved passed its zenith a cool breeze blew. Away from the wood of their home two young elves sat. A river flowed just a short way from them, they watched the water as it gushed over a small rise and rushed away. The young couple looked into each others eyes and kissed. The male was nearing his fifty-ninth birthday and the female with him had just had her sixty-second birthday. By elven standards they were only on the cusp of adulthood.
The culture of the elves was specifically geared to training in a chosen profession. They would be schooled for nearly twenty-five years and then become an apprentice for at-least thirty years. At the conclusion of that time they were in a position to work independently before they took on apprentices of their own, beginning the cycle all over again.
The lips of the elves parted and they stroked each other's long hair. The man's name was La'ingif, his girlfriend was Tha'lif. They looked into each other's eyes and La'ingif spoke, “there are times when I wish I was a faun.”
“Fauns are very short lived,” Tha'lif said.

It was a strange statement to be sure: faun males lacked intelligence, they spent most of their time drinking, mating and hunting. Yet it was to none of these traits that La'ingif referred. Tha'lif, knew what he meant.

“I know your frustration. But your life would be almost half over where you a faun!” Tha'lif smiled at him, “my great-grandfather used to say that every race has envy in common. Age usually being a factor, fauns wish to be like us because of our longevity, we wish to be like them for respect at a younger age.”
They listened to the sounds around them. The flow of the water, the quiet twitter of the birds and the occasional splash of an animal as it moved in the water. Elves were never far from water, it served the practical purpose of providing food, but also it was relaxing to them. They rose from their mat and headed down to the waterline. They each carried a staff, elves were rarely seen without a staff, it was a companion. The staffs were round, the wood looked as though it had been plaited, each was topped with a white gem stone.
At the water's edge was a small boat, that they had brought with them. Tha'lif raised her hand with a whispered spell and the boat lifted into the air. It then floated over the water and touched down, skimming it lightly. They mounted their respective staffs, tapped the ground tree times and rose into the air, landing in the boat.
La'ingif took up the oars and rowed the boat to the middle of the river. With a flick of her fingers and wrist Tha'lif brought their bag of equipment over to them. She opened the bag and pulled out the fishing rod, which was longer than the bag, out. She cast the line into the water. They waited, making small talk in the hopes of soon getting a bite. After being unsuccessful La'ingif suggested that they try another spot. Tha'lif handed him the rod. He shifted position and flung the line into the water. He cursed mildly, even this sounded poetic.
“It's snagged!” he said, “I'll deal with it.” He held his staff over the edge of the boat, whispered a spell and dropped it into the water. Taking off his white shirt he dived into the water. The staff began to grow branches, deep blue berries budding at the ends. He swam down following the line. As he swam the berries dropped from the staff, he caught them in his mouth and his lungs filled with oxygen.
The line descended into a pile of rocks. As he cleared them away the cascading berries
began to fall faster. He could now see that the hook had cough onto an old and battered box. He unhooked the line, pulled on it, so Tha'lif could bring it up, and swam up to the surface with the box under his arm. He soon reached the surface and swam the couple of strides to the boat. He passed Tha'lif the box and climbed in, rocking the boat.
“Careful,” Tha'lif said.
“Sorry,” he said. He grabbed his staff and whispered to it. The water from his body evaporated and flew away, he was dry soon enough. Their curiosity about the box was abated only by their hunger. They continued to fish glancing every so often at the box.

With a successful catch they brought the fish back to their tent and set them cooking on a small fire. As the smell of the cooking fish began to tickle their nostrils their attention quickly turned to the box.
“What is it?” La'ingif asked.
“I don't know,” Tha'lif said, “its got no markings nothing to give me any sort of clue. I believe however that its an old and battered box!”
He returned her smile, “care to elaborate?”
She placed the box on the ground, placed her staff on top and whispered, “unlock.” A single thin vine came from the staff, went into the key hole and a couple of seconds later the box clicked open. Inside was a scroll. It was like no scroll ether of them had seen before. First and foremost it was a good deal thicker than the paper they were used to; secondly, as they unrolled it, the script was not only unintelligible it was also unknown.
“I do not believe this was made by magic,” Tha'lif said.
“What makes you say that?”
“The thickness of the paper,” she said, “any elf making a scroll would have been able to make it thin. Look at that, it is at least twice the thickness of normal.”
“So was if made by fauns, centaurs, dwarfs?”
“I don't know.”
“So you don't know what language that is?”
“No,” she said. The language was strange to their eyes. Many right-angles, the odd curved letter and some were just simple lines, as if a mark had accidentally been made on the page, “what language it is doesn't matter anyway.”
“I'm surprised to hear you say that.”
“I'm curious,” she explained, “but this may be important.” She tapped her staff against the parchment with a whispered spell. The ink fell to the bottom of the page, then it spiraled upwards redrawing itself in their familiar swirled script. Tha'lif held the scroll as they read.

The world as you know it is about to change. Soon the elves and their kin must give up their position as the only races with magical ability. The Dwarfs, Fauns and Centaurs will develop these skills. As the fist magical species they must help guide them in their new power. We see great risk. With power comes the temptation of misuse, as is known with the Dark Elves.
You must go to the spirits. The Dark ones and their manticore servants will overrun the world if you do not heed this warning. You must seek out the spirits – make them see time as you do.
There is more you need to know. For the magic you use will come to others. A race so far unknown to you – humans. They too will gain magic ability. Your people will meet with them in due course.
The couple turned the word 'human' over in their heads a few times. It seemed strange, another world was equally strange. La'ingif was the first to speak, he had heard that the spirits were only beings of legend.
“No,” Tha'lif said, “they're quite real, its just that their concept of time is quite different form ours.”
“I'm not sure I understand.”
“The average elf life span is about four hundred years,” she said, “I have heard stories that the spirits can live for hundreds of thousands of years, even more than that. Those numbers are a little difficult to follow, allow me to explain,” Tha'liff paused as she thought of how to explain, “some insects live for a very short amount of time. Imagine a creature that lives for one hour. So a day is the equivalent of, well lets say a millennium. Now suppose those insects believe you to be their god. They come to you and pray, 'please lord bring us water,'” La'ingif laughed as she put on a silly voice, “but at that time you have reached a particularly thrilling part of your book. You decide to go when you've finished. Two hours later you arrive.”
“So,” Laingif said, “to come out of the metaphor, the spirits, if asked to do something, might only come to our aid after, what, eight centuries.”
“Possibly longer.”
“I believe I understand.”
“Their are legends of the spirits being called upon to assist and not arriving. The battle, or whatever it was is fought then the help arrives decades later.”
“So that's what the scroll meant,” Laingif said, “about making them see our time.”
“I suppose so.”
Laingif checked the fish, “diner's ready.”
“Good, I'm definitely ready for it.”
Laingif took the cooked fish and handed Tha'lif a plate, “here you go.”
“Thanks,” she said taking a bite, “very good.”
“Tell me more about the spirits.”
“Well,” she said, “it is hard to say. Some of the things I have read may only have a morsel of truth in them, others may have none. It is said they live millions of years, that they were around when the planet formed.”
“They created it?”
“The fauns believe they did, personally I think they are just beings that have been around a lot longer than we have.”
“If this scroll is important we should tell my brother about it.”
“You think the Wardens will want to know?”
“If what it says is true is,” La'ingif said, “they definitely shall.”
“Look,” Tha'lif said, she pointed to the sky, having looked up in thought, La'ingif looked where she pointed had suddenly turned her gaze to the sky and noticed blue figures. They were unmistakably Wardens. They began to lose their altitude and softly came into land. As they landed one of them turned to the others giving orders. This was La'ingif's brother, Nayrath. Nayrath was a hundred and five years old and had achieved the rank of Calsalf in the Wardens. This meant that he commanded a group of twelve persons in a squadron. Once Nayrath had given instructions to his people he approached his brother.
“Come to check up on me?” La'ingif asked.
“No,” his brother said, “just wanted to see you is all.”
“That's nice,” Tha'lif said, “this is a good place to train,” she continued looking at Nayrath's people who were preparing for> combat practice”
“Yes it is,” Nayrath said.
La'ingif raised an eyebrow, not sure whether or not to believe his brother. The others in his brother's team stood a short distance away. They had had placed their staffs in the ground and rested their slender swords on their forearms. In unison they whispered a spell. The staff produced orange berries which spattered onto the swords, making flower-like patterns. The spell enabled them to train without the risk of injury. As they practiced three of their number walked around advising the others. These were Nayrath's deputies – Nayrath watched only for a moment before his brother told him, “we've found something.”
They showed him the scroll and told him of the translation spell they had performed. Nayrath was unsure what to make of it, yet he did allow the slight concern he felt to show on his face. Prophecy was not common in elven culture, they tended to shy away from such mysticism. However their friends among the centaurs often made prophesies and some had come to pass. It had been argued that many were so vague that they could be interpret in such a fluid way that any could be considered to have come to pass. Nevertheless Nayrath thought that this scroll was worthy of further attention.
“I should take this to Unthrin Baslshall, she'll know what to do with it,” he turned around to his people, “Shaydon,” he called.
A woman of about two meters come over at his call. She had black hair, long and tied in a bun on the back of her head. She was more butch than the normally slender elf. She saluted Nayrath and stood awaiting his instruction.
“I have to head back,” he told her, “I want you to continue the training here.”
“As you say sir,” she inclined her head and headed back to the group. She conversed with another of the number, a woman who had a far more common elven appearance, she was slight with blond hair, her pointed ears stuck out through the hair.
“What's her name,” Laingif asked, smilingly.
“My name is Tha'lif,” Tha'lif said, “your girlfriend.”
Nayrath smiled, “Cassy,” he said, “I'll be back soon.” He walked away from them staff in hand, mounted it, tapped the ground three times and took to the sky. They watched him rise until he was just above the tallest trees, the usual hight for a staff rider.

The country stretched out before Nayrath. He flew over a forest where the elves dwelt. Changing direction the forest became less dense as he headed toward the ocean. Passing over a lake he neared his destination, the staff knew the way and so Nayrath had little to do in the way of navigation.

They arrived.

Ahead of them was a plain that stretched to the mountains. Nayrath's altitude decreased and he touched down. Just ahead a few teams of trainees practiced, flying and sword play. They moved their blades in large motions from the shoulder and light twists from the wrist. He heard them speak quietly to themselves as they concentrated. The trainees also moved their sword-less hands pushing in another direction as if knocking an enemy to the ground. Their movement was slow as if the battle they practiced for was to be conducted at a quarter speed. Nayrath remembered his training. The slow movements the people he watched made he could now perform far faster. Along the line of the trainees walked Unthrin Baslshall. Her relaxed expression was a stern one, however Nayrath was able to notice a slight curl of pride on her lips. Baslshall was the commanding officer of the company to which Nayrath's squadron belonged. She had long grey hair plaited and frizzed stylishly at the end. Her robes were white, as befitted her station. She happened at that moment to look towards Nayrath.
“Excellent,” she told the trainees, “you're dismissed.”
The trainees bowed their heads in unison and the Unthrin came over, “Nayrath,” she welcomed him, “please come into my office.”
“Yes ma'am.”
Her office was a wooden balcony around one of the large trees at the edge of the forest. They stood in front of the tree and snapped their fingers. With a pop they appeared on the balcony. Entering the office Baslshall took her seat, she indicated in front of the desk. Nayrath placed his fingers together and inclined his head, she returned the salute with a bow of hers. A vine tapped Nayrath on the shoulder. Looking behind him he saw that the tree had grown his chair for him, he sat in the specially grown chair and looked to his commanding officer.
“What can I do for you?”
From inside his robe Nayrath pulled the scroll, he handed it to Baslshall. She read the words then using her own staff told the scroll to revert. The ink reformed into the angled script once more and recognition slipped through the Unthrin's otherwise unreadable face.
“Begging your pardon ma'am,” Nayrath said, “but you know what that is?”
“Not precisely,” she said, “what I'm about to tell you is classified.”
“I understand.”
“Are you familiar with the Thell'frane?”
“I assume you mean the ship? Not the legendary figure.”
“Yes.”
“It was sent back to El'eleciln,” Nayrath said, “to determine if we could return their. It was sent off course. The account I read stated that the storm, the one that sent them off course was conjured by those left behind, not wanting us to come back.”
“Yes,” Baslshall said, “what you do not know is what happened to them then. They found land after a time and a group were sent ashore to gather food. However that was not all they found,” she placed her hand for a moment on her staff, it rushed from the office at her command.
“Ma'am?”
“My staff will show you. In the meantime I have instructions for you. This prophecy may be important. It should of course be investigated. You will take a team into the Centaur Kingdom and attempt to find the spirits.”
“My squadron?”
“No. It would attract too much attention. You'll have to go incognito.”
“My brother's girlfriend is well versed in the legends of the spirits, I suggest I take her.”
“Is that wise?”
“Security is important here ma'am, she already knows about the scroll. These things have a way of spreading despite everyone's best intentions.”
“Secrets do seem to have a life all their own. I give you leave to assemble your own team.”
“Thank you,” Nayrath paused, “ma'am. Have you heard of these 'humans' before?
“No. However I have seen this writing before, its what I sent my staff to bring back.”
The staff arrived at that moment. It rushed into the room and stood once again next to its mistress. In a hand-like vine it held a frame, which it passed to Nayrath. He recognised the spell on the frame, it was designed to keep a perishable item, sometimes food or a ancient document in good condition. In side was a piece of material, it was not cloth or parchment or wood, nothing he recognised. It was transparent and with in were crumbs.
“What are you thinking?”
“Well,” Nayrath said, rather unsure, “it looks like it is a covering for some sort of food.”
“That was our conclusion. Look closely.”
With Nayrath's intention the image magnified. “Its the same language,” he said.
“Yes. We've attempted translation but they were unsuccessful. The spell simply didn't work on that material.”
“How is that possible?”
“We don't know. We did get a scribe to write out the symbols to attempt a translation, but that too was unsuccessful. Even if it did work I doubt it would help.”
“Why?”
“Because, if we are correct in our assertion that its a food, then it would simply have unknown ingredients.”
“Basically they would be proper nouns?”
“Yes,” Baslshall said, “so even if it did work we would only get an idea of pronunciation.”
Nayrath looked closely at the package, he wondered what 'Flapjack' could mean. He placed the frame on the table and looked at the Unthrin. “So we've known about these humans for a while. What about the organic residue? Did we get anything information of when they were here?”
“That was the strange thing,” she said, smiling slightly at the irony of that statement, “according to that spell it comes from about five hundred and fifty years into the future.”
“This is a magic far beyond any I know of. Why would the translation work with the scroll?”
“The scroll is normal, apart from its contents, so as the person who wrote it knew what they were saying it could translate. That of course implies that the food rapper was not written by someone who knew what they were doing.”
“A necromancer,” Nayrath suggested, “getting his slaves to make them.”
“That could produce that effect,” she said, “however as distracting as this mystery is you have the mission to the spirits, I suggest you depart at once.”
“Yes ma'am,” Nayrath stood, the chair remained in place for the time being as Nayrath headed to the exit. Just as he was about to head off Unthrin Baslshall called him back. He acknowledged her and stood before the desk.
“We know that the manticores will one day turn their attention to us. You may even encounter them on this expedition.”
“Manticores here!”
“Remember they have flight,” Baslshall said, “they don't have to land and work they way forward. They cannot reach the spirits first.”
“They won't.”
Baslshall smiled at his dogged determination, “as for these humans I find them – intriguing.”
“Not to mention reassuring.”
“Oh?”
“That the Shal'lol has somewhere else to go,” he explained, “If all else fails we can at least live on in a new form.”
“Go now. Make them see, as the scroll says, our time.”
“Yes ma'am.”