Ice and Dark - Chapter 2

Chapter Two


Blinding pain flashed white rousing Iandriel from the darkness he had been floating in only moments before. Slitting his eyes open and groaning from the pain dully thudding in his head, Ian realized that it was only the rays of the sun streaming through a foreign window. Was that chemise that curtained the window? Ian could hardly decipher the details of the faint embroidery between the double images swaying along the edges of his vision. Feeling all his fingers, Ian flattened his palms along the linen sheets and pressed himself to sit up.


"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Prince."


The gruff voice sent shivers along Ian's spine. Prince? How this man knew who he was escalated far beyond the boy's present comprehension. Shifting his head to the right where the voice originated Ian blinked trying to minimize the blurs down to one clear crisp shape. A hulking black mass sat shifted to one side with smaller splotches of white making up presumably a face and hands. As his vision cleared, Ian started making out details. Everything about the man was black save for his skin - black hair, black tunic, leggings, and cloak - even coal black eyes stared intensely at Ian or did the man stared bored? His face seemed to resemble Ian's as well being gaunt and slender yet the scent emanating from his body was completely different - full of foreign smells but pleasantly sweat nonetheless.


"Who are you?" Ian's lower lip quivered as he tried a second time to sit up. Pain shot as an arrow up into his brain, his arms lost strength and he fell back into the soft pillow with a muffled grunt.


"I told you that it wouldn't be wise to do that didn't I, Prince." The man barked.


Ian blinked twice. One blink, the man was perched poised for flight on the edge of his chair, the next; he was at Ian's side pressing his palm gently on Ian's chest keeping him from rising again. With the man's face closer, Ian could see that his eyes were not black but a deep shadowed blue. His black hair slid slightly off his neck toward Ian and the boy gasped.


"You're Elven!" Ian tried to wriggle free from the man's grasp but his palm stiffened as hard stone - refusing to budge even a fraction of an inch.


The man's eyes softened and he lifted his hand from the boy's chest with a lilting laughter. Strangely, Ian felt his mind numb into a peaceful subconscious and for a moment he thought the man was quite handsome despite what humans portrayed Elves as. "You are quite right Prince, I am Elven."


"Where am I?" Black dots still danced at the edges of Ian's vision but for the most part his vision had returned to a semblance of normal. Warnings fired at the back of his brain but fell on deaf ears. Ian knew that he should have made for the safety of the palace but he was in no condition to move - and whatever the Elf had done - it had caused his body to relax passed movement.


"You are in Methael lying in a room in the Black Lion Inn." The man announced. "My name is Kheldren Maelstrom of the Crystal City."


"Methael!" Ian shot up but regretted it as pain clasped his heart, squeezing it stopping his breathing. Images whirled frantically in his mind. If what this Kheldren spoke of was true than he was a league away from the Palace in Beldrig. But how? Gritting his teeth, he forced breath into his burning lungs and slowly lowered back into the soft linen sheets. Who knew that non-silk material could be so soft to sleep on? The pain subsided and Ian breathed easier. "But how?" He whispered not wanting to risk the pain. "I thought for sure I was dead back there."


Settling back in his chair, Kheldren leaned a cheek on his propped up elbow. "Naturally, my comrades and I whisked you from the Palace on Zayle mounts."


"Zayle mounts! You mean Warhorses! Gliders! Elven horses!" Kheldren nodded. Ian couldn't believe what he was hearing. Zayle Warhorses were the most prized creatures in the kingdom of Winterwick. Born and bred as Elven stock - thus the only thing Elves were good at - Zayles were able to surpass even the finest Kistock stallions bred solely in the Palace at Beldrig. They were able to withstand the harsh waist deep snows that never ended in Winterwick while keeping speeds that would envy the savage of wolves. Who were these people to possess such magnificent beasts? Wait a minute!


"You said companions...so there are more? Where?" Ian narrowed his eyes surveying the room for any trace of an ambush. He really didn't feel like being saved from one death only to end up dying after all.


"I sent them into the market, Prince. We are going to need at least a month's supplies to make great haste to Veldar."


This time Ian did not flinch as he lifted himself into a sitting position. Worry had replaced all the pain in his body, deadening it if only for a second. "Veldar! But that is in the Nalsisten Province...away from Winterwick."


"Exactly." Kheldren stood up and walked to the window. Pulling back the chemise curtains, he peered out at the streets below. "We need to get you away from Winterwick, Prince - it is no longer safe for any member of the Royal Family..." He turned around glancing gravely down at the boy. "Sadly, you are the last surviving member."


Ice froze in his blood and his eyes widened. Dead! Gareth, Mother...the King! Clawing at his face, Ian screamed and cried not sure what seemed worse for his throbbing head. Just as he had feared - his family did die - and his own hands tried to prevent it. I would have been dead were it not for these men...why -


"Why did you save me?" The words slipped out before Ian could think about them.


Raising his eyebrow, Kheldren stared at Ian. "You were simply not meant to die Prince-"


"Why do you keep calling me that?" Ian fumed angrier at himself than the man. "You know that I was usurped from my position."


"Very well then...what shall I call you?" Something deep brewed in Kheldren's mind - something he avoided saying to Ian which only grated further on Ian's mind but he let it slide feeling another surge of throbbing pain up his spine.


Unable to stand more pain, Ian slipped down into a laying position but twisted his body so that he could still see Kheldren without breaking open the bandaged wound at his stomach. "My name is Iandriel Greymaker but you can call me Ian."


An apparent wince scarred Kheldren's faultless features. "Iandriel..." He shook his head. "Why would Eva do such a thing..."


"You knew my mother?" Ian hissed trying to piece the frayed pieces together.


"Everyone has heard of your mother Ian...Iandriel." He spat the name out but smiled lightly at Ian. "Forgive me but in the Elvish tongue your name is offensive - might be why I cannot understand her wanting to call you that."


"It's not that bad-"


"It's an insult." Kheldren cut off harsher than he had wanted to sound. "As Elves, we believe that the name of anyone symbolizes who they are as well as what their soul appears as. To be called such a name is to admit mistake...it is a black word."


Ian frowned unsure of how to answer. Growing up, he had never really thought his name was all that offensive just a name. Then again, humans never thought too in depth about names and Ian was raised among the cruder portion of his blood. "Well, you may call me Ian if that will help."


Kheldren sighed and nodded. "Ian would be more preferable. No offense, mind you, but I cringe every time I think about the name your mother dared to call you."


"Couldn't matter all too much...after all it's not like you really knew her in person. Believe you me, naming me Iandriel was the nicest thing she had ever done. Not much kinder I am afraid." Ian chuckled but decided against it feeling a twinge in his sore muscle.


A quiet creak drew Ian to the door to see two tall limber men and one short stout man walk into the room. White-blondish hair flowed from the two men's brows twisting into tight braids belted at their waists by their girdles. Soft lavender eyes stared deeply at Ian - there only gentle feature mixed in with the strong chiseled bone structure along their cheeks, foreheads and chins. Sinews glided along taut flawless skin defining every crease and crevice of lithe muscle. Ian had never beheld such men before - they appeared royal yet commonplace at the same time. Then there was the dwarf. His sharp contrast to the slender Elves confused Ian. Why would beings of exceeding beauty match up with a pocked-marked man heavily scarred from what Ian could only guess was many years of hardened war. The man's hair was thick, coarse and a copper color. The tangled strands reminded him of extremely matted hair servants seem to have. Every muscle bulged along a mud brown tunic and leggings presumably two sizes too small. Truly his own clothing stuck out against the two tall Elves' flawless pearl colored robes with gold vines embroidered along the edges and neckline. At their hips, the two Elves carried intricately carved staffs taller - about six feet in height, four inches taller than he was - they were elegant and fashioned from a wood foreign to any Ian had seen in books. The dwarf, however, carried a weapon more fit as a blunted dagger. The iron had been pounded unevenly by a crude hammer and dented in too many places that Ian couldn't help but wonder if it really could damage anything. Upon closer inspection, as his vision finally came back to its fullness, Ian could see that the weapon was once handsome but the twisted gold filigree crossguard and pummel lost its luster from probably wear and ill-proper care. Even the deer hide leather on the handle had almost rubbed clean off.


As if he could hear the boy's mock of his weapon, the dwarf locked steely grey eyes with him and grunted turning to Kheldren. "Well, can the boy ride yet?"


Kheldren's eyes fell critically on Ian, studying him - Ian writhed under the penetrating gaze but refused to show any weakness. "It might be better if we wait until morning. In the mean time, introduce yourselves. Where are your manners?"


Taking cautious steps into the room, the three spread out a bit hefting down five heavy saddlebags that each were carrying under their arms - the dwarf held three. One of the fair-haired Elves turned around and closed the door sliding the solid iron bolt home before walking silently over to the window - pulling back the chemise to stare out for a minute then letting it fall over again.


"I am called Zelph and this is my brother - "


"Sven." The Elf near the window finished looking kindly down at Ian.


In the back of Ian's mind, he seriously wondered how he was going to keep these two apart. Did they even know how to tell each other apart? Of course they knew. The twins just enjoyed playing with the minds of others when it came to identifying them - not that they would admit that to the boy. Staring at each one intently, Ian tried to find any oddity that separated the twins but gave up after realizing that if anything was out of place, the twins had taken it into consideration and smoothed it over.


Noisy grunting turned Ian's attention to the stout dwarf who was unfastening his girdle and throwing the sword to the ground. Whether it was intentional or accidental, Ian could not guess but the clatter of the unsheathed blade grated in his throbbing head and he gritted his teeth to subside the pain.


"Torque I really wish you would buy a sheath for that blade. You can't possibly know how much it pains my ears to hear the sharp sound when you sword hits the floor or scrapes against a stone wall." Kheldren growled grinding his own teeth against each other.


"Yeah yeah...Elf!" Torque grunted and kicked off his boots settling down on a wooden stool propped against the corner beside the bed. "Well me boy...have a name, do you?"


"Pardon?" Ian spoke finding his voice coarse upon the entrance of the three newcomers.


"A name?!" The dwarf hissed swearing under his breath. "Don't tell me he's dumb too, Kheldren."


"Iandriel." Ian crowed indignantly.


"Hmm..." Torque pursed his lips and looked up to see the twins cringe at the name. "Interesting." His eyes turned to stare at the chemise curtains.


"Nothing shall get done if we stand here blathering away like old biddies." Torque muttered and stood up - the floor seemed to shake slightly when his feet met the wood planks. "Well m'boy, let's go have a tankard."


"Absolutely not." Kheldren hissed, rising to his own feet. "The boy is much too young for such frivolities." The dwarf looked wounded at the word but nodded. "However, you are right. We should walk down to the tavern and eat something."



The stairs creaked unpleasantly with every step Ian made making him wince sharply feeling the throb pique in his head. By the time he made his way to a table, he collapsed into a rickety wooden chair. The Black Lion Inn was comely and surprisingly warm despite its downtrodden appearance. A bar rested to the right of the front door - a solid oak structure - with people sitting along its edge eating and drinking ale. Likewise, the open area to the left of the door was crammed with worn woodened tables, benches and the occasional chair similar to the one Ian sat on littered the floor. It too was full of men, even barwomen, laughing raucously, exchanging stories, even playing dice at these tables full of mutton, bread and ale. These men, to Ian's fascination, were colorful characters without Ian knowing their stories. Some wore thick cloaks, others lined with fur; some wore riding leathers and warm furs while about two or three of them seemed clad in something akin to the silks in the Palace. All looked unique with their features from the harshest, weather-worn to the silky skinned, boyish. The scene of the tavern mesmerized Ian.


Because of his Elven blood, however, the unpleasantness also vied for his attention. The shrill laughter and rough banter from this many people - more than Ian had around him in his entire life time - overwhelmed his hearing pounding relentlessly at his already swollen head. Worse yet was the smell. Stale warm air trapped the rank of sweating men, soiled clothing, warm ale and hot food. Ian found his stomach rolling over itself and many times he thought about running back upstairs where at least he could throw up the chemise curtains and let in the ice cold clear scent of the winter air. However, escaping without bringing rise from any of his new comrades was most unlikely and would cause more damage to his tender stomach.


Upon wandering from the room, Kheldren handed everyone a cloak. Ranger cloaks, he called them. They were made from a light material, curiously mottled yet warm once about Ian's scrawny shoulders. This too was of a foreign material to the boy but it did not object - finding that his body was much colder outside the protection of the bed sheets. Also, Kheldren had helped replace Ian's blue brocade tunic, silver doublet and cream colored breeches with a plain tawny colored tunic and leggings. He was allowed to keep the boots though the tops had to be kept above his knee so not to reveal the silver intricate lacing on the inside. Too conspicuous. Kheldren had pointed out. Seeing you in your previous clothing would draw too much attraction and no doubt the wrong sort. Also, before they left the room, Zelph with the help of his brother Sven, dyed Ian's hair a dull mousy brown color. Cream color is only really seen in nobles or royalty. They explained though much to Ian's dislike.


Thankfully, nothing could be done about his eyes and Ian was glad that there was something that held the subtle familiarity to the person he used to be. Emerald green eyes - as deep and rich as his were - also were oddities, however, since he was half Elven, he could pass them off as part of the Forest Folk blood in him. Whether that were the case or not, Ian would not figure out unless he found his Blood Father.


"Here you go. Eat up." Torque commanded thumping down on a bench next to Ian. It groaned and creaked under the dwarf's weight but did not collapse much to Ian's surprise. Really, he didn't think the dwarf was fat but there must have been something behind his awkward heaviness. Still, he seemed a rather pleasant fellow and Ian found that he instantly liked the strange little man.
The twins, Zelph and Sven, took seats on the bench opposite Torque. Before they left the room, they too donned riding leathers and a mottled cloak, swiftly tucking their robes into their saddlebags. They kept their staffs though. Seeing their white hair, people would expect them to be elders even if they saw the carefully concealed Elven ears, they would not dare to encroached upon the brothers. Kheldren walked up next and sat on the chair opposite of Ian and silently tucked into a mutton leg.


Ian looked down at his own portion. Since he was still recovering, Kheldren suggested not giving him strong offensive meat that would counteract with his wounded stomach. Instead, he had asked the innkeeper if he could have a warm bowl of meat broth and buttered bread to tempt his stomach yet not tear at it. In a strange way, Ian was grateful. The broth and bread smelled more pleasant than the foul mutton and he curled his lip thinking about how it would taste. They ate in silence. Ian could see the twins heavily watching the people amassed in the inn, no doubt overhearing all the conversations - even the hushed toned ones - being said by the various riff-raff of the tavern. Kheldren kept one eye at the door and the other at the entrance to the kitchen pausing after each bite to listen for any suspicious noise. Torque, on the other hand, seemed to not care a whit for what would or could be going on. He hunched over his mutton and sawed at it noisily with cracked teeth. All Ian could do was concentrate on not passing out from his wounded ear - not fully healed - and from the din in the room.


"They speak about - " Zelph began.


" - the killing of the Royal Family." Sven finished chewing on a piece of buttered bread.


"Hmmm...what do they say?" Kheldren asked naturally curiosity touching the corners of his bowed mouth.


"They speak of - " Sven began taking careful sips of his drink.


Kheldren shot up, eyes wide, stopping Sven in mid-sentence. "I hear the scrapes of Kedrils... we must flee now. Come on, out the stable entrance."


"What's a Kedril?" Ian stammered rising awkwardly to his feet, his legs wobbled from protest.


"No time to explain laddie." Torque exclaimed under hushed breath, pushing the boy towards the back of the tavern where the stable entrance would be.


Kheldren skulked through the shadows reaching the door of the stable. Quietly, he lifted the iron latch and creaked the door open. Ian caught the bare glimpse of three burly men clad in black leather - it seemed more scaled almost like snakeskin or even dragon scales. Fear touched the frayed edges of Ian's mind and he fought to control his feet from fleeing up the stairs.


"This isn't good." Kheldren whispered shaking his head. Slowly, he closed the door and turned around. "We have to make out another way. Zelph, you and Sven watch at the top of the stairs. When these three men enter come into the room and tell us." The twins nodded and seemed to dissolve into the shadows.


With Kheldren's help, Ian managed another cumbersome venture up the creaking stairs and into their room. He then proceeded to scatter all the rags and shreds of Ian's bloodied bandages in deep corners, under floor boards, until they were nowhere in sight.


"Torque, can you carry the saddlebags?" Kheldren asked an urgent hint to his voice.


"Not something I'm used to but us dwarves are very sturdy. I'm sure I can manage." Torque ambled over and started hefting saddlebags until all five where somewhere on his person - under his arms or slung over his shoulder.


The door opened and Kheldren unsheathed his blade halfway but stopped when he saw the twins enter.


"They are asking if the innkeeper has any guests who are Elven..." Zelph's eyes fell to the floor.


"...and an injured boy. Kheldren, they know of our intentions and have secured Kedril specifically for this purpose."


Kheldren swore in a language Ian could only surmise was Elven. Another phrase possibly 'not good' accompanied it. Looking up, the Elf gazed gravely at Ian. Without word, he tucked the boy safely in his arms and walked toward the window. "Hold tight to me, Ian." He whispered hastily and jumped from the window.


Feeling cold wind rush up to him, Ian clawed into Kheldren's leathers. He could hear the ground coming up too fast and he thought for sure he was dead. There was a thud as thick boots met cracked cobblestone but nothing. No unseen force breaking him to the ground. Opening his eyes, Ian could see that he was still in Kheldren's arms and unscathed - likewise was the Elf. How did he do that? Did Elves possess some sort of immunity to death?!


There were other thuds as the rest of them joined Ian and Kheldren on the ground. Torque was the last and there was a huge grunt as he fell face first onto the ground - his knees buckling from the impact with the cobblestone and the weight of five saddlebags. He cursed, picking himself and the saddlebags up. Without further word, they all made for the stables. Ian somehow could tell that now was not the appropriate time to speak for fear of attracting whatever was after them. What purpose did they have? Zelph spoke of the men knowing their purpose? Ian shook his head. Now was not the time for thoughts of that nature either. After all, these men saved him; they had to be on his side.


"Listen Ian," Kheldren whispered gruffly in the boy's ear one good ear. "I know that you are not fit enough to ride but ride you must. You must be brave."


Ian nodded and felt Kheldren hoist him up into one of the saddles that fit atop a tall, hardened muscled yet sleek black horse. A single spiraled horn branched out from its brow and it whinnied a musical tone. This must be a Zayle Warhorse. Ian thought settling into the rough saddle. It would take some time getting used to but he would no doubt grow accustomed to it. He knew he had no actual choice in the matter. Kheldren's gloved hands fell upon the boy's tying the reins about his hands to the saddle horn.


"Should you fall asleep or, Valmar forbid, you fall off; this will keep you attached to the horse. This mount comes on my command so wherever you are, so long as you are with your horse, it will bring you back to me." Kheldren commanded. Grabbing the other end of the reigns, the Elf whispered something to the horse, led it to the stable opening and smacked its rump.


With a jerk, the Zayle took off in a fierce gallop. Ian screamed panicked and leaned into the horse's neck. He had never been on a horse before and its immediate flight addled Ian's brain. Why did it run off without the others? Why was it essential that he leave first? Being alone scared Ian far worse than the increasing speed of the horse but Ian refused to let go. Nothing scared him more than the potential realization of being separated from his companions forever.


Chancing a glance behind him, Ian's eyes widened. Three black creatures half wolf, half horse pounded toward him. The three men he had saw in the stable just a few minutes ago were perched poised atop them, cruelly curved semitars unsheathed in their hands. His new companions looked straight ahead kicking their horses into faster gallops. They were the only things standing between him and the three men and - to Ian's horror - the three beasts the men rode were easily catching up to Ian's companions.