A Spark in the Wind

Chapter 04: Thunder in the East

After having sailed through a sea of grass for half a day, Meneldir was lost. He could've been barely a day's ride from his destination, or he could've already crossed it without even noticing the sign which explicitly stated so.

Not like it was his fault though, he was good at following marks, being able to tell two willows apart. But here there were neither trees nor terrain to track; all there was was a cobblestone road dividing the endless sea of green into two.

Looking back into the din of the western scion, he saw the ancient sun sink into the snow-capped mountains and night's shadow take over, it was beautiful, but he was still lost. Thankfully he would not get attacked here; he would see any beast approaching him from miles afar.

Fire, however, was something he had to fret about: these fields loomed dry to him, as if they had not felt the embrace of rain for months. What exactly would it take to light such a field of dry grass? What but a meagre spark gliding through the wind?

Then he heard it: a soothing hum, at first like the mating call of a basilisk, then the spell of a siren, and finally the sound of an accordion: Mey was not alone.

He looked for the source, at last seeing a flicker of pale light on the horizon, ever so slowly growing as his steed trot near, until at last turned to an array of lights, manes fluttering in the air, and distinguishable chatter in a noble language.

"Must be travellers," he thought, galloping forward. It was – four high-elves sat around a fire, feasting and singing. Two caravan guards next to them saw him approaching, raising the alarm.

"Well met, high-kin," Mey wished from afar, "I come in peace, may I retire by your fire?"

"If you wish you, woodland-kin!" a high-elf said, "come here, we have food and music."

Mey nodded, approaching them thereof. "Hail, high-kin, do you know where I may find the castle where Lord Vilyánur resides? I'm not used to open grasslands, and my eyes are poor at seeing great distances anyway."

"You passed it half a day ago."

"Damn it," he looked up in frustration, "I knew I was going the wrong way."

"It's okay, friend, time slows down as you walk these roads, the steppes of Alinor have oft been treacherous to woodlanders."

"I ought to do better anyway," said Mey, taking a piece of flatbread from his hand, biting into the somewhat dry yet sweet dough of the bread. "So can you pave the way for me?"

"As morning approaches, go south until you see an obelisk. Turn west of there, you'll reach his castle."

Mey nodded. "Thank you."

And so he sat there, his back resting along a wooden log, his legs crossed before the fires that roared before him, letting the other voices douse the sound of his thoughts. Dogs played around, feasting on scraps of bone and bread, the other elves sat in a semicircle, telling jokes and singing songs, yet others played their pipe organs.

...

"But I still wonder," another elf said to Mey, an aged gentleman, "what would a young wood-elf like yourself have to do with our lord the grand-centurion? Do you wish to enlist into his auxiliary corps?"

"He's . . . my friend," said Mey in a shy manner.

The elves looked at each other, "oh, we understand, wouldn't want to get into a grand-centurion's businesses, let alone the king's nephew. And he does plan to make his army able in all fields."

"As in?" questioned Mey.

"Well, Lord Vilyánur has always been a cavalryman, and an able wizard too, but he does lack proper light infantry, should you not count the javelins of his front-line soldiers."