The Tales of Miriela: Shadowborn

Chapter 47: Thomas Siln

Lord Siln awoke, confused and bleeding, aching and dazed. A gash spanned across his forehead, and a light stream of blood flowed from it. His head spun, like waking from a wild drunken night. A sharp rock pushed into his back, as he lay, looking up into the blue morning sky. A warm breeze blew across his head, setting his wound on fire. The sting coursed through his face and made his head pulse. It pushed the blood down his face and into his mouth. With each gasp for air, the thick taste of blood covered his tongue.

After some time, Thomas had regained enough strength to bring himself up from the dirt on which he laid. He drew from his pocket a handkerchief, and pressed it tightly against his wound. And as he sat with his back rested again a tree, he began to remember.

An attack in the alley. His mind began to focus and his eyes began to sharpen. But the Nobel District was nowhere to be seen now. Now trees surrounded him.

He searched the ground, on his hands and knees, scouring through the blood and dirt for some sign of what had happened. As his fingers scanned about, until Thomas felt something irregular. He brushed back the dirt and revealed a dull iron Sigil, hands at prayer. He raised it close to inspect it. The Sigil of the Royal Servants.

Where he had been stabbed was now nothing more than a dried wound, crusted with old blood. The breeze picked up, and brought with it the sound of wrestling branches and scattering leaves. The woods looked familiar, and Thomas suspected he was not so far from Ferenor.

The headache returned. It pulsed from his forehead down through his neck, like an axe splitting a tree. His knees buckled and fell back to the dirt, where he sat with his back against a tree. The sounds of the gentle breeze and dancing leaves, were replaced with a terrible ringing that pierced his ears. His sight became hazy, and skin chilled. Soon, Thomas was again unconscious, and alone.

"Hello there. Hello, friend. Are you alive down there?" Said a voice.

"He may be a drunk, Hatteras. I don't like the thought of waking a drunkard in the woods," Said another voice.

"We are a bit behind schedule, Hatteras. They'll bury him with or without us. The funeral is tomorrow," Another added. Thomas could hear the voices, but he was still stuck in a black haze, drowned inside a state of subconsciousness from he could not quite escape.

"Here, Antony, let me see the water." Suddenly, the shock of cold water crashed into Thomas' face, and pulled his soul from the darkness. He awakened in a desperate state, gasping for air, and flailing, like a newborn.

"Aha! And there we have it. I had a good feeling that he was alive. Help him up, help him up!"

Thomas had just barely caught his breath when he felt two hands grasp him by his arms and lift him to his feet. He stood, soaking wet and vulnerable. "Where are we?" Thomas softly muttered.

"You're in the Canstein, friend." Lord Siln looked up to see a man, no taller than himself. He had dark hair, long to his shoulders. His face was shaved clean, and he wore dark blue robes, as did the other three men with him. One of the men offered some water to Thomas, which he took and drank as quickly as he could.

"Forgive our lack of manners, and allow us to introduce ourselves. I, am Hatteras Croft. This is Antony Cres, Victor Demar, and Aliester Ednor," Hatteras said.

Thomas looked about at the men. Antony was shorter than the rest. He wore a long black beard and a bald head. He looked to be a strong man, his arms were large, but so was his belly. Victor wore no beard. His skin was dark, tan like Hatteras and Antony. His jet-black hair was pulled back and hung down towards the middle of his back. His face was thin and his right ear seemed to be missing, or at least a large piece of it.