Valadel

Valadel Rising / Chapter I: Rangers Never Die

DANTICUS STORMWELL

The King's Encampment, Northern Jorden

It is the fourth day of Springs End, a thousand years after the fall of the Elven race and the dawn of the Age of Man.

WITH THREE STRONG FINGERS and one calculated breath, Danticus Stormwell took aim and drew the string of his bow.

Throughout his muscle, he felt the power and force that would send his arrow flying into his target. The training yard around him was uncharacteristically quiet, but Danticus attributed that to the early hour. The sun was nothing more than a small golden disc peeking from behind the hills far off in the horizon, bringing with its slow ascent warm winds that blew through tall trees of pine and cedar. The king's forces would be up and patrolling in full force soon enough, and he would lose his precious silence. Only he and the watchtower guardsmen knew the fresh air of the morrow. He'd soon be walking the ramparts himself before the end of the hour, and wouldn't be done until the sun reached its zenith.

The fort that the King chose to headquarter his forces was old and treacherous. The wooden railings were rough and conniving, and often left careless fingers embedded with splinters. Loose stones fell beneath the weight of an armored foot. Just two days ago, a young soldier died of a blow to the head from a falling rock. He drank himself to a slumber on his shift, and when word of his death reached Sergeant Portwood, the deputy commander of the garrison, the old warrior thanked the fort for weeding out the weak and lazy. For these reasons and more, Danticus was careful to patrol the upper walkways. Guardsmen were always the first to go in a raid, as the men liked to say.

Danticus took a breath. Focus. Guard duty would come later. Now was the only time he would have today to practice with his bow. He squinted one of his emerald colored eyes and aimed with the other. He let his breath out slowly, and once he was just shy of reaching the bottom of his breath, he let the arrow fly. Had he aimed a bit further to the left, it would have pierced the heart of the man made of straw. Had the wind not blown so hard, he might have pierced the heart of the man made of straw. Had he the patience to wait for the true bottom of his exhale, he might have pierced the heart of the man made of straw.

And had he taken these things into consideration, he might have been a better archer for it. But alas, he didn't, and instead, he was a worse archer for it. He shook his head, and threw his bow in a fit of frustration.

"What's got you so cross?" He heard a familiar voice from behind him say. "That was a decent shot." His cousin Cristomir was standing at the edge of the training yard leaning against the fence post, eating an apple with a smirk plastered on his face. He sported a crop of fine brown hair and wore his steel and leathers beneath a crimson mantle. He always seemed to be the perfect image of a warrior, but that could be said of any man dubbed a ranger. They were an arrogant lot, but that arrogance certainly didn't go unearned. Cristomir swallowed the bite of fruity mush and gave Danticus a cocky smile.

Danticus shook his head. "A decent shot for a newly made archer, likely."

"But not for you?" Cristomir wagered a guess.

Danticus sighed. "No...not for me."

Cristomir threw away the apple carcass, and it skittered across the dirt. "Good. Rangers don't shoot like that. Rangers always aim for the heart, and they never miss." He often said things like that. He changed when he earned the mantle, and while at times, the change seemed for the better, Danticus often wondered if it were for the worse. Nothing ever seemed to be enough, and maybe that was a good thing. Then again, maybe not.