The Price of Freedom

1: INITIATION

It was the Annual Tournament in Vigilance. Banners adorned with the many-coloured emblems of the various knightly houses fluttered in the light breeze. The sky was periwinkle blue, and the sun smiled brightly.  

The sound of sudden cheering broke the elf's concentration as he stared across the grounds at the circular, wooden target, the ten, red-fletched arrows imbedded at its centre. Accompanying the applause were many whistles and the screams of delighted woman. Men shook their fists in the air, girls pelted the arena floor with flowers and guards waved their swords, clashing them on shields excitedly. It was a strange feeling, Aefion thought. Firstly, he had actually won something. Granted, the only reason why he had won was probably the fact that he was a Beltharin: trained vigourously in the way of the Dragynbow. Those skills translated smoothly and effortlessly to the Galladorian longbows. But it was nice to have won. And secondly, people were actually cheering for him: an outsider in these lands. A quick glance at the hue-man Jasper Tenegrin revealed he was not at all happy. This was good, Jasper deserved to be beaten. After all, he was the last of Glint's court, an escaped vagabond from a government of rascist extremists who cared for nothing but themselves and their anti-elven dogma. This hue-man, this self-serving cur, had spent the last three cycles establishing himself as a member of a new court: that of King Brock, leader of the Galladorians of Vigilance, an outpost stationed north of Aefion's native homeland of Lightwood Forest.  

Although Aefion had been tasked with presenting the Galladorians with a tribute, a gift of thanks for guarding the northern approaches to the forest, he had another, far more important agenda.  

Justice.  

'We have a new champion of the archery, my lord,' the sound of Captain Gareth's voice rang out from the king's viewing stand. Aefion smiled inwardly, trying not to laugh out loud. The man was almost quivering in excitement, his rugged face alight with the exaltation that Tenegrin had finally lost a contest. Gareth then gestured at the royal musicians. There was a chorus of bright notes and silence descended, except for a few giggling young maidens. With a jingle of chain mail, the tall, armoured man motioned Aefion forwards.  

Aefion could feel the king's eyes flicking over him as he approached, his heavy, dark leather boots crunching on the dry grass. Automatically he felt a hundred eyes upon him, their curious gazes scanning like red-hot Feybeams. Instinctively, he tugged at his sleeveless jerkin of violet silk, aware that unlike any of the Galladorians, the garment didn't reach his belt. He was not wearing a shirt beneath it; he could not understand how they could wear so many layers in Belanyr's summer heat.  

'I am Aefion Bloodclaw, of Clan Arileth,' he said softly but firmly, flicking strands of russet hair from his face. The red and yellow jewels accentuating his two braids clicked as he did so. 'My people, the Beltharin, would like to thank you again for guarding the north against the Tainted. We are grateful for your friendship.' He then dug a hand into the back pocket of his black, leather breeches, bringing forth a circular, golden disc and proceeded to hand it up to the king. The disc was engraved with a lion and a phoenix, the sigils of their respective nations. Aefion bowed his head, placing his fist over his heart. Brock took the disc, returned the gesture and then motioned for a small, livery clad boy to come forward. The lad carried a golden statuette, which he presented to Aefion eagerly.  

'People of Vigilance, I give you a new champion!'  

Amidst the clapping, Jasper Tenegrin, muttering darkly, stepped forwards. The man pushed roughly past Aefion, his polished silver armour clanking.  

'He's not a champion yet,' he sneered, 'this man, this...half naked primitive, he's only won one contest. I am still the reigning champion for this cycle.' He glanced left and right, taking satisfaction in the quickly diminishing applause.  

'But at least this time you lost a contest!' Someone roared. This was greeted with a healthy amount of laughter from the viewing stands and those around the king couldn't help but smile.  

Ignoring the comment, Tenegrin continued.  

'I object to this... unfairness.' At once there was a rumble of disapproval from the crowd. Aefion turned to fix Jasper with his peridot green stare. Brock looked down disdainfully at the whinging noble.  

'You have no say in who wins the Archery, Tenegrin. You'll still win the tournament.'  

'But,' Jasper replied, fidgeting with his gauntlet, 'tradition dictates that the Annual Tournament is to be contested by Galladorians.'  

'The tournament also extends to our good neighbours and allies.'  

Jasper grunted and stepped away from Aefion as if distancing himself from a source of virulent infection.  

'Then perhaps the elfling would be willing to deal with the matter of the princess?' He chuckled maliciously before departing, his cloak billowing behind him.  

The king's smile faded, and he glanced at Gareth. As the guard captain nodded slightly, Brock looked back at Aefion and sighed.  

'Two days ago my daughter Cassandra, went riding into the countryside. Tired of being followed everywhere by an escort, she persuaded me to allow her to go without one. Now I sorely regret that lenience. Although I have warned her many times not to stray too close to Darkroth, she seems to have ignored my advice. She has not returned, and Lord Tenegrin has informed me that it's likely she's been kidnapped by a warband of Black Satyrs.' He paused, breaking eye contact and slumping in his throne. 'What a fool I was to let her go alone. Now she has paid the price for the freedom I gave her.' Recovering a little, he withdrew a scrap of parchment from his tunic. 'I sent a guard into the fringes of Darkroth to try and ascertain her whereabouts, but venturing too deep is dangerous. However, they did discover this note, fixed to a tree stump. Unfortunately, no one I know can understand the language.' Brock handed the parchment down to Aefion. 

Aefion examined the note. Its letters were crudely scrawled in a scabby, dark red ink.  

'It is not written in Alathaic,' Aefion said after a pause. 'But I will attempt to rescue your daughter, majesty, and return her to you. It would be an honour.' He glanced around at the surrounding women, flashing a winning smile. In return he received a share of heart-felt sighs. 'She will be safe with me.'  

As he flicked his hair and made to leave, he wondered what game the vile Jasper Tenegrin was playing...