The Unknown Tales: A Collection of Short Stories, One Shots, and More

A Foul Wind

November 13, 1564 TA ~ I ~

"Halt!" Above the yellowing trees rose a commanding voice and the small company of woodland elves ceased their noiseless marching. The elves remained at attention until the same voice ordered them to relax. Arbane sighed and drove the end of his spear into the leaf-littered ground.

The company was quickly separated into three squadrons. The first went off to set up a perimeter around camp, the second prepared food, and the third set up camp. Arbane was stuck pitching the captain's tent with Cyran by his side. Cyran chattered needlessly while stretching the tarps over the lightweight poles.

The tents were quickly set up and Arbane found himself without anything to occupy his hands. He sat outside his and Cyran's tent opening and closing his hands over and over again. Almost without realizing it, he began tapping his foot.

"Already?" Cyran approached Arbane from behind. Arbane jumped to his feet and began pacing. Cyran stretched himself out in front of the tent flap. "You're jumpy."

"Aw, bug off," Arbane muttered. Despite himself he laughed. "I wish we were moving."

"You're too tense. Relax. Enjoy the spring weather."

Arbane eyed the light snow dusting with distaste. "If only it were so easy," he said. The first squadron returned from the forest. Captain Illithen approached her tent, but was interrupted by Lieutenant Berendir, an aspiring captain who had tagged along on the mission. Rumor among the company was that he possessed a certain fondness for Captain Illithen. He certainly spent more time with her than any other elf in the company did.

"Oh, perfection," Cyran snorted, "wonder what lies Sir Beauteous has concocted to discommode us."

"He hasn't even started speaking yet," Arbane admonished. Cyran rolled his eyes.

"Still making doe-eyes at the Captain then?"

Arbane tossed a clod of dirt at Cyran's head to shut him up. Cyran ducked and rolled out of the way. They froze when a small group of soldiers strolled past them on the way to their own tents. When they passed Cyran brushed the dirt and snow off his uniform.

"Mianorin. Gilwynn," Captain Illithen called. Cyran groaned softly.

"Here we go." Arbane and Cyran rose and quickly jogged over to where Captain Illithen and Berendir waited. Berendir wore a displeased frown on his face.

"Captain?" Arbane asked when they reached her.

"There is need to sends scouts ahead."

"Where?" Arbane asked eagerly as he stepped forward. Captain Illithen's eyebrow shot up to her forehead, but amusement sparked in her eyes. "Sorry," Arbane apologized and stepped back.

"Come with me," Captain Illithen said with a nod toward her tent. Arbane, Cyran, and Berendir followed her into the cramped space. They stood around a rickety table adorned only with a large map of Mirkwood. Captain Illithen pointed to their current location just south of the Forest River.

"There is a small village northwest of our current location on the border. Two weeks ago an elf from there was found near dead at the castle gates. They said an attack had been carried out on the village by men from the north. Men that are still there."

"You want us to go in?"

"I want you to observe from a safe distance, Mianorin. That is what scouts do, is it not?" Arbane wisely chose not to answer and Captain Illithen continued. "The village's exact location is unknown. It has risen only in recent years and they have refused communication or aid."