Excerpt: Dartfoil

Dartfoil wandered a good half hour, searching for the Dark Elf girl's cave. He had no idea where he was going, only listening to the instinct within him that said go left, go right, keep straight ahead. She was light as fairies' breath, so carrying her did not trouble him there; it was that she did not stir. He had to find her cave and lay her down – then he could think.

All at once something looked familiar. A scrawny bush, with one lopside resembling a bird with talons outstretched. He moved nearer: yes, this was it, he was sure of it. Behind was a looming hill, and within the shadows. . . .

He ducked beneath the camouflaged curtain into the cave, the girl still motionless. Moving straight for the sleeping room, he laid her gently on the bed and reached for a covering in case she was cold. Then he gave a small sniff. Of course she was cold. Was she not always?

Returning to the main room, he looked around at the mysterious magickal paraphernalia. If only he knew what they meant, how to use them! Perhaps he could help her, if only he knew what was wrong.

Just then he heard a faint noise from the other room.

“Oah,” she moaned just as he came through the dividing curtain. She was sitting up, hand to her head. “Where am I?”

“You are at home,” he said, coming nearer to see her better in the faint light. A chair was near the bed; he pulled it over. “How do you feel?”

“Bewildered,” she said, rubbing her right temple. Then she looked over, frowning. “Who art thou?”

“I am Dartfoil,” he said, worry leveling up a notch. “Do you not know me?”

“Ai,” she said, sinking back against the pillow, “know I your face. But I know not that it is you.”

Frowning, he tried to fathom what she might mean. Then before he could comment, she gave a small groan. “Fetch me some water, please?”

With a nod he leapt up, darting into the other room though he was not sure where a water vessel might be found. Guessing the second dark curtain at the far end of the room might lead to a kitchen, he headed that way and was rewarded that his guess was correct. Glass bottles of various sizes were sunk to their necks in a small rushing mountain stream that ran at the back of the far wall; picking one up, he was surprised at how cold it was. No wonder the cave was so cold.

He returned to the sleeping room with a bottle in each hand. “Are either of these right?” he said, holding them up for her to see.

Lolling her head on the pillow, she gazed at them in turn, then indicated the dark blue one. “It is the four day one,” she said, gratefully taking a long drink as Dartfoil held the bottle for her. “The other is only a day and a half.”

What that meant he did not know, so he said nothing.

The candle on the table beside the bed was growing dim, nearly having burnt out. He looked around for another, stouter one. Across the room was a shelf attached to the wall, upon which was a long row of candles of various sizes. He retrieved one and lit it from the light of the first one, then went to blow the first one out.

“No!” The Dark Elf girl sat up suddenly, fear in her wide black eyes. “Never blow a candle out.” Reaching over, she pinched the wick until the flame disappeared.

“Apologies,” he said, feeling sheepish. “I did not know.”

The black eyes held him warily, guarded. “Who art thou?” she said again, her tone that of someone disbelieving what they see.

“I am Dartfoil,” he said again, trying to discern why she did not recognize him.

“You say this,” she said slowly, “yet how can I believe you?”

He swallowed. “Because it is true,” was all he could think to say.

“The one of that name left awhile ago. You cannot be he.”

“I did leave. Now I am back.” Did she not remember the incident in the forest?

She leaned away, eyes ever more wary. “Why?”

“You --” His mind scrambled. “I . . . forgot something.”

“And what was that?”

As a mouse in the sight of a night owl, he let his gaze rove about the room. “My belt,” he said, knowing full well it was in the bag with his clothes, somewhere out where he had dropped it in the forest. “I think I did not pick it up when I retrieved my clothes.”

Now her black eyes widened; she slid back. “Why should you need to retrieve your clothes . . . from here?”

Oh bardles. “Do you not remember?” Wrong thing to say, Dartfoil! “You assisted me when I fell in the Fallowmere. My clothing was soiled, and you gave me these,” he indicated the black shirt and pants he still wore, “until my own were dry.”

She blinked, as if she was stunned he actually thought she would believe him. A dark expression clouded her face. “You are not the one of that name,” she said in a low voice, accusing. “You are not the Light Elf of Laingaladh, champion archer of the Games, to whom I owe the service debt.”

Now it was Dartfoil's turn to blink. Service debt?

“Leave here,” she said, the velvet voice turning to ice. “Leave and do not come back.
Lŷg!”

In the far dusty corners of his student-mind, he barely recalled the word – ancient, handed down from Old Earth elvish. Snake. Had she complete and total amnesia? Could she not remember anything about him, other than his name? No, she remembered the Games, all right. Yet she did not believe he was him.

“I asked you to go,” she said, rising from the bed, coming towards him. One arm raised, pointing towards the cave's entrance. “Miaha consely îmsylone tives!”

A blast, as of a molten furnace, plowed him in the chest. He reeled backwards, for a moment unable to breathe; stumbling, he fell over a small table, knocking the contents to the floor.

“Revereas,” she said, “pred,” she advanced upon him, “hagh clain. . . .”

Another blast, this one knocking him to the floor. He struggled to sit up – if he didn't, he felt sure he would not breathe again – but his arms were weakened beneath him and he fell, face again meeting the floor.

She knelt, towering over him with her billowing cloak that now seemed to have a mind of its own. “Mity,” she whispered, “diffics motin per.”

A roiling began in his middle, starting in his stomach and making its way up his throat. He gasped, grateful to get air, but still he could all but could not breathe; red came into his eyes, the room was growing dark.

“Eralyssa,” he managed to mutter, before the light went out.