The Lost Legacy of Ylltharien: Chapter 2

The immense crash of the dragon’s lifeless body falling to the ground awakened Isthyren from his revelry of amazement. He scrambled down the tree in a daze and ran over the uneven, rocky ground to the unconscious Althria’s side. The Sword of Ylltharien was gripped tightly in her right hand, dark dragon blood still sizzling on the translucent blade. Isthyren pried her fingers loose and held up the sword; reverence, awe, and doubt mingling together in his confused mind. The existence of the Sword of Ylltharien shook Isthyren’s entire existence, everything he had ever believed in, to the core. For the first time in years, he began to wonder if there really was truth in the ancient stories. But at the same time, the cynical skepticism he had nurtured for so long rebelled against his musings, refusing to let him embrace this newfound belief. He glanced down at Althria, wondering once again if this woman truly was Ylltharien’s heir?

Isthyren did not know, nor did he have time to explore the question, for Althria was in dire need of medical help, help Isthyren could not provide. Blood continued to seep out of the gash in her side, her left arm lay at an unnatural angle, and Isthyren expected that several of her ribs were badly shattered. The only person who could provide the sort of medical care Althria needed was a trained healer, but with the village destroyed the nearest healer was outside the valley.

Isthyren gritted his teeth in frustration as he considered the choice that lay before him. He could venture out of the valley for the first time in sixteen years, taking Althria to find a healer, or he could stay in the forest of Garamin, doing the best he could for Althria and hoping she would survive and recover. He knew that he could not provide Althria with the medical attention she really needed, but why should he care? Every instinct Isthyren had developed while he had lived in the woods urged him to remain in Garamin. But as he held the glistening Sword of Ylltharien and looked down at the woman who might be the ancient hero’s heir, Isthyren felt another urge welling up inside of him, an urge to help Althria and see how Ylltharien’s legacy would unfold.

Isthyren stood for a minute in indecision, grappling with his conflicting emotions. Then he sighed, returned the Sword of Ylltharien to its sheath at Althria’s hip, and walked into the forest. A second later he returned, leading Althria’s horses and shaking his head in half-hearted disgust at his choice. It was a long ride to the nearest village, and he had best get started at once.

Isthyren crafted a makeshift bandage for Althria’s wound, gently lifted her, and placed her atop the white horse. She slumped limply forward over the horse’s neck. Isthyren cringed, but there was nothing more he could do for her. He clumsily mounted the chestnut horse and started into the forest with Althria’s steed following.

Two hours later, Isthyren emerged from the trees onto the narrow road through the valley. He looked wistfully back at the forest, briefly wondering what he was doing. Then, he nudged the horses into a brisk, steady trot, heading for the valley’s lone exit at its eastern end. Isthyren rode for hours down the road with the forest pressing in upon him from both sides before arriving at the pass that led out of the valley. He vividly remembered the day when he had travelled through this pass with his parents, optimistically in search of the better life they would never find. It had been a long time since Isthyren had grieved over his parents’ death, but he did now, wondering how his life would have been different these past 16 years if they had not perished. For the first time he also began to feel something like shame. Would his parents have wanted him to live a bitter, isolated life in the forest for so many years? Isthyren thought not. They had been hated just as he had, but they had refused to stop looking for a better future for themselves and their son. He had done the exact opposite, giving up on the world and turning his back upon it. Althria had said she refused to believe that there was no good left in the world, and his parents’ actions had revealed a similar faith.

Isthyren was awakened from his deep thoughts by the sudden expansion of the land as he rode out of the pass. He had forgotten how uninterrupted the world was beyond the valley, how plains and fields such as these looked. It was twilight now, and the setting sun behind him painted the tall grasses beside the road a vivid golden color. In the distance, the dark silhouette of a village stood out faintly against the horizon. He was almost there.

Isthyren looked back through the pass at the valley of Garamin one last time. The trees were bathed in the calm twilight, giving the whole scene a soft, peaceful look. But Isthyren felt no tenderness for the forest he had spent so much of his life in. Right now, in the midst of the inspiring prairie, he felt that it was time for him to move on.

He spurred his horse onward, peering ahead at the distant town. It would not be long before they arrived. The sun dipped below the cliffs of Garamin behind him and darkness gradually encompassed the world.

It was another two hours before Isthyren reached the village. He had foolishly forgotten to carry a torch with him, and so rode in by the light of the stars that spangled the cloudless sky. Predictably, most of the houses were silent, their owners probably asleep. The only building that still showed signs of life was the tavern at the center of town. Isthyren gritted his teeth in frustration. He did not want to go into the tavern to ask for directions to the healer’s house and have everyone stare in shock at him like he was some sort of disgusting animal. But he needed to find the healer, so into the tavern it was. Somewhat uneasily, he left the unconscious Althria and her horses outside of the shabby building, stuck his dagger in his belt, walked up to the narrow door, and stepped inside.

The interior of the tavern was boisterously noisy as well as warm. Crude wooden tables and stools were scattered throughout the room and a cheerful fire crackled in the large stone fireplace on the right wall. A narrow path between the tables led through the center of the room to the bar, where a large, burly man passed tankards of ale to others. The customers all looked dirty, ignorant, and rowdy. As soon as Isthyren opened the door, the talking, laughing, and table-pounding ceased as everyone looked to see who the newcomer was. Isthyren strode down the narrow aisle while the half-drunk villagers glared angrily at the half-elf in their midst. One of the men near the central aisle stuck out a leg in an attempt to trip Isthyren, but he deftly avoided the trap, shooting a contemptuous glare at the culprit.

“We don’t serve no half-elves here,” the bartender growled as Isthyren arrived at the bar.

“I don’t want to buy anything,” Isthyren interrupted. “I’m looking for the village healer and I thought you might be kind enough to point me to his house.”

“Well, our healer’s pretty skilled half-elf, but I don’t think she’ll be able to change you back into a decent species,” the bartender said with a smug grin as he leaned over the bar towards Isthyren.

The whole tavern roared in laughter, and Isthyren felt like punching the bartender in the nose, but he held his peace. The last thing he needed to do was start a barfight with thirty scrappy drunkards.

“My companion is gravely injured. If you could point me towards the healer’s dwelling, I will leave you men alone,” Isthyren said in the calmest voice he could muster.

“Fine,” the bartender growled, “The healer lives out on the eastern end of town in the white house at the end of the street. You get her to fix up your friend, and then you get out of our village.”

Isthyren nodded his insincere thanks and walked out of the tavern while the men inside continued to glare at him hatefully.

He was relieved to find Althria and the horses unmolested outside. He mounted again, spurring his horse into a trot down the eastward road, with Althria’s horse following. The healer’s house stood exactly where the bartender had described, somewhat aloof from the other dwellings in the town. The building was larger than the others, and it was surrounded by a low wooden fence.

Isthyren dismounted, walked to the house’s front gate, and passed through an herb garden. He pounded loudly on the front door, hoping to quickly rouse the healer so that she could set to work on Althria. Isthyren had to knock twice before the door opened a crack and an old woman stuck her head out.

“What do you want?” she snapped, “It’s the middle of the night.”

“My companion is injured,” Isthyren said tiredly, “I was informed that you were the village healer and could help me."

The old woman glared at him for several seconds before replying, clearly unhappy at being awakened at such an hour. “Fine. Bring your friend inside and I’ll see what I can do.”

Isthyren sighed in relief as he lifted Althria off her white horse. The healer held the door open as he carried the dragon slayer inside. The room he entered was obviously where the healer practiced her trade. A wooden table sat in the middle of the room and rough shelves packed with jars of odd-looking concoctions lined the walls. Isthyren laid Althria on the table before wearily dropping to a bench in the corner.

“This is a nasty gash here,” the healer said as she contemptuously removed Isthyren’s sloppy bandage and peered suspiciously at Althria’s sheathed sword, “This woman has broken some ribs and her arm, too.” Then she glared at Isthyren angrily, “What happened here? Who are you? Why does this woman have a sword? Didn’t you know enough to put a splint on this broken arm before coming here?”

“I live in the valley of Garamin, and this woman is a Novice in the Dragon Slayer’s Guild or something like that,” Isthyren said, “She was supposed to kill one of the dragons in the valley and got injured in the process. I have ridden for ten hours just to bring her here, and no, I don’t know anything about medical care.”

The healer smiled now, “Oh, so you’re that half-elf who lives over in the forest there? Some of the villagers who escaped the dragons told me about you. It’s a miracle you didn’t get eaten,” she said with a cackle. “A few days ago, there was talk of some fancy dragon slayer passing through town on the way to Garamin. This must be her.”

Isthyren nodded, but the healer was not even looking at him anymore. She was rummaging around in the jars on her shelves, mumbling to herself as she searched for the proper medicine. Isthyren leaned back against the wall exhaustedly. He knew he should tend to the horses and retrieve his bow before someone stole it, but for the time being he was too tired to do anything. The clinking of the jars and the soft murmurings of the healer as she bustled about the room caring for Althria were oddly relaxing, and soon Isthyren was asleep.

He was not even surprised when he began to dream again. This time, he lay in the middle of a vast desert of gray sand with the Mountains of Elsedere looming skyward on his right. The bodies of elves and dragons were strewn across the ground nearby. Isthyren tried to stand only to weakly collapse to the ground again, the blood pounding in his head. He looked down at his chest, surprised to see an unfamiliar green shirt, embroidered with silver thread and soaked with his own blood. About a hundred feet away stood Althria, her hair whipped about her head by the harsh desert wind. She held the Sword of Ylltharien in a tight, two-handed grip. Isthyren looked to the left and saw an unbelievably immense dragon striding toward her. The dragon looked almost five times larger than the purple one Althria had killed, and it was colored a dark obsidian black. The dragon roared at Althria as it advanced, and she shouted back defiantly, but her words were lost in the wind. Then the dragon charged.

“ISTHYREN!”

Isthyren awoke in a sweat as he heard Althria call his name. She stood over him, her left arm in a sling and her torso bandaged. There was fire in her eyes, and her right hand was on her sword’s hilt. The healer bustled around her, mumbling some half-hearted warning about exerting herself too much before she was well, but to no avail.

“What were you THINKING to shoot that dragon?” Althria roared furiously, “Now you have gone and ruined EVERYTHING! I ought to stab you right NOW!”

“I’m sorry, I was only trying to save your life.” Isthyren shot back in a sarcastic burst of anger before he could think, “But my mistake, I’ll be sure to just let you die next time!”

“There won’t BE a next time!” Althria yelled, “A Novice gets only one chance to slay a dragon and become a Warrior! Help from an outside source is not permitted by the ancient Code of Dragon Slayers. YOU ruined my one chance by interfering in the fight!”

“You would have died if I hadn’t helped,” Isthyren protested indignantly, “And besides, you never told me about that rule!”

“I had everything under control,” Althria said haughtily, “You ruined my entire life, and I bet you don’t even care.”

Althria was weeping now, tottering unsteadily in front of him. Isthyren felt a stab of sympathy despite her unkind words. He knew how she felt. He had felt the same way when his parents were killed, leaving him all alone in the middle of the forest of Garamin with only a future of loneliness and rejection to look forward to. Isthyren began to stutter an apology, but Althria had already slumped backwards, unconscious again, into the healer’s arms.

The healer looked pityingly at him. “Help me carry this woman upstairs,” she said, “Then you may as well go back to sleep. Dawn is still a few hours away.”

Isthyren nodded numbly, picked up Althria, and followed the healer to a bedroom upstairs where he deposited the unconscious dragon slayer. Isthyren accepted the healer’s kind invitation to stay in another empty bedroom in the house, even though he knew he would get no sleep that night.

Isthyren felt awkward in the room’s soft bed after having slept on the ground for so long. But even if he hadn’t been uncomfortable, his thoughts would have kept him awake. For the first time in years, he had actually begun to find a new purpose in his life, a new cause to believe in. He had not yet completely accepted that Althria was Ylltharien’s heir, but the unquenchable flicker of hope for a better future that had arisen in him at the prospect had temporarily drowned out the hatred and cynicism that had so long dominated his existence. Now, Althria’s future as a great dragon slayer was ruined, and it was partially his fault. He knew that if he had not distracted the dragon Althria would have died, but he nonetheless felt guilty for the entire situation.

Isthyren almost wished that he had never met Althria, that she had gone to slay a dragon in a different valley or not requested his help. Then none of this would have happened. He would be back in the valley right now, living his empty yet peaceful life. But even as Isthyren regretted the unsolvable predicament he now found himself in, he simultaneously felt a contempt for his old life, the meaninglessness of it all. Since his parents died, Isthyren had always hated his existence, but in the past, his contempt had been directed towards the people who had refused to accept him into their society. Now, he began to feel a disdain for the manner of living itself, the endless depressing cynicism and his inability (or refusal) to strive for anything better.

Althria’s arrival had offered him a temporary respite from this life, a chance to talk to another person who did not dismiss him. He had scoffed at this opportunity, but deep down, Isthyren had not despised the interruption to his routine as much as he had pretended. The mere possibility that Althria might be Ylltharien’s heir had given Isthyren a greater sense of purpose than he had ever felt before. Then, the discovery that she wielded the ancient hero’s sword had thrown Isthyren’s entire philosophy of hateful skepticism into disarray, providing him with new hope for the future.

Now, that hope was shattered. Althria could never become a great dragon slayer as she dreamed, even if she really was Ylltharien’s heir. She would eventually heal, and then face banishment from the Guild of Dragon Slayers. And what of himself? Isthyren saw no other alternative than to return to the forest of Garamin, once again fleeing the world that hated him.

For nearly an hour, Isthyren tossed and turned, tortured by his depressing thoughts. Finally, he gave up his vain attempt to sleep and rose from the bed. He might as well start on his journey back to Garamin. Isthyren had left his bow on the saddle of Althria’s horse, so he walked quietly down the stairs and out the door to retrieve it. The horses were not where he had left them in front of the building, and for a frantic minute Isthyren was afraid someone had stolen them and his bow. Then he saw them, several hundred feet out into the prairie to the east of the healer’s house, silhouetted against the slowly rising sun. Isthyren’s heart sank as he saw that Althria was sitting astride one of the horses. He had hoped to sneak away without confronting her again. For a moment, he almost left without his bow, arguing to himself that he could make another when he returned to the valley. But making a bow took a considerable amount of time and energy. Isthyren sighed and set out through the wavy grasses of the prairie toward Althria.

Althria sat like a statue atop her white horse, silently watching the rising sun. The chestnut horse was with her, and Isthyren’s bow lay across its saddle just as he had left it. Isthyren approached the horses and quietly took his bow, doing his best to avoid disturbing Althria and half hoping that she would not notice him at all.

“Hello Isthyren,” she said softly, as he turned back towards the village, “Where are you going?” Her face, barely lit by the half-risen sun, was numb and sad, but not angry as Isthyren had expected and feared.

“I was just getting my bow,” he said awkwardly, “I’m going back to the valley now. I’m sorry I ruined your chance at becoming a great dragon slayer.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Althria replied, “It was childish of me to yell at you as I did when all you did was help me. I am sorry and I hope that you will forgive me.”

Isthyren nodded, not quite sure what to say. “What will you do now?” he asked her after several seconds of silence.

“I must return to the Citadel and report my failure to the High Warrior of the Guild of Dragon Slayers. Then I will return to the forests of the elven kingdom of Farathir where I was born and raised.”

“Well… good luck,” Isthyren said lamely, as he turned to leave, but then he hesitated. “Althria… You wield the Sword of Ylltharien. Are you the heir of Ylltharien?” he asked impulsively.

She smiled sadly. “I’m surprised to hear you even ask that question,” she said, “You seemed to despise the ancient stories so deeply… But yes, I am a descendant of Ylltharien, although whether or not I am the one spoken of in the prophecy, I do not know.”

“Why was the sword disguised?” Isthyren asked.

“As you probably know, the king of Orsephane was once of the line of Ylltharien,” Althria said. “That is no longer the case, because about a hundred years ago nearly all of Ylltharien’s descendants were killed by a group of power-hungry royal advisors who sought the throne. Only one girl escaped to Farathir, my great, great grandmother. Since then, it has been unsafe for anyone to openly wield the sword. Any heir of Ylltharien is a threat to the king.”

As a child, Isthyren had heard of the murder of the line of Ylltharien. He had assumed however, as many had, that no one had escaped the massacre. There had always been those who insisted that not all of Ylltharien’s descendants were dead, desperately clinging to the ancient prophecy even when there appeared to be no evidence that it would ever be fulfilled. Isthyren had always regarded this latter group as optimistic fools. Now, it appeared that these optimists had been right.

“I’m sorry,” Isthyren said, “It’s time I begin on my journey back to the valley. I wish you good fortune in your future.”

He cringed as he spoke this parting farewell. Althria had spoken the exact same words to him before she set out to slay the dragon, and Isthyren could tell that she had meant them, though he could not imagine then or now what fortune could possibly come to a half-elf. Now, he could not imagine what good fortune Althria could find either. Her dream to become a great dragon slayer was ruined, and he felt somehow responsible. There seemed to be nothing left for her but to return in defeat to Farathir to live a quiet, unremarkable life; much like his own.

“Isthyren,” Althria said as he began to walk away, “Why are you returning to the valley of Garamin? There is no future for you there. You have seen that I am Ylltharien’s heir… or at least one of his descendants. If you really believe this, then you know there is still hope for the world, hope that is worth living for, fighting for. Don’t hide from this hope in that empty, horizonless forest.”

“What I do with my life is my affair alone,” Isthyren snapped, “There is no future for me beyond the valley.”

Isthyren began to walk away from Althria and the rising sun, towards the valley of Garamin, his gait brisk and decisive. In his heart, he knew Althria was right. Returning to Garamin would be running away from the new reality that now confronted him. Any future for himself lay not in the forests but in his new hope for the truth of the ancient stories, the hope Althria had shown him.

Isthyren slowed, and finally stopped entirely a hundred feet from Althria. He tried to resist the urge to look back, tried to continue numbly walking towards the valley. Yet something stopped him.

“This is folly, ungrounded foolish hope,” he whispered angrily to himself, “You have seen what the world thinks of you. Did you learn nothing from the murder of your parents? The forest is the only place for you.”

Deep down, Isthyren knew all his harsh protests were in vain. He sighed and looked back at Althria. She continued to stare into the rising sun, unmoving. Isthyren shook his head and began to walk slowly toward her.

He did not know if the ancient stories were true or if she was Ylltharien’s heir or if there was any hope for the world at all. Quite frankly, he still expected that his hope was groundless, that his former cynicism was still warranted. But as he walked towards Althria, silhouetted against the bright, now-risen sun, he was more than willing to be proven wrong.