were solid, immovable, and appeared to be meticulously placed amongst the dell like a great garden of the gods. However, all of those ornaments of the valley, if one could call them ornaments, were merely arrayed as such to serve as the bridal train to the vale’s one true prize, the waterfalls of Paraketh.
Paraketh was known far and wide as the most beautiful and valuable in the entire world. They were the only falls that were not fed from the heights of the Range of the Unknown. Some even called them, “The Bride of the Unknown,” as if the two were entwined, but never touching, separated by a great gulf of peaks and valleys that were blanketed with thick forests. Unlike all other cascades, its waters were milky white with a tinge of gold and were fed from fathomless springs that bubbled from some unknown well beneath the valley floor. Once those waters had made their way to the top of the natural fount, they would gently cascade over the grandest of all of the conglomerations of Sturmstone that sat atop the south side of the valley. All who gazed upon the tumbling stream were immediately captivated by its beauty. However, its value was even greater than the splendor of its appearance.
Known as, “The Healing Streams of Paraketh,” all wounds would be made whole at the mere sprinkle of the milky gold liquid. In times past, animals of all sorts would gather into the valley to bask in its peaceful atmosphere where no predators dared to tread for there was no greater frustration to a carnivore than a prey that could survive every wound, healed by the very mists that were blown about. Some said that even the Guardiers, unseen creatures of the realm, would spend their winters in the place.
Over time, the sons of men began to visit, which subsequently spread the word far and wide. And, as such is the nature of men, wars were fought… fought to the bitter end of all that was good and pleasant in that heavenly valley.
So, it was more of a sardonic sight that presented itself to the king on the morrow that he arrived, though he could remember a time when it was not so, and what did present itself on that fate filled day following his six day ride was not one of magnificence or grandeur, but rather one of desolation. It was a desolation that was caused by the countless number of battles fought on what had become the most perfect of battlefields. Where once stood the magically beautiful Willowfeld trees, there stood twisted and dead wind-swept tree trunks, half pulled up by their roots. Where, at one time, flaming white flowers blanketed the earth like snow drifts, there then lay bone-dry powdery dust out of which protruded cracked and crumbling Sturmstone pillars that had long ago served their purpose. They then were merely broken old soldiers-at-arms that had sustained a countless number of nicks formed by a countless number of arrow piercing and edgy lashes. And, alas, where once poured the life lending liquid of the Falls of Paraketh, dripped molded and rotted maggot covered moss which emanated a stench of death.
As if the decay were not enough to be overwhelming, what lay beyond the moldy veil was a sight much more ominous. What was then revealed was the sight of a deep and dank cave of unknown proportions and unknown horrors, for out of it seeped sulfuric mists of yellow and gray. One would have thought that the falls had merely been overtaken by some deep volcanic eruption if it were not for the far cries of some unknown and tortured creature, or creatures, which occasionally escaped from the black jaws of the grotto.
It was that cavern, that throat of the deep that our rider fixed his gaze upon from across the deathly expanse.
Fear pimpled the fore-arms of the king. Thoughts of turning back echoed through the caverns of his mind. The contemplations of his heart trembled within his chest and its pounding galloped in and out of normal cadence. Only the will of his determination to reach his objective, an objective that the whole population of the realm teetered upon, caused him to lean in the direction of the gaping mouth that lay on the opposite side of the vale. His contemplation was such that he removed himself from the back of Diokalees and crouched down upon the dust of the valley. There he thought only the thoughts that a soldier-king would think, thoughts that arose from the depths of his deep, deep heart. For hours on end, even unto the waning of the day, he never took his eyes off of his goal.
Alas, was it strategies that he contemplated? Was it tactics that flowed in and out of the mind of the king…? Or was it some hidden and mysterious prize that lay far beyond the blackness of the cave? Perhaps, he was just simply waiting for the perfect timing? Whatever be the reason, it was just long enough for two stragglers to appear high upon a crest of one the walls that helped to create the bowl for the valley to be housed within.
Oliver and Salmon had been tracking the king for three days. They barely had time to drop the deer that the king had mysteriously provided to them at the manor hut in their hamlet before they saddled the only two horses the shire owned. With the speed of the king ahead of them, and not knowing his destination, they trudged forward only stopping to examine the direction of the war-horses’ hoof prints as they left the earth to fly across some stream, or at times, some river. However, after a steely determination to make contact with the stranger that had so affected their lives, they finally found him far below the perch that they had climbed to. Winded and exhausted, they had just enough time to catch their breath when they saw the stranger rise from his crouched position and saddle his horse. What they witnessed after that would only make their stories even more remarkable… remarkable, and difficult to believe.
Diokalees neither shuffled nor swayed as he could clearly distinguish the expanse of the battlefield, for he was a war horse, and was bred and raised for such confrontations. He, like the king that sat upon him, was determinate. Together horse and rider paused only long enough for the sovereign to drop his weapons to the ground beside him, a movement that made the two onlookers high above gasp.
“What soldier enters a battle minus his weapons?” whispered one to the other.
First, the bow with its tried and true handle carved from the very trees that now lay in heaps about the valley. Then the sword which, as the king dropped it, the double edge pierced the ground and held fast. Next, the shield was flung away. It was the only weapon that the king took a second glance at after discarding, for it was his only means of defensive protection. Finally, with the finality of a choice made solid, he removed his battle array. Breast-plate, arm-guards, and flank-girds all fell to the side like a rain of unneeded wear. Where before the king had stripped himself of his royal garbs including the Crown of the People, he then removed his soldiery and became like most of the inhabitants of the realm he ruled... simple and peasant-like.
At last, the rider and his horse entered the valley, and the inner chemicals that surged through their bodies caused their pupils to fixate upon the goal, the deep dark maw of the cave. They started slowly, as they had done when they began their journey six days prior on a crisp winter morn. The ground beneath released its black ash-like dust with every step of the horse. A northerly breeze picked up as they began, and its hint of warmth touched upon the king. For a moment, it encouraged his soul as it lightly blew upon the back of his neck as if to remind him that the bitter cold of winter would, at some point, release its grip. At the same moment though, a southerly heat and anger filled wind beat back the pleasant breeze and its piercing stingers penetrated the corners of the rider’s eyes as if to mock his approach. It was the winds of war and the battle had begun, but the airy fight served only to solidify the severity of that purposeful moment, a moment that hung on a branch that hovered near the edge of eternity.
Together, more one than ever, the horse and rider increased in march and step as they proceeded into the vale and toward the gape of darkness. At first, there was no resistance, but that quickly changed and the once soldier-king turned peasant-rider could see that bows were being lifted from near invisible hiding places amongst the tree trunks with their tangle of roots. With that recognition, he urged Diokalees forward and gripped the reins even tighter. The bows that had been previously raised then produced reflections of sunlight as the polished arrowheads were lifted in the direction of the then swiftly moving target. The king could hear the strum of numerous war instruments as their shafts left their strings, and he waited for the inevitable stingers…, but the fires of laceration never came. It relieved the king, for he was in full anticipation of the pain knowing that the soldiers were well trained and well seasoned warriors… Then the second wave flew.
Three of the strikes sunk into his back, and two into his thighs, one in each leg. With a wince, the king dropped his head and focused upon his