The horse whinnied and thrashed under several elves' hands. Aster tried to look away as the armored warriors pinned the beast to the ground but his eyes could not break from their glintless black armor.

Thrashing its hooves furiously, the horse screamed and kicked as it lie on its side. To no avail. As three of its hooves jolted, a forth bobbed unnaturally, hanging loose from the socket.

Narenhior whistled lightly. One of the elves holding the horse down drew a curved, silver dagger and lightly dragged it across the animal's throat. Lifeblood poured onto the ground and the thrashing stilled.

"We've lost a second horse," Taril mused. "The ground is too uneven here, too many roots."

Narenhior nodded solemnly. It occurred to Aster that the elf rarely spoke when a gesture would do. When he voice his thoughts, however, they were potent enough.

"You forget our own roots." The elf's crystal gaze lowered to the webwork of wood that covered the shaded forest floor, tracing their twisting origins into the stout trunks that filled the wood. His eyes lingered on the faint outlines of leaves above. "It has been too long."

From his horse, the elf blinked. "Perhaps. Regardless, we cannot continue this way."

"Then turn back," Narenhior retorted. He stepped toward his horse and drew a flat-bladed silver dagger from the leather. Turning back to the lifeless horse, it began attending to it.

The movement was simple enough, but Aster nearly recoiled at the darkness permeating from the figure. The dark did not come from his armor, Aster had realized. The elves carried a mystery of their own for certain, but it was something else that had sewn their hearts with discord. The shoulders that had squarely sat and feasted in Arcath were not the same bowed, glowering faces that rode here.

Thinking back to the night before embarking, Aster tried to remember the tune the elves had sung on the plain outside the city. The tune eluded him.

He had grown accustoming to riding behind Sarah in the party. She spoke more than her companions, but that was not to say much.

She never rode far from Narenhior and Taril, however. For this Aster was grateful. Occasionally riders would come to the prince to report the whereabouts of the Watch or the curvatures of the river they followed. He seen none of his folk since splitting with them days before.

Midth's Shield had stilled. Its formerly raging waters had ceased to roar, instead settling into a clear glass that filled the riverbed.

Noise in general was rare. The world beneath Arcath's treetops was a strange level of lower hell, but not the hell he had imagined. Wild beasts had been rare and monsters nearly nonexistent, though there were always rumors. Instead, it was the horror of a world painted in the half-light of black and white and stilled in the horrid silence of undisturbed nature.

In the morning they rose. The trees had grown so dense that dawn and dusk were meaningless. Somehow the elves seemed to know when to call rest and when to ride. The morning started with water from the river and a meal of whatever could be found.

A twinge of guilt accompanied the happy thought that next meal might be horse meat.

After a meal, they rode for what he presumed to be the entire afternoon, not stopping until another meal before rest was called. The elves had ceased to camp, instead sleeping in shifts bundled between the leaves and trees.

That night they indulged the rare comfort of fire. Using his ax, he cleaved several dead branches which were lit unto a sudden flame. The fire's crackling felt heretical in the stillness of the forest but its warmth was welcome.

More welcome even were the chunks of flesh given from the horse. Narenhior personally slit the meat from bone, handing it to his warriors murmuring words of honor. Aster realized as some elves glared on wistfully that this was an act of reward rather than kindness.

Sarah and he were gifted chunks of their own which were soon sizzling over the fire. As the meat began to spit and the skin blacken in the flames, Narenhior paced back from the bones of the horse. Aster unwittingly caught a glimpse of the scalped skeleton and flinched.

Taril caught the gestured and scoffed as he chewed his portion of flesh. Aster could see a comment rising to his lips but was mercifully interrupted.

"Festfir," an elf declared, approaching the small fire where they sat. "We've come to a bridge in the river."

Narenhior did not look up from his meal.

"A bridge," Taril repeated, eyes still affixed on the contorting flames.

"A bridge," the warrior affirmed. "And a man."

A ring of warriors already stood stoically in a semi-circle, facing the smooth glassy surface of the river. Each carried a torch, collectively casting a searing white glare over the otherwise tranquil scene.

Narenhior shoved his way through the ring, Taril, Sarah, and Aster close behind.

Remnants of a bridge drooped precariously over the silent water. Large stones inset on either bank leered over Midth's Shield with others stacked over them to form a walkway. Several stones were noticeably missing in the bridge, and those that remained were marked with slashes, cracks, and damp clumps of moss. In the center of the bridge more stones were missing than remaining, forming a hazardously narrow causeway to the opposite bank.

On said opposite bank, a hunched, gnarled form peered through the night. The elves' lights only reached roughly to the bridge's midpoint, leaving the man shrouded. In one small, shaking hand, a cast-iron lantern swayed as the man peered. Its thin light lit up his bearded face and dim eyes but scarce else.

"Eh... Who's there?"

His voice was thin and crackling like the aged parchments Canth used to carry. Its breathy tone barely made it across the bridge but Narenhior evidently had no difficulty hearing.

The silver-haired prince glowered. "Naught but travelers. Who might you be friend?"

"Hm, travelers? Is that indeed?" A spidery hand stroked the white tufts of hair that hung from the old man's chin. "And is that night or plate that covers your shoulders?"

"May as well be either," the prince answered curtly. "Answer me, if you will. Who are you?"

"Right, before we be getting to that, it might be that I want to see a bit more of you."

The prince clenched his teeth. He bowed his head and spread his arms. "See what you will."

The man's spidery hand tapped his temple and he laughed. The sound made Aster flinch again like a page torn from a book. "Kind of you to offer, but unfortunately nature does not offer me such a pleasure. Mine eyes have grown angry with age. Might one of you come closer?"

Narenhior's head snapped up. "If you will have one of us, then all."

The small cast iron torch bobbed as the old man shook his head. "Nay, nay, I think not. One please, or naught."

Aster watched as the prince's lips pursed tightly. Turning to Taril, the two whispered in impossibly silent voices.

Taril leaned to look behind his prince to Aster.

"You will go boy."

Abruptly Aster felt like the ground had turned to sand, dumping him in the river. His palms soaked and his voice was choked.

"I - I... No." He finally stuttered.

"Yes," Narenhior answered. The prince met his gaze like icicles touching his eyes. He cowered, looking at his muddied boots.

"He is but an old fool," he heard Sarah voice. "Why should we not send a warrior to approach him?"

"Because we know not who waits with him," Taril retorted. "It could be an ambush or other sinister trick." Taril drew a long sword, tapping the boy's shoulder with its tip. "Come now. You said courage was a boon, yes? So let us put it to the test."

The words lingered of encouragement. When Aster rose to meet his face, however, the eyes reeked of mockery.

There is no choice here, he realized. There is no turning away.

Sarah nodded stoically.

He took a shaky breath and walked toward the bridge. Stepping onto the stone, he trembled as Narenhior's voice called from behind him. He dared not look back.

"We send one to you."

The elderly man pouted his lips and nodded thoughtfully. "Right then," waiving Aster toward him.

Taking another shaky step, Aster felt his sole slip on the slimy stone. He stuck out his hand to balance himself, teetering suddenly in the opposite direction. The river seemed so much closer suddenly and the bridge so much more unsteady. The gaps in the rocks felt more like chasms and the rocks themselves more like river pebbles. Branches loomed over the stony walkway and roots had he previously not seen wound around the uneasy pillars.

Picking his way across the causeway, Aster did his best not to look forward or backward. His eyes fixed on the uneven path beneath him and occasionally dipped to stare at the motionless water on either side.

When the rock abruptly turned to dirt, he looked up and started. The old man's face met his, close enough for him to taste the must on the elder's breath.

Holding his lantern closer still, the old man surveyed him closely.

"What be your name?"

"Aster of -"

"Mhm, and your craft?"

"I - um." He hesitated. Warrior perhaps? He had never been much of anything else, except a bar hand of Ton's. "A fighter," he finally said.

"HA," the old man barked. "I've seen less spindly spears. And your father? His name?"

"None that you would know, I'm sure," Aster stammered.

The old man's eyes narrowed. "Not worn with pride then, eh? And yet you learned from a mentor of some kind no doubt. A mother or uncle perhaps?"

Guilt tugged at Aster's stomach. Pheor. He had left the city to find him and yet had already lost thought of him. It was as though the days of empty travel had stripped his mind bare. Yet now, as the thought was introduced again, the memory of his uncle was like an iron on a bare nerve.

He cringed. "Pheor. My uncle."

The man frowned thoughtfully. "Fine name. And does he number among them?" The old man wagged his torch again to the elves who still stood stoically across the bridge.

"No. He... Well I think he lies somewhere here."

The old man raised a bushy eyebrow. "Is that right? It would not be the first time I suppose."

"No," Aster echoed, "I supposed not."

"Come now boy," the old man said, "we can be truthful with one another. I may be near blind but I do not need my eyes to see you are a different breed than those folk. Why have they sent you to my mercy? Are you their captive?"

Opening his mouth to assure he was no captive, Aster stopped. Am I? I was brought to be an expendable fighter and was forsaken as even that by the Watch. And now I am the elves' errand boy. I can't leave. It just happens that there has been nowhere to leave to yet. He imagined Taril's heavy boot on his chest, slamming him to the ground at first suspicion.

While he contemplated, the elderly man nodded, pursing his lips. "Aye, thought so much. Then you may be able to give me a truer answer than any of them. Is it safe to let them pass?"

"I have known them only a short time -" Aster stopped. "Rather, I have traveled with them for only a short time. To say I know them is too much. But... I think it may be safer to let them pass then to refuse them."

The old man smiled broadly and Aster recoiled. Despite his age, the man had all his teeth. More than that, each was tapered just so until they resembled the daggers of canines. The rows of teeth vaguely resembled the biting edges of a saw, contrary to the otherwise kind smile on his face.

"There is no need for fear on this side of the bridge, lad. We are many. And it is our way to keep the fear over there," he gestured with his lantern toward the semi-circle of elves on the opposite bank.

Uncomfortable silence filled the narrow space between their two faces.

"Um, should I beckon them over?" Aster finally asked.

"If you so wish. I will stop none of you."

Unsure of an alternative, Aster scampered back across the stone bridge, nearly slipping several times along the way.

Narenhior's gaze was inquiring enough.

"He says you are welcomed to cross if you so wish."

"And?" Taril pushed. "What did you learn of him?"

"Nothing..." Aster questioned.

CRACK.

Reeling, he felt the sting of an armored hand snap across his cheek. Holding the swelling welt, he glared at Narenhior whose hand was still posed after the strike.

"Cease your incompetence. There will be worse next time."

"Prey," Aster swore, spitting blood in the dirt. Taril and Narenhior already were calling orders, organizing ranks to cross the fragile causeway. Sarah waited only long enough to flare her eyes at him in warning before marching back into the caravan.

On the other bank, the old man's torch had begun to waver and dim as the hunched form shuffled away from the river.

"He's leaving," Aster shouted. His frustration made his voice shake but evidently someone heard.

A horse darted past him. Its hooves were suddenly clattering across the uneven stones of the crumbling bridge. Another was close behind and soon the entire company was riding, rushing to catch the fading light of the man's lantern.

A hand grabbed the back of Aster's jacket and he felt it yank him into the air. His legs landed awkwardly in a saddle but he quickly recognized Sarah in front of him.

"How are we -"

"Quiet," she interrupted.

Biting his tongue, he nursed the sting in his cheek. I've had about enough.