The Conquest of Mytheyr

The day was half over, and they were already out of the desert and had made it through the pass and into the forests. Morgan led Caspian, walking at the edge of the middle of the pack. Vath was a good ways behind, near the back, but Bas did not require being led, he just followed Vath faithfully. Morgan walked sluggishly, her head down. Her nightmares were bad, but a night with no sleep had been a stupid decision. She needed what ever she could get, and she mentally kicked herself.

“Lady Morgan?” Teren said behind her. “What’s wrong?”

“Well, you just came out and asked.” Morgan said. “Not ‘is there something wrong’? Is it really that obvious?”

“To anyone with open senses, yes.” Teren told her, “You are quite obviously frayed. I suspect Vath Burntbush’s education is lacking, which would be why he hasn’t noticed. Why bring him? No, that doesn’t matter, are you alright?”

“It’s… just the Black magic from the thralls.” Morgan lied, “Silver magic makes you more open to its effects, so I need longer then you guys to heal.” Teren looked unconvinced. Morgan was always a terrible liar. But he did not question her further.

“Is it true you can split an arrow?” he asked instead. Morgan laughed.

“Oh, I can do better than that.” The silver bracelet she wore became liquid, forming into a bow and a single arrow in her right hand. “Who here has a bow?” she said, raising her voice so everyone in the group could hear.

“I do.” a young woman spoke up first. Morgan moved to the side, away from everyone else so that they were out of the way.

“I would like you to shoot me.” Morgan told her.

“…Are you sure?” the woman said doubtfully. Morgan nodded confidently. The girl pulled an arrow from her hip quiver, and she drew and released. Just as the arrow left the bow, Morgan transferred her silver bow to her left hand, nocked the arrow, drew and shot, all in a blur. There was an ugly crunch, and the two arrows fell to the ground, Morgan’s arrow, which Teren noticed the shaft was made of a strange gray wood, was halfway through the shaft of the girl’s arrow, splitting it lengthwise. Morgan’s arrow had even cleaved the steel head of her arrow.

The girl chortled, saluting Morgan.

“I… how is that even possible?” she asked, still laughing good-naturedly.

“The head of my arrow is made of Moonlit Silver,” Morgan said, picking up the mutilated arrow and freeing hers from it, “and so it’s harder than your steel. The rest is just good aim.” She could have made that shot even standing at the edge of death. Centuries of practice guaranteed that.

“When we get home, I’m going to frame this.” the girl announced, turning away to brag to her brothers, “And there’ll be a plaque saying ‘this arrow was split by the Morgan of Irideth.”

Vath looked on in awe. He had always wanted to shoot like that. His father never got the chance to teach him archery. He wondered if Morgan would, if he asked her. He saw her grab Caspian’s reins and fall back in line, and he picked up his pace to catch up with her. He paused behind her, wondering what he should say. Where’d you learn to shoot like that sounded like a stupid question. She was a Dragonkin; they all learned and trained together. At least, that’s what he heard.

Morgan had a new spring in her step. In the face of something that seemed impossible, the reminder of what she could do did wonders for her morale, and temporarily chased her tiredness away.

“Can all Dragonkin shoot like that?” Vath asked, catching up to her and matching her pace.

“Not necessarily.” Morgan shrugged. “Archery isn’t everyone’s thing. Like, I can’t use a lance, let alone two, but some Dragonkin can, and I could learn if I took the time.”

“What’s a lance?” Vath asked.

“It’s, uh… like a spear, but it’s meant to be used by a mounted warrior. Some are really good with it off the horse, though. They kinda created their own fighting style, and it’s very effective.”

“So how long does it take to learn how to split an arrow like that?” Vath said, driving closer to his point. Morgan smiled, seeing what he was up to.

“Thirty years of hard practice.”

She stopped suddenly, and Vath spun on his heel to keep from passing her. Morgan’s gaze was directed into the tree branches, her eyes picking out shadowy shapes.

“Hail! We are friends.” she called up. “We have come from the desert, and we go to fight the usurper.”

Everyone looked to where she was shouting, and saw nothing, until a single Dark Elf leapt out of the foliage, unfurling a large cloth behind him and floating down. He landed gracefully and stood tall in front of Morgan. He was quite a formidable figure, as he was definitely taller than anyone there and his dark green clothes and mask made only his bright black eyes visible.

“From the desert?” he asked, his voice deep and challenging, “I will readily believe your company is, but you do not seem to be a desert-dwelling elf.”

Morgan met his eyes boldly, her back straight and head held high.

“No, my kind are unused to the desert.” she said, “But I have come with these people from there.”

“And where are your kind used to, then?” the Dark Elf demanded.

“The forests and hills of Irideth.” she said. She reached for the wrapping around her left wrist, undoing the top and allowing it to unravel. She held up her arm, showing him the legendary scar all Dragonkin bore. The Dark Elf took a step back, the fierce light in his eyes changing into one of disbelief.

“You… you said you mean to fight the pretender?” Morgan nodded solemnly in response.

The Dark Elf looked about the company, counting them with his eyes. He turned to Morgan, still seemingly in awe.

“You should come with me. I have no doubt our chief would like to add to your numbers.”