The platoon of wood elves, bows at their sides, methodically picked their way over rocky hills of pine and maple on routine patrol, several miles southwest of the Luminarium. Their common uniform and disciplined movement suggested a purpose far beyond any local hunting party. When the Beacon’s flare broke skyward above the tree line, the Verdant Blades instantly stilled.

  “What do you think? Do we head North?”

  “Not yet.” Segwyn paused, his eyes scanning the horizon for additional signals. “Our duty is to Eredmire. The border is well short of the abbey.” The field commander pointed to his left, “Let’s hit the top of that ridge, get eyes in both directions, and see if this is something bigger.”

  The Verdant Blades were the provincial militia of Eredmire, a prestigious community of elvish wineries in the foothills of the Glimmerstones. Renowned by the wealthy across the continent, the wines of Eredmire were a national treasure. Their terraced vineyards dominated over thirty miles of the landscape between Chagrothlond and the Luminarium, providing the only hint of civilization between the rugged peaks and the blanket of forests below. The Verdant Blades ensured the community’s isolation was not a vulnerability.

  Segwyn whistled, circling his finger over his head, towards the high ground to the north.

  As quietly as smoke drifting through the forest, the Blades ghosted toward the nearby ridge. The elves settled along the weathered rocky crest, watched, and waited. An hour passed, the cool breeze bringing the scent of wildflowers up from the lower plains, while the shadows of the Glimmerstones overtook their position, driving the remaining daylight farther west. No additional flares broke the horizon.

  A loud crash in the underbrush of the valley’s east end broke the afternoon silence. Something massive thrashed its way through the nearby cedar swamp toward their position, blissfully unconcerned. The premature creak of bowstrings whispered along the ridgeline.

  “Easy!” Segwyn called. “Let off until we know what it is.”

  The archers released the tension from their bows as the moment stretched. The snapping of branches drew closer, joined by the dull thud of heavy footfalls.

  “Giant!” Segwyn hissed under his breath.

  The ranger whistled a series of chirps to get everyone’s attention. When he had their eyes, he pointed at four archers, sweeping his arm to the right and tapping two fingers, motioning them to the next ridge.

  Without a word, the four elves scampered fifty yards down the hillside to the open valley floor before picking their way through the raspberry brambles and up the adjacent slope.

  Hill giants were a regular threat in the area around Eredmire. Though extremely stupid, their sheer power and size demanded respect. Swinging clubs as thick as an elf’s torso, a single blow had the potential to be devastating.

  Small birds and squirrels burst from the gnarled cedar at the end of the valley, fleeing the growing ruckus. The stench of filth and carrion wafted toward their position.

  With an echoing crack, a large pine tree toppled into the valley, followed by an obese, humanoid creature, fifteen feet tall at the shoulder. Draped in only a loincloth of crudely stitched deer hides, the giant, happy to be free of the dense underbrush, let out a triumphant roar as it surveyed the landscape.

  Segwyn gambled it would avoid the high ground, keeping to the valley floor. He would let it come until it reached the crossfire between the two ridges, where they would make their attack. Afraid of nothing, hill giants were both predictable and oblivious to their surroundings. The risk was always in the numbers. Thankfully, this one was alone.

  Swinging a seven-foot, well-worn tree trunk in front of itself to clear the path, the giant lumbered down the valley toward their ambush, just as he had hoped. The growing reek of stale sweat was stronger, and he could hear its labored, ragged breathing. As it approached, the very earth below his feet vibrated with each heavy step.

  Segwyn raised an open hand above his head, and the reassuring whisper of stretching sinew replied from both ridges.

  The giant’s long strides brought it quickly into position between the two groups. When the creature paused, sniffing the air with a grunt, the ranger lowered his hand decisively.

  The twang of bowstrings filled the valley. Eight of the first nine shots found their mark. It bellowed in pain, scanning frantically for an opponent. In rapid succession, another volley found their mark, wood shafts bristling across the creature’s torso and neck.

  “Stay high,” Segwyn called out. “Keep away from that club!”

  The giant’s head snapped to the sound of his voice. Target in sight, the brute immediately charged the ridge. It closed the distance in three massive steps, earth and dislodged stones rumbling to the valley floor in its wake. Realizing his mistake, the ranger tossed his bow and drew two short swords, ducking just in time to avoid the first swipe of its timber club.

  Vision consumed by the creature’s snaggle-toothed maw, his pulse quickened, seeing the raw hatred in its eyes. The giant raised its lumber for a punishing overhead strike. His timing needed to be perfect. Just as the brute started the downward arc, Segwyn rolled to his right. An unseen limb protruding from the leaf litter caught him square in the chest, driving the air from his lungs with a low grunt, just as the makeshift club hit the ground with a massive thud, inches to his left.

  Immediately, another flight of arrows buried itself in the giant’s back and chest. With his foe momentarily distracted, Segwyn made his move.

  Clambering onto the momentarily grounded club, he launched himself vertically, his chest hammered, each breath a painful rasp. The leap brought him just above its belly button. Good enough!

  At the apex of his jump, the ranger buried the short sword to the hilt into the giant’s distended belly. As gravity took over, he kept his grip tight, dragging the blade’s edge downward through his opponent’s abdomen.

  He hit the ground between the giant’s feet, gasping for breath. Like a felled tree, the creature went still before slowly tipping backward, crashing to the ground. Entrails fluttering in pursuit, the giant’s corpse slid down the hillside, coming to rest on the valley floor.

  Segwyn hugged his knees, gasping for air as the Blades converged on his position.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just winded.” He drew three deep breaths before continuing. “That was my own fault. I shouldn’t have given away my position by shouting.” Soft chuckles rose from the team around him.

  “Well, if you live, you learn!” chided Darmor, a battle-hardened veteran of the group. “Do you think he triggered the flare?”

  The ranger shook his head. “No chance he covered that distance so quickly. Let me see what I can sense.”

  Segwyn focused his mind on his surroundings and released the spell, probing for the presence of inherent evil in the area. Despite a detection radius of several miles, nothing popped.

  “Magic isn’t picking up anything,” he announced.

  While there were some creatures he couldn’t sense, the spell covered most major threats: dragons, demons, the undead, elementals, fey, devils, celestials, and aberrations. The monks at the beacons relied solely on their vision. A single flare could have been anything. Maybe it went north, or they took care of it themselves. He addressed the group.

  “Only one ribbon doesn’t mean it isn’t something nasty. I would say we’re fifteen miles from the border closest to the monastery. Let’s camp for the night and press north at first light. Within a couple of miles of the Shand, I should be able to detect anything coming from that direction. Let’s move two ridges over, to get away from that thing’s stench.”

  The borders of Eredmire were somewhat complicated. Granted the rare recognition of extra-territoriality due to its long history of elvish vinification, Eredmire was an elvish province of Glahaneth, surrounded by the Kingdom of Shan. In hindsight, this created several challenges to governance and security despite the longstanding positive relations between elves and men. One benefit, however, was the military independence of the Verdant Blades.

  More than comfortable in their wooded surroundings, the squad quickly set up their tents in the fading daylight. After a quick meal, overnight watch duties were assigned. Segwyn took the first shift, allowing him to magically probe the area once more before settling down to meditate and recharge. Still nothing.

  His focus returned to the camp, where the ranger noticed his watch partner, a young elf named Neril, had joined him by the fire.

  “All quiet?” he asked.

  “Yep, nothing moving out there. What do you think it was…that made them trigger the beacon?” The younger man’s index finger unconsciously thrummed the string of his bow, lying on the ground between them.

  Segwyn shrugged, raising his eyebrows. “Hard to say. It could have been anything.”

  The corners of Neril’s mouth twitched as he shifted his weight.

  “You nervous?”

  “A bit,” the recruit admitted, staring into the embers. “I haven’t seen any combat yet, since joining the Blades.” The ranger sized up the younger man for several seconds, letting his words hang in the quiet night air.

  “Why are you here, Neril?”

  The recruit looked up, stammering slightly.

  “To...to protect Eredmire,” he replied, his gaze finding the eyes of his squad leader.

  “No, that’s different.” Segwyn wagged an outstretched finger. “That’s our job—our duty. What I mean is, why did you decide to join the Blades?”

  The young elf paused, pursing his lips.

  “I dunno, never really thought about it.” He gazed off to his right, reflecting for a moment. “I’ve always been good with the bow, and it seemed like decent pay for pretty easy work, I suppose.”

  “The pay is good because the work is easy, until it isn’t. I’ll bet that’s what has you a little twitchy right now.”

  Neril opened his mouth as if to object before Segwyn raised his hand, slightly lowering his head to forestall the coming rebuttal. “When things get hairy out here, the rest of the squad is all that stands between any one of us and an unplanned journey to Avandor. Like it or not, deep down, we all know it.”

  Neril bowed his head as the ranger continued.

  “When the stakes are highest, trust is essential. What I’m sure you’re asking yourself right now is: can you truly trust these elves with your life? Or was joining the Blades a big mistake?”

  The ranger paused as the recruit looked into the fire’s glowing embers, nodding almost imperceptibly.

  “Now, I can’t answer that for you. However, I would argue that at this moment, right here, right now, you have no choice, unless you intend to abandon your duty to your community and your family. When we get through this, let me know what you decide. If this life isn’t for you, I’ll sign off on the transfer. But until then…” He gestured towards the tents across the fire, his voice softening. “… they need you… I need you… Eredmire needs you.”

  Neril locked eyes with his squad leader. His jaw flexing with resolve, he confidently stuck out his arm. “Thanks. That helps a lot.”

  Segwyn returned the gesture with a downward nod, grabbing the other elf’s forearm in the customary greeting of the Blades.

  Neril wrestled with a question before breaking the momentary silence. “Can I ask you something?” The ranger nodded again in response.

  “Why are you here? You’re the heir to the Eldracum estate—one of the most successful in Eredmire. Why choose this life when that’s on offer?”

  The ranger grunted, and it was his turn to gaze into the embers with a wistful smile.

  “Out here…” He gazed skyward at the bright blanket of stars. The absence of ambient light beyond the fire highlighted both the depth of the cosmos and the level of their current isolation. He chose his words carefully. “…Your successes and failures are inescapably your own—good or bad. In that world, I was never sure if my achievements were down to the size of my own shadow or simply the extension of my father’s.”

  He returned his gaze to Neril. “I want to author my legacy rather than be a footnote to his.”

  Fenir Eldracum was a council elder and well-respected in the community, a stubborn wood elf whose business acumen was undeniable. During his considerable tenure at the helm, House Eldracum rose from one of many within the Eredmire wine cooperative to the pinnacle of quality and brand recognition across the continent. The barrel mark of ‘EE’—Eldracum of Eredmire—became a symbol of prestige, propelling the family’s influence and fortunes.

  “The old man can’t have been happy about your decision to join the Blades instead of taking over the family business,” Neril chuckled.

  “Noooooo,” Segwyn exaggerated the single syllable for effect. “He was counting on me or my sister, Gileith, to carry on his precious legacy. Now she’s a diplomat in Gola-Didreth, and I’m here wearing the ranger's hood.” He shrugged, looking off into the darkness. “Maybe that should tell him something about his parenting style.”

  The fire’s hiss was the only sound between the two elves for several moments. Seeing Neril open and close his mouth several times, Segwyn knew they weren’t done.

  Finally, the younger elf spoke.

  “If this turns into something serious—you know, the flares—and we have to defend Eredmire, will Shan or Glahaneth send military help?”

  Perfectly timed, the repeated call of a nearby owl simplified Neril’s question.

  “The short answer is no.”

  “What’s the long answer?” Neril asked

  “Gond no,” Segwyn answered flippantly.

  Noticing the recruit’s rising anxiety and confused look, the ranger decided to explain.

  “We pay taxes to Gola-Didreth, not Buhlent, right? So, as far as the Shan are concerned, we’re Glahaneth’s problem.”

  Neril conceded a slow nod of recognition as the ranger continued.

  “They’ll respond if their territory is attacked, but, by the terms of the treaty, they can’t come in here.”

  “So then, Glahaneth would send troops, wouldn’t they?”

  The ranger offered a sarcastic chuckle and a slow nod.

  “Sure, they would, but we’re three hundred miles from the border and the closest elvish garrison…” Segwyn scrunched up his face and rolled his eyes in distaste. “…Not to mention the diplomatic wrangling required to get approval for our military to march across Shan to get here.”

  Neril idly tossed a stick into the fire, understanding their circumstances for the first time.

  “So, in situations like this, the reality is, we’re on our own. Shan won’t help us, and Glahaneth can’t—at least not quickly?”

  “You got it.” The ranger confirmed, “But we’re not helpless. I’d put any of you against standard elvish military with sword or bow anytime.”

  Neril changed directions as he puzzled through the details.

  “If the Shan can’t come here, why are we allowed into their territory?”

  “It was part of the original agreement…” Segwyn shrugged. “I don’t know why, maybe because we had more to lose given the proximity of ‘the finest vineyards on the continent’…” He stretched his legs, rubbing his knees to alleviate the stiff muscles. “…or maybe they just didn’t want to deal with our requests every time a flare went off—who knows?”

  To their right, the crack of a large branch punctured the stillness. Both elves leaped to their feet, the ring of swords hushing the drone of nearby insects.

  The Glimmerstone Enigma?

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