by Michael Mitchell, Jr.
in Issue 89, June 2019
Rook slipped through the arched window into the tower cell like a serpent into a sparrow’s nest. It was the highest tower in Zorick’s stronghold, piercing the skyline like a jagged spike, and she was at the top. The clouds hid the moon, so her black cloak merged easily with the shadows. As she crouched inside the room near the opening, her elven eyes adjusted to the darkness in the spacious chamber, and she could see the colorful tapestries lining the walls, covering the floors, and filling every corner of the room.
So the rumors are true, she thought, pulling back her hood. He’s definitely a weaver.
Then she saw him, wrapped in a bear pelt and sleeping on a pine wood cot. Rook slid the silver dagger from the sheath on her belt. The only sound was the waves crashing on the cliffs in the distance.
Too quiet, she thought. Was it a trap? Did Zorick know she was here? The guards outside had progressed through their normal patterns, and no alarms had sounded yet. She slinked past the wicker baskets of colorful threads and twine scattered around the room. An ornate oak loom rested at the foot of the old man’s cot, displaying an unfinished scene of a dozen horsemen charging through a barrier of shields, led by a shining soldier with long, white-braided hair.
Rook was at his feet now, her dagger gripped at her side. Tie his hands, then out the window and back to the boat before morning. She could hear his breathing, up and down, under the fur. She hardly believed that this mage—or Weaver, as he was called—was controlling the war, interlacing and guiding events for Zorick and his human armies on his magic loom. In fact, she had laughed when the Antistasi High Elders assigned her this mission.
“This ‘Weaver’ is a tale for children,” she told the Elders. “Even our best mages can’t shape the future.”
“The reports are that Zorick holds him captive,” spoke Elder Kariis. “If his abilities are true, we can use his arts and knowledge to our advantage. Our survival may depend on it.”
“We ensure our survival, not some magic man with a couple of balls of yarn to spare,” said Rook.
But the Elders disagreed enough to send the best Antistasi warrior into the heart of enemy territory to find the Weaver.
A horn suddenly echoed through the castle’s courtyard below. Rook froze, listening. She crawled back to the window, feeling the rush of sea air over her pale face and cropped black hair as she peered below. Zorick’s hunting party was returning, loud and boisterous, trotting through the courtyard on their lanky joobras. The ostrich-like creatures screeched until their handlers tossed them some of the fresh pig meat, which the birds enthusiastically tore apart and slurped down their serpentine throats. There would be festivities throughout the night, and the roasted boar and spirits would be enough of a diversion for her to sneak out without being seen. Just as planned.
“It’s you! You’re really here,” said a voice behind her. “I wish I had trimmed my beard for the occasion, though.”
Rook’s reflexes were the only thing that kept her from falling out the window. She turned to see the old man lighting the candle at the head of his cot. He was bald, with a long, flowing waterfall of a gray beard. His face was lined with age and scars. He was short—like her—roughly half the height of an average human. His auburn eyes, glowing in the candlelight, seemed to look beyond her—or was it more deeply into her? But what Rook noticed immediately was his ears. Covered in earrings, and curved to a point.
“You’re an elf?” she said, before another word could form on her tongue. In a breath she was across the room, the dagger at his throat. “Who else knows I’m here?” she whispered.
“No one at the moment. Though the next round of guards will check the room in a few minutes. We have to hurry, Rook. Put that down and let me grab my cloak.” He pushed her knife wielding hand away and knelt down to dig under his cot, pulling out a shabby patchwork cloak, a wool bag full of tiny tapestries, and a miniature loom covered with a haphazard, colorful design of thread.
Rook pulled him up by his collar, pushing him back on his bed. “Hands on your lap. How did you know my name?”
“I’ve waited a long time to show you. It’s in here, just let me find the right one,” he said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a tapestry, about the size of a playing card.
Did the Elders know he was an elf? Rook pulled him up, shaking the cot in the process and knocking over the bulky loom that was positioned at the foot of the bed. “Tell me why you would assist Zorick and betray the few of us left.”
He held up the tapestry. In the candlelight, Rook could see the rough design of a cloaked female figure scaling a tower wall. She had black hair, dark clothes, and various weapons strapped around her body. A figure that looked like the Weaver was waving from the window at the top. A group of crows circled the tower in the starry sky.
“What…is this?” Rook asked, releasing her handful of the Weaver’s shirt.
“Tonight,” said the Weaver.
This can’t be real. Just tie him up and get out, she thought.
Heavy footsteps and laughing in the hallway interrupted Rook’s thoughts. “We brought you some riverberry wine!” a guard shouted in a slurred voice. “To celebrate Zorick’s successful hunt—he knows it’s your favorite.” There was a jangling of keys at the door. Rook stepped back from the Weaver, noting the distances between her and the window and door.
“It’s time for us to leave,” the Weaver said, blowing out the candle and pulling the cloak over his head.
“I’m supposed to say that!” she hissed. Rook grasped his arm and moved toward the window.
“I’ve been here seventeen years, you know. I have so much to tell you,” the Weaver said as he followed her. “My first tapestry is over there by the table—I wasn’t very good with horses yet. Or humans, for that matter. Hands are really quite difficult to weave—”
And then the cell door opened. Rook, instantly armed with a dagger in each hand, whipped around as two of Zorick’s guards strode in laughing, the first one sipping a goblet of wine. “Zorick’s on his way up to say goodnight, Weaver,” laughed the guard. “And to thank you for the fleshy boar he killed yesterday.”
“You mean your mother?” asked Rook.
She was at their side before they could react. Rook flipped one of her daggers high in the air and snatched the goblet of wine, and with the other hand sliced the first guard’s throat and jabbed the second one in the neck. The entering guard teetered back, collapsed into his reeling companion, and both fell sideways into a pile of tapestries near the door. She set the goblet on the table and caught the descending knife with the same hand. After quietly pressing the door shut, she put her daggers back in their sheaths.
The Weaver stood still, watching Rook. “I’m impressed. You’re even more skilled than I had hoped you’d be. But the wine really wasn’t worth saving. I only tolerate it when the need arises. Which happens to be most nights.”
Rook leaned out the window and let out a series of whistles. Hidden under her cloak was a chest-sized deerskin glider, which she unfolded and smoothed out the sails. The Weaver continued to stare at her with a gleam in his eye.
“Put this on,” said Rook, as she attached the harness around his cloak. “Unless flying is one of your magical powers.”
“Wait! I need my small loom—and the bag!” he said after the harness was secure, springing away to collect the items from his cot. “And I almost forgot my Elvish Tome of Verses. How stupid of me. Tucked right here,” he said, reaching into a slit in the mattress. “Be a shame to leave it now, after all these years! One of my favorites.”
“Because that’s just what we need to survive a death-defying escape from Zorick’s fortress. A book of poetry,” said Rook, glancing nervously at the door.
“This is all so exciting. You really have no idea.”
“I might have a little idea,” mumbled Rook.
Flashing into the arched window, an immense raven—nearly three times the size of an average bird—landed on the sill. He squawked two times, flapping his smooth, black wings until Rook touched his silver beak and ran her fingers through his head feathers. The raven tilted his head at the Weaver, revealing a long red scar across one eye and the side of his head.
“Alert the crows, Nim. We’re heading out with him,” she said to the raven. After a series of caws, Nim launched himself back into the night sky, now sparkling with stars and a shining moon after the clouds parted.
“He said Zorick knows we’re here,” Rook said.
“Of course he does,” said the Weaver, returning to her side. “But look at this, Rook!” He held up another tapestry in the light of the window.
Rook glanced at the embroidery. The image showed the Weaver attached to a glider, flying through the air, surrounded by a dozen birds. He was followed closely by the same female elf dangling from a large raven. Both were floating away from Zorick’s tower and toward the outer castle wall.
“Seriously. What is this?” Rook asked.
“Happening shortly,” replied the Weaver. “You’ll love it!”
“Well, you certainly seem to be enjoying yourself,” she replied with a smirk. “Are you sure you haven’t had any of that wine tonight?”
Before she could question the scene further, Rook heard voices drifting up the stairs from the hallway. Zorick is coming.
She adjusted the straps on the glider and lifted the Weaver onto the windowsill. “I’m right behind you,” she told the Weaver. She could feel him trembling on the ledge. “I thought you knew this was coming,” she said calmly.
“I’m still nervous,” he whispered.
Rook smiled. “It’ll be fine,” she said, as he jumped off the ledge. “Just don’t look down.”
The cell door burst open, and the lead guard drew his sword. “Who the hell are you?” he asked Rook, who was silhouetted in the moonlight.
“I just found out I’m the star of some crazy-ass magical cross-stitch,” she said. “You?”
Her arm shot up, and her finger triggered the miniature crossbow attached to her wrist. Its bolt stuck the guard between the eyes, and he tumbled backwards into the oncoming soldiers. Rook paused for a split second when a tall, muscular man appeared from behind his sentries. His snow-white braids cascaded down over his ivory breastplate. Zorick.
“So the cowardly Antistasi elves are so desperate, they finally sent out the Rook on a suicide mission. I saw your little birdies circling around the tower outside,” said Zorick, raising his crimson rapier and pulling down his helmet. “If my Weaver is hurt, your head will be my new bird feeder.” Zorick motioned more sentries into the room.
Rook didn’t have a clear shot but took it anyway. The crossbow bolt bounced off the lead guard’s shoulder and missed Zorick’s face by inches. The guard charged at Rook with his spear, but in a smooth motion she stepped aside, her dagger catching the back of his leather vest and ushering him right through the open window.
“Guess he was in a rush to get back to the party,” she said.
More soldiers with spears and swords crowded into the room as Zorick lingered in the hallway. Now who’s the coward? Rook thought.
“The drink is on me, boys,” Rook said, kicking the table so that the wine goblet hurled toward the soldiers. “Though you may want to stick to ale, from what I hear.” The soldiers raised their weapons and charged her.
Rook whistled twice and leapt through the window into the night air. Nim swooped by and grabbed the cloak around her shoulders with his talons, stopping her free fall, and the two glided down toward the outer walls of the fortress. Rook could see the Weaver ahead of them, attached to his glider and already drifting over the wall. He was escorted by a group of screaming crows nudging him forward.
“Just like I planned!” he shouted at Rook, as he and the crows disappeared into the trees beyond the castle walls.
“Just as I planned,” she said at the same time, as a series of archers ran out from the flanking tower and spread out along the parapet walkway. “Except for those guys.”
The archers below released a volley of arrows at the raven and elf sailing straight towards them. Nim screeched as the first arrow hissed by. Another arrow ripped through Rook’s cloak.
“That’s a new cloak, you sick bastards,” she said.
The next arrow nicked Nim’s left leg, and Rook slipped from his grasp. The elf immediately tossed her cloak over her head like a parachute, guiding her fall toward the nearest archer. When she had glided close enough, Rook kicked him heavily, sending him backwards over the wall before her leather boots touched down lightly on the stone walkway.
She immediately sprang forward, firing her crossbow at the nearest soldier, the bolt sticking his right hand to his chest before he could pull his bowstring. She ducked when she heard the twang behind her, and an arrow hummed over her head and into the chest of the archer struggling to free his hand. Spinning around, Rook lunged at him before the archer had time to string another arrow, knocking him over the side of the railing into the bailey below.
“Time for backup,” Rook said, unleashing a series of whistles into the dark sky, as Nim plucked her up and away from the walkway.
A murder of crows immediately swooped from around the stronghold’s tower and flooded the scene. The sentries responded with another flurry of arrows, but the dozens of crows deftly nabbed the projectiles from the air in a whirlwind of beaks and talons. The crows returned the onslaught, dive-bombing the startled archers in a storm of razor sharp ferocity, driving the men to scurry back into the closest turret.
With barks and squawks, the birds soared over the wall, scattering among the trees as they descended into the woodland, followed closely by the raven carrying the diminutive elf.
Nim gently dropped Rook into a nearby mossy clearing. Rook could see her spotted tan horse still tied to the oak tree where she had left him, and the Weaver was sitting cross-legged nearby. He was bent over his loom, frantically moving the colorful thread back and forth. Nim cawed a greeting and settled onto a branch above his head.
“Good to see you in one piece, Weaver. We need to keep moving now,” said Rook, out of breath, as she examined her cloak for more arrow holes. “Crap. Another hole, Nim.” The raven squawked twice.
“Yes, of course I’m glad it’s not my eye,” Rook replied. “Or your leg.”
“Your trained flock of crows is quite remarkable,” said the Weaver. “I knew these birds would make an excellent companion for you.”
“My murder of crows,” corrected Rook. “And they’re weapons, not companions. Years of training.” Nim let out what sounded like a whine. “Yes, except for you,” Rook said.
The Weaver continued to move the strands across the loom. “It’s not done, you know. If I had known you’d be here tonight, I’d have skipped my exercise hour for the past few weeks to finish it.”
“You’re welcome,” said Rook, yanking the loom out of his hands and walking toward the horse.
“The boat is concealed at the inlet to the Thelsaa Sea, a couple miles away. We have another warrior there for backup. We’ll be on the river and headed up to the outpost before morning if we hurry,” she continued, adjusting the horse’s saddle and tightening her own bootstraps. “The Antistasi High Elders can then decide what to do with the magic knitting elf. They want you out of here pretty badly, you know.” She paused. “And they’ll be so thrilled to know you’re a traitor.”
“It is not knitting,” said the Weaver. “And I had no choice.”
Rook grabbed the Weaver’s arm and pushed him up on the horse, handing him back his loom and bag. “Everyone has a choice,” she snapped. “You seemed pretty willing to me, considering all those tapestries in your room. I mean, Zorick, Overlord and Commander of the Armies of Men houses an elderly elf and supplies a stockpile of thread and free booze. Sounds like he’s a regular patron of the arts.” Rook jumped into the saddle in front of the Weaver and picked up the reins.
“Do you think I simply volunteered for this?” asked the Weaver, continuing to twist thread across his loom. “I loathe all of the destruction Zorick has caused.”
“There aren’t many elves left to fight back now,” said Rook, prompting the horse with a click of her tongue. “Only the Antistasi High Elders and a handful of us warriors.” Nim, soaring high above them, cawed loudly. “And now you.”
“I’ve never stopped fighting, Rook. Just look at you,” said the Weaver. “You’re a…miracle.”
“I’ve been called worse,” she chuckled, tightening the hood of her cloak around her head. “If you’re thirsty,” she said, “there is water in the saddle bag.”
He was quiet, his head lowered in thought, holding tight to Rook’s waist as the horse started its race through the tall shadows of the forest. After a few minutes he spoke.
“You have to know, Rook,” began the Weaver, “Once he discovered my magic ability, Zorick captured me and leveraged my wife and boys against me. He slowly tortured each of them. Zorick only stopped if I continued to weave the scenes of his victories in battle.”
He wiped his eyes on his cloak sleeve. “They are gone now.”
Rook was silent, sensing the Weaver’s desperation as he told his tale. They could hear the horse’s heavy breathing, the steam rising from its nostrils into the cool air. Finally she spoke. “The war’s taken everything. But we fought on. He slaughtered my family—my entire village. When I was a baby.”
“I fought on too, Rook,” the Weaver replied, but he was cut off by a series of eerie yowls echoing through the woods. Then a guttural bark cut through the shrieks as more voices joined the malevolent chorus. A violent tremor shook through the horse, and Rook whispered something into its ear to help keep it steady.
“A pack of joobras,” said the Weaver. “Probably still bloodthirsty from Zorick’s hunting trip.”
“They’re called devil birds where I’m from,” said Rook. “Stumbled on a den of them once when I was scrounging for food for our tribe.”
“Then you know we must hide—quickly. I have to complete the final portion of this tapestry before we reach the river.”
“We’re not stopping, unless you want to return to your cell for some wine tasting?”
“You still don’t think any of this is real, do you?” asked the Weaver.
“That you can weave a picture and it just…happens?” Rook said. The wind picked up in the hollow, blowing leaves around them as the horse darted between branches.
“It takes time. In some cases, years,” answered the Weaver. “It is a rough sketch that life develops into a finished painting. There are many unknown variables when guiding actual events, but my loom does seem to have a certain…influence.” The Weaver leaned over Rook’s shoulder. “Like with you,” he said.
The howls were louder now, a whirlwind of yelps circling through the trees. The moon appeared through the branches above them, casting a glow on the pine forest floor.
“So you just, designed all of this on your tapestries? Your escape?” Rook paused. “Me?”
“I’ve worked on this secretly for years,” said the Weaver. “Since you were very young, in fact. I hid these little tapestries from Zorick—he was much too distracted by his lust for war to pay any attention.”
“His war guided my fate,” Rook said, her voice rising over the increasing wails and howling in the forest. “The Antistasi High Elders guided my fate when they raised me. I guided my fate choosing to train and fight for my people. But I guarantee you, no elf mystic or make-believe tapestries decided my fate.”
Although she was focused on the terrain in front of the horse, Rook was surprised to hear the Weaver sniff, apparently weeping. The Weaver said, “But, Rook, you need to know—”
Just then a joobra burst out of the tangled branches on their left side in an explosion of twigs and leaves. Its elongated legs flowed into spiked talons, with a slimy tail swatting behind as it sprinted. The swollen eyes glowed red fire; the beak pointed like a twisted blade. Its rider, wearing tattered hide armor and a black ivory helmet, swung a gnarled spiked club at the horse’s head. Narrowly avoiding the arc of the club, Rook yanked the reins to the right and veered the horse down into a narrow creek bed. Hard, clay banks sloped up on each side of the dry bed, while crooked trees leaned across the top, creating the feel of a murky, organic tunnel.
The devil bird followed close, yapping and nipping at the horse’s tail as they sprinted across the pebbles and damp leaves through the dim light.
“They really go hunting with these things? Seems kind of unfair,” said Rook, kicking her heels into the horse and surging forward. “I’d hate to see their fishing gear.”
“Rook, look at this,” said the Weaver. Oblivious to their pursuer, he reached over her shoulder to show her another tapestry.
“Can we do show and tell later?” asked Rook through gritted teeth. “A new friend has come out to play.” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see another joobra rider tracking alongside of them on the right upper bank. The rider, dodging the collage of tree branches, raised a bow.
“Rook, look out!” shouted the Weaver. She dropped her head instinctively before the arrow landed with a sharp thunk. Glancing up, she saw the Weaver’s arm fully extended, holding out the Elvish Tome of Verses in front of her face. A twisted arrow stuck in the middle of the book’s cover.
“Now I’m impressed,” said Rook, wiping the sweat from her eyes. “Thanks. I can see why you brought it.”
“To give to you! You think I designed that to happen? It’s my only copy. ‘Oria’s Ballad of the Winter Dancers’ will now have a hole in it,” he moaned, yanking the arrow out and throwing it aside. “You’ll have to make do.”
“I’ll try,” Rook said, smiling.
A high-pitched shriek caused the Weaver to spring in his seat. Rook saw a third joobra rider appear on the upper left side of the bank. It zigzagged in and out of the elm trees, keeping pace, until the rider had a clear shot on his bow.
The arrow zipped just behind the horse and struck the pursuing joobra in its eye. The devil bird let out a shrill scream and skidded to the side of the creek bed, slamming the rider against a granite outcropping.
“Thank the gods not everyone is as obsessive about target practice as me,” said Rook. She turned her head toward the Weaver. “And don’t say you weaved that into my personality.”
“No. That was all you,” said the Weaver, grinning. “My guidance was minimal. Let me show you now.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” shouted Rook over the pounding of hooves.
“The tapestry scene,” he said, holding it over her shoulder. “It’s an abandoned village baby brought to the Antistasi Elders. And here’s another of a young girl discovering a crow’s nest, yet another training with the Elven Master, and on and on,” said the Weaver into her ear. “Zorick didn’t know it, but I’ve planned this day for many years.”
Those embroideries are pretty damn accurate, Rook thought. How did he know about the baby? And the Elders?
“So how’s it all going to end, Weaver?” she asked.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he said. “The final tapestry is—”
The devil bird on the right sprang down from the upper bank and dashed to the side of the horse, while its rider twirled a flail in a circular motion above his head. Rook whistled, and Nim dove at the joobra’s head in a swift drop attack, narrowly missing his target. The devil bird screeched and chomped at Nim with its beak, but Nim had already disappeared back into the branches above their heads.
“I’ve got some devils on my side too,” said Rook, leaning left as the rider’s flail extended the chained, spiked orb toward her head. “Birds are my thing.”
Rook let out another series of whistles. The surprised rider glanced at her for a split second before her murder of ravens plunged from the sky in a burst of feathers, beaks, and fury. They surrounded the devil bird, picking and stabbing at its legs, head, and tail. The rider continued to swing the flail in a mad outrage, knocking crows into the surrounding clay bank and fallen tree trunks.
“Now I’m really pissed,” said Rook, prodding her horse forward past the besieged rider. “No one hurts my crows.”
Rapidly overwhelmed by the crows picking at his face and hands, the rider toppled from his saddle and bounced across the rocks and underbrush. With its rider incapacitated, the joobra swerved back up the bank and escaped into the dusky forest, completely engulfed by the swarm of attacking crows.
“Two down,” said Rook, glancing to the left at the remaining devil bird, which had now also leapt into the creek bed and was racing alongside her. “One to go.”
“Can you take over?” asked Rook over her shoulder.
“I haven’t ridden a horse in years,” said the Weaver.
“Just grab the reins and she’ll do the rest,” said Rook, whispering commands in the horse’s ear. “And no more holes in the Elvish Tome of Verses, OK? I plan to read it later. It was one of my favorites too.”
“Where are you going?”
“Up,” said Rook, whistling for Nim. The raven snatched her from the saddle and the two launched straight into the air.
The bewildered joobra rider swung his sword at the ascending elf, slicing the heel of her boot. “Go, go!” shouted Rook at the horse. White knuckles clutching the reins, the Weaver took advantage of the distraction and hurtled forward and out of sword range of the adjacent joobra.
Before the joobra rider had time to swat at her again, Nim dropped Rook onto his broad shoulders. She was half the rider’s size, balancing like a child on top of a colossal boulder. Wrapping her legs around his neck, she gripped his helmet and tossed it aside, his sweaty hair flapping up into her face. The rider swerved to the right, causing Rook to spin around to his chest, her slim legs still locked around his neck. He wrapped his free arm around her head, squeezing her neck between his forearm and bicep, while still gripping the joobra’s reins with the other hand.
Rook bit his arm, causing him to flinch, but her head snapped back as he jerked her cloak hood in order to fling her away from him and the joobra. She unsheathed the dagger on her thigh and raised her arm to strike, forcing him to release the reins to block. Distracted by the knife, the rider didn’t see Rook raise her other wrist with the crossbow until its bolt was already lodged in his throat.
He grabbed for his neck, choking and sputtering, while Rook spun him off the joobra with her legs while gripping the saddle to prevent herself from following. Grasping the reins with one hand, she flipped around and prodded the devil bird forward, while the rider rolled away behind her in a tumble of blood and gurgled whimpers.
“Who’s a good devil bird? You are. You’re a good devil bird,” cooed Rook as she scanned the woods for more danger. “Yes you are.”
The creek bed suddenly curved into a slick, muddy slope. Plunging into the thicker vegetation of the marsh, the joobra screeched and tried to buck its new rider. Rook could hear the terrifying yelps of other joobras scattered in the area.
“If you lead them to us,” said Rook, pointing her dagger at its head, “you’ll join your buddy back there in the one-eye club.” The joobra hissed at her as it stomped over the soggy landscape.
“I really don’t know how Zorick’s army can stand these things,” she muttered.
She soon caught up to the Weaver, who was comfortably weaving on his loom as the horse trotted steadily through the marshland. The horse whinnied as Rook and the joobra moved up next to them. The jostled Weaver quickly gripped the reins, a relieved expression crossing his face when he saw it was Rook.
“You were weaving during all that?” asked Rook. “I guess you can add horseback stunts to your list of skills.”
“I could do this in my sleep,” he said. “Frequently I do.”
Rook reached over to calm the startled horse. More joobra cries echoed through the glade. “Come on, the inlet and rendezvous point is just ahead.”
As the sun was peeking over the horizon of the Thelsaa Sea, the two arrived at the hidden cove at the wide end of the river. They edged their way down the steep rocky bank toward the stream. Gulls glided over the water, occasionally dipping their beaks to catch a minnow.
The calm was broken by the sharp twang of a bow, and an arrow punctured the neck of Rook’s joobra. It shrieked, as another sunk into its head. Rook leapt from the beast as it collapsed, and she landed in a defensive crouch, blades drawn.
An elf in a green cloak emerged from the bushes, her arrow aimed squarely at the Weaver. “You OK, Rook?”
“He’s the Weaver, Valna. Stand down,” said Rook to the elf warrior.
“Saw the devil bird with you and reflexes took over,” said Valna, lowering her bow.
“And we were just becoming pals,” said Rook, glancing at the crumpled heap of the dead joobra. “There are more on the way, as you’ve probably heard.”
Valna uncovered the narrow boat from the sand and camouflaged cloths. “I wondered if you were going to make it back,” she said. “You’re cutting it close.”
“I haven’t been this near to the water in many years,” the Weaver said, sliding off the horse. Clutching his loom, he walked up to the shore, watching the stream as it emptied into the greater sea beyond. The sunlight sparkled like diamonds on the current.
Rook placed her hand on the Weaver’s shoulder, admiring the scene. “Now that’s something Zorick will never take away,” she said.
The Weaver laid his unfinished tapestry down on a smooth rock. “It is not perfect, but it’s enough now,” he said. “You need to look at it.”
“You can show me on the boat,” said Rook. “We have to keep moving.”
“Please.”
Rook shook her head but knelt down and took the tapestry into her hands. The tapestry revealed a scene with what appeared to be the female elf warrior and Zorick. They were alone staring at each other on the cliffs overlooking the sea. But they were only faces; both Zorick and the elf warrior had no body, legs, or arms—just heads. The tapestry wasn’t finished.
“Well I’m screwed,” Rook said. “Who wins?”
“I told you, the tapestries are only a sketch of what may happen. They reflect reality as much as they shape it.”
Valna motioned to them from the boat. “Let’s go, Rook. Zorick and his men will be here any minute.”
The Weaver touched Rook’s hand. “When I hid you as a baby on the scavenger ship before our village was destroyed, I didn’t know what would truly become of you. I could only imagine your life growing up and hope that my tapestries somehow helped you. I’m glad I’ve finally met you, Elora,” he said, looking at her intently. “You have exceeded my dreams…my daughter.”
Rook met his eyes. Elora. Only the Elders knew that name, the name provided by the refugee elf scavengers who dumped her as an orphaned baby while docking at the Antistasi outpost.
“I…don’t know what to say,” Rook said. Yet inside she knew it. She was looking at her father, the one she always thought to be dead. This whole crazy thing is true.
“I’m sorry you could never meet your mother or brothers. They would be proud of you.” The Weaver gathered his loom and tapestries. “Now, you will insist I go with Valna, and you will go and end this war,” he said, stepping into the shallow water of the river toward the boat. Rook remained on the shore.
“And we will meet again. And we’ll do some reading together,” he said winking, holding up the Elvish Tome of Verses. “Holes and all.”
“But the tapestry—me—it’s not complete. What’s going to happen?” asked Rook. She heard the joobras in the distance, but she had to have an answer.
The Weaver settled inside the boat in front of Valna, his loom and tapestries on his lap. “I finished what I needed to. You’ll figure it out. You always do,” he said.
“You sure about this, Rook?” asked Valna, picking up the oars. “Taking on Zorick by yourself? The Elders aren’t going to like you deviating from the mission.” She sighed. “But they are used to it.”
Rook stared at the Weaver in the boat, his beard fluttering in the breeze, a twinkling in his eyes. She clutched the tiny tapestry that revealed her next, and likely final, battle. “Yes. I know how it’s going to end.”
“Oh, and look on the other side of the tapestry,” the Weaver said. “It was one of the first I ever created. Just ignore the terribly woven hands!” The Weaver waved to Rook as Valna paddled steadily until the boat vanished through the low hanging willow branches.
Rook flipped over the tapestry. It was an image of a smiling and tearful Weaver and the female elf warrior embracing in a courtyard, surrounded by the Antistasi High Elders. Nim perched next to the warrior, with a strand of white-braided hair in his beak. The characters’ names were also listed; under the Weaver was written Lamlis in silver thread.
“Lamlis,” she said, glancing up at the river that dissolved into the shadows of the marshy glade. Father.
“Come on, Nim,” said Rook, and the bird leapt into the air above her. Rook tucked the tapestry into her vest pocket and grabbed the horse’s reins. They clambered up the steep clay bank and onto a grassy plateau overlooking the sea. She could see another joobra scurrying into the clearing with panting breath, its rider’s flowing white braids wafting in the morning wind. Zorick lifted his helmet when he saw her, pulling up on the reins and squinting against the morning sunrise, which was now a brilliant pink across the Thelsaa Sea.
“I’ve finally trapped the Rook. It took a few years, but now there is nowhere else to hide,” shouted Zorick. “Where is the Weaver?” Several more joobras burst through the foliage and flanked Zorick as he spoke.
“Safe. Unlike you,” she said, daggers in both hands. Nim cawed and circled above her.
“We’ll find him soon enough,” he said, drawing his red steel rapier. “You first.”
Rook whirled the blades in her hands and whistled. A dark cloud of crows descended along the rocky shore, landing on branches, stones, and trees, forming a menacing semi-circle behind her.
“Time to weave a new future,” whispered Rook. “With my thread.”
©June 2019, Michael Mitchell Jr.
Michael Mitchell Jr’s work has been seen in Kyanite Press, and Enchanted Conversation Magazine. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.