3. The Charge of Lyte Bry'Gaede

The Charge of Lyte Bry'Gaede

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    Dawn broke in the deep Rawlinswood, and the elven camp stirred.

    Slowly, Lyte passed through the trees, touching a leaf here, a branch there as she welcomed the new day.

    Much like the radiance for which she was named, her beauty itself seemed to waken the encampment around her. Always first to rise, Lyte, daughter of Iy’rn Bry’Gaede, performed her duties with a punctual sternness surprising for one of her years. Hardly, she was, of age for Camp service, and yet, here she was, youngest Courier of the Morn ever to grace the Encampment, waking those who slept in tree and tent as she passed.

    The camp roused, and the erect young warrior-maid proceeded over the ravine on The Bridge, past the Gatekeepers and out the North-gate to the little stream, the Liethmere, that guarded the Outer Wood. Without hint of modesty or a regular maiden’s virtues, she unclasped buckle and strap, letting her formal elven chain-mail drop to the ground, and stepped into the icy stream that supplied the old encampment quite entirely naked.

    The Gatekeepers turned their backs in unison, knowing the folly of staring long at the fiery, fair and untouchable daughter of the House of Bry’Gaede. She was very strange, they knew, cold and inhospitable to their advances, and perilous when angered. Many a rock had chided head turned in her direction as this daughter of the Morning bathed, and while she was breathtaking to behold in a classic, trim elvish way, the Gatekeepers had learned to preserve their skulls by making sure their glances were at least discreet.

    Lyte Brygaede was as perilous as she was beautiful.

    One might think that such focused dedication to the goals of good and the lawfulness as shown by this young elf would have been embraced by the Encampment, isolated as it was with The Defiler’s minions lurking on all sides.

    But, alas, this disciplined young woman’s place in the largely casual order of the Encampment, under the watchful gaze of the Woodland Goddess was hard to establish.

    There could be no question of the young elf’s motives, or of her extreme attempts to do the bidding of her father. She held herself to such extraordinary standards, that, in truth, there were none her age among the boys that could best her in unarmed combat, and few of the older Scouts that could match her ferocity with any weapon, though she lacked their experience.

    There simply could be no denying her a victory, lest the Scout walk away bruised and battered, bitten, torn and chagrined, before leaving her a bloody heap on the forest floor.

    But it was this elf-maiden’s extreme sense of duty and purpose, and her almost overbearing sense of piety that most fit poorly the loose and nomadic existence the Forest-Elves led.

    These elves tended to operate independently, at best in twos and threes, and many had light, chaotic natures, preferring to sit in trees and admire the incredible beauty of the flora and fauna around them.

    They did not often draw together in strict formations, or operate under stolid commands, but fought naturally, almost casually together as sort of a loose band of fellowship.

    Lyte was a different sort of elf, and no one could fathom why, least of all her father, Ir’yn, who was the Camp Quartermaster of the entire Encampment.

    He loved his fiery daughter, and in truth, she reminded him much of her mother. But, he thought, their child was overly driven, and much too strictly martial for his liking.

    He guiltily wondered if his desire for a son had somehow clouded his treatment of his only child. Surely, he told himself, it was not a terrible thing to have secretly desired a boy to carry on in his stead.

    Yet, here she was, tasking the entire Camp to organize itself, constantly pushing herself to the very edge of her endurance, and taking great risks on the borders of these evil lands, while yet overly young for such ventures.

    And, there was the matter of Khareshaar.

    His young daughter was fixated with some young hothead notion of righteousness that he did not altogether understand.

    There was nothing wrong with worshipping The Lady of the Forest, it was fine and good to be pious and to love The Lady, as did almost all in the Camp.

    But Lyte went beyond this. She seemed, she seemed almost sacrificial in her dedication, and Ir’yn honestly worried his only daughter might someday take it upon herself to march right into the evil western wood, right to the Vile Temple, on some foolish, doomed quest.

    He would have to stop this, now, before she took her martial excesses too far.

    She would reach her hundredth birthday, and her coming of age in a ten week, and she would then be eligible for a full position in the ranks of the Scouts and Archers who patrolled the outer Woods.

    Ir’yn feared greatly that Lyte would use this to overstep her strength, and fall quickly in some battle with Goblin archers, or even Bugbears. It was his belief that the girl relied too heavily on Faith in The Lady, and lacked the patience one needed to live to grow to become a mature warrior.

    She would perish young, and he could not bear this after the untimely death of his wife.

    For long the Quartermaster planned on how to deal with his fiery daughter, without insulting her, or driving her away.

    Three days before her coming of age, he hatched his plan.

    On a regular day in the deep-elven wood, Lyte’s grey eyes burned with a hot life. She possessed a keen energy that all that knew her marveled at, and she could continue on at any task with a vigor that surprised all.

    Today, she burned with a special fire. For the past 40 years she had trained, first with wooden weapons and light leather armor, now with Elven Chain and Runed Longsword, for battle.

    Unlike men, elves possessed a luxury of time to perfect their arts. Often the young elven maiden had tugged and strained at the leash of age that kept her from full warrior status, as she matured quickly, and kept herself perfectly fit, achieving a rare balance between strength and agility.

    She loved combat as some elves love music or dance, and she looked ahead on the Great Tree to count the months to her Day. The Day that she could fight without a Guide, the day that she would be free to be her own woman that her made decisions for herself.

    Three more days. A moment in an elf’s life. Yet, this past week had seemed to drag forever. Lyte wondered if Khareshaar wasn’t playing some last trick on her, making the daylight hours longer than they normally passed.

    Three more days until the Day, and her Ceremony, and then, then, the evil in the land would be put on notice, as she would not hide behind the Great Moat, waiting for the Enemy to mass an army to overwhelm her people.

    She would use all her considerable charm to rally her friends, to show them the folly of waiting for the Enemy to grow too strong. They would listen to her, they must.

    She felt that it was The Lady who put these feelings into her breast. The Lady knew that hiding and trusting to a wall and a great moat with a simple gate was a grievious folly.

    Only deeds, great deeds, and utter faith could win the day for good.

    They must prevail, and soon.

    The Wood was no longer in Balance. The Lady’s Law was broken. The times for resting and music were past, and now was the time for War.

    These thoughts passed through the young girl’s head as she walked her patrol with Old Blithe, her Archer Guide for the Day.

    Whether it was indeed Khareshaar’s Will that drove the firebrand to these thoughts or her own youth and passion is hard to judge, but she was an elf of rare gifts, and the times in which she lived were indeed perilously askew.

    The Horn of the Camp sounded three blasts and three. It was her call, and she wondered greatly at hearing it.

    Rarely would an elf be called in from Patrol. Perhaps her father was ill.

    Old Blithe sent her off, and she ran like a deer, but more quietly, through the dry leaves of the forest. A sudden anxiety gripped her heart, and the maid burst through the North Gate so suddenly that she was very nearly shot.

    The Gate-Guards, their pride somewhat wounded at being taken unawares, both turned red-faced, a rather common occurrence around the Fiery red-headed elf. She did not pause, but flew past them, and into her father’s quarters.

    He sat grimly in his oaken chair, with his carefully practiced speech ready for her. He sat, his elbows on his knees and fingertips together. He dared not separate them, as they would shake. She stood, as expected, very alert that some great trouble had occurred or task must be needed, to have received such a call back to Camp.

    “Daughter, in a three-day, you will become of age, and I know for long you have awaited this great time so that you might serve the Camp and your people with Honor.”

    The girl seemed surprised, and ill at ease, and wondered what point there was to the conversation, as both father and daughter largely spoke only of things that needed said.

    “Of course, father, I have lived for this day for many years, and will serve proudly. I shall not fail you.”

    “I am sure of this, my daughter. Truly, no young elf has ever worked harder or with more dedication at learning so very much so quickly. The elders speak of your way with the hearts of others in equal esteem to your martial abilities. You have right to be proud of yourself already.”

    He shifted in his chair.

    “The elders will speak to you of a task they wish for you to perform on your Day. I thought it best to inform you now, so that you may prepare thyself.”

    Some dark misgiving crept into the elf girl’s heart…surely they could not keep her from…

    “You have been trusted with a great and important Charge, Lyte. One that is both in keeping with your wish to serve the Camp, and one which also takes into consideration your wish that the Elder’s act against the evil forces that surround us.”

    The girl relaxed, a little. They were following Khareshaar’s Will then. They would take the fight to the enemy, and she would be included in the plan.

    “My daughter, the Elders will ask you to leave the Camp and strike out to the north, to the Barbarian fortress town of Norwick in the North Rawlinswood. There, you will seek audience with the town’s Governor, one Maythor, and present yourself as our representative, to learn the ways and manners of their peoples, and influence them into taking up our cause against the Great Enemy to our West.”

    “You will then spend until your next birthday in Norwick and the surrounding territory, to judge the strength of their forces, to write a report on the condition of their defenses, their attitudes in aiding us, and other general pertinent information you can gather.”

    “You may freely rally those who will fight for the cause of Good, and you may do all that you are able to persuade those of Norwick to come to our aid as brothers in a common cause. However….”

    Up until this moment, Lyte had been instantly excited at the prospect. Free from her father, she could gather those around her as her skills allowed, and force the evil back from the vantage of Norwick….she suddenly felt it coming, an unexpected surprise to dash her hopes. Her eyes widened.

    “….as an ambassador of our people to Norwick, the Elders think it best that you go with open arms, with no weapons or elven chain, to show good faith in this endeavor. You are not to buy weapons or armor on this Quest, until you see your birthday once again. You will be our Ambassador, only.”

    A look of uncomprehending horror spread over the young elf’s lovely features. Go unarmed? For long she did not speak in the quick way that she had. She simply looked, mouth agape.

    “This is not going to be a task you can challenge, daughter, and it is a Charge thrust upon you because of the great charm, the wisdom, youth and powers of persuasion that myself and the Elders of our tribe see in you. Do not look upon it as anything other than a chance for you to deal a blow to the evil that lurks within our Wood. It is a mighty service you will perform. Do your best to serve your people.”

    Lyte was a willfill girl. She was young, and often she spoke exactly what was on her mind. But here, in her father’s tent, presented with this terrible order to forego her arms and shield and Elven chain-mail, and to give up all further martial training from the Elders in the Encampment for a full year, and travel to a place where her martial skills would not be used, was beyond her means to react to.

    “Yes father.” She replied. For a moment the two looked at one another without apparent emotion, though both boiled beneath in ways neither knew they could.

    Then, she spun, formally, and was gone.

    Ir’yn seemed to collapse in his chair, his strength gone. He suddenly seemed much older.

    In the compressed and tiny world of safety of the encampment, there was little room for privacy. The area between the walls and great moat of the Encampent, and the terrible goblin and bugbear infested forests were bordered by a narrow stretch of elder trees, heavily patrolled by the elvish Rangers and Archers. Here lay the little stream that Lyte enjoyed bathing in, the Liethmere, and here also was the place closest to Lyte’s heart, and where she came to pray to The Great Lady.

    The stream was shallow and merry, and it’s tinkling voice echoed brightly through the ancient trees. It was full of tiny fish, little silver darts that swam about in precise formations, and the bottom was full of round pebbles that would not cut foot or bottom. It was perhaps 18” deep, and swift moving, and Lyte loved it. It was the only safe place that she had.

    She ran here now, after striding hastily out of her father’s tent, and stiffly past the guards, she broke into a clumsy dash, blinded by tears.

    She could find the place without her eyes.

    At first she sat on it’s shallow bank, not wishing to soil it’s beauty with the evil tears and feelings that swept through her.

    Forty years of training with blades and polearms, bow and mace, for what?

    To be sent to safety under a ruse of ambassadorship.

    Surely The Lady would not let this happen to her.

    Lyte cried, something foreign to her, and perhaps because of it, something she could not control. Her frame heaved under her sobs, and she felt betrayed.

    Eventually, she had no tears left, and loosened the buckles of her formal chain, unstrapping the pieces from her long fair limbs. She lay her sword, her grandfathers fine, enchanted blade, on the bank, and decided she would not wear it again, not until her ordeal was finished.

    Leaving the mail on the bank, she lowered herself into the cold water on her back, just floating about the pebbles of the stream, and crossed her arms across her chest.

    She lay thus for many hours, for it was her way of meditating and of prayer, and all the world seemed to fade for a while, and she could think more clearly.

    She formed a plan of her own…one, she thought, that would hold to the Elder’s wishes, but one that she could live with, or die with, as well.

    Later, she would be unsure exactly where the idea came from, but the little fish, gleefully swimming about her, knew it’s source, and the Liethmere knew from whence it came, as did the pebbles under the graceful girls form, and the golden leaves falling about her from the old, old trees.

    It was a lady whispering Lyte the words that she needed to hear, and the Lady’s heart was good.


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