Prince Aelindor Silverleaf's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

They reached the tower on the third day at dusk. Aelindor stopped at the treeline and looked down. Black water ringed the base of the blackstone tower in a flat, still moat. The roof gaped where stone had fallen in. Green slime ran down the walls in long streaks. Lily pads sat unmoving on the water. Nothing moved on them either. Thornwick stopped a pace behind him and planted his staff. "This is as far." "I know." "Aim for the throat pouch. Not the eye." "I remember." Thornwick did not wish him well. He sat on a root and watched. Aelindor went down the slope alone. He held the blackthorn branch low and kept his steps light on the loose stone. At the edge of the water he crouched. The moat was maybe ten paces across. The tower door stood on the far side. He could not see the bottom. He picked up a rock and threw it wide. The water broke. A frog the size of a hound heaved up onto a pad. Its back was slick green, striped yellow and pink, two short horns above the eyes. Beads of poison stood on its skin like sweat. It blinked at the splash. A second one surfaced closer, then a third. Their throats worked, filling and emptying. Aelindor counted three. He could not fight three in the water. He stepped back and looked at the moat wall. The stone rim stood a hand's width above the surface, cracked but wide enough for a foot. It ran the whole way around. He could walk it. He put one boot on the rim and shifted his weight. The stone held. He took the second step. The nearest frog turned its head to follow him. He kept the branch pointed at its throat pouch and moved sideways, heel to toe, eyes on the frog, not the stone. Half way across the rim crumbled under his back foot. His leg dropped. His knee cracked against the ledge. The branch swung wide for balance and the tip brushed the water. The frog jumped. He drove the blackthorn up as it came down. The point went into the throat pouch and out the back of its jaw. The weight carried them both sideways. He caught the rim with his free hand. The frog thrashed once, then hung on the branch, still. The other two slid off their pads and did not surface. Aelindor pulled himself up. His knee bled. His hands shook. The branch was slick with frog blood and clear poison ran down toward his fingers. He held it away from his skin and finished the rim one careful step at a time. He reached the door. He set the fouled branch down on the stone. He still could not touch the frame. And he had no weapon now that he could hold.