Whisper Fernwhisker's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Whisper Fernwhisker woke on a cot with three broken arrows on her chest. Her side was bandaged. Her fine bow, the one carved from dark wood and marked with silver runes, leaned against the wall. She had loosed every arrow at the orc who burned her camp. Not one had stopped him. That failure, more than the wound, made her jaw tighten. She wanted the orc dead. She wanted to be the one to do it. An old man stirred a pot near the fire. He did not look up. "You should be dead," he said. "So should he." He nodded at a shape on the far cot. A young man lay there, gray-faced, one shoulder wrapped in red-soaked cloth. Blades rested beside him, thin and curved. The old man's hands shook as he ladled broth, but his voice stayed flat. "My son. An assassin. He tried to help your rangers. The axe found him too." Whisper sat up. Pain flared in her ribs. "The orc. Where is he?" "Gone north. You will not kill him with those." The healer flicked a hand at her bow. "You already tried." The words stung because they were true. She looked at the split arrows on her chest. "Then tell me what will." The old man crouched by her cot. "There is a story. A swordsman who loved a woman named Death, so she refused to take him. He has lived a thousand years. He is somewhere deep in the Fanghorn Forest. No one has walked out to say they found him." He paused. "If any blade can end that orc, it is his." "A legend," Whisper said. But she was already thinking of the arrows that had bounced off rusty iron plates. Of the black hand and broken sword painted on the orc's shield. From the far cot, the assassin spoke. His voice was a rasp. "My father tells that story to frighten children." He turned his head toward her. One eye opened. "But I saw the orc. Steel won't be enough. Neither will legends we don't test." "You can barely stand," the healer said. "Then I'll stand slowly." The son pushed up on one elbow, teeth clenched. He looked at Whisper. "You want him dead. So do I. My father saw me carried in like meat. I won't lie here." Whisper reached for her bow. Her fingers closed on the dark wood. It had failed her. She hated that she still needed it. "The forest swallows people," she said. "Then we walk in together," the assassin answered. "Two blades and your bow. We find the swordsman. We ask for his help." The old man stopped stirring. He knew he had lost. He set the ladle down and did not argue. Whisper swung her legs off the cot. She strapped the quiver of swan-fletched arrows to her back. "Then we don't wait." She stood, one hand pressed to her side, and faced the dark tree line beyond the door.