by Kim Wedlock
Crouching beside one of many jagged outcrops, its farthest face encased in snow, he stared up into the black cloud. And watched. Waited. Scoured the sky from the tops of the firs in the pass to his left, to the edge of the towering peak to his right. The smoke had filled the sky.
Finally, they appeared, dense specks forming in the roiling shadows. They had become familiar. He watched them grow, watched them near, constantly noting their shape. Would they lengthen? Or remain four fine points?
He blinked. Lengthen.
He remained where he was and watched as this newest volley of hewn-stone bolts broke through the cloud and embedded themselves in the snow with a dull and heavy thud, six safe paces to his right. That was their fourth far-miss. They'd lost him. Which meant one thing.
He focused his hearing. Bolts were quiet, but not silent. Silence was intentional. He stared harder, straining against the smoke, the aroma finally seeping through his sleeve and into his throat. It tasted foul but he brushed it from his mind, forgotten in an instant beneath the dictation of his training.
Then he heard it: a deliberate stillness, as though all living things held their breath. His sight intensified, picking out the slightest shadow in the smoke. He had three seconds.
He breathed, he tracked, he raised his hands.
Like a dart from a ballista, the shape burst through the cloud and shot low overhead, buffeting him with a single powerful beat of its wings. With an ear-piercing cry that shook the frigid air, the mighty falcon banked at speed, turned, and stooped straight towards him.
In an instant, its feathers were aflame.
But he was already too late. Its speed had surprised him, and that briefest hesitation had given it all the time it had needed. With its guiding cry, its handlers had located him - but they were low on weapons. He'd heard them say as much, in that obscure tongue of theirs. This would be their last volley. But it would be precise.
Before the blazing falcon had hit the snow, he dashed off to the right and climbed higher up the furthest side of the slope, twenty paces from where he'd been reported. The mountain wind tribe's warriors would aim unerringly for where their pet had indicated, and, reasonably, no ordinary man could have escaped the spot through such deep snow so quickly. Unfortunately for them, he was no ordinary man.
Sure enough, the stone bolts rained down with eerie precision, embedding themselves in the flattened snow right behind the rock.
He didn't make a sound. If he feigned death throes, they would investigate. As it was, they were out of ammunition and unsure if they'd hit him at all. If they had any sense, they would re-arm themselves before taking a look. And with their last bird dead, the smouldering remains of the first two similarly melting the snow where they'd fallen, they had no more scouts. Not even savages would be so foolish as to move ahead, blind.
Salus straightened in satisfaction as he listened to uncertain mutters and then slow, retreating footfalls, then slunk off in the opposite direction himself, moving deeper into the Pavise Mountains of the west.
He pulled his thick cloak tighter about himself. As much as he favoured the colder climes, he couldn't understand how or why anyone would choose to live up in the mountains. He could only conclude that they were unaware of the world around the next peak. But those were conundrums for another time - along with the issues stacking on his desk. For all his mirrors, his phidipans, his orders, his assets, everything seemed to be coming up fruitless.
So for this moment, out here in the cold, desolate, blissfully simple mountains, he focused on what he could rely upon: his own two hands, and their safeguarding of Turunda.
His woes numbed as he concentrated on climbing the sharp and jagged ridges, sliding carefully along the icy slopes and bracing against the biting frost that not even silver takin wool could ward away forever, and by the time the thinning air finally forced him to a stop, his mind had fallen silent. It was then that the dusking world around him at last drifted over his awareness, as gingerly as a child's tug on his sleeve.
He took a long, deep breath even as the sight tried to take it away from him.
Surrounded by snow and grey stone, the familiar verdant expanse of his country burst with the vibrancy of a sea of emeralds, even fogged by the low-hanging cloud as it was, and it was no less precious. Unbroken. Unbreakable. Not a torrent of floods nor an army of fire devils from the plains could strip the land of its sylvan riches.
His heart stirred. Peace settled in behind a ragged breath; it was impossible not to be moved. No one of Turundan blood - touched by the forest, as it was said - could resist the debilitating sensations of such a sight of their home: from one side a gentle and maternal embrace, comfort, an assurance of welcome and belonging against all worries and strife, and from the other a direct and steely punch to any doubt or disconnection of one's place and importance, a firm hand of order and purpose that reigned above small and fleeting personal ambition. A touch both corrective and soft, like the hand of Vastal Herself brushing grace and indomitable certainty.
The sight, the perception, each were a privilege. And perhaps, if others were to experience it as he did, they might see sense and abandon their efforts to incite such chaos and menace and unite their strengths against Turunda's true enemies.
Assuming any of them were as devoted to the Emerald Kingdom as he was. Personal ambition was a powerful lure. It had broken people and countries for centuries. It had broken the elves.
The thought sobered him, and in the shadow of such a humbling sight he felt more strongly than ever that what he was doing was right and good. This was his land, his home and his charge. He would not let harm befall it nor the people it sheltered while he drew breath - not beyond what was necessary to safeguard it for as long as possible. Whatever it took, he would give; whomever against, he would face. Or he wasn't fit to be buried beneath its soil.
Resolute beneath the cold, he turned his eyes away. But they were pulled helplessly towards the darkness he felt looming to his left, growing in his peripherals and becoming harder and harder to face. But face it, he did. Because this abhorrence could be twisted to Turunda's benefit.
An abyssal black scar cut through the Pavise range, snaking down from the north from beyond even the Northrage River, cracking mountains that had stood since the beginning of time.
It set a contrast so heartbreaking that, for a moment, he was almost sick. But discipline forced him to steel. As terrible as it was, and as much fault as was his, it would do good. And once that good was done, there would be no rend to mar the landscape. It would be as if Turunda had never been shackled here at all.
He didn't allow himself to linger. With a final glance east across his beloved home, he turned towards the chasm and covered the final, craggy stretch, and when snow-covered arches and crumbled walls rose on the pass above him, the familiar touch of magic softened the horror like flowers over a mass grave.
Even before he stood among them, the blissful peace that preceded his every such endeavour reached out towards him like a silk ribbon, setting a calmness over his mind and easing away the pummelling ache of his muscles. The terrible landscape, too, began to soften with every step, and though the mountains could never compare with the sight of the eternal forests, theirs was not a natural beauty. But even in knowing that, he was, for a time, captivated.
Bathed in the soft, silver light of the waking moon, the frozen shelf was littered with leaves that shouldn't have been, strewn around like autumn and glinting as though solid gold, the snow itself of powdered pearl, encrusting ancient statues of time-lost watchers. A delectable mix of tobacco and spiced fruits glanced through the air and tickled his nose on a breeze, transporting him back to a moment lost in memory so distant he was unsure it was even his own, while a whimsical, tinkling melody persisted beneath the ghostly howl of the higher winds, casting the surreal nook ever closer to a fairy tale.
He couldn't help but marvel. It was truly a wonder that something so destructive could be so beautiful. He still had no
idea why each sundered place was so diversely affected, and on some suppressed level it fascinated him - but he was there to work, not gawp or study.
As easily as the enchantment had set in, it was shaken off, and his mindset turned towards his task.
Slipping beneath a crooked arch, he took up position at the edge of the chasm, filled here with yet more of the golden leaves, and closed his eyes. With a breath, his muscles relaxed despite the precarious drop just inches from his toes, and his magic danced attentively in his veins. He sent it out with a thought, ignoring the strange and familiar sensation that came with opening himself up to the world, and settled in on the pulse of the reservoir. He found it quickly; the effort became easier with every attempt. With another trained breath, he gathered his strength, reined in his adrenaline, twisted his fingers and dropped his intent into the chasm.
A near-immediate tremor started violently beneath his feet. He ignored it completely. He heard the edges of the chasm crumble, felt the gap before him widen, but his concentration was unharried.
The intangible force moved, and his spell formed a gulley, leading the incensed magic choicelessly along a route of his choosing, its rebellion helpless against its practised walls. He watched in his mind's eye as the dreadful rift surged south at his bidding, striking out towards Víla's Rest to deepen the Red Canyon.
The familiar throb began in his head, but he rose above it, as necessity had taught him to do, and the sweat passed like a phantom over his skin. And then, quite suddenly, the magic seemed to join him. As if convinced by his commanding power, it ceased its struggle and began rolling along the gulley with zeal, spreading further into the world on his efforts and its own momentum.
Progress hastened until the chasm was well beyond his reach, but even when his eyes opened and his quickened breath escaped him in a ragged puff, he knew it would continue as instructed even without his guiding hand.
It took only a moment to regain himself. This time, dizziness hadn't touched him. His strength was improving. But any sense of victory was obliterated before it could form by a single utterance of praise.
He turned, darkening despite the overwhelming peace of the place, and stared into the face made almost truly silver in the moonlight.
Liogan smiled back with nauseating sweetness. "Oh, what is it?" she cooed. "Too old for a pat on the back? Mm...well, perhaps you are. Perhaps you'd prefer..." But her nose scrunched up instead. Apparently even a perverse joke was too sickening for her if it involved one not entirely elven. But it still piqued his irritation. "Regardless, I am surprised you've managed this much." Her tone hardened with condescension. "You're getting distracted again, Salus."
"It can't be helped," he replied venomously.
"Oh, but it can. You know your priorities, Keliceran, and yet, somehow, not only are you letting yourself get distracted at all, but by the wrong thing! You went after that lockbox based on a hunch and then you held back when mages attacked the town."
The irrational fire that had sparked at her arrival all but raged in his eyes. "How do you know about that?"
"Ohh, my dear, how do I not know about that? Do you think I just pop in when I feel like it and ignore you otherwise? Do you think any of us do? Oh, no, we watch you, my dear, and we watch you closely."
"And yet, it happened over a week ago."
"Oh!" Her hands rose to her mouth, concealing a feigned look of surprise. "Silly me! I forgot! Suddenly you're older and wiser now - you've corrected it all, and you would never let such a thing happen again, would you? Such a distraction happen again?" Her hands dropped to her hips, and she regarded him with a bitter, mocking smile. "No. Of course you would. You're a child, Salus, chasing whims like butterflies, dividing your attention so far that you couldn't possibly linger on one thing long enough to get bored of it." She continued over his bluster. "You need to set your priorities straight, once and for all, or there is no hope for you. We will turn to another. You are not the only one of elven blood among your people - I believe you already know of one other..."
His blood boiled and his tongue fell suddenly paralysed behind his teeth. He seethed so violently that he could have thrown her into the chasm, and he was made angrier by knowing in his gut that, on some level, she was right. But he also knew, behind his rage, behind his insult, that Doana was just as genuine a threat; he wasn't working to this elf's whims, he was working to his own ends, towards Turunda's safety, and he was not going to play so deep into her hands that the moment he saved it, it fell.
But...he had let mages attack. He'd turned away from that fact to spare himself the shame that now stared him full in the face with her blunt and intentional words. Because he could have stopped them. But he'd chosen not to. He'd chosen to let people get hurt instead.
But...only a few. A handful. For the greater good. And none had actually died.
His eyes returned to her from their haze. She was studying the leaves with some interest from over her shoulder.
"There's a general riling within your magic, you know," she told him as casually as if she were pointing out the weather. "It's making you angry. And it's born of doubt. I can feel that much." Her cold eyes flicked towards him. "Doubt of your subordinates. Doubt of your king. Doubt of your wench's love - an older wench, I note - and doubt, even, of yourself..." She straightened and began to wander about the curious little nook, unconcerned in her sleeveless gown by the chill that bit even deeper to the bone now that night had truly descended. "The only thing you seem certain of at all is that your beautiful country deserves saving - but, how much of it? Certainly not all its people, not the king, nothing that isn't human...and...oh, well, dare I even ask the question?"
His eyes bore into her. "Ask it."
She turned and smiled sweetly again. "Can you even save it?"
His rage sparked anew and, this time, he lunged for her. But she only chuckled, teleporting back just out of his reach, and knocked a bolt of fire aside with the back of her hand as though it was a fly. Then, an instant later, she was before him, filling his blood-hazed vision, and his wrists were clasped in a single, sharp-nailed hold. "Never," she smiled as he tried in vain to free himself from the impossibly powerful grasp, "raise your hand against me again. Or you will discover just how far beneath me you really are."
She released him and turned casually away as his hands dropped like lead. He stared at her in castrated fury as she peered at the pearlescent snow over one of the statues. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. These papers of yours - in the lockbox you valued above the welfare of your people - ooh," she sucked air through her teeth. "You're not going to like them."
"Why?" His heart raced in a sudden frenzy. What was it? Were the plans a threat? Absolute? Unstoppable and already in motion? 'Or,' his eyes narrowed 'is she just toying with me?'
But "you'll have to wait and see," was all she said. "Oh, and, also, that ratty little girl got away from you." Her expression didn't change at his confusion. "Oh yes, two days ago - hadn't you discovered that yet? They didn't catch the one you wanted, they botched it and grabbed the desert rat instead. Your people were killed. Both of them. One was stabbed to death with some kind of...taint...ugh, oh, it was--" she gagged animatedly.
He stopped listening. He fell as still as stone even while the voice bellowed in the depths of his mind.
Koraaz.
There had been nothing for five days, not since they'd vanished from Ferna, and he'd had too much else to deal with to try to chase them down. But he'd sent a phidipan and portian after them, and...both of them had been killed?! ...How was that even possible?
Success rates had improved drastically since he'd rid himself of the phaeacians, but now it seemed the phidipans were heading in the same direction. The portian himself was a new elevation - a bad call, evidently. He should have known better. He should have pulled a mage out of cover to go after them, and sent a more experienced portian. Koraaz was important enough. But he had them all stationed in other locations - the Order and the
palace, among others...
So, the fault was his.
But they should both have been capable. Neither, so far as he had heard, were killed with magic beyond that which Karth was capable of - and if the first had been foolish enough to be killed by his 'taint', then the second would have been easily overpowered with a Sulyaxist's magic.
So what had Koraaz done during all of this?
He tuned back in at the mention of Kalokh. "Where?"
"In the northern pass," she repeated witheringly. "Their numbers are few - but you know better than most that it takes but one persistent woodcutter to fell the oldest, tallest oak."
"The northern pass..."
Liogan rolled her lavender eyes at his distraction and summoned a méridienne, flared out her skirts and lay languidly across it, staring up at the stars.
The northern pass. The Crown had just ordered them away from that border - ordered them explicitly - and now Kalokh were moving in? They had probably already been waiting for a window, and their withdrawal had provided it...but Skilan had stomped them into the dirt just months ago. They were in no state for war right now, especially against a country whose military was this close to pristine - but that military was also distracted by Doana.
And yet one would think they would wait for fighting to actually break out if their numbers were that small. Why risk drawing any attention at all? There was more to it. They knew something...
...Or did the Crown know something? It had been their order to withdraw - from that area, specifically. Salus had felt at the time that the Crown was almost trying to blind themselves so he'd kept a few individuals out there just in case, but with his numbers thinned, he could only do so much. And now Kalokh were marching towards them through that very pass, and far too soon. As if they'd known his people were going to be ordered away. Had prepared for it. Had trusted it.