by Keith Ahrens
The table is laden with steaming piles of roasted vegetables, fruits, and a small amount of meat. The diminutive goblin leads the humans to the table before pulling free the chain that links their manacles to each other.
On the opposite side of the table sits a dozen elves in matching armor, save for one empty seat in the middle. Their breastplates gleam in the reflected moonlight, and the chainmail seems to flow like a light fabric. The fine-boned features of their faces stare off into the middle distance, just above the heads of the disheveled and dirty humans. Neither side says a word as the cart rattles back off toward the cell block.
The prisoners glance at each other, uncertain as to what to do. Minutes pass in an uncomfortable silence, while more than a few stomachs growl at the smell of hot food. Finally, a raw-boned blonde woman, whom Haynes recognizes immediately as Olivia, steps up and says, “Screw this, I'm getting some while it’s hot!”
She reaches over with her manacled hands and picks up a piece of charred meat. With an angry movement, the elf directly across from her grabs her wrist in a flash of polished metal.
“Filthy human slaves will wait on the pleasure of our Lord Dullahan. Reign in your poor manners or I shall take your hand at the wrist!” the elf says angrily through clenched teeth.
“No need to be rude, Santa's little helper.” She returns his glowering eyes with defiance and a small half-grin on her lips. The elf twists her arm enough to reveal her tattoo and briefly glances at it.
“Like what you see there, Legolas?” she spits out, staring him down.
“You’re no match for me, Human. Do you really want to test me?” the elf sneers.
Haynes glances back at the table again, but no knives or even a single fork are on the prisoners' side. Even the shackles' chain connecting their hands is too short to allow much of a swing.
With a small, lopsided smirk, the human slave drops the piece of meat back onto the plate, and the standoff comes to an end. The elf waits for a beat before letting go of her hand. Both sides relax.
But then, in a move obviously calculated to maximize the insult, she flicks her greasy fingers at the elf. Gobs of melted animal fat spatter across his polished breastplate. The elf stares in shock for a moment then begins cursing in his language. He steps back to make room to draw his sword, but the two knights flanking him stand and restrain his arms.
Two human men step in front of Olivia while she breaks into a loud laugh. “Fuckin' prissy little fairy tale! Bring it on, Keebler!” She tries to push her way to the front again, but the others hold her back.
Just then, a fanfare of trumpets announces the arrival of Lord Dullahan and his retinue. The gates below the castle swing open, and a large, ornate carriage, drawn by four regal, horse-like beasts, enters the practice yard. The driver keeps the team moving at a sedate pace while the trumpets’ blaring continues. As it draws nearer, a few humans, Haynes included, are surprised to see a single horn on each of the horses’ heads.
The coach makes a lazy arc and comes to a gentle stop some twenty feet from the table. The driver hops down from his perch and placed a wooden step under the carriage door. He then opens it with a bow and a flourish, announcing, “His Lord Seneschal, Dullahan of Terram Caeruleum!”
In unison, the elven knights drop to a knee with their right fists crossed over their chests.
Lord Dullahan steps into the doorway, purple cape swaying with the movement, soft deerskin boots spread apart and hands on his hips over a thick golden belt. The trumpets fanfare builds to a crescendo and then stops, much to everyone's relief.
“Well, isn't this just fancy?” mutters one of the captives. A few other prisoners snicker and try to hide their laughter.
Dullahan ignores them and steps down from the high coach, affecting a casual walk to the table. Behind him, the Captain of his guard and several other figures exit the carriage in a less dramatic way.
“Welcome my loyal servants!” begins the Lord of Terram Caeruleum. “I've had a feast prepared for you tonight in honor of our imminent battle and victory! Tonight, you will dine with your betters and allow my Lieutenants to meet and assess each of you. Rise and be seated, my loyal Lieutenants!” Dullahan makes a magnanimous gesture to the kneeling knights, who in turn stand and bow. Then, each one takes a seat at the table and removes their gauntlets and open-faced helmets.
Dullahan, the Highborn elf and ruler of this fiefdom, steps forward and claims the seat in the middle of the table. He begins to pick at the offerings while his Captain stands behind him, alert and stoic.
“My Lord… what of your other guests?” asks a quiet but sibilant voice from behind. The rest of the leader's retinue still stands in an awkward group behind the seated lord.
“What? Skemend, do you expect me to dine with humans and the rest of you lot? My patience and manners stretch only so far!” he replies with a disdainful sneer. “Occupy yourselves for the moment.”
A tall elf in outdated court garb then steps in front of the group and says, “Come, my friends, we may be ignored by the Gentry, but that doesn't mean we have to stand for it. Skemend, if you please?”
The troll nods and mutters a few words. With a gesture, five small stools of various sizes appear in a circle, and a low table fades into existence in the middle of them. From the folds of his dated brocade jacket, the elf, Osmanthus, produces a blue, glass bottle and several goblets in a satchel.
“My dear Thorn,” Wylde says and takes Thorn's hand, escorting her to a seat as the wizard troll, Skemend, and the others take their own.
Haynes immediately looks up at the sound of her name but cannot see past the armored knights before him.
Dullahan pops a small grape into his mouth. “Yes, Jester, take charge of my advisers. I oft think you may be the wisest amongst them.” Now he glances at the line of humans still standing in front of him. “Please, my vassals, eat! This feast is in your honor after all.”
“Oh, no, the honor is all ours!” replies Olivia, heavy on the sarcasm. “Take off these handcuffs, and we can thank you properly!”
The assembled knights tense, and one of them reaches for the hilt of his sword.
“Stay your hand, my good knight! This is why we employ these humans, for their fighting spirit! Their stubborn inability to give up!”
The blonde interrupts him here, “In our world, we're called type-A personalities, and we're not known for our patience or forgiveness!”
Dullahan ponders that for a moment. “Olivia, isn't it? I believe you were a knight of some renown in your world.”
“I was ESU1, you asshole. We used to take pretty boys like you and your friends down before breakfast every day.”
“Well then, Olivia, my dear… I don't say this lightly, but if you address me directly again with such poisoned words, I will have your tongue,” the Lord says in a casual tone, as if discussing the side dish choices. “Now, as we break bread together, I will let you all in on a great secret. The enemy Fiefdom of the Terrestris Laminis is afraid of my power. They are afraid of what my vast armies and vassals can do to them! They are so fearful that they seek to bring about Mortis Causa Ludicio Exercitus two weeks early! They hope to catch us flatfooted and unaware! But I have yet another secret! A gift to each squad leader—devices of magic to allow you to achieve my victory!” He smiles widely and daintily eats another grape.
The humans react with stunned silence.
“You expect us to thank you for this?” Haynes asks, slow and incredulous.
Dullahan stops chewing. “I expect you to fight for your lives and my pleasure, nothing more and nothing less,” he retorts. “I offer you each food from my table and items of magic, and this is how you react? No wonder you will never rise above the base animals that you are!”
“Incredible. You really believe your own bullshit, don't you?” asks Haynes, staring at the bejeweled Lord.
Dullahan waits a beat and seems to choose to ignore the outburst as he continues addressing his stolen captives, “You will e
ach be issued an item that will allow you to cast a short-range, but powerful, Globus Ignis, or fireball in your crude tongue. This spell is very useful against groups of fighters, such as what you've faced before and will face again.”
“You sure do love the sound of your own voice, don't ya' now?” interjects Colt.
“Milord, I request leave to teach these rabid dogs some manners!” An outraged knight stands, sword half-drawn, acid in his voice.
“Nonsense, my good knight, this is simply high spirits! They are surely overwhelmed in the presence of their masters. Let us all enjoy the food prepared for this evening,” Dullahan says casually.
“Well now, sir, and I speak only for myself when I say I would rather slit my own throat than sit down and eat with you,” Haynes interrupts in an equally conversational tone.
“I'd rather slit his throat,” Olivia adds.
“I'd rather fuckin' starve—” Colt begins to say.
“ENOUGH! Insolent knaves! Ingrates! My patience is at an end! You will be ready in two weeks’ time to battle for your very lives! Remember this—you live at my whim and my mercy! Guards! Remove these ungrateful fools! I've had enough!” Dullahan almost shrieks in anger. He stands abruptly and waves his hand in front of him in a dismissive gesture before he turns on one heel and marches stiff-legged back to his carriage.
The ogres break rank then herd the snickering humans back to their cells.
The carriage doors slam shut, and the driver snaps his reins. The team of unicorns pulls on the braces, and the coach lurches forward, leaving a small cloud of dust billowing in its wake.
Thorn
The dust and commotion settles down, the elven knights leaving to follow their departed master. Osmanthus Wylde leans over the magically-crafted table and refills each goblet with a deep red wine. “My friends, it appears we are left to our own devices yet again. I guess this is as good a time as any.”
“The childish little Lordling runs off in a huff… it must be a special occasion,” replies an older elf. The rest of the table laugh, but the mood quickly sobers. “Yes, Wylde, now seems good enough.”
“Two more weeks, my friends, two more weeks. I assume we are all doing our parts?” Wylde takes a sip of his wine and glances over the rim.
“We've been working night and day to produce enough 'Simuli Uti' to furnish at least two to each squad, one of fire and the other healing. They are poor quality, but we've been rushed,” replies the same older elf, whose companion nods in agreement.
“I have been gathering some of the human's tools, a little at a time. But I do confess, I don't understand the use of many of them,” Skemend states.
“The use is very similar to our own Simuli Uti. They are simply objects that confer strong power to an otherwise normal person. The human version is just much more limited in what they do,” replies Wylde. “In any case, we need a way to distribute them to those we have selected.”
“I can help during my rounds of the wounded. I can bring in a few at a time,” offers Thorn.
“But can we trust them? The way they've treated us and abused us in the past…” asks the older elf. He puts his head in his hands, his thinning gray hair falling in front of his face. His shoulders slump under his dark red robes, as if under a great weight.
“Of course, we can, Castanea, at least in this instance. Everyone gets what they deserve, and everyone's interests are satisfied,” replies Wylde, turning. “Speaking of deserving, how fare your finances these days, Morus? I've heard tell you've managed to pay off a large amount of debt recently.”
The fifth member of the circle squirms in his chair. “Whatever do you mean, Osmanthus? Yes... I have come into a bit of a sum recently, but surely this is none of your concern.”
“A week ago, you practically begged an acquaintance of mine to extend your credit further, now you sit before us, bedecked in new finery and baubles. It may cause a few wiser minds some concern,” replies Wylde in a casual tone.
Morus fingers the large emerald pendant hanging close to his chest outside of a velvet green robe chased in silver thread. “I have nothing to hide. I sold a few heirlooms recently, yes, to pay some debts. Court life is expensive, as you would all know, if you had any ambition.”
“So, heirlooms are now synonymous with secrets, eh? I learn more with each passing day!” quips Wylde. “Skemend was good enough to purchase one of your 'heirlooms' just this afternoon! He has graciously agreed to return it to you at no cost.” He smiles sadly.
Skemend tosses a soggy leather bag onto the table in front of Morus. Morus stares at it but makes no move to pick it up. “Open it,” hisses Skemend.
Morus sits motionless and continues to stare at the bag. A thick, dark fluid seeps from the seams.
“Open it,” Skemend repeats more forcefully.
Castanea reaches over instead with slightly trembling hands and dumps the bag out. A wide, jagged-edged piece of pale meat flops out and lands wetly onto the wood surface. It takes Morus a moment to recognize a severed tongue. It's followed by the stump of an ear and a moist yellowed orb. Landing iris up, it stares at Morus.
Morus jumps to his feet, and his stool falls over. He shouts a word and points his right hand at Wylde's heart while his other hand makes furious gestures.
Nothing happens. Everyone else remains seated.
“Rowan wood, Morus. Rowan wood powder in your wine, you fool,” Castanea said softly and wearily. “A necessary precaution, I see now. I had hoped better of you, my old friend.”
“This is just a bloody collection of parts! What is this supposed to prove?” Morus spats defiantly, finding his voice once more.
“My pardon, good Sidhe, but did this appear to be a legal court of law?” Wylde looks around in mock confusion. The empty practice yards stretch beyond the circle of torchlight. “This is a group of conspirators and scoundrels, certainly not to be confused with conniving lawyers! I've never been so insulted!”
“The tongue is taken so the fade cannot tell tales in the next life. The eyes are taken so the spirit cannot see what should be hidden, and the ears so the ghost cannot hear what it should not hear!” intones Skemend. “It is a fitting end for traitors and spies.”
“I have other contacts! Others will notice my absence!” shrieks Morus.
“Others will know that you ran out on your latest debts! None will mourn your leaving, except your creditors,” replies Wylde with a sad smile.
Skemend chants in a rapid staccato rhythm and makes a series of gestures. The first, a tearing motion; the second, a hacking motion; and the third, a quick plucking.
Morus's grunts and groans of agony are muffled by a quick spell from Wylde. Morus struggles futilely as his tongue, his right ear, and his right eye land wetly on the table. He falls to the ground, writhing and clutching at his ruined face.
“I will miss you, my petty, ambitious friend,” Castanea says sadly before he reaches down and touches three fingers to Morus's chest, just below the sternum. Paralyzed, the traitor is frozen in place in an instant. Castanea sighs deeply while getting to his feet. He pulls a bag of powder from his brown leather belt pouch. “You were correct, it seems, Osmanthus.” With the tip of a stone dagger, he renders a rectangle in the dirt around the immobile body lying on the ground.
“I'm sorry, old friend.” Osmanthus’s face shows the shared pain by all around. “I truly am. I wish I'd been wrong. There never is a good time for affairs such as this.”
“It needed to be confirmed. This business is getting worse, but I cannot lay this at your feet. His choices were his own.” Castanea whispers a couple of words and sprinkles a few pinches of reddish-brown powder onto the body. “We can't be certain how much of our plan he sold. All of this might already be for naught.”
“Verily, however, we must continue, regardless. We have come too far to stop now. I believe that had he sold enough of our secrets, we would all be in chains right now, not sipping bad wine,” replies Osmanthus with a wry smile.
The rectangle of powder glows dark red, and the body begins to crack and crumble, as if made of dried dirt. It sinks into the ground as the glow fades, leaving no trace, no turned soil. Nothing to mark the traitor's grave.
Skemend collects his trophies from the table and places them all into the leather bag.
Thorn remains silent and wishes the whole business were over.
Shortly after Haynes returned to us, Thorne joined him. They relay the odd sequence of events that took place on the practice field, Thorn dabbing at her soft blue eyes with a scrap of a rag once they are finished. Haynes puts a comforting arm around her shoulders and hugs her silently. She leans into him, accepting the warmth he offers.
We try to respect the moment and give them both time to collect their thoughts, everyone staying silent until too many questions run through my brain, and I blurt out, “Damn. That is some sick magic they used, huh?”
Thorn sighs in the manner an exasperated teacher would with a dull third grader. “Stupid One, that’s all you could take away from our tale?”
“Well, no… not entirely. I mean, where to begin? Olivia is pretty awesome, isn’t she?” I see Haynes glare at me. “Okay. Seriously, what do we do next? Is our escape plan sunk?”
Haynes thinks for a minute, “No I don’t think so. I think Thorn’s friend was right. If we were sold out, we’d all likely be dead by now.”
“I agree. Osmanthus is canny. Nothing gets past that wily old elf. If he says we continue, then that’s what we will do. I have complete faith in him. He wants to return to your world as much as you all do. He bears a love for you humans that I am only beginning to understand…” She looks at Haynes when she says this. He meets her steady gaze, and I swear I think I see him blush a little.