A few minutes passed, after which it became clear that the approaching elves had now sensed their presence. They immediately halted and remained absolutely still for nearly half an hour. Finally, they crept closer to the camp.
Just before they were in view, Theopolou stepped forward and called out. “Come and join us as friends. Warm yourselves by our fire. We mean you no harm.”
“Your accent is that of the south,” came back a deep male voice. “Yet you venture to the Steppes. I would know why.”
“Join us and we will be pleased to speak of our journey,” said Theopolou.
There was the sound of steel sliding free - also the creak of a bowstring being drawn. A single figure stepped into the light of the fire. He was short and stocky for an elf, with close-cropped auburn hair and a ruddy complexion. He was clad in thick buckskin pants and vest, together with a pair of tan moccasins. A tiny silver horsehead hung from a chain against his chest. Theopolou recognized it as a charm worn by the elves of the northernmost tribes. His narrow brown eyes and thin lips gave him a sinister quality that most humans would find disturbing. He was wielding a short sword with a polished bone hilt.
“Why draw your weapons?” asked Theopolou. “We have not drawn ours. Are we not kin?” He took a tentative step forward. “I am Theopolou, and this is Mohanisi.”
The elf stared for a long moment. “I am Strydis, and my companion aiming an arrow at your heart is...”
Out of the shadows appeared an elf woman with bow drawn. As Strydis had said, her arrow was pointing directly at Theopolou’s heart. “I am Jylia,” she said.
She was dressed in the same buckskin pants and moccasins as Strydis, but wore a well-fitted tan cotton shirt. Her shoulder length honey blond hair was wrapped in a dozen small braids tipped with black beads. Her face was youthful and fierce, with eyes dark and intense. Theopolou guessed that she was no older than Kaylia.
“Unless you intend to kill us, I would ask you to put away your weapons.” Theopolou’s voice was stern and commanding.
“I beg your forgiveness,” said Strydis, without lowering his blade. “But we have been pursued for many days. And I must be certain you are what you seem.”
“We should kill them,” said Jylia. “We cannot risk...”
“How dare you!” roared Theopolou. “You threaten your kin with death?” Jylia stepped back, but Strydis was unmoved.
“My sister should not have suggested such a thing,” he said. “But do not pretend you are unaware of what has happened between our tribes. My people have struck at yours. Even were that not so, we would still have reason to be wary.”
“I was at the Chamber of the Maker when elf made war on elf,” Theopolou affirmed, calming his tone. “But do not speak of it as if our people are separate. I was alive during the first split. I understand far better than you what has happened, and what this means for our people. That is why we have come.”
Slowly, Strydis relaxed. His eyes bore immense sadness. “Then you have wasted your efforts.” He sheathed his sword and turned to Jylia. “I tire of fear and hate. Away with your bow. If they are false, then so be it. I no longer care.”
After a few moments, Jylia sighed and lowered her weapon. “I hope you have not doomed us.”
Strydis walked toward the fire. “We were doomed long before now.”
Theopolou and Mohanisi offered them to sit. For a time they all did so in silence.
It was Mohanisi who spoke first. “From whom do you flee?”
Strydis’ lip curled in disgust. “From the black heart that now dwells in my people. We flee from the poison of the Reborn King. He has brought hatred and death to every corner of my beloved land. He has enslaved our elders to his will, and made the very air we breathe a fume of evil.”
“How has he done this?” asked Theopolou.
“I do not know,” he replied. The anger in his voice was combined with deep sorrow. “We were once a proud and free people. Masters of the Steppes, riding our great stallions, we were under the yoke of no one. Humans feared to tread near our borders, and the Creator had blessed our people with plenty. Then he came - or at least his ambassadors did. They spoke warnings of human plots to drive us from our lands.”
“And you believed these lies?” asked Theopolou, incredulously.
“No,” he replied. “Not at first. But they convinced our elders to journey to Angrääl to seek the truth. They promised that they could show evidence of the plans that were being formed against us. Each elder that returned was somehow changed. Not long after that, strange rumors began to fly. Rumors of an elf/human alliance in the south bent on our destruction.”
“Surely, even with the word of your elders, you found this hard to accept?” said Theopolou.
“Most of us refused to believe that our kin, no matter how removed from our lives, would do such a thing.” Strydis rose to his feet and turned his back to the fire. “But then a dark shadow fell upon our souls. One by one, my people began to fall into despair and madness. They became obsessed with the idea that humans had corrupted our kin and intended to march armies north.”
But something must have caused all this,” said Theopolou. “No elder has this much power over their clan.”
“Were that so, Jylia and I would still be warm in our beds,” said Strydis. “Something has stolen their will. And those who refused to follow the elders’ insanity were cast out. Or at least, we thought they were being cast out. The discontents were told to leave and made to promise that they would not join our brethren in the south.” He looked down at his sister. “When we heard of the plan to attack the Chamber of the Maker, a group of us decided we could no longer bear to remain. We swore our oath, then left our homes behind. Twenty of us set out.” He bowed his head. “We are all that remains.”
“What happened?” asked Mohanisi.
“A day into our journey we were set upon,” said Strydis, his anger returning. “By foul creatures, cloaked in black hoods. They reeked of death and fought like demons.”
“Vrykol,” whispered Theopolou.
“We have heard this name from our legends,” said Strydis. “And perhaps that is what we encountered. I cannot be sure. Whatever they were, they slaughtered us like sheep. We barely escaped with our lives, and the beasts have been tracking us ever since.”
“How do you know they were sent by your elders?” asked Theopolou.
“One of them spoke the name of Ryslotis,” he explained. “He is a chief among our people. They vowed to bring him our heads as proof we were slain. It was then we realized just how dire our plight had become.” He faced Theopolou and Mohanisi. “If you seek to reconcile, then you will find yourself surrounded by foes. You should turn back and return to your people, lest you find a deadly reception.”
“We cannot turn back,” said Theopolou. “We are honor bound to liberate our kin from this evil.”
“Then you will perish,” said Strydis, darkly. “For no honor remains on the Steppes. They are no longer your kin.” He sat back down.
Jylia took her brother’s hand and placed her head on his shoulder.
“There is hope,” said Mohanisi, his face awash with compassion. He told them where he was from and why he had come.
Strydis and Jylia stared in utter amazement.
“Can it be?” said Jylia. She leaned forward, carefully scrutinizing Mohanisi. “Have the fathers and mothers returned? Do you have means to support this claim?”
Mohanisi nodded. “Beyond my word there is this.” He held out his palm and a tiny ball of flame appeared. “My people possess powers that yours have forgotten. Does this prove me to be true?”
Jylia flushed. “Please. I meant no offense. But if you wish to convince those snared in the jaws of Angrääl, you will need more than words.”
Mohanisi allowed the flame to vanish and smiled. “I take no offense. You are kind to advise us.”
“Where shall you go?” asked Theopolou.
Strydis shrugged. “I do not know. We had thought to sett
le in the wilderness south of the Spirit Hills, near the ruins of Santismal. I have heard rumors that there are still elves that dwell there. Perhaps we can find peace and forgetfulness among the broken tombs of the ancient kingdoms.”
“You could journey south to Althetas,” suggested Theopolou. “There you would be welcomed by your kin. Although, as war has come, I cannot promise safety.”
Strydis nodded. “It would be good to be among brethren whose hearts are still true.” He looked into Theopolou’s eyes. “It is clear that you are an elder among your people. Why they would send you on such a hopeless mission, I cannot fathom.” He removed his necklace and handed it to Theopolou. “This will gain you audience. It will not save you, but it will allow you to approach the elders unharmed.”
“Thank you,” said Theopolou gratefully.
Theopolou felt pity for his kin, so for a few hours they spoke of happier times. Mohanisi regaled them with tales of his home and the wonders of his people. The next morning they bid Strydis and Jylia a fond farewell and continued north.
“There has to be something causing this,” mused Theopolou as they walked on. “Some power being used to alter their minds.” His voice grew firmer. “As you say Mohanisi, if we are to have any hope of succeeding, we must discover the source of this curse and destroy it as quickly as possible.”
He paused before adding: “Let us pray that we can find the power to do so.”
Chapter 4
Millet gazed out on the market square of Sharpstone. Three armed thugs stood at the far end, near the entrance to the docks.
Dina and Randson had returned with a dozen sell-swords and two knights of Amon Dähl. He had hoped for more, but word had reached them that Valshara had fallen. Most of the knights had traveled west to aid the High Lady. In fact, it was all Millet could do to keep Dina from doing the same. But her duty was here, and at least they had the benefit of not being entirely supported by paid swords.
Most of the people indebted to the faithful jumped at the chance of having their debts paid off, and in less than a week support for Millet had swelled. The faithful reacted by sending a delegation to the king, but Millet had anticipated this and made certain that they never arrived.
Once it was clear that the stakes had risen and Millet was not to be taken lightly, the faithful took great care to ensure that all of their movements were witnessed publicly. Millet had been successful in creating fear among them, and with the town no longer under their control, they were becoming increasingly nervous, even in crowded places like the market. There were those who had more reason than most to despise the servants of the Reborn King. More than twenty of the best young men in the village had left home to join the armies of Angrääl, and there were many parents who feared their children would never return.
Millet knew that soon the faithful would send for soldiers of their own, but a fauna bird had delivered a message to the temple of Gerath in Helenia stating that Lord Broin and Lord Ganflin were sending help. Moreover, Linis was to come as well. This news made Dina in particular brighten with joy, making it clear to Millet that she had feelings for the elf. It showed in her eyes during their late night conversations, and her reaction to his impending arrival told him that it was far beyond a passing fancy.
“You should not be out here alone,” called a gruff voice from behind.
Millet glanced back to see Bevaris, one of the Amon Dähl knights. His face was weathered and scarred from years of rough living and fighting, and his skin burned permanently brown from the sun. Though not exceptionally tall, his shoulders were nearly as broad as those of two men, and his dark brown hair was cropped short and even. A massive two-handed sword, far too heavy for the average man to wield, was strapped across his back. The many notches on its blade told of the countless battles it had been involved in.
“Everyone is out at the Stedding farm today,” Millet explained. “And you were tending the horses.”
Bevaris scowled disapprovingly. “Then you should have waited.” He looked at the thugs. “Yours?”
“No,” replied Millet. “Perhaps the faithful are desperate for protection.”
Bevaris laughed. “They would have to be to hire brigands and thieves. From the look of those three, they’d be as likely to rob their paymasters as to protect them.”
Millet nodded in agreement. “Still, we should find out if that is in fact why they’re here.”
Bevaris grunted and strode toward the trio. Millet watched as he proceeded to quietly interrogate them. Each glanced up nervously at his massive blade as they spoke in hushed tones. After only a few minutes Bevaris returned looking satisfied.
“They claimed at first that they were heading to Helenia to join a caravan west,” he said. “Of course, when I assured them that their journey would end right here unless they spoke truth, they then told me quick enough that they are on their way to Baltria. Apparently Angrääl is preparing for war, and the city is ripe with fools who are too careless with their gold.”
Millet bowed his head thoughtfully. “We should watch the river more closely. If Angrääl sends troops down the Goodbranch, they may bypass Sharpstone. We need to be able to send word to Gewey and the others about the enemy’s movements.”
“We should also prepare the house for an assault,” said Bevaris. “If they land in Sharpstone in strength, it is certain they will come for us. And we should send word to Helenia.”
“I’ll send Randson in the morning,” said Millet.
Randson, son of Barty Inglewood, the gardener, had shown himself to be far more capable than Millet could have guessed. In spite of his reserved nature, he was shrewd and well read. To his credit, Barty had seen to it that Randson had received a good education. In fact, it was Randson, and not Dina, who had managed to gain an audience with the king.
As they returned to the manor, people shouted out greetings and grateful blessings. Millet smiled inwardly to see Sharpstone’s folk so happy, even though he knew it wouldn’t last. Two black-cloaked faithful scurried to the side of the avenue at their passing, only to be tripped by Martha Tredall.
“Oh, dear! How clumsy of me,” said the cooper’s wife.
Millet couldn’t prevent himself from laughing, which brought angry stares and curses from the two men.
“You really do love to antagonize them,” remarked Bevaris with amusement. “You should just let me kill them. I could be in and out of their house before they knew what had happened.”
Millet’s smile vanished. “I may do that soon enough. But I need to know if they have information that could help us, and dead men cannot speak.”
“I’ll take a dead enemy over a live one,” said Bevaris. “And I suggest you do not wait too long to strike. If soldiers come...”
“If they come, they come,” snapped Millet. His moods had become more volatile lately. He took a deep breath. “If they come, then we will need to move quickly. I’ll have the docks watched for signs of trouble. The moment an Angrääl soldier steps foot in Sharpstone, the first thing we do is wipe out the faithful. But you’re right in that we should not delay too long regardless.”
On approaching the manor, Millet immediately noticed that the front door was ajar. Bevaris drew his sword and grabbed hold of Millet’s arm.
“Better to be safe,” said the knight. Creeping to the door and peering in, he sheathed his sword and drew out a long triangular dagger.
Millet followed as close as he dared. Just inside, two dusty packs had been pushed against the wall. Bevaris listened for signs of anyone moving within the house.
Then a familiar voice came from behind. “I suppose I should have sent word ahead.”
They spun around to see Lee Starfinder, smiling broadly. Millet let out a short laugh and embraced his old friend warmly.
“By the gods,” he cried. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you, my lord,” Lee replied.
“Is Jacob with you?” he asked.
Jacob entered. “I’m here.”
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Millet introduced Bevaris, who was looking none too pleased.
“I am honored to meet a knight of Amon Dähl,” said Lee. “Please forgive me if I surprised you.”
Bevaris bowed. “No need. My anger is directed at myself. I must be getting old to have not heard you.”
Lee laughed heartily. “Take comfort in the fact that Jacob and I have spent several weeks moving silently, so we’ve had quite a lot of practice.” He looked around. “Where is Dina?”
“She’ll be along before sundown,” Millet replied. He looked Lee and Jacob up and down. “In the meantime, I think you’ll be wanting to clean up. We can talk after.”
Millet was relieved when Lee led Jacob directly to the guest rooms rather than the master’s chambers, thus avoiding the awkwardness of making the reversal of roles obvious. He was just about to start heating water for bathing when Barty and Randson returned, along with three other hands and six hired swords.
Millet waited in the main hall until the bathing water was ready, then went to his chambers to wash and change. By the time he returned, Dina was back and sat on the sofa alongside Lee talking merrily. Jacob was sitting in a chair by the hearth staring glumly into the fire. Lydia could be heard barking orders at poor Trevor, who, in spite of the fact that Millet had hired someone to assist the old man in the kitchen, still appeared to do most of the work himself.
Millet smiled at the sight of Lee back inside the manor. But he looked different - sadder and more careworn - as if age and the many miles of road traveled had finally caught up with him. His simple dark blue pants, shirt, and low cut suede boots, though typical for Lee to wear while lounging, appeared ill-fitting to his current disposition. Millet could see behind the smile to where the pain lived. He had known the man far too long not to notice.
Millet took a seat across from them. He saw that Dina had already cleaned up and changed into a linen dress with bright yellow floral patterns and blue buttons down the front. “Did the mayor’s wife insist on you using her shower again?” he asked.
Dina laughed. “Yes. And she practically forced me this to take this outfit. She said that if I’m to be a lady of Sharpstone, I should look like one.”
The Godling Chronicles: A Trial of Souls (Book 4) Page 5