by Aldrea Alien
Feeling rushed back to his cheek, the flesh stinging both inside and out. Tears pricked his eyes. He rubbed the grit from them and glared up at the man. “You’d rather let those men die?”
“No, I’d prefer a hundred men like them to bastards like you. But the most I can grant is a comfortable death.” He straightened and commanded a woman clutching a small wooden board over to his side with the twitch of his head. “See that this troublemaker is sent to the front line, immediately.”
“Yes, sir!” The woman bobbed, writing furiously on the board, and scurried off.
“You like to argue with your superiors, precious? We’ll see how long that lasts after facing down some real terrors. Those monsters from Udynea won’t show you mercy like I do. Now get up and get yourself cleaned. You want to help people live? You can by doing what you’re bred for.”
He waited until the lieutenant had turned his attention back to the injured before daring to touch his cheek again. No blood, not even a graze, just incredible heat. Dylan fumbled in his belt pouch for his shaving mirror. The surface revealed a massive red welt marking his skin.
By the time Dylan had staggered to his feet, the man Fetcher had previously spoken with appeared. He also held a board. Dylan eyed the paper clipped to it. What had the woman written? There was no question it was about him, but what?
“Well, now,” the man said. “Fetch certainly wasn’t lying about you being high maintenance, was she? Haven’t even had the chance to get you measured for your uniform and the lieutenant’s sending you into the thick of it. He must’ve really taken a disliking to you.”
Dylan bit his tongue. He hadn’t thought of it that way. His first official day in the army and, already, he’d managed to turn someone against him. Wonderful. And for what? His gaze swung back to the injured. One of them was now covered in a blanket. I could’ve saved them. He was more than a sword.
They left the infirmary, the layout of the tents thinning and growing increasingly more like sheets draped over poles as they neared the edge of the camp.
“You’ll be staying here for the next few nights,” the man said, indicating a large tent with a distracted twitch of his head. He rifled through the pages clipped to the board. “There’ll be a small group leaving for the front line then. That’ll give us time to see you adequately dressed. At least we won’t have to make room for another bed. You can have Lilly’s.”
“Won’t she object?”
“She won’t be doing anything. She was with the lot you saw outside the infirmary. Took the brunt of their attack.”
Dylan frowned. He didn’t recall seeing anyone in the army-issued dark green robes amongst the wounded and they wouldn’t bring a corpse back to camp. “I don’t…” What of the other tent Fetcher had entered? A wounded and leashed spellster would likely require special attention, perhaps something only a hound could do. “Is she—?”
“Dead? Oh, very much so.” His head lifted and, for a moment, Dylan swore there was pity on his face. “Just…” He sighed. “Try to keep your head down tomorrow. Remember your place and there’ll be no trouble.”
Grunting, he slipped into the tent only to halt in the entrance. The tent-flap slapped his back, jolting him, but he moved no further.
Blankets lay across the majority of the space, save for a thin strip along the outer edges. Ten distinct spots in all, big enough to perhaps hold two people each although he doubted they’d cram twenty bodies into a single tent.
Soft mumbling drew his gaze. One of the spots by the pole was already twice full, the all but unseen occupants huddled beneath the blankets practically sleeping on top of each other. Five other people milled near the far end of the tent. They eyed him with all the wariness of a cornered kitten as he ventured deeper into the space.
Movement on his left caught his eye. An elven woman he vaguely recalled as being of insurmountable will and power, quietly rocked in the corner near the entrance.
His gaze slid back to the others. They seemed unconcerned with their companion’s actions. In fact, the more he looked at them, the more he saw the same expression as Ava. It was a sort of hollowness embedded in the eyes, like a light had been snuffed.
Dylan fingered his collar. The metal band didn’t have to be around his neck. His head, his waist… the infitialis worked the same regardless. But a coronet could slip free and a belt was ungainly. Collars didn’t fall off so easily.
They need us. The kingdom feared them, that was what his guardian had taught him. The crown put them in leashes of unstable metal because of a need to control what they feared.
Did he look like these people, too? The blatant lack of will? Was the nagging pressure he felt behind his eyes meant to be there? Did it bore into his ability to perceive pain until all feeling vanished?
No, that was impossible. Sulin had never mentioned infitialis affecting the mind like that. The only ability it possessed was for the suppression and negation of magic. Whatever had happened to these people, the collar wasn’t to blame.
That thought didn’t make him feel any better.
Dylan trudged through the forest, close on the heels of the fair-haired sergeant who was in charge of granting him sanction to use his power should the need arise.
Although he couldn’t see them most of the time, he knew there were scouts and archers spread out around them somewhere amongst the bushes and the trees. When he did catch their passage, it was in flashes of shadow. An unnerving sight if he hadn’t known they were on the same side.
The peep and screech of little fantailed birds dogged their every step. It didn’t matter where they went, the russet-breasted creatures were always there, seemingly popping out of the very bark. The presence was a welcome one, a reminder of the tower gardens during summer.
They headed west, as far as he could determine via flashes of sunlight through the treetops, towards the border where Udynea’s troops waited for the opportunity to strike. Except the full might of the enemy had been silent for weeks. An act that was, by and large, unprecedented. It made the soldiers jittery.
When he had reached the front line, Dylan caught scraps of conversation, enough to piece together that the last time the Udynea Empire halted their assault, they’d attacked several days after with a force strong enough to slaughter a good deal of the army.
That’s why this scouting party roamed the forest, to discover what plan the bastards had cooked up and, hopefully, sabotage it before the enemy was aware. Dylan was this company’s reassurance should they stumble upon any enemy spellsters. And they would, the closer they got to the border, the surer everyone seemed that they’d unearth some sort of sordid nest of… them.
Spellster. His skin crawled at the way the soldiers back at camp spoke the word. It felt dirty. More slur than description. They didn’t seem to see anything wrong in how it left their mouths. Or that he was one of them. But he was leashed. Tamed. In their minds, a collar of purple metal made all the difference.
The sergeant stopped, indicating Dylan do the same with the silent lifting of a fist. The man pointed to their left. Something moved amongst the undergrowth. Too swift and surefooted to hear, but the shadows suggested something not normally found wandering the forest.
One of theirs or one of ours? He flexed his fingers, prepared to let loose with a blast of lightning should sanction be given. After weeks of being able to reach his power only at the behest of a hound, and briefly at that, he longed for a reason to use it beyond healing himself, to have the full power sing through his veins. Even if it meant killing.
A woman, elven and quite slight in her armour, emerged from the bushes. She dashed up to the sergeant’s side, saluted and fell into stride with the man.
Dylan sighed. Another bloody false alarm. After hearing the soldiers talk back in the main camp, he had expected to come across some sort of Udynean resistance by now. Were they even going in the right direction?
“Report,” the sergeant said. “Have you found any sign of these bastards?”
>
“All we have found are ruins, sir,” the woman replied, jerking a thumb in the direction she’d come from. There was something in her voice—the careful way she spoke each word, drawing out the vowels—that reminded him of Launtil. Could she be another ex-Udynean slave converted to their cause? “Could be dwarven.”
Dylan’s head lifted at that. Ruins suggested something a little more substantial than the arboreal huts the ancient dwarves usually built. Whilst their treetop homes did little to the environment, the choice also left current dwarves very few remains to study.
The sergeant cursed under his breath. “Just what we need in the middle of a battlefield.”
“Sir? Your orders?” She shuffled from one foot to the other, glancing over her shoulder every so often. “Aren’t we meant to mark ruins for the dwarves?”
The man sighed. “Suppose we better go take notes, measure things out, the usual twaddle. Don’t want a war with Dvärghem on top of fighting off these magical pissants.”
Dylan cleared his throat. “You are aware Dvärghem is a peaceful country, aren’t you?” He’d dealt only with hedgewitches, who carried daggers and the like to protect them from predators and those unaware of their status, but he knew the one thing the dwarves didn’t have was an army. On the whole, their country preferred words over weapons.
Sneering, the sergeant turned his head. “Well now, precious, aren’t you just full of information? Bring in the other scouts.” This order was directed at the woman. “And get me whoever can accurately map this ruin.”
The woman snapped a salute. “I believe Jasilla’s qualified in that field, sir.”
The sergeant grunted, waiting until the woman had gone before muttering, “Great, another bloody elf to deal with. Don’t know what the captain’s thinking sending them all on scouting missions. Why don’t the sodding pointy-eared bastards just shuffle off back home?”
Dylan idly scratched at where the bottom edge of his collar dug into his skin. He’d heard from the elven spellsters who’d been born beyond the tower on how their presence wasn’t always an accepted one. He hadn’t truly believed it. “And are you going to gift them with the ships and supplies to make it back? All of them?”
History said the first elves arrived via a small fleet of five ships, but they’d been large vessels that carried thousands of men and women. There had to be hundreds of thousands of them now, if not several million.
The man sneered, warping his thin moustache. “You’re awfully mouthy for a leashed spellster. Wish the lieutenant would’ve let me bring the cute black-haired one instead. She knows how to stay silent.” His lips twisted into a grin that left Dylan with a flesh-shuddering urge to bathe. “And doesn’t mind when her mouth’s full.”
Dylan frowned. He’d seen one black-haired woman amongst the other spellsters on the front line and she was a timid thing, the sort that made it hard to picture as being a source of destruction, as was so often the case when it came to the skilled ones. But surely, the sergeant wasn’t implying that—
“Ha! Look at the shock on your face. Yes, pretty boy, I mean when she’s sucking me off.” His grin widened, showing a full row of perfect teeth, and he thrust his groin out for emphasis. Dylan really could’ve done without it. “What’s she going to do? Sure as hell can’t turn her magic on me.”
“That’s a misuse of your ranking and abuse of those under your command.” Not to mention a dozen other illegal acts if he was forcing her to do the deed. “I could have you reported on those charges alone.” Although, if the lieutenant’s feelings on spellsters was common, anyone higher up the chain of command probably didn’t care what the man did to their weapon as long as he left her capable of doing her job.
“Already been done, sunshine. Why do you think you’re the one they sent?” Chuckling, the man clapped an arm around Dylan’s shoulders. “Aw, are we feeling a teensy bit left out? Longing to wrap your lips around a nice thick one?”
He drew back and sought for his magic. Just one bolt. That was all he needed to take this sick bastard down.
The collar crackled. Little sparks bit into his neck. He clenched his teeth, focusing on how tantalisingly close his power dangled. He could almost feel it in his grasp. Maybe if he was able to push that little bit more…
Still, the collar held. It burned against his skin, but it held.
“Well, I don’t do other men.” The man released him, oblivious as to how close he’d come to being dead, and continued walking. “But don’t worry, that pretty face will attract the right sort of attention soon enough. You’ll be on your knees and servicing your own little group in no time.”
Dylan swallowed the bile sliding up his tongue. He’d no interest in men, whether it was doing or being done by. His gaze slid to the sergeant’s dagger sitting temptingly in its sheath. His fingers twitched. Could he…? No. Even if, by some miracle, he relieved the sergeant of the weapon, he’d never be fast enough to stab the man, much less fatally.
“Hitch up your skirts, princess, we’re on the move.” With a grin that had Dylan wanting to deck him, the man took off in the direction the scout had indicated.
Dylan’s thoughts slid to the razor still tucked nice and safe in his belt pouch. The edge was sharp enough to cut a man’s throat. Maybe in his sleep. He rather doubted the man would be missed. But not yet. He’d wait a few days first, let them think all this marching through the undergrowth had cowed him. He would not wind up looking like those hollow creatures he’d left back at the main camp.
They trudged through the forest, pushing past bushes and ducking low branches. Dylan begrudgingly lifted the ends of his robe as the hems started to snag on the undergrowth. Bare twigs scratched at his boots, several snapping up to lash his bare knees.
Just as he was beginning to regret turning down the offer of trousers, they broke into a clearing.
Dylan halted at the tree line, his breath all but stolen at the sight. For the past ten years, he’d dedicated his life to translating the records others gave of places like this. Old hints of when the dwarves once roamed over vast tracks of land. He’d longed to see, however briefly, a dwarven ruin and to stumble upon this. True, it was naught but a few stone walls sitting in the dead centre of the clearing, however…
He took a few steps towards the ruin. No contesting the structure was old, but was it truly dwarven? The hedgewitches always said the ancient dwarves lived in the trees—they still did in Dvärghem—and didn’t build much out of stone unless natural caves were involved.
Each wall was built of great slabs as tall as the average man’s waist. Their lines were arrow-straight, distinguishable from each other only due to the thin suggestion of grime between the blocks. If the ruin once had a roof, it was long gone, if he were to judge by the sunlight streaming through the archway. He knew of no human buildings that were so meticulously designed.
So why was it in the middle of nowhere?
The rest of their troop appeared in ones and twos. They eyed the ruin, twitchy but curious. None seemed interested in venturing closer.
He glanced at the sergeant. The man appeared to pay him no mind, being heavily engrossed in debriefing the scouts. Dylan shuffled a few steps towards the ruin. Still, his activity went unnoticed. Perhaps he could get close enough to determine just who had built it.
By the time he’d crossed half the distance between the sergeant and the closest stone wall, Dylan had forsaken all attempts at subtly. Nevertheless, he’d have a quick check over his shoulder every few steps to ensure the sergeant was nearby, for even if the man wasn’t bothered if he wandered a little ways, staying within earshot would be prudent lest the call to attack came.
Finally, the wall loomed over him. Carvings adorned the slabs closer to the archway, worn by centuries of exposure to the elements. They did indeed look to be dwarven runes. By the gods. He laid a hand on one, his fingers settling into the double-pronged design. Never had he believed he would get a chance to see these ancient places for himself. Especiall
y not such a rarity.
This had to be a temple. The markings could’ve once suggested worship of… something. There were scratches and etching over the runes. Newer. A possible defacing from young Demarn tribes or even rival dwarves. What lay beneath could’ve been a tree, or a valley, or even a depiction of a fork in a river that no longer flowed through these woods.
Dylan sighed and dropped his hand. The runes could’ve suggested far too many things. That the structure was most certainly a temple was all he could be sure about. Dwarves worshipped nature, paying equal homage to the land as they did to the animals they hunted. This particular temple could’ve been dedicated to anything.
What he needed was a compilation of finds in the area. Sadly, the only one he’d trust was back in the tower. One of Dvärghem’s hedgewitches would’ve been better, but if there was one within the camp grounds, then he’d heard no word of them.
Another scout emerged from the undergrowth, yet another elven woman. The sergeant spoke briefly with her and the elf strode up to the blocks. She halted beside Dylan to run a finger over the carvings, her lips mumbling slightly. So this was the scout who kept track of the dwarven finds? She was a tiny thing, even for an elf, barely making the middle of his chest. What did that other woman say her name was?
“Jasilla, isn’t it?” Dylan said, ducking his torso so as not to loom over her. “If you want some help, I can—”
“N-no, thank you.” She stared up at him, her large eyes—as black as her short-cropped hair—widening further. “T-that’s quite unnecessary.” She put a few carefully-measured strides between them as she spoke, in the same accent as the other scout. Her hand lifted in silent warning for him to stay back. “I can manage without your assistance. This doesn’t require blowing anything up. Just, uh… go wait by your handler, if you would.”
He frowned at the woman. Handler? That was a Udynean term used for those who looked after the slaves. The sergeant was his warden.