Taelyn held out a hand and said, “I’m just here for supplies. I don’t want to stir up trouble.”
“Hear that, Harlow?” the keeper shouted to the group that had, at some point, started listening instead of talking. “The lad’s here for supplies. No need to grumble.” He turned back to Taelyn and said, “The man’s not happy if there’s nothing to grumble about. What’s your name, lad?”
“I’m Eric,” Taelyn replied. Cazmeran had chosen the name.
“Well met, Eric. I’m Otto,” the keeper said. “You new to mining?”
“Well, I’m not really a miner. I’m here for my father,” Taelyn said, trying not to sound like he was reciting story.
“You part of that group over in the next valley?” asked Otto. “There were three families there, I think.”
“Yes, that’s right.” It wasn’t part of the story, but it sounded good.
“Well, then, you’re not exactly a stranger,” said Otto. “We met another of your lot just last week. Higurd, he said his name was. Said he had a few strapping young lads more useful for errands than digging, but you’ll learn the trade soon enough, I expect. I’ll let you be so you can finish your meal. Call me over if you want any more.”
Otto returned to his friends at the middle table and with a feeling of relief, Taelyn returned to his meal. He was surprised to see it all but gone. He finished the ale and thanked Otto for the meal as he left the tavern. The man assured him it was no trouble and that he was welcome back any time, no matter what Harlow said. Harlow just quietly grumbled.
When Taelyn stepped outside, he was momentarily blinded by the sudden return to normal light. He had only taken a few steps when the shouting started.
“Boy, look out!” the woman’s voice held command and urgency. Taelyn stepped backwards as quickly as he could and ran into a wall. The wagon he’d seen being loaded earlier rattled by. Without the warning, he’d have been run over. Suddenly, there was a brown horse in front of him. The woman riding it wore leather armor under a blue tabard. A lion was stitched into the cloth in gold. She wore no helm, and her black hair was held back in a short, tight braid. Her face was young and flawless.
“Watch where you’re going, boy,” she said, her brown eyes showing concern instead of anger. “Are you trying to get run over?”
“No sir, I mean ma’am,” Taelyn replied with a stammer, trying not to stare. He thought the armor and tabard meant she was a knight, but he hadn’t known women could be knights. He hadn’t known a woman could be so beautiful, either.
“Take care then,” she said, the hint of a smile turning the corners of the mouth upward. Taelyn couldn’t help notice the dimple the slight smile hinted at. She turned her horse to follow the wagon as she said, “Politeness is a virtue I’d rather not see crushed under the wheels of a wagon.”
As wagon and rider followed the road out of town, Taelyn quickly made his way in the opposite direction and silently cursed the luck being a minion of chaos seemed to inflict. He did look back to see if the woman followed or watched him. He checked several times, disappointed each time to see she simply made her way out of Arnhold.
***
Daniel drifted in and out of nightmares for an eternity. He would find himself on a hilltop, surrounded by knights he knew he commanded. Smoke and the stink of death filled the air as he looked down at a faceless mass that was the enemy. He would command the charge but no one moved. When he struck the nearest rider, empty armor toppled from the saddle. The crash startled other horses and like a field of dominoes, his army fell to the ground in piles of empty plate armor. The enemy seized on the moment and swarmed up the hill. Daniel drew his sword, knowing he would fall but intending to take as many foes with him as he could. As the seething mass of teeth and arms and claws and spears surged close, Daniel watched in horror as his armor rusted before his eyes, dropping off his body in sheets. In moments he was naked and unarmed and the enemy broke over him in a wave of biting and slashing and stabbing. Daniel would struggle to consciousness with the memory of being eaten alive still sending stabs of pain through his limbs.
The moments of lucidity were little better. Daniel was laying in the back of a cart or wagon, packed in among bundles and sacks that appeared to hold provisions and feed for horses. He could hear horses walking nearby, far more than was needed to pull even a large wagon. He could see little other than the sky and the hunched back of the driver. Now and then, he would awaken to a woman tending to him. She would check his injuries and wet the cloth tied to his head. Daniel didn’t feel fevered, but he wasn’t sure he would. The conscious moments did not last long. He would soon find himself once again on a hill, surrounded by knights, facing an unknown enemy.
Daniel lost track of how many times the faceless monsters had consumed him when he finally awoke without the sting of the nightmare. He ached in every joint, but it was the dull pain caused by laying still for too long. With a groan he lifted his hands to rub the weariness from his eyes. Every muscle was stiff; elbows, wrists and fingers sore. His face was covered by a thickening beard, at least two week’s growth. Daniel struggled to sit up and take stock of his surroundings.
“Guardian,” said a man behind him. “He is awake.”
Daniel presumed the man was the driver whose back he had occasionally seen during his few waking moments. A wave of vertigo prevented him from turning his head to look. The cart traveled down a road, so he was at least in civilized lands. Behind them, farmland bordered both sides of the road, with trees growing here and there between the wide path and low stone walls marking individual fields or pastures. Daniel was pleased to see the horse he’d dragged with him was on a lead, tied to the wagon, his bundle of belongings still on its back.
“Hello, sir knight,” said a voice to his side. “We feared the fever might take you.”
The joints of Daniel’s neck cracked as he turned to the speaker. He found the woman who had tended him riding beside the wagon. That she rode was no surprise. Any woman of breeding would prefer horseback to being bundled into a wagon. The chestnut courser she rode, however, was unexpected. The woman wore a tabard bearing arms of the Imperial Guardians. The woman’s black hair was tightly braided behind her head. Compassion showed in her brown eyes, the weakness of a woman evident. The knight must be wealthy to provide war horses for his servants.
“I am not yet undone, lady,” Daniel said. “I believe your healing efforts have ensured that, though I would know how long it has been since I wandered into your care.”
The woman laughed. It was a loud, unseemly laugh. Not a lady of breeding, Daniel thought.
“You stumbled into the mining town of Arnhold shortly after dawn five days ago,” she said. “You are lucky to have arrived when you did. We were due to leave before noon.”
Five days lost, and another dozen since the avalanche. Finding the trail again would be difficult.
“Tell me,” Daniel said, “where is your master?”
“My master?” replied the woman. “I presume he remains in Caliva with the rest of the order’s elders.”
Daniel wanted to clear his head with a shake, but he was worried the vertigo might return. How could this healer’s master have made it to the capitol in five days?
“But the knight in the village, whom you serve. Where is he?” Daniel asked.
“Ah, I understand your confusion,” she replied. “I am Dame Sarafina, knight of the Imperial Guardians.”
Daniel carefully leaned back and closed his eyes, hoping this new nightmare would end quickly.
***
It had taken three days for the eastern scouts to lead Delsaryn to an elder. The community the woman led was smaller than most, no more than thirty individuals. Five were children, one still an infant, but four had seen fifty years and had begun their schooling. Another twenty were close to Delsaryn’s century and a half, including the three scouts that had brought him here. Five elves in the group had seen more than three hundred years. All were survivors of the last w
ar the humans had waged. Only one had been an adult back then, only one was a veteran of that war over four centuries ago.
Her name was Nemyrah. The scouts claimed she was nearly a thousand years old, an unusual age even before the war. Delsaryn thought they might be exaggerating. Elves were theoretically immortal. Once reaching the century mark, their bodies didn’t age. Minds, however, grew weary and elves would wander the forests looking for a place to sleep. They would lie down and never awaken. Eventually, the body would waste away. It was believed, by the pious, that life energy would rejoin with nature to be reborn in some new form, perhaps even reincarnated to live another life as an elf. Delsaryn was not certain he was pious.
Two weeks ago, he would have scoffed at the idea of lying down and allowing himself to waste away. Two weeks ago, he had not had a vision of a god telling him to lead two humans and an orc through the forest. Now, he was not entirely certain it had been a true vision. He may have betrayed his duties as a scout for a concussive delusion. Now he sat in the shade of a great tree awaiting the arrival of a veteran of the human war, a woman unlikely to offer mercy when she had seen first hand the quality of human mercy.
Delsaryn looked up at the massive branches of the great tree. It soared above the forest canopy, its roots choking out all other large trees under the wide reach of its branches. The clearing below the tree was three hundred feet wide, the great trunk fifty feet across. In ancient times, the shapers had asked the tree to grow hollows and walkways and platforms and the tree had done so. A thousand elves could live comfortably within the embrace of a great tree and six of the trees survived within the forest. Thirty elves lived here, after two generations of re-population after the war, though admittedly, the latest generation was still growing in number. Delsaryn’s own tree was home to a hundred, with seventeen survivors of the war and six veterans. All the elves surviving in the forest could live here, in this tree, without crowding or discomfort. Such was the quality of human mercy.
The residents of the tree had been as hospitable as anyone could expect. Even knowing Delsaryn was accused of betraying his duties, they had been friendly and accommodating. The meal had been very simple but, without enough people to properly tend the gardens, there was less food and not as much variety. In contrast, he’d been given a suite of rooms that included a sun-bathed balcony and a basin fed by cisterns higher in the tree. The punishment for his betrayal would not be death or imprisonment. He would simply not be trusted again. He would have no duties, no expectations, no purpose. Delsaryn imagined he would be expected to father children, but he would never be allowed to raise them. His would forever be the idle life of a short-eared child and he would likely choose to wander off to his final sleep sooner rather than later.
Delsaryn heard footsteps and stood to face whomever approached. His fate was likely decided, but that was no reason to disrespect an elder. The woman striding toward him was small for an elf. She was half a foot shorter than Delsaryn and slender. Her hair was a light blond; it appeared green in the great tree’s shade. She wore it in a single long braid that swung back and forth behind her knees in time to her stride. The end of the braid was bound in pale gold wire just slightly more yellow than the hair. There was no doubt this was Nemyrah, for while age left her face untouched, battle had not. A web of thin scars were traced across the right side of her face, from her nose to behind her ear. The ear itself was a stump, cut cleanly to no more than two inches long. The scars also descended into her tunic. The lavender garment left the shoulder and arm of her left side bare while covering the right arm from shoulder to wrist. It was anchored in place by a loop of lace around the base of the middle finger. The tunic was cinched at the waist by a belt of linked golden leaves. Loose, pale green pants ended just below her knees, the color nearly matching the moss stains on her bare feet.
Delsaryn was unsurprised to see a springwood sword hanging from the golden belt on her left hip. It was a simple, unadorned sword. There were no jewels or decorations that might endanger a sure grip. The blade on the right side was unexpected. The knife’s hilt appeared to be brass wrapped in crimson leather. A brass cross piece separated the hilt from a sheath that implied a curved blade nearly a foot long. It was clearly of human origin.
“You wonder at the blade, young one,” she said. Her slight smile was unmarred by the scars and amusement lit her amethyst eyes.
“I do, elder,” Delsaryn replied.
Nemyrah strolled to the edge of the grove as she reached a hand up to touch her scars. Delsaryn fell into step behind her as she said, “The humans demonstrated the effectiveness of a sharp edge. We, in our arrogance, ignored the multitude of minor cuts they inflicted. They waited to land the killing blow until we had bled out our strength and could no longer lift a sword to once again bat them away. The blade is to remind me of the price of arrogance. Tell me, child, why you chose to assist two humans and their slave move through our lands.”
“Elder,” Delsaryn said with a bow of his head, whether Nemyrah could see it or not. “I was struck in the head with a tree branch. While unconscious, I believed Illyathen sent me a vision. He asked me to aid them.”
“A vision?” Nemyrah said as she turned to face him. “And what made you think to believe a vision inspired by a blow to the head?”
“Just before I was hit,” he replied, “I was visited by a green sparrow. It prevented me from loosing an arrow.”
Namyrah didn’t exactly sneer, but was clearly incredulous. “Did this sparrow hold you at sword point?”
The elder’s incredulity didn’t anger Delsaryn; he wasn’t sure he believed it either. “No, elder, it perched on my arrow. Elder, I’m neither pious nor superstitious, but--”
“But it seems you are,” interrupted Nemyrah. “You let a bird and a delusion divert you from your duty.”
“Elder please--”
“Quiet, child,” she interrupted again. “You have said enough; be at peace. If you are truly pious, truly a believer in omens and signs, then your lapse is understandable if still unforgivable. Indeed, it is not really your failure but those of your own elders for allowing you to join the scouts when you were more suited for scholarship and priesthood. A scout, one who does not believe in superstition, would pursue his duty regardless of where it led.”
“What if it truly was Illyathen?” asked Delsaryn.
Nemyrah’s sudden feral snarl sent him scrambling backward. She pulled the tunic off her right shoulder and arm, baring herself in the act. Fighting in the elven style would have the swordsman leading with the right arm. That side would be more likely to take cuts and punctures in battle. Not a single inch of elder Namyrah’s right side was without a scar. Most were ragged and wide, almost gouges through her flesh, as if they had hung open some time before healing. “Illyathen and the rest abandoned us as we fought and bled and died to defend the forests! He chose to stay his hand when the humans ravaged us! If he wants you to spare these intruders, these spies, let him stop you himself!”
The elder stopped and stepped back as she slowly replaced her tunic, smoothing the front with hands that still trembled with fading rage.
“A child cannot be blamed for mistakes made due to mistaken beliefs,” Namyrah said softly. “One with the true heart of a scout would ravage the enemies of our people as they have ravaged us. One who corrected the mistakes made as a child would prove the truth of his heart.”
Delsaryn slowly got to his feet, not daring to look the elder in the eye. But Namyrah had turned her back on him and now gazed out at the forest that surrounded the great tree.
“I will track them down and silence them,” he said. “As my duty as a scout requires.”
Without further word, Delsaryn turned and ran to retrieve his belongings, the fire of purpose burning in his veins. Behind him, elder Namyrah absently fondled the hilt of the knife inscribed with a prayer to Fereth, the human goddess of wrath.
She smiled as she whispered, “Show them the mercy of humans, my child.”
<
br /> When Oabdi arrived at the willow grove, Aylathan already paced the lawn. Birds squawked their indignation at the historian’s arrival and a squirrel chattered angrily from somewhere within the tangled wall of shrubs. The great willow shifted in the wind and the nearest branches almost seemed to be reaching out to ensnare him. Oabdi did not fail to notice that nothing else in the grove responded to the wind that he did not feel.
Oabdi carefully approached the god of the forest, keeping well out of the willow’s reach. “Cousin, I have come as you asked. Please let the tree know I am a friend.”
Aylathan looked up with a start and upon seeing the menace of the willow said, “Calm, my friends, Oabdi here is an ally.”
The tree and birds quickly returned to their peaceful state, though the squirrel threw a half-eaten nut in Oabdi’s direction before offering a final twitch of a puffed out tail and disappearing into the bushes.
“It’s good to see that some of your followers follow direction,” Oabdi said with a grin.
“I’m sorry about that,” replied Aylathan. “Squirrels are quick to anger, but offer a treat and he will soon forget. They sense my unhappiness. I have lost a revered elder.”
“Not, I hope, to the shepherd and his allies?” asked Oabdi. There were so few allies available that internal conflict would be catastrophic.
“No, they appear to have moved peacefully through the forest and are on their way,” replied Aylathan. Oabdi barely suppressed a sigh of relief. “I have discovered that many of my oldest followers have been usurped by other members of our family. My people revere their elders. The younger ones will be difficult to turn to our cause.”
Neutral Parties Page 6