THE CHOOSING

by PhyllisAnn Welsh

  A slave stepped forward with a bowl of fruit, and the king picked up a clump of dark grapes, selected two plump specimens and popped them into his mouth.

  L’Garn waited.

  “The company will leave tonight, spend the day in the shelter of the cliff caverns, and then attack tomorrow night,” Zimpher said, his mouth full of the juicy fruit. “They will not take any captives, but merely be on an information gathering trip.”

  L’Garn could not remain quiet any longer.

  “And what will my duties be, sire?”

  He hated the knowing smile that slide across his grandfather’s thin lips. As he suspected, the king took his question to be another weakness of his human blood heritage.

  “I have issued orders that you will take over the command of the slave pits.”

  “The slave pits? But, sire! Am I being demoted? Punished for something?”

  He could not believe his grandfather would demean him in such a way in front of the entire Night Elf nation. The slave pits, by the Jewels!

  The king tossed the bare cluster of stems to the floor and reached for another handful of the plump fruit.

  “It is obvious to me,” the king said between grapes, “from your lack of appropriate handling of the human, that you have not learned the true value of a slave. Therefore, you will have command of the slave pits and the guards, where, it is hoped, you will come to a realization of the proper usage and maintenance of our property.”

  To argue with the king would only enrage him and L’Garn knew his punishment would be extended and made more distasteful. However, he could not stop himself from asking, “How long does my liege require my services in the slave quarters?”

  “Until such time as I feel you have learned your place, and the place of the slaves,” the old king screamed at his grandson.

  He had risen to his full height, standing before the throne. His crown slipped even lower over one eye, and the spittle on his lips mixed with the juice of the grapes to run down his chin onto the golden cloth of his cloak. Deep purple pulp oozed through his fingers, as he squeezed the handful of grapes unconsciously in his rage.

  “Your first duty will be to see to the extinction of all the Sea Elves we have in captivity.”

  “Sire. They are some of our most hard working and useful slaves.”

  “You dare to question your king?”

  The old elf was working himself into a crazed frenzy, it seemed to L’Garn. He couldn’t remember ever seeing him like this, and this change was making the prince very uneasy.

  “No, sire. It is just that I do not understand why we would destroy perfectly good slaves without need.”

  The old elf took a step down from the throne. His face was pulled into a mask of rage that was nearly unrecognizable to his grandson. The old pale eyes were so bloodshot, they almost appeared red. A large vein stood out from the king’s temple and ran down the side of his face to his neck. It jumped and throbbed with each word and breath Zimpher took.

  “Use your head, you outbreed tilsark,” he screamed. “If the Sea Elves are back at Shalridoor, that means they are planning to attack us at some time. We can not have the enemy alive in our own stronghold! We will kill them now so they will not have an opportunity to harm us from within!”

  Zimpher’s words made some sense to L’Garn, but to kill more than twenty elves in cold blood did not sit very well with him.

  “Perhaps we could move them deeper into the caverns and double the guards...” His words trailed away as he watched his grandfather’s face become even more alien to him, if such a thing were possible. Never had he seen such rage and hate on his face.

  Such evil.

  While Zimpher had always been stern and merciless with his grandson, L’Garn had never thought him evil. Until this moment. The skin at the back of his neck felt as if it was crawling, and the hair on top of his head echoed the sensation.

  L’Garn had the feeling he was not looking at his grandfather, but at some evil personage who had taken on the form of his king. The longer the idea stayed in his mind, the stronger it took hold of his heart. The being peering out of his grandfather’s eyes was not Zimpher the Golden, but some alien monster of unknown origin.

  L’Garn’s heart began to pound, the blood rushing through his veins, throbbing in his ears. Throbbing in time to the dark thrumming of the cavern itself.

  “Tomorrow night,” the beast inside the king said, “just as Korrander attacks the Sea Elves, you will execute every Sea Elf inside Cragimore.” The red eyes drilled into L’Garn’s brain, burning away his resistance and compelling him to obedience. “You will see to it personally, or your human pet, as well as your mother, will never see another night.”

  L’Garn swallowed the bile that threatened to erupt from his mouth, and bowed before his king.

  “I shall serve my king.”

  He straightened and then turned to leave the throne room. His instincts told him that this was not his grandfather sitting on the black crystal throne of Meedrion, but how to prove it?

  As he strode from the room, deep demonic laughter followed him through the corridors.

  The king was insane.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Feenix had no idea how long she was forced to slave away in the laundry before Lala sent for her and rescued her from the exhausting work. A century, at least, must have come and gone before she was allowed a small rest. Kelma expected the job to be perfectly executed after explaining it to the warrior woman only once. She kept her eyes on Feenix while the human slave worked, and only had to use her small stick three times to redirect Feenix’s attention.

  As the warrior woman worked, she noted the number of slaves in the laundry area, tried to estimate those in the kitchens, and most importantly, tried to count how many Night Elf guards were scattered about. This was not an easy chore, since Kelma’s stick kept her from staring for very long, and the elves seemed to change watch often. While Feenix toiled away, she counted three watch changes.

  Which only goes to prove, she thought to herself morosely, that I’ve been washing that elf-man’s dirty clothes for far too long. By the god’s left eye, my lower back and arms are ready to fall off!

  She had determined that most likely the area over by the great rock formations, which had been hollowed out, was a military station. It was from that area that the guards came and went when the change was made.

  The guards were all armed with swords, daggers and clubs of different types. Some carried whips. All seemed to enjoy using them at the slightest provocation.

  Their uniforms were padded leather tunics and leather pants. These provided basic protection from an enemy, and had the added benefit of mobility, Feenix knew. She herself preferred leather armor over metal. She wondered if she could manage to find herself in that general vicinity some day soon so she could ‘acquire’ some new clothing. Of course, it went without saying that she would also need to decorate her new wardrobe. A sharp sword and dagger would do nicely.

  During her break, a young slave handed her half a loaf of warm bread and a small crock of weak ale. She was surprised at the taste and texture of the bread. It was as good as the best baked breads to be found in Port Marcus, and that was saying quite a bit. Even Rendolin’s people couldn’t bake bread that fine.

  So, she mused to herself, that meant these Night Elves had a steady, fresh supply of wheat and must be able to grind it very fine. Interesting. All she had to do was find the mill. That was the sort of information Rendolin would need to know.

  While she ate, she watched the other slaves assigned to the laundry. One, an ugly male who seemed as old as the mountains and as broken and bent as an ancient oak tree, sat down beside her while she rested. He smelled like rotten fish and lye soap. His face and hands were brown and knotted with disease, and she wondered how he could perform any work with his deformed fingers.

  “Hey, don’t sit so close to me,” she said to him. His smell was destroying her enjoyment of the bread. Instead of gett
ing up and moving, as she had hoped, the creature sidled closer to her and gave her a hopeful look. His orange eyes were milky and vague, but she could sense some intelligence from them. The strange eye color gave her a bit of a shock.

  “Go away! Leave me alone to enjoy my rest.”

  Actually, now that she was paying closer attention to him, she realized he wasn’t an elf. Neither was he a human. In fact, he looked as if he were related to a troll.

  By the god’s left toenail, he was the smallest troll she had ever heard of! Could he be part troll and part something else, she wondered as she peered at him closely. Was it possible?

  “Are you a troll?” she asked before her better sense took over from her ingrained curiosity. How many times had she found herself in trouble because she didn’t think before putting her hand into the dragon’s mouth?

  At the word troll, the creature’s face broke in half in what Feenix hoped was a friendly grin. He pulled a piece of meat from within his dirty tunic, moved a little closer and offered Feenix his prize. “Good.”

  The word rolled off his tongue like a groan from the living earth.

  “No, I don’t want it,” she said with a shudder when he continued to hold the meat to her.

  The smile slipped from his face, to be replaced by a questioning, intent look. He dropped the meat on the bench between them, and proceeded to grope about his tunic, obviously looking for another morsel to tempt her with.

  “No, go away. I don’t want anything from you, by Mac Lir’s beard!” She moved down the bench as far as the seat would allow. She eyed the laundry paddle, wondering if it would be an effective weapon against a troll person. She knew real trolls had tremendous strength, and their claws excreted a poison when cutting flesh. But she also knew that real trolls weren’t as small as this, and didn’t have brown skin. Usually. At least none that she had ever encountered.

  She glanced at his hands again and was relieved to see broken and dirty finger nails, not claws.

  Damn, but she was too tired to fight a troll. If she ever got out of this dank hole, she was going to hunt down a particular couple of elves and fry their hides over a hot fire! She thought she heard the god laugh.

  After a flurry of patting his sides, chest and even his groin area, the creature pulled an object from the back of his tunic, sniffed it once, then held it out to Feenix.

  “Good. Give to pretty.”

  Resting against the cracked and ruined palm of his hand was a pale blue, delicate flower that Feenix recognized immediately.

  “Where did you get that Kestrel?” Without thought, she reached out and took the offered flower. “And it’s fresh! By the god’s left ear, where did you get this?”

  Feenix hadn’t seen a Kestrel flower in years. She knew they only grew in meadows and they could not be transplanted. Where would a person find Kestrel inside a cavern? She put the delicate, daisy-like petals to her nose and inhaled the pungent odor. Its fragrance took her back to the last time she smelled kestrel.

  She had been leading a small merchant caravan from Port Marcus to the town of Timklin in the northeast. It was her job to get them through some rough and dangerous country unmolested. Five days out of Port Marcus, the party had been attacked by a small band of roving marauders. One person, the merchant himself, had been badly injured as he had defended his wagonload of goods. That night when the caravan made their camp, they had stumbled upon a small patch of the blue flowers. Feenix supposed the god had been smiling upon the group, for the flowers were comparatively rare. But most importantly, the flowers could be used to heal sickness and wounds.

  Feenix brewed a batch of Kestrel tea and had the injured man drink it. The tea could produce a deep sleep full of happy dreams, and the sleeper would afterwards awake refreshed. In this case, the man woke up with his wounds almost completely healed. In fact, due to Feenix’s tea, he was back on his feet in record time. He was very grateful. She smiled as she remembered just how grateful he had been. For the remaining nights on the road, they shared the same bedroll.

  While the interlude was pleasant, the memory of L’Garn’s kiss now overshadowed all images of the merchant’s caress. When it came time to part company, he had given her a beautiful gold handled dagger, engraved with hunting cats, to remember him by. Funny. She remembered the dagger in great detail, but the man’s name was lost in time.

  “Pretty,” the troll person said, interrupting her thoughts.

  Feenix moved a little closer to the creature, and in a friendly voice asked, “Where did you get this?” Perhaps this slave had access to freedom! She became excited thinking her escape was only hours away, provided she could charm him into divulging the exit to this hole.

  Without warning, reality crashed down on her. Even if this slave knew the way outside, where did he get the Kestrel? They were in the bowels of the earth, buried beneath leagues of mountain range. How could a flower that only grows in a meadow grow on the side of a mountain?

  But the flower was fresh, she reminded herself. The petals, although bent a bit from the creature’s pocket, were smooth and supple. This flower hadn’t been picked more than two hours ago. Where did it come from? If she could convince her new friend to show her where he got it, or if he had more flowers she could persuade him to give to her, she could then make a tea to get over the lingering effects of the beating, and repair her strength and stamina. Then she would be strong enough to fight her way free, when the time came.

  She swallowed her growing excitement and focused on making this creature her best friend.

  “Feenix,” she said slowly, smiling like an idiot and patting herself on her chest. Then she motioned to him, “What’s your name?”

  “Eagnad,” he said, pointing to himself. She was surprised he understood her, for he certainly didn’t look like he was very bright.

  “Egg-gnat? Your name is Egg-gnat?”

  “Yes. Eagnad. Pretty Feenix,” the creature answered, patting her on the arm. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to actually touch her, but at least he seemed friendly enough.

  “Do you have more of these flowers?” She peered over her shoulder, hoping Kelma wouldn’t choose that particular moment to send her back to work.

  “Pretty flowers,” he said, motioning to the Kestrel in her hand.

  “Eagnad, do you have more pretty flowers?”

  Again he began patting his body, searching for the gods knew what in his pockets. With a triumphant grin that rather looked like a hole had just opened on the side of a large oak tree, Eagnad pulled a handful of crushed blue flowers from the left side of his tunic. The tangy smell of Kestrel wafted to her, and she smiled as her new friend’s eyes began to droop. Too much sniffing of Kestrel blooms could cause a person to nod off.

  “May I have the flowers, Eagnad?”

  She held her hands out to him, hoping he would give them to her without much trouble. She just wasn’t up to arguing and pleading right now. In fact, the only thing she was up to was a long nap. The smell of the Kestrel must be getting to her, too, she thought. Although, after all the things she’d been through since that blasted Change, a little nap was in order, she was sure.

  “Eagnad,” she tried again, shaking her head against the desire to lie down, “Can you show me where you got these pretty flowers?”

  “Atop,” he answered with a look of mischief. “Eagnad go atop. Tricked Looker.”

  With a feeling of having just fallen off of a galloping horse and knocking herself senseless, Feenix tried to understand the troll’s words.

  “Where is Atop? Can you show me?”

  The troll put a dirty finger on the side of his nose.

  “Secret, shhhh. Very much danger. Looker get she.” Then he threw his head back and stared at the cavern’s vaulted roof.

  Feenix looked up, but all she could see was the rocky ceiling through a smoky haze. This was getting her nowhere.

  She touched Eagnad’s sleeve, wondering what type of vermin were living in the rag. “Eagnad, can you tak
e me Atop?”

  He looked at her with his strange, orange eyes. She must be imagining things because she would have sworn she saw pity reflected from their milky depths.

  “Pretty Feenix not go. Her belong to prince. Pretty Feenix stay in rocks. Looker not get she.”

  “Eagnad! Get back to work!”

  Kelma’s bellowed command was punctuated by a solid hit of her stick on his back. Feenix grabbed the flowers before Eagnad had time to tuck them away, and before Kelma saw the exchange. The warrior woman stuffed them in the front of her ragged gown, hiding the motion by standing quickly and picking up the laundry paddle. Looking over her shoulder, she watched as Eagnad shuffled away and resumed his job of hauling the heavy sacks of dirty clothing to the washers.

  “You! Teela!” Kelma walked over to Feenix and prodded her with the stick. “Lala wants you.”

  She put the paddle down and wiped her water-pickled palms on her thighs. “Where is she?”

  Whap!

  Before Feenix knew to duck, Kelma hit her on the shoulder with the stick. Damn, but it hurt!

  “You will address me with respect.”

  Feenix fought the urge to yell and beat the elf senseless. That would not solve her present situation. She closed her eyes for a second, and took a deep breath.

  “Yes, Kelma. Where may I find Lala?”

  There. That didn’t hurt too much, she lectured herself.

  “She is waiting for you in Prince L’Garn’s room.” The laundress motioned to a guard.

  “Sir, take this one back to Lala in the prince’s room.” She turned to Feenix. “You will report to me after your breakfast tomorrow.”

  Feenix watched her walk away, and then the guard gave her a none-too-gentle push towards the cavern’s opening.

  “Move, slave.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, but obviously the oaf didn’t recognize sarcasm when he heard it.

  She was relieved to reach the room. Not only was she bone tired, and her muscles and back ached in ways she had never experienced, but she was anxious to brew herself a cup of Kestrel tea. She only hoped Lala would allow her the luxury of having a pot of hot water.