by Ethan Spears
“We didn’t just get orders, did we?” said one of the elves.
“That would be truly awful timing,” said another sitting next to him.
“Hold on a moment,” said Aoden, breaking the seal he recognized as Valdon’s and reading. It was a short message. He sighed and let his head fall back.
“That’s not good news, is it?” asked Dorim, looking disheartened. “Did we just pull patrol duty?”
“No,” said Aoden, stuffing the orders into a pocket and reaching for his armor. “The squad can stay and watch. The Archonite asked for my presence specifically.”
A general sigh of relief spread through the squad, though Dorim’s expression was anything but relieved.
“The Archonite is calling you now of all times? What could possibly be so important that he would pull someone away from this?”
Aoden donned his leather and adjusted the strap on his helmet. “Dorim, if you’re going to serve under me, then you should know this: the thing that’s ‘so important’ is the act of pulling me away itself.” He failed to hide the bitterness in his voice. “I promise you, I’m not being pulled away for anything urgent. Probably not anything at all. If I spend the next thirty minutes staring at Valdon in absolute silence, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Dorim’s mouth opened slightly in astonishment, then just as quickly closed in disgust.
“That’s outrageous,” said a voice to Aoden’s right. He looked over and found the squad’s attention was still on him. In his anger and disappointment, he had forgotten they were watching.
“That can’t be right,” said another, though he didn’t sound particularly confident.
“Well, this is Valdon we’re talking about,” said another.
“Why would he do that?” one soldier asked Aoden directly.
Aoden’s eyes swept his squad. He knew he should search for some tactful answer, but he was bubbling with anger and needed to lash out. “For the same reason I’m sure many of you were angered to find your new commander was some disgusting half-breed,” he said harshly.
Murmuring began between the men and Aoden was surprised to see among the squad looks of genuine discomfort and outrage, one even appearing ashamed. Granted, they were a minority among the usual expressionless stares, but it was there. It existed. For a moment, he merely stared at his squad.
“Word spreads fast,” said a voice from the ring. Aoden and his squad turned to the arena, their discussion forgotten. Archon Arisil was standing at its center, his voice magically carrying over the furthest benches as he spoke. “I count more than a battalion here. Normally, that would be cause for discipline, but under the circumstances, I think it can be overlooked.” He offered a cheerless smile at his magnanimity. His eyes scanned the crowd and momentarily seemed to find Aoden and, perhaps due to his current mood, the half-elf could swear he saw mockery there. Then the archon’s gaze swept on along the benches.
Aoden turned away from both the Archon and his squad. “I should have kept my comments to myself. I hope you all enjoy the show; I’m sure I’ll be back sometime after it’s over.” And with that, he strode smartly away from them.
Arisil continued as Aoden made his way out of the circle. “Rather, I am grateful that you could all join us in welcoming our esteemed guest this evening. I am pleased and humbled to have a grand visitor in our camp today and ask all in attendance to rise and give him proper greetings.”
For the first time Aoden could remember, every elf in attendance obeyed the order, standing and slamming their left fist over their heart in salute. The wind kicked up and the flap of the command tent billowed open, allowing Archon Keenas to stride through untouched.
Aoden lingered a moment at the last row of seats, watching down an aisle. While loath to put off a direct order, he also wanted to see the famed archon. He thought, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that someone as distinguished as Archon Keenas would have a unique and dignified look to him, which was why he was struck by how unabashedly average the elf looked. He fell a bit on the shorter side, sporting brown eyes and a thin nose and thinner eyebrows. His hair was longer than usual, being a wave of flowing light brown that tumbled to his waist and was graying subtly at the temples. What his face lacked in uniqueness, however, his outfit more than compensated: he wore a simple robe like a monk’s, over which there was what looked like a black leather apron with leather frills at the bottom like a woman’s skirt. Trailing behind was a great fur cloak that tufted upwards at the neck and served as a backdrop against his head. Most notably, every visible piece of cloth on his body was dyed such a deep, brilliant blue that he seemed almost to shine. Rather than wear any of the military gear with his rank insignia on it, he wore simple brown cow-hide gloves and boots and left his head bare.
There was a stirring among the assembled soldiers. It was unheard of for any high-ranking military official, especially an archon, to be seen out of uniform at a formal function. Military elves were nothing if not proud to show off their accolades and prestige, and the lack of any signs of office showed either great hubris or humility, though most would doubtless choose to believe the latter regardless of the truth. If Arisil, his fellow archon, had any problem with Keenas’s state of dress, he did not write it on his face.
Keenas marched to the center of the ring and stood surveying the assembled elves. Rather than speak, however, he beckoned towards the command tent, out of which were wheeled several cages filled with armored creatures. Five cages were brought out in all, four man-sized cages and one larger cage covered in a black silk curtain. The mumbling among the crowd grew louder still.
The four smaller cages were arranged in a semicircle around Keenas, the larger being placed behind them. The occupants of the smaller cages were now clear: two were orcs, and two were human, each in a full set of either plate or chain armor and each with a standard-length human-made sword.
Keenas seemed unperturbed by the rumblings of the crowd. He pulled from behind his back a ralat, an elvish longsword, resting in a scabbard of black oak polished to a reflective sheen and latticed with silver. Then he reached and pulled out another, and another, and another, until he had four blades between his two hands. A few elves made noises of surprise and wonder at the blades’ appearance, but most continued to mumble as he pulled each blade from its scabbard in turn and plunged it into the ground in a semicircle opposite the cages before replacing the scabbards behind his back, returning them to wherever they had come.
“Four blades,” he called out solemnly. His voice was oddly high-pitched, and he drew out each word beyond their natural length, the words tumbling from his mouth rather than being spoken. The entire crowd went quiet again, waiting for him to continue. He eyed them, resting his hands behind his back. “Four nondescript, non-magical blades of most mundane origin.”
He walked to one of the blades and ran a quick finger along the flat, producing a dull ringing sound. “They are not magically protected from scratches or breakage, nor enhanced for cutting or stabbing, nor treated to last, to self-clean, regenerate, or any other standard enchantments. They’re no different from the swords you carry, though perhaps,” he added, removing one of the scabbards from behind his back and lifting it up, “with a better home to return to.”
A few elves acknowledged his jest with polite laughter, but most stayed transfixed. The scabbard vanished behind his back again as he stepped back dramatically. “Four prisoners,” he said, flourishing his hand towards the cages. “Each captured after foully murdering an elven brother. Each given a penalty of death.”
The stirring in the audience threatened to begin again but was instantly silenced as the Archon continued. “I am a fair-minded elf, and so did think to myself, ‘I would only let these criminals go over my dead body.’ I wasn’t about to drop dead in the safety of my home, of course, but I felt the need to give these murderers a chance to earn their freedom—if, and only if, they can strike me down.”
The crowd began whispering, but even the Ar
chon continuing couldn’t silence them this time. “They’ve already been informed of the stakes. Seeing as I have four swords, it is only in fairness that they have four swords as well. Should any one of them strike me down, all four shall be set free, so that advantage is theirs. To even out that advantage,” he continued, his words becoming even slower and more purposeful, “they fight not against the standard fare of elven swordplay, but against Yasiden, my personally-crafted technique.”
Now there were cries of excitement from the crowd. Yasiden, Keenas’s signature fighting style, was widely regarded as an undefeatable style that combined magic and swordplay, though few would have ever seen it in person. Those who had seen him fight, however, claimed him to have turned the tide of battle single-handedly. It was the sort of thing a military man would dream of seeing just once in his life.
“Know that every action you see from here is mine and mine alone.”
He jerked his hand and all four cages burst apart at the corners, eliciting a gasp from the elves in the stands. He strode away without a backward glance and sat in the center of the half circle of swords, resting his hands on his knees and closing his eyes.
Aoden had to shake himself as if from a trance. The Archon was, if nothing else, an excellent showman. He ached to stay and see what happened, but he couldn’t tarry any longer without it being clear he was ignoring orders. Valdon wanted him to miss this demonstration and, if he didn’t, the punishment would be severe. He begrudgingly forced himself to walk away from the circle. The Archonite’s tent was close enough that he would be able to hear what was happening but would see nothing. From behind, a great roar of excitement rose from the circle, exhilarated cheers of amazement and wonder. And ahead, a single, flapping structure of canvas.
Aoden knocked on the post as the crowd went wild. The archonite appeared in short order. “Took you long enough. Come in.”
Aoden entered and stood before the archonite as he sat at his desk. “You sent for me, sir?” he asked stiffly.
A smile spread across the Archonite’s face, devoid of warmth or humor. “I’ve seen Archon Keenas’s performance before—on several occasions, in fact—and, no offense to the esteemed Archon, but it’s nothing to get excited about.” As if on cue, the crowd erupted again into hysterical cheering. He directed Aoden towards the chair in front of his desk. Aoden sat quickly. “I couldn’t help but recollect our interaction this morning and came to the conclusion that we need to iron out some of our differences, you and I. But we’re busy men, running a squad and a battalion, respectively. One can hardly find the time outside of patrols and training. But this little diversion can keep our men busy while we have some serious discussion. Aren’t these just the perfect circumstances., Saliel?”
Aoden forced himself to look the archonite in the eyes. His fingers gripped the arms of his chair tightly as he answered. “The best.”
“So glad you agree.” The archonite said, his false smile twisting upward. “And maybe we’ll learn to show proper respect to those who deserve it, hmm?” Just then the crowd gasped and the archonite waved his hand at the tent’s flap, dampening the sound of the excitement outside as his magic snapped it closed.
Intermission I
The Trespassers
Two elves hiked through the woods. They wore the insignia of scouts, though neither displayed the usual caution and skill of their occupation, choosing instead to laugh and shove and direct ribald jokes toward one another. They were deep within elven-held forests and feared no discovery by enemies of their race, though they risked perhaps stumbling upon an officer who took issue with their lack of proper military stoicism.
They were running messages of little import between a unit of trailbreakers and a self-important archonite who thought that micromanaging his squads made him a better leader. While a blowhard and of obviously deficient skill, the scouts nevertheless dutifully carried his orders back and forth. At least it offered a respite from his temper tantrums when his intrusive leadership caused things to go awry.
The scouts made their way through the trees with a sureness of heading that bordered on mystical, hardly paying attention to their course as they conversed. The forest, while uniform in appearance to humans and, truthfully, to most elves, was as familiar to the scouts as their own family’s home. They passed a spice birch, a tree that rarely grew this far north due to the warmer weather, being some mutant variety that thrived in temperatures its parent tree would find lethal. It wasn’t the only such birch within sight, but it was deformed and indented where a bear had scratched its back a bit too roughly when it was a sapling. Now, this unique tree was a key landmark for any scout worth his insignia.
They knew from experience that they were minutes from a clearing that contained a small brook they could follow northeast for two days to the mountains, though there would be no need to travel that far; They would find the recipient of the message and be heading back toward camp before the sun set.
They jogged lightly, passing the last tree bordering the clearing, then both stopped abruptly.
One elf looked upwards, looking for the source of what disturbed him, while the other fell to one knee, his hand reaching for the bow strapped to his back. Both paused and looked at their partner.
“Why are you on the ground?” said the one standing.
“Why am I on the ground? Why are you not? Didn’t you hear that noise?”
“Noise? I’ve heard nothing.” He looked up again, inspecting the boles and branches of the trees bordering the clearing. “Do you feel that energy?”
“Energy? What?”
“Like a spell is being worked nearby. It makes my skin crawl.”
“I’m unfamiliar with magic. I wouldn’t know what you mean.” The elf’s hand nonetheless moved away from his bow as he stood back up. “Are my senses confused?”
“Maybe,” said the other. “A moment.” He recited a quick spell in his mind, a simple one he’d picked up from one of his trainers.
“What are you doing?” asked his companion.
“If there’s magic and noise at work,” he said, peering around the clearing, “then perhaps…” He turned the way they had come and froze. Reaching up for his own bow, he said sharply, “Behind us, hiding in plain—”
He didn’t finish. A bolt of purple energy lanced out and struck him in the chest. His back arched a moment, then he tumbled backward onto the ground, his eyes vacant.
The other elf grabbed his bow, spun, and took a knee in one fluid motion. He pulled an arrow and, though he couldn’t see his attacker, fired where he was sure the spell had originated. The arrow sped through the air, rebounding off an unseen wall with a dull thump. The elf’s eyes went wide. He had just enough time to regret his inability to counter magics when another bolt launched from behind the barrier and struck him, causing him to crumple as well.
“So much for my illusions,” said a voice in the empty clearing. With a brusque motion, a veil fell away, revealing two human women in concealing brown traveling cloaks. One was young, short, and plump, while the other was tall, rail thin, and flirting with middle age. The older looked at the younger with frustration clear on her face. “You couldn’t sit still for two minutes?”
The other women looked ashamed. “I can’t believe they heard me and sensed my wards. I’m such an idiot.” She covered her face with her hands.
The first woman’s features relaxed. “Well, the elves are unconscious and we are unharmed,” she said soothingly, “so no harm done. But the wards you’ve placed are too obvious. We need to go over them again and be subtler about it.” After a moment, she added, “And thank you for the barrier.”
The younger woman smiled, put at ease by her mentor, and said, “You’re welcome.” She walked over to the two elves. “They’re not dead, are they?”
“Just stunned. The instructions were clear: no one dies during this task. The Order would only hassle us if we screwed this up. But Ezma? Gods, I don’t want to know what Ezma would do to us if sh
e found out we’d killed somebody.”
“I don’t know why she intimidates you. She doesn’t look like the type to get angry.”
“Beware the calm ones,” said the first. “We’ll wipe their memories of this clearing before we leave and dump them somewhere else in the forest.” She turned to find her partner leaning over one of the elves. “Vanna!” she snapped.
“What?” the other yelped, pulling back.
“Don’t touch them. You’ll wake them up.”
“I wasn’t going to.” At a frown from her partner, Vanna said, “Well, I wasn’t going to wake them.” When the look didn’t go away, Vanna grumbled, “Alright, Tessy, I won’t touch them.”
Teresa sighed at the name. She no longer bothered telling Vanna to stop calling her ‘Tessy’ since the girl never listened. Instead, she pointed toward the opposite end of the clearing. “Just finish up over there while I double-check the wards here.” Vanna nodded and waddled off.
Teresa looked up at Vanna’s handiwork. The wards were well-hidden in the foliage above, runes carved into the bark of trees that emitted a soft blue glow. Only the sharpest-eyed of the elves’ legendary scouts would notice them, and then only at night. During the day, they were completely invisible. Nevertheless, it was clear their magical signature was too strong. It was lucky these scouts had come along as it let the women know their work wasn’t good enough.
Teresa willed herself upward, floating to the branch behind which was hidden the first rune. There it was, every esoteric line bleeding light. A mark of protection, it was gibberish linework to the untrained eye. In truth, even a competent mage like herself didn’t know the rune’s true meaning, for the language of magic was a complex and foreign thing. Magic often wasn’t spoken so much as it was recited, wasn’t written so much as it was traced from memory. The rune was flawless, but Vanna had sunk too much power into it.