Venom and Song

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  One week later Tommy stepped down from the table and cornered a runner. “Any word from Nelly or Regis?”

  “Nay!” The Elf was red-faced and gasping for air. “May I assist you in any other matter?”

  “No, nothing.” Tommy ran a hand through his hair. “Thank you.”

  “Endurance and Victory.”

  “Endurance and Victory,” Tommy replied, turning back to the main table in the center of the room. He stared at the wooden pawns scattered across it. Grimwarden stood beside him.

  “Patience, my young lord. It will come.”

  “But we march for Vesper Crag at dawn! Was it not you a week ago saying we shouldn’t attack without it?” Tommy smiled, half genuinely, half out of mounting frustration. “You confuse me sometimes.”

  “I did advise you to wait, but only for a time.” Grimwarden stared at the table a moment and then continued. “I believe Nelly and Regis will return with the map. And if you still wish to honor my counsel, we will march at first light tomorrow.”

  Tommy shook his head, laughing nervously. “Thanks for clarifying.”

  Grimwarden looked up, catching a signal from Alwynn across the hall. “Ah, they are here.”

  “Who are here?” Tommy asked.

  “Come and see,” said Grimwarden cryptically. “We should get Kat, too. Given your shared love of heights, I think you will find this . . . rather exhilarating.”

  Grimwarden led Tommy and Kat down a well-lit corridor on the eastern side of Nightwish. The hall was narrow and made more difficult to navigate due to the barrels clumped in twos and threes on either side.

  “I’ve never been this way,” said Tommy.

  “No,” said Grimwarden. “Not likely. This is an access route to one of our storage halls. Elle tells me you would call them warehouses. Strange name, as if you don’t know where to find them. But, anyway, this particular warehouse is special and newly outfitted for a different kind of cargo.”

  “You can say the Elven alphabet in your mind all you want, Guardmaster,” Kat said, grinning. “But you’re going to let some thought slip, and I’ll figure out what you’re hiding.”

  Grimwarden laughed. “I am a lifelong military strategist and tactician. The day I can’t hide—”

  “Birds!” Kat shouted. “You’ve got more of the scarlet raptors! Oh, my goodness!” Kat ran ahead.

  Grimwarden was dumbfounded. “But I . . . I didn’t think it . . . not anything so obvious!”

  “She’s good,” said Tommy.

  Grimwarden harrumphed and increased his pace after Kat. He led Tommy to a vast, high-ceilinged chamber where brilliant sunlight poured in from dozens of newly delved porthole-size windows. Light also shone in from a wide gate cut into the rock wall at the far end, but Tommy was more captivated by the occupants of the huge chamber.

  “They . . . they’re beautiful,” mouthed Tommy. “And fierce.” Both Tommy and Kat stood marveling at the scarlet raptors, more than one hundred count. They stood in a straight line, all very still or quietly preening their wings. And each one bore an Elven rider. As Tommy gawked, the foremost rider deftly kicked up his legs and slid off his flying mount. He removed a leather helmet as he approached, and silver-blond hair spilled out onto his noticeably broad shoulders. His skin was dark like chocolate, and his violet eyes shone out brightly from beneath his silver brow.

  The newcomer knelt, but his keen eyes never left Tommy and Kat.

  “Lord Felheart and Lord Alreenia,” said Grimwarden with a sweep of his hand. “I’d like you to meet Ethon Beleron of the tribe Nightwing. He is First Raptor Ward of the Old Ones. By Alwynn’s request, the Old Ones have agreed to let us borrow some of their rare wild scarlet raptors. Ethon here has spent the better part of the past two weeks training flet soldiers to fly.”

  “M’lords,” said Ethon. “It is the greatest pleasure of my life to meet you.”

  “You’re an Old One?” Kat blurted out. She couldn’t believe it. This guy looked maybe twenty-five, thirty tops.

  Ethon stood and drew nearer. “I see your quandary,” he said. “The Old Ones are an ancient council. I’m merely an apprentice.”

  This time Tommy blurted out, “You train to get old?”

  Ethon laughed politely and glanced at Grimwarden. Then he said, “Not exactly. Time has a way of taking care of that. No, I train in First Voice, Vexbane, and, of course, raptor flight.”

  “Ethon has our flet soldiers flying with great skill,” said Grimwarden.

  “It is not all that hard,” said Ethon humbly. “The raptors are incredibly intelligent, and they will bear a rider more safely than any land steed. Sometimes it’s almost as if they know what you’re thinking.”

  “Yes,” said Grimwarden lustily. “They give us a decided advantage. Imagine, archers borne on the wind! And with whatever layadine we have left, we will be able to knock out their Warspiders like never before. Praise Ellos! We shall own the skies!”

  “You are of the Nightwing tribe?” Kat asked.

  “Yes,” Ethon replied. “A distant cousin of Lord Hamandar, actually. I should very much like to meet him as well.”

  “And you will, later,” Grimwarden said. “Jett is getting fitted for new armor. Seems the lad is growing. Now, Ethon, if you’ll excuse us. Lord Felheart and I have some matters to attend to.”

  “Of course,” he said with a bow.

  “What about Kat?” Tommy asked.

  “What about Kat?” Grimwarden repeated. “She is free to do as she wishes for now. Perhaps Ethon could give her a quick flying lesson.”

  “I would be happy to,” he said.

  “Really?” Kat replied. “I would love to fly.”

  “Excellent!” said Ethon. He turned to Grimwarden. “Wasn’t there another? In your last dispatch, you said one of the Seven was particularly interested in flying?”

  “Yes, right,” said Grimwarden. “Lord Lothriel. Yes, very anxious to fly.”

  “Kiri Lee?” quipped Kat. “She already flies, practically.”

  Ethon looked at her strangely. “Fear not, Lord Alreenia, I have taught larger classes than two.”

  Tommy didn’t need to be able to read minds to see that Kat was disappointed. But why? He thought he might know, but he was careful not to crystallize those thoughts, not with Kat nearby. But it bothered him.

  “Come, Lord Felheart,” said Grimwarden. “To the armory we must go.”

  “Call me Kat,” Tommy heard her say as he and Grimwarden departed the raptor hangar. As they traversed Nightwish to the armory, Tommy found himself thinking more about Kat than the upcoming war.

  “Let’s review what we have thus far,” Elle said later that evening from the other side of the map table. At her voice, about forty Elves gathered around the Seven, Grimwarden, and Alwynn. Before them was a map of Vesper Crag . . . not the one they had hoped for, but a bird’s-eye view of what they knew about the eastern-most border of the region. To the right side of the map was Vesper Crag, a black dot on the peak of a mountain in a long range that ran north and south. To the left of that were the Lightning Fields, with the Dark Veil directly north, and the Southern Forest at the bottom, where the Seven had returned from Dalhousie Castle. Farther west lay a chain of foothills that gave way to the beginnings of the Thousand-League Forest. And in their heart, the ruins of Berinfell. Nightwish lay slightly north and west of Berinfell, and discovered as it was, Nightwish would remain the headquarters of the operation.

  As Elle began to outline their strategies—plans that had been discussed, refined, analyzed, and discussed again—Jimmy felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Grimwarden looking at him. Then he whispered in Jimmy’s ear, “May I speak with you?”

  Jimmy looked at him, to Elle and the briefing, and then back. “Now?”

  “Aye. Now.”

  Jimmy blinked a few times and nodded. He followed Grimwarden from the Great Hall and slipped into a side anteroom. Grimwarden closed the door and indicated a bench along the wall. Both sat.
>
  “Thank you for entertaining my request.”

  “Um, sure. Everything okay?”

  “It will be.” Grimwarden collected his thoughts. Jimmy felt a knot tighten in his stomach.

  This can’t be good.

  “Lord Thorwin, I have had the privilege of watching you grow in these last few months. And I must tell you, it has been an honor I compare with little else. I hold you in the utmost respect, caring for your life and success more than my own.”

  Jimmy was visibly moved by Grimwarden’s words, a small shudder streaking up his spine. “Why, thank yu, Guardmaster Grimwarden.”

  “But it is for this high regard that I must address something I’ve noticed.”

  Jimmy fidgeted with his hands.

  “Back in Whitehall, you were always the first to volunteer for virtually anything I asked. You were the first to test a new weapon, a new skill, or venture into a challenge . . . seemingly without regard for your own well-being. And while this is a virtue shared by those who line the Hero’s Hall, I do not believe it has the same root in you as it does in them.”

  “I’m . . . not sure I understand.”

  “Jimmy, why did you volunteer to be the first into a cave that Migmar warned you was occupied by the Keeper of the Cistern?”

  “What? Who told yu that?”

  “And why were you the first to run across a bridge before you had some knowledge of its safety?”

  “Did Tommy tell yu this? Oh, when I get—”

  “Answer the questions.” Grimwarden’s voice was as commanding as his expression. Jimmy stopped fidgeting. He looked down.

  “I—I don’t really know.”

  “No?” Grimwarden put a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “I think you do.”

  Jimmy thought for a moment. A moment that felt longer the more he put off talking about it. Then finally a tear slipped down his cheek.

  Grimwarden didn’t say anything. He merely sat in silence. Waiting for more.

  “The others in there”—Jimmy whispered, waving his hand—“they all have families. Adopted, yeah, but by parents who love them. Poor Kiri Lee told me that her parents must be dead—killed by Wisps, but at least she knew they adored her and gave up everythin’ for her. Even Kat knows her parents love her. She told me herself. But mine—” Tears rolled over the rims of his eyelids like a dam bursting. He tried to speak the words, but he broke out sobbing. He couldn’t say it. The words were caught in his throat like rocks. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to run. But Grimwarden’s granite hand on his shoulder was a steadying force that wouldn’t let him move. Jimmy knew that was no option here. “My parents . . . they hate me.”

  The words rang in his head like hammer strokes. “Sure, they pretended t’ love me, but that went away fast, didn’t it? Soon as me brother come along—pity that—it was out with Jimmy lad.” He kicked at the bench leg with his heel and stared at the silvery dremask torch burning alone on the wall. “All I ever wanted was someone t’ love me fer real, yu know? Someone t’ matter t’. Is that so bad?”

  He wiped the snot from his nose, and his chest heaved to take in a quick breath. “I wanted a father t’ tell me I was strong enough, fast enough, good enough. And a mother t’ tell me everythin’ was gonna be okay.” He felt so ashamed. Like he should be stronger than all of this. Grow up, he had told himself every night he cried himself to sleep. But years of pent-up pain—from his time at the orphanage and with the Grishams—delivered their load on him now. And in front of the last person he thought he’d ever tell any of this stuff.

  Grimwarden remained quiet, letting the full weight of Jimmy’s heart come to the surface. The heavy weeping eventually gave way to Jimmy taking deep breaths, trying his best to calm down.

  “Why do I always race in?” He smeared away hot tears with his forearm, his will hardening right before Grimwarden’s eyes. “I have nothing to lose. And, I suppose, I don’t care if I die.”

  It was the first time Grimwarden had spoken in nearly five minutes. And when he did, his tone was low, nonthreatening, but not soft. “Your burden is heavy,” he said. “You are weary of bearing it, but stricken with fear that, should you let it go, it will happen again. You will be betrayed. Love will be snatched from your grasp, and you will finally know beyond any hope that your life . . . means nothing.”

  With the revelation came another terrible wave of grief, one so strong, Jimmy thought he might collapse.

  Grimwarden spoke again. “Such is the poison you have been fed for so long, Jimmy. A vile and perilous poison you have even fed to yourself. But no more.” Grimwarden took Jimmy’s shoulders and held his eyes with his own. “No more.”

  Jimmy fell forward, crying out in agony. Grimwarden wrapped two strong arms around the young lord and pulled him right into his chest. Jimmy’s body shook and heaved. It was too much now, too much to hold back. Too much to cover up. He was tired of it. So very tired. And yet . . . it felt good to let go.

  There in Grimwarden’s arms, for the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt . . . loved. Though Grimwarden said not a word, his embrace spoke loudly. You are valuable to me. And with the knowledge came an even deeper revelation. The same thought, but from a new source. A stronger source. A more meaningful source.

  You are valuable to me.

  Jimmy felt the words rise up from somewhere deep within him, like a glowing ember in the bottom of an ash heap. And the words came again.

  You are valuable to me.

  The pain suddenly ebbed. It was not Grimwarden. And it was not even himself. Another voice was speaking. Jimmy stopped crying. He took a deep breath. And all at once he knew. Ellos.

  “I am valuable to him,” Jimmy said ever so softly. He could feel Grimwarden nodding above him.

  “Yes,” he replied. “And that’s all he’s been waiting to tell you.”

  Surprised he had any more tears to cry, Jimmy began again. But this time, they were not sorrowful. There was no regret. No shame.

  He saw the faces of his adopted mother and father back in Ardfern flash in front of his mind’s eye. To his utter astonishment, there was no animosity there. The absolute, unblemished love he felt in this moment—embraced in the natural by Grimwarden, adored in the unseen by Ellos—left no room for what he had been holding on to for so long: bitterness.

  The words Jimmy had spoken in anger and hatred just moments before, words for everyone who had hurt him, now seemed so small in comparison with what Jimmy said next. “I . . . forgive . . . you.”

  Chains of the past were ripped away, shackles broken for good. What had held him captive before would no longer hold him again. And in its place there would be love, acceptance, value, and meaning. All at once, Jimmy had something to live for . . . something greater than himself. His heart swelled with power and hope . . . and freedom.

  “Remember what I’m about to tell you,” Grimwarden said. “He who lives for nothing costs the lives of many. But he who lives for something greater than himself preserves all those he loves.”

  Jimmy nodded. “Thank you, Grimwarden.”

  But he shook his head. “No, thank you. Because I know you love me. Today I counsel a warrior greater than myself, one whose legacy will preserve me, and those after us.”

  32

  Attack on Vesper Crag

  DAWN HAD come far too early for some, and not soon enough for others. For Tommy’s part, he barely slept. He’d paced the length of his bedchamber too many times to count, mulling over the battle plans in his mind a hundred times, front to back, and then back again. Guardmaster Travin will lead the siege, taking the forward infantry and engines right to the walls of Vesper Crag. That would elicit a powerful response from the Spider King, no doubt releasing a swarm of Warspiders. Ethon Beleron and Kiri Lee, who took to raptor flight with great passion and skill, would lead the air strikes against the spiders. If the Spider King showed himself, Kiri Lee would rejoin the other lords, and together they would engage him and, hopefully, defeat him. If he didn’
t show, the other lords would board raptors and join Kiri Lee to infiltrate the Spider King’s lair. The moment the lords had left, Grimwarden, Goldarrow, and a team of seasoned flet soldiers would rescue the slaves. Of course, so much of the plan still depended on the map. “Ellos”—Tommy whispered as he gave up on sleep and left his chamber—“let them bring it back.”

  Tommy eventually made his way down to the dinning area where every available kitchen hand was busy with the finishing touches for the soldiers’ rations . . . thousands of them. It had to be at least three in the morning, and yet they still worked on. No doubt Mumthers is behind this. She always had to have things just so.

  Tommy dodged behind a pair of women carrying a long pole between them laden with salted gessette haunches, then ducked into the kitchen. It must have been a hundred degrees, Tommy figured, more kettles and stove fires than he had ever seen in his life. And there was Mumthers, dishing out bowls of stew to . . . Jett and Kat?

  “Ah! My good Tommy!” She took the fat of Tommy’s cheek between her thumb and forefinger and gave it a good squeeze. Finally, the words he knew would come. “Come here, lad. You look peaked. Join the others. And have a bowl.”

  “Couldn’t sleep?” Jett looked up from his stew, a trail dribbling down his chin.

  “No,” Tommy said.

  “We couldn’t, either,” said Kat. The three shared a laugh, and Tommy dug in, grateful for something to get his mind off what he knew awaited.

  Before long, Johnny stumbled into the kitchen, accidently knocking into a woman carrying a full set of pots. He apologized, then made his way into Mumthers’s care. Within the hour, the rest of the Seven had joined them at the table. Despite the ordered chaos that threaded around them, the lords enjoyed one another’s company as much as they enjoyed Mumthers’s food. For the briefest of moments, they were back in Whitehall, sitting at the board, sharing in their newfound camaraderie. And Mumthers never let their bowls show the bottom, sure to make this meal their finest.