Days Of Light And Shadow

by Greg Curtis

  He had to be disciplined. He had to follow the plan.

  And so even though it took all his self control, as he knew it did that of all his watchmen, they continued their cautious advance through the trees, getting closer and closer, until finally they were in range. That was a glorious moment. Knowing that finally they could take the lives of these savages, and in doing so protect the true people of the land. But still it had to be done right.

  He gave the signal with both hands, ordering his soldiers to draw their longbows and notch their first arrows. Then the signal to take aim. It was vital that they made their first shots count. There were only a hundred of them and at least fifty of the enemy in front of them were soldiers. Armoured soldiers. They had to die quickly.

  Then, his mouth suddenly dry, Terwyn dropped his hands to the ground, the signal to let the arrows fly, and the battle was joined. It was joined well. Surely thirty of the soldiers fell to the ground instantly, dead or dying, and most of the rest were wounded.

  After that panic ensued as he had expected. People were running and screaming, with no idea what was happening, and they were even knocking each other down in their hysteria. And of course while they ran around like headless chickens, his watchmen took more of them down. They made such easy targets.

  The soldiers though were the only real threat, and the surviving arms men quickly took cover behind the wagons, just as he had expected that they would, but it wasn’t enough. Not when the soldiers and maybe two hundred others were sheltering behind only twenty or thirty wagons. And not when he already knew what to do about them.

  Terwyn gave the signal to his soldiers, and instantly they drew the arrows they’d prepared in advance just for this moment. Then they drew their flints to set the cloth strips on their ends alight, and soon a hundred elves were standing there, tall and proud, bows drawn and flaming arrows notched as they waited for the command. It was a sight to behold. A sight to strike fear in the hearts of their enemies. A sight that could almost bring a tear to a proud soldier’s eye.

  He dropped his hands again, and watched as the flaming arrows flew in a glorious arc across the sky to land exactly where they had to.

  Not an enemy soldier was killed by the fiery arrows, but then they were never the targets. The flight of fire arrows was aimed directly at the wagons, and everyone of them hit. Fire from the oil soaked cloths quickly spread to wagons, and swiftly set whatever was in them alight. And that in turn frightened the horses. They were already nervous from the people screaming and running all around. They could smell the smoke and the blood, and they had no idea what was happening. And worse their masters, when they tried to calm them, stepped out from behind the protection of the wagons and were quickly brought down.

  It was a stampede. The horses, still yoked to the wagons tried desperately to flee, and as they did so they took away the shelter that had been protecting the enemy. After that the battle was over.

  His watchmen screamed with excitement as they launched arrow after arrow into the bodies of their enemies, knowing that the battle was theirs. And the humans, they were too stupid to know what to do. A few fell to the ground and fired back at them with their crossbows, but not many. Most of the rest ran, never realising that as they did so they simply became easy targets.

  Within a matter of minutes they were all down. Fifty soldiers, two hundred and fifty others, all down, dead or dying, and the battle was over.

  Terwyn gave the signal to put the long bows away and draw swords. It was time to finish it. To make certain that none of these savages ever harmed another elf. And so as a troop they advanced on the fallen, emerging from the forest and walking proudly through the long grass as they prepared to end it all. But there was little left to do. So few were still alive.

  The troop leader did his best, sticking the tip of his sword through as many hearts as he could find, but few made so much as a sound when he did. It was disappointing. He had so wanted to hear a few of the utra scream at least. But it was still for the best. Dead, they couldn’t attack them.

  After that it was just a matter of looting the dead. Reclaiming their arrows and looking for anything that might be of value to their Lord. But for half an hour as he stood there watching his soldiers carefully doing their duty, little of value was discovered. The wagons were loaded down with clothes and food for the most part. No weapons or stores of black powder. No gold or silver. Just domestic goods. But then maybe that wasn’t surprising when so many of the fallen were women and children, priests, simply fleeing from some sort of monastery. Poor military targets at best.

  Yet eventually his wait was rewarded as one of his men further up the line shouted to him, and he quickly headed for him.

  When he got there he soon discovered what the soldier had found, and it thrilled him. For there among the bodies were three in expensive robes and cloaks. An older man carrying a sword with a silver hilt embossed with the image of a fire breathing drake. And two woman, one his age and one younger, wearing green garments with the same herald.

  “Nobles!” It was ill-disciplined but he couldn’t help but let out the joyful news for all to hear, even as he slapped his watchman on the shoulder in a show of congratulations. They’d killed some of these filthy human nobles. Maybe even a lord and a lady of the land. It was a great day, and he knew that his Lord needed to hear of it as soon as possible. Y’aris always wanted to know these things.

  And from here it was on to Greenlands itself. And there while the main strike force smashed its way through the southern cities, they would surround the city and cut it off from the outside. They would cripple it so that when the time was right, the walled city would fall quickly.

  These utra would rue the day that they had first drawn breath.

  Chapter Twelve.

  Castle Storm was a magnificent structure. Even in the midst of a city of towers and tall buildings it stood resplendent.

  Nine towers of perfectly white marble marked its corners, and each of them seemed to reach for the very sky. While nestled between them the seven story high castle with its vast domed roof, lay like a sleeping baby curled up in the cradle of its mother’s arms. But what a baby! It was huge, and circular and every edge that should have been sharp and straight was gracefully curved instead. Seven levels of arched balcony windows dotted it, adding a sculpted texture to the smooth off white marble. Often when he approached the castle, Herodan imagined it as an egg nestled between the upturned fingers of its mother’s hands.

  To reach the castle, you had to cross a sea of verdant grass and navigate your way between a seemingly endless garden of towering columns and archways, laid out as if by a giant child playing with building blocks. And all of them were surrounded by extensive flower gardens.

  Herodan didn’t truly understand much of the stone sculptures. They stood in their gigantic beauty in solitude, most of them serving no purpose that he could see. But he understood art and he guessed so too had those who had designed and built these towering marvels of stone over the centuries. They served no function save to capture one’s eye and make you wonder anew at the splendour of the human realm. But perhaps that was enough.

  When he had first arrived in Tendarin to take up his post Herodan had spent days and weeks simply wandering through the city, marvelling at the human’s gigantic craftsmanship. And at the fact that as impossible as it seemed, these structures contained no magic within them, and none had been used in their construction. They had been built entirely from straight lines and precise angles, from complicated mathematical formulae. He still did wonder at that some days.

  But not of late.

  Now the huge city was no longer a place of wonder. It was a land of shame and humiliation. A house of lies that he had to speak. It was a place he did not want to be. And the throne room, the vast indoor space of towering rose quartz and polished marble columns, arched ceilings, and sparkling crystal lights, was the heart of his shame. Inside it, surrounded by many thousands of the city’s elite, he felt a
lmost as if the entire castle was slowly coming crashing down on top of him. Suffocating him. It was hard to stand in that chamber and not show it, and occasionally a small bead of nervous sweat ran down his forehead.

  Did the other’s notice? He hoped not, but he suspected some did. Despite Finell’s belief that humans were little more than savages, he had found them a surprisingly clever and observant people over the years. They understood art and culture, and most especially among the nobles, the diplomatic arts. They noticed.

  Still, despite his nerves, Herodan stood tall in the throne room as the envoy for High Lord Finell. He wished that he was somewhere else. Anywhere else in sooth. But it was his place and he had to be there, and so he stood. And with him his second, Luree, stood tall too. She stood beside him, taking notes of all that was said, and keeping her silence, but it was obvious to everyone that she did not want to be there any more than he did. Not when her normally tanned skin was so pale, and when she couldn’t look anyone in the eye but instead spent much of her time staring at the polished marble tiles at their feet. He couldn’t blame her for that even though it was a poor look.

  At least she was lucky in that her hair was red and not blue, as was that of all House Vora. As was the high lord’s. The fact that the high lord was his cousin simply made things more difficult, and the entire Court knew of his family connection. And if by some strange chance some hadn’t heard, it was written for all to see in the colour of his hair, in the blue of his eyes, and the way his ears pointed straight to the distant horizons. If they had ever seen an image of Finell then they surely knew from just looking at him that they were kin.

  It had been an advantage five years before when he had first been appointed as envoy to Tendarin. It had been a mark of status to be of House Vora, and to be related to first Gerwyn and then Finell. Their trading concerns throughout the realms all played on it as they made their deals. No longer. Now the blue hair and eyes was a mark of shame. There were days when he considered wearing a hat to the Court. But not only would it have been unelven, everyone would have known why he wore it, and that would have been an obvious hint that he didn’t agree with his cousin. An envoy did not have the luxury of disagreeing with his ruler. Not even in appearance.

  King Herrick the Third sat on his throne, a simple wooden chair covered with a few furs, a surprisingly modest seat in this vast chamber of splendours, and listened to the people as they came before him. As he did every day. He was a good man and a concerned ruler, and he heard everyone that he could. Rich and poor he listened to them. He took their words seriously. But not of late. Not Herodan’s words.

  It was wrong. He was an old man sitting in a small wooden chair, but he frightened Herodan more than the most vicious troll. And even if the king couldn’t have risen from his chair and torn him in half with a battleaxe, there were enough soldiers in their bronzed armour standing all around, that would have done it for him. Cheerfully. And if they failed, the rest of the court, hundreds of nobles in their finery, and of course the audience, would have succeeded. But still it was the king that would have to give the order.

  And he just might.

  Herrick’s face was like thunder, a storm brewing behind his eyes. It had been the same for weeks, and each day that the Court met and the petitioners came forwards, it just grew darker. But then when almost all the petitioners were refugees seeking safety within the endless walls of Tendarin after their towns and villages had been burnt and their loved ones murdered, it was only to be expected. The same pleas were being heard in all the major cities of the human realm. And they were being heard every day in Tendarin.

  The woman standing before Herrick was no different to any of the others. Her tale of woe exactly the same. The elves in their blackened armour had come to the town, they had killed the men, the women and even the children, and burnt it to the ground. Only a few had got away, hiding in cellars, laying low in fields, or far enough away that they were not noticed by the army.

  It was simply so wrong, so evil. It was so very unelven. And he knew it was true. He could not witness petitioner after petitioner, hear their stories, and see the pain in their tear stained faces, and doubt them. Which made it harder and harder to understand the pigeons he received daily from Leafshade and the high lord’s endless denials. His endless lies.

  “Envoy!” The king shouted at him, making him jump. He shouldn’t have, it was something that happened every day. It was a part of the ritual. And it showed him as something an envoy should never be, unready. He walked forwards at a calm and measured pace to the throne, ignoring the angry glares from all those around him, and then with Luree at his side, he bowed respectfully to the king.

  “Your Highness.”

  “What say you envoy? Another day, another outrage. And again one committed by sharp ears.” It was hard not to squirm as the king levelled the charges at him, and only years of training in the diplomatic arts let him keep his eyes level as he somehow choked the correct response out.

  “Again your Highness, I do not know what is happening. My sympathies and prayers are with this poor woman and her friends and family. But High Lord Finell sent me a pigeon again this morning, denying all these evil acts. He says it must be brigands. Perhaps the same brigands who murdered his sister.” Even as he said it Herodan wanted to sink into the marble floor and never be seen again. Luree surely knew the same need as she stood beside him, holding her tongue and trying to look calm. At least she didn’t have to speak Finell’s terrible words.

  The woman shrieked, a sound that tore at his heart, and then leapt for him, her fury letting her forget for a time that she was old and frail. Quicker than he could have imagined possible, she was on him, her fists swinging wildly as she tried to pummel him into the floor, screaming at the top of her lungs about his demon people. And Herodan could not strike back.

  He blocked her blows as best he could and endured the ones he couldn’t, while the palace guards ran for her and eventually lifted her off him. But even they couldn’t stop her screaming, and in sooth they had no reason to. Every word she spoke was true. He knew that. Everyone did. He just couldn’t explain it. None of it. And he couldn’t admit it.

  “Take her to the cells.” The king gave the order and his guards immediately started dragging the old woman away. But that was something that Herodan couldn’t have on his conscience. Not with all the rest.

  “Please Highness.” He stepped forward again and bowed low. “I beg of you. Do not punish her for this. She is an old woman and has already suffered too greatly. Her actions are without blame.” But of course his weren’t and he had already said too much. If his words got back to the high lord he would be disciplined. His cousin did not tolerate disloyalty. Not in any form.

  “So you admit her charges envoy?” The king leant forwards in his chair, fixing him with a judge’s stare, and the entire Court fell silent. Even the woman stopped screaming as she sensed something important was happening.

  “No Highness, I cannot. I must repeat what I have already said. High Lord Finell says that it must be the work of brigands.” But no one believed him. Even he didn’t believe what he was saying.

  “Then so be it.” The king sat back in his chair, an expression of utter disgust on his face. He was done with him. “Send to your high lord this when you return to the mission.”

  “Tell him that today is the day his brigands die. My soldiers have been spying on them as they advance through the southern lands. They have seen his forces gathering for their next big push as they try to take West Hold. And they have readied a trap.”

  “Today, twenty three thousand pointy eared brigands will meet their deaths in front of my cannon. And when they are dead, we will track them home. We will kill all who have sheltered them or supported them in any way. We will level the brigands’ towns and cities. We will show them exactly the same mercy that they have shown us.”

  “And tell him this also. The pointy eared leader of the brigands will swing from my battlements wit
hin a month or three.”

  “Now go!” He raised his voice so that all could hear him even in the next room and beyond, and clapped his hands. It was the signal for the guards to act and they instantly stepped forward to escort him and Luree out of the throne room, just as they had done many times before.

  The court erupted into applause as they were escorted down the central aisle between the rows of attendees. People were clapping and cheering, dancing and shouting wildly, some were openly jeering at them, all while the two of them had to make the walk of shame through their midst. It was a walk such as Herodan had never imagined making, and yet one he had now made many times. And one that he knew that he would have to make again.

  In the morning, when the Court met again, he would have to be there. Sometimes the cost of duty was higher than a man could stand.

  But still he had to stand.

  Chapter Thirteen.

  The column of watchmen advanced towards the human city of West Hold feeling more than a little pleased with themselves. But then the war was going well, the utra were falling back before them, and the lands were slowly being cleansed of their evil. The Mother herself could not have written a better plan. But then the Mother was not Lord Y’aris.