by Greg Curtis
But he still didn’t doubt that there would be a war. With so many elves angry at what had happened, so many humans too, and the abominations roaming the land and people vanishing from their homes, the chances were almost perfect that sooner or later someone would start something. That was the trouble with violence, it never really ended. It festered like an open wound, always ready to erupt into an infection that would kill a man. The goddess Aris would not be denied her misfortune forever.
“So this is your new toy.”
“Hardly a toy Elder. Whoever or whatever comes for my people, these will stop them.” They would do more than that he hoped. They’d shred them. And despite the fact that it could well be elves from their home doing the attacking, he would make no apology for the hurt they caused. His first duty had to be keeping his people safe. Maybe it was good that the elder should see the cannon in action. It might give her something to tell her people just in case they thought of heading north again.
“Stop em boy? These’ll rip ‘em to ribbons for the Rock Father’s women.” Master Formain was less than tactful as he boasted of his weapons. But then he was a dwarf. Tact wasn’t to be expected. All he cared about was that his cannon worked and he got paid for them. And maybe that they killed a few elves.
“So let us give prayer to the Mother that they won’t be needed.” Elder Yossirion had arrived, also uninvited.
“I int gonna bend a knee to no de’ tan god!” The dwarf made a few other even less polite comments as he wandered off to check on his cannon, while Iros carefully tried to hide his guilty smile. Some days even the very crudeness of a dwarf could be amusing. Naturally he wasn’t totally successful and he saw the elder give him a quick scowl, so he hastily distracted him with another matter before things became any more awkward.
“Elder, could I trouble you to speak with Tenir again. Sophelia says he’s starting to slide back into the darkness.” Iros wasn’t completely sure that he was, the reports from Juna were still encouraging as the two of them set about rebuilding a trading empire and a new house with his funds, but he didn’t see as much of his father in law as she did. And maybe it was simply that he was finally making progress that left him morose. The more he succeeded in starting, the more time he found on his hands to dwell on the blame.
“Of course boy. But don’t think I’ll let that smirk of yours be forgotten before the next time we play.” He wouldn’t anyway. Yossirion was taking great pleasure in trouncing him repeatedly at quo’ril. But Iros didn’t mind. It was simply good to have someone to play with. And it was so much better than reading through the depressing accounts of the last war with the Reaver as he spent so much of his free time doing. Anything was better than that.
“I wouldn’t expect anything else Elder.” The elders exchanged glances and Iros wondered what it was that they found so significant about his words. But he wasn’t game to ask.
They stood there in silence for a little bit after that, as the men worked on the cannon and Master Formain swore furiously at them for their incompetence, something that also made Iros smile. Maybe it was wrong but he found that there was something refreshing about the dwarf’s bluntness. Maybe it was simply because he spent so much of his time forced to be unfailingly polite, that the sight of someone free not to be came as a welcome change. Still there were questions that had to be asked, and since the elders were with him it seemed a good time.
“Elders. These abominations, they attack purely with the flesh. Biting and tearing like animals. But they were surely created by priests or wizards. Is it possible that those priests or wizards might aid their attack magically? It was a question that had been circling in the back of his mind for some days, mainly because a cannon might be of little use against magic. And since they had the time he decided to ask.
“Possible? Maybe. But they will not. The dark priests would not dare to use their master’s magic against any town or city where the servants of the Mother or the Divines live. The Reaver would eat them alive for their foolishness. And while many of the abominations were once elves and had a touch of the Mother’s grace, they lost that in becoming what they are. Magic is of the soul and they are soulless.” It was a comforting answer and it sat well with what he’d read, but it wasn’t a complete answer.
“Save for wizards surely? Arcane magic is never of the divine, so surely not of the soul.”
“Yossirion did you teach this child nothing?” Trekor unexpectedly burst into peels of laughter before she turned to him. All magic is of the soul. All magic is divine. The wizards simply do not recognise the Divine that they serve. It’s why they are so weak.”
“And the warspells?”
“Weak too. Could you imagine the strength that they would command were they to know their master?” Now that was a troubling thought.
“But if all magic is of the soul and divine in origin, why do not all people, at least all those who follow, have magic?”
“Most people have a touch of something.”
“Not most humans. Not me.” Iros was quite pleased to be able to say it. Though he found magic fascinating, he was more than pleased simply to be a man. To earn his place through the skill of his hands and the quickness of his mind.
“Why would you say that? Why would you even think it? Have I taught you nothing these past few years?” Yossirion was in one of his moods. Awkward was maybe the best word to describe it, though there were other less flattering ones he could use. And Iros knew that whatever he’d said that was so wrong, Yossirion would not let go. But he didn’t mind that.
“No faith and no magic either. Is that how you would have it boy? Have I failed you so completely?”
“You have never failed me Elder. You have taught me a great many things Elder Yossirion, and I thank you for it. But long before I arrived in Leafshade I was tested for all things of the arcane. I have not a trace of it.”
“Not a trace, no boy.” From her sardonic tone he knew that Trekor was apparently going to side with Yossirion and Iros guessed it was going to be another of those difficult conversations that he would undoubtedly lose even though he was right. Priests, they were all the same. They could torture the truth until it screamed and make words mean anything they wanted. Still it was a sunny morning and while he was waiting patiently for the cannon to be loaded and the range to be cleared, why not let her have her fun? Why, by all the Divines, not?
“Thank you.”
“You have a great helping of the spark within you.” Of course he did! It was just that Iros had never seen a trace of anything magical within him. No one else had either. Not even the wizards at the Academy. If magic had an opposite then he was it. Iros almost threw his hands up in the air in resignation.
“As you would have it.”
“Boy, sometimes magic comes in the form of a fire within a man. A tool that can be seized on and used. And sometimes it comes as something within a man’s soul. Yours is of the soul, and though you don’t realise it, you use your gift every day.” Trekor leaned in close as if she wanted only him to hear her. But her voice carried so that everyone heard every word.
“You speak with people and they obey. Not because you are a lord, but because you have the gift of command. They trust you. You listen to people every day, and you hear them. Not with your ears alone, but with your heart. It is what makes you a leader. And have you forgotten that you walk with a jackal hound?”
“I’ve raised Saris since she was a pup.”
“And how long ago was that? Twelve years? Fifteen? She should be old and grey. She should have bitten your hand off long ago. She does neither because she is no more a jackal hound than you are a man of no magic.”
“She looks like a jackal hound.” And she ate like one too. Already he could see the hunger in her eyes as the sun rose well above the crests of the distant hills.
“As do the wolves the rangers ride with. But they are no more wolves than Saris is a jackal hound. They are companions.” Saris though was having none of it as she
gnawed on a stick, completely uncaring of what was said about her. The sun was up and the stick was juicy, a good match for her teeth, what else mattered?
“And a fine companion she is.” Though his wife wasn’t so pleased to have her back. Not when she insisted on sleeping with them, and not in the basket Sophelia had made for her. Every night at some point, Saris would pad silently out of her basket and make herself comfortable on top of the bed, waking them both up as she pawed the covers like a cat. Iros had grown used to her ways over the years, and fairly much learned to ignore her as he slept. But then he’d never even tried to get her to sleep in a basket. Sophelia was going to have to learn the same lesson because Saris was never going to change.
“Of course child. The Mother’s gifts are always fine.”
“A fine waste o’ time yer lord. Now if you and yer lassies could face the range. I int got all day.” Master Formain interrupted them in his usual blunt manner, ending the conversation abruptly. Iros wasn’t too bothered by that, he was surely losing the argument anyway, and he was eager to see the test firing first hand. This after all was the basis of Greenland’s defences in front of him, and the product of a staggering amount of gold already spent. He wasn’t even bothered by the lack of respect shown him. Master Formain was a dwarf and they showed no respect for anyone.
The elders didn’t seem bothered either, even at being described as lassies. As they were elves, or at least one of them was and the other was a woman, it was actually a comparatively minor slur. Most dwarves would have called them de’ tan, with a very strong emphasis on the tan, a word that loosely translated as wet women. A wet woman among the dwarves was a child minder, someone who wiped up after babies, and fed them from her own breast, and the lowest of the low. Dwarves had such little respect for their women, that they used their names as insults for their enemies, most commonly elves. Master Formain was almost a diplomat by contrast with the rest of his people. But then he was selling his wares to Iros and he had a lot of gold coming his way if they worked as promised. He had good reason to be respectful, or at least not overly rude.
“Of course Master Formain. Please carry on with the test.”
The dwarf grunted at him, probably both annoyed with him for being overly polite, and pleased to be able to finally show off his baby. Then he marched back to the cannon and the waiting men.
“Wipe!” Immediately the first of the cannoneers pulled a cloth covered pole out of the rack, dipped its end in a waiting bucket of water, and then rammed the sodden implement down the shaft of the cannon. There was no point in the action since the cannon hadn’t been fired, but it was good practice for battle. Then, traces of smouldering gunpowder in the barrel could cause an explosion when fresh powder was added. Swabbing the cannon was always the first step in firing it.
“Powder!” No sooner had the first man finished then a second placed a paper bag filled with black powder in the mouth of the cannon and rammed it home.
“Shot!” Even as he stepped away a third man loaded a cartridge of shot into the cannon mouth and then rammed it home.
“Wadding!” The fourth man on the team pulled out a small packet of wadding and rammed it down the cannon. Strictly speaking the wadding shouldn’t have been necessary and so it seemed like a waste of time. But the cannon had one weakness, it couldn’t fire down hill. That was a problem when the emplacement was at the top of a hill. So the wadding acted as a block, preventing the shot and the powder from rolling out of the cannon when it was pointed down. Even with it they could only tilt the cannon down very slightly, but it was only a very gentle hill.
“Aim!” Master Formain bellowed the command and instantly the first two men on the crew dropped their implements and set to turning the large wheels that turned the cannon. One tilted it up and down, the other swung it around in an arc. But both of them were slower than Iros would have liked as the men had to spin the wheels many times to make the cannon move even a small amount. That would have to be worked on.
“Fire!” This time it wasn’t one of the crew that obeyed the dwarf, it was Master Formain himself who lowered the lit brand on the end of a long pole. The others just leapt out of the way and covered their ears. There was a reason for that.
The instant the brand touched the cannon it was as though they’d all been struck by lightning. Flame leapt out of the cannon, shooting forwards at least a dozen feet like a dragon’s breath, and the noise! It was louder than thunder. Louder than any noise he’d ever heard before. It was so loud that it hurt. There was a reason he realised that the crew all had little wads of cloth in their ears. But Iros didn’t care about that when he looked out and saw the field in front of them, and the shocking damage the blast had done.
For at least seven hundred paces the little coloured sheets of timber that had been standing in for an enemy were down. Knocked down in a broad swathe of destruction. And many of them weren’t just knocked down, they were ripped completely apart. Dozens and dozens of them. By a single blast. In all his years as a soldier Iros had never seen such damage, and at such range.
“Sandara’s fangs!” It was wrong to call out the name of a demon even in jest, but it seemed right somehow to use the mistress of the night’s name as he witnessed the terrible destruction. This thing could destroy an army with only a few shots. Especially if the elves tried their normal tactic of forming a line of archers first. And he had dozens of them being installed.
“Sweet Mother!” Both of the Elders were staring at the scene of destruction in front of them, and both had turned several shades whiter than normal. He could see the look of absolute horror on their faces. And as both elders and elves he could understand why. No one liked war. No one liked the thought of death and destruction. They even less than others.
“It is only a defensive weapon.” He found himself shouting at them, probably because of the ringing in his ears, and even so he wasn’t sure that they could hear him. He could barely hear himself. “It’s far too big to move. So if no one attacks us then no one will die. And these will keep the people safe.”
It was true and yet somehow even he couldn’t quite believe it. But it didn’t matter. No matter who or what came for them, and they all agreed that someone would, his people would be safe behind these cannon.
For the first time in what seemed like an eternity Iros knew a feeling of satisfaction. He knew that he had done what he needed to do. He had protected his people.
His parents would be proud.
Chapter Seventy Three.
Finell wandered through the great forests of his homeland, filled with anger. More than anger, fury. And maybe something even more than that.
A man without a house. Without a home. Without a family or friends. Without even a place to rest his head at night. It was unthinkable. To have gone in a matter of hours from being high lord to being less than a beggar. Death would have been kinder. But no, the elders wouldn’t grant him that mercy. They said that since he hadn’t consorted with the demon himself, that taking his life was too great a punishment. So they had simply taken everything else instead.
And then they had cast him out.
Exiled! Unnamed! The very idea was a shock to him. He couldn’t believe that that could have been done to him. That the people, his people, had judged him, found him guilty of crimes against Elaris, and then banished him from the realm. And yet he had done nothing save to try and protect the people from the hated humans. The murderous beasts that had invaded Elaris, and killed his sister.
Of course it had come as a shock to see the bodies. So many of them and most of them elves. Y’aris had told him nothing of that. Nothing of how many he had locked away in that dungeon of his. Nothing of how they had been beaten to death. Tortured, and with little purpose in mind. And he had told him nothing of where he had found his inquisitors. Just as he had told him nothing of the fall of House Vora and the call for his trial.
That still made little sense to him. The man was his friend and his confidante. He had appoi
nted him to the position of his high commander and made him his main advisor. He had given Y’aris, an elf of no family or house, everything. He had treated him as a friend, even as family. He had even forgiven him his military failures. And in return, when he thought he had his loyalty and friendship, Y’aris had abandoned him. Frightened of being executed, he had run away and left him alone to face the mess he had created. It made no sense.
The only answer he had was that Y’aris had tried too hard. That in his desperation to identify his high lord’s enemies he had gone too far. Hiring inquisitors who could do the job and find the answers he needed, even though they consorted with demons. Arresting too many and dealing with them too harshly. And then when all his mistakes had come to light, he had lost the courage to tell him the truth of what he’d done. He’d failed him.
But it didn’t matter what Y’aris had or hadn’t said. Had or hadn’t done. Finell was or had been the high lord. He should have known. Blaming his advisor wouldn’t help him. It hadn’t helped him. Not when the traitorous black blood had run away rather than face the people. Run away to leave him to face their anger alone. That was truly what hurt. He could at least have told him first. Instead of simply abandoning him without a word. Without a hope of defending himself.