by Greg Curtis
“Be at ease brave paladin. The battle is over, and thanks to you we have won a mighty victory that will surely frighten the enemy even in his prison realm. Meanwhile you are safe. You will recover in time, and your commander himself wants to shake your hand when you are up to it.”
“Genivere?”
Yet it wasn't really a question. He knew her voice too well even without that slightly humorous crack about his fairness.
“At your service my champion. Please be at peace and know you are well. You will recover fully. I promise you that.”
He felt her hands at his bare cheek stroking it gently as she tried to convince him of her words. She had no need, as he believed her implicitly. For some reason he knew he was going to recover. He could actually feel the healing of his flesh.
“I believe you and I thank you. Your healing magic is strong, and I can feel it working through me. But what of the others? What of the battle?” He wasn't concerned for himself any longer, but he did worry for his friends. For his brothers.
“Thanks to you the battle was a mighty victory that the bards will sing of for many years to come. When the archers struck from cover many were killed and injured in the surprise, but you killed them all, allowing the rest to destroy the third undead army. It was a glorious deed and well over thirty thousand undead are finally at rest. And when you killed the necromancers, all thought of the dead walking once more as their undead life ceased.”
“Fewer than two hundred of our number were killed, and perhaps only five hundred more were badly injured, praise the Mother. And best of all, there is no more army of the dwarven undead to strike out. The strongest of our wizards and clerics have far seen into the city of the dead, and they say that the number of corpses left to raise is few. Far less than half of those we have already killed, and those that remain are only the most damaged among them. Even necromancers cannot raise piles of ash, and there are at least thirty thousand of those blowing in the wind. Some suggest it is as many as fifty thousand. But what matters is not the number. It is that the bulk of the dwarven undead have surely been destroyed.”
“The Dark One has been dealt a heavy blow and the elders believe it will be a while before he can regroup. His most powerful demon necromancer has been slain, his army has been destroyed, and there is no other single army so powerful waiting to be raised anywhere in the known lands. We are victorious.”
Yet victorious was the last thing Yorik felt right then. Two hundred of his fellow knights and paladins lay dead. That wasn't a victory. That was pain. It just wasn't as terrible as it could have been. And he still didn't know how many of those hundreds were his closest friends.
“Thank the Lady, not me. And where do we go now?”
He distracted his sorrow with the question though he knew that sooner or later it would return to him. Especially when he tried to find out who among his brothers still lived and who had passed on.
“To Hammeral of course. It is to be the base for our battles to come, and the elves and the humans will first stand as one there, before that unity spreads. So our seers have told us, and we must obey.”
Her answer surprised him on more than one level. It was strange enough to be told that they were heading into an elven homeland, but to hear that it was because of the word of prophets, was stranger still And why? What were these battles to come? It sounded to him as though someone had worked out the enemy's next move, and he still wasn't sure who the enemy was. Nor was Genivere as he recalled. But this he realised, wasn't the time to wonder about such things. Genivere was right in one thing at least. This battle was over, and despite his fears they had come through it relatively well. It was time instead to lick their wounds, praise the Lady for her aid, and ready themselves for the next.
“How long have I lain here?”
“Four days mighty paladin. For four long days and nights you have lain in that bed, barely moving while our best healers have attended you. They said from the start that you would awaken, but not when. And now that you have I'm sure there will be many who will want to speak with you. Few enough it is who have followed the commands of the Lady anyway, but far fewer have ever had her directing their every movement, let alone twice. You have become a most celebrated man.”
Yorik groaned, perhaps a little more loudly than he should have. It wasn't that he objected to the Lady using him, far from it, but the last thing he wanted to be was famous, even among his own comrades in arms.
“And am I – ?”
The pain still in his shoulder was a reminder of the wounds he had been dealt, but more than that he remembered the axe blow to the leg, and the depth to which it had sunk into his flesh. Healing was one thing; walking quite another.
“You are whole and what’s more in excellent health. None of the demons of disease have touched you. Your wounds are healing nicely. You will walk, run, ride, raise a sword and draw a bow again if that is your will, and the scars across your cheek and chest will in time be all but invisible. It may take a few weeks of rest and gentle exercise first though. Plenty of time for you to collect your thoughts and tell them to the scribes who hover impatiently outside the wagon.”
Yorik groaned again as he heard the laughter in her voice and knew she was only partly joking.
Of course there would be scribes waiting to speak with him. Whenever anybody was fortunate enough to have the Lady grace him it was always recorded for others to read about and learn from.
“Come and drink some tea.”
Even as he was groaning he felt her lithe strong arms pulling him upright and placing some cushions behind his back. Her skin as her arms rubbed against his neck was incredibly soft and warm, and it was all he could do not to purr like a cat being petted despite the pain.
“The scribes will not wait forever, and you will need your strength to answer their questions.”
All thought of the scribes and their questions however, soon fled Yorik’s mind as the cloth fell from his eyes and for the first time in far too long he could see Genivere before him. Somehow she had grown even more beautiful and womanly than before. It was the smile he decided that did it. Never before had he seen her smile from so close and it was devastating. She was like a child discovering a new treasure to play with, simple and innocent, yet with that she was also a woman in her prime.
As she held the cup to his lips and made him sip the foul tasting brew within, all he could really concentrate on was the way her long silvery hair fell like a waterfall past the graceful lines of her neck and cheek. The fullness of her lips, which he ached to kiss. The scent of wild flowers which were woven into her hair. The delightful rise of her white robe as it followed the contours of her perfect breasts. He had seen her before, many times and known her beauty, and yet suddenly he knew he had never seen her at all.
It was improper to stare at her like that but no matter how he tried, his eyes could not leave her. He had known other women before, though none seriously, but in her presence he suddenly knew he had never really known anyone else at all. Best of all, though she surely saw the ways his eyes moved hungrily over her form, she still held him close and made him drink without a trace of accusation. Did she accept his impropriety, he dared ask himself? Or was she simply too polite to say anything?
“Thank you.”
In time he had drained the cup, and though it had tasted most foul he truly missed it. For he knew that once it was gone, so too would she follow.
“No good sir, the thanks are all mine. But for you many more of us would have been killed, perhaps everyone. Perhaps I would have died, as would my brother. We are all in your debt.”
“No debt is owed.” The denial came from him almost automatically before his brain kicked back into life and he heard the rest of what she had said.
“Brother?”
He hadn't even known she had a brother, least of all one that was travelling with them. Which meant her brother either had to be a ranger or a wizard in the Order.
“Geannalee. He is
a ranger with the Order, and a full five years my elder. You have met him several times as he came to bring Ascollia messages from time to time.”
He might have, but Yorik's mind was a complete blank on the elf in question. There were so many messengers and he had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts, he wouldn't have noticed if a herd of death spiders had brought Ascollia's messages.
“He is well?”
“He is fine thank you, though he took a couple of gashes in the melee as the dwarves broke through our lines.”
“And you?”
In shame he suddenly noticed the bandage around her leg, and remembered that she too had been in the battle. Hopefully well back from the front lines, but apparently not far enough when the dwarves had broken through. She could have been killed.
“A scratch only from an arrow. Fear not for me. The Mother aids me in healing myself as well as others.”
“For which kindness I will always thank her.”
“As I will thank the Lady for protecting you.”
It surprised him but not nearly as much as it pleased him, when she took his hand in her own two and squeezed it gently, telling him of the truth of her words, and her feelings. For the first time he knew that at least some of what he was feeling for her, was reciprocated and his heart skipped a few beats in happiness. The stupidest grin was starting to spread across his face while he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. He was like a teenager all over again.
“I am grateful so few were killed. Such a battle could have gone very badly but for her help. The enemy is indeed dangerous.”
Desperately he tried to cover his confused emotions by returning to what he knew. What a paladin should always know. Battle. But he didn't let her hands go.
“It was a foul attack.”
“No lass,” said Ascollia as he unexpectedly came into view. He must have been sitting somewhere in the wagon Yorik thought since they were moving. He must have seen and heard everything that had passed between them. “This is war and in war all attacks are equally foul. This however was a very clever attack. It was a great crime to raise the dead, and greater crime still to use them to attack the innocent, or anyone else for that matter, but the mind behind the undead's assault was very clever indeed.”
Which more or less agreed with what Yorik remembered of the battle. Having their lines stretched and turned at every opportunity by attackers coming from different angles, until the main force could strike almost unseen at their side was very clever indeed. And all while covered by hidden archers and with the generals tucked safely out of sight as they directed their soldiers. That was surely the very definition of good military strategy. It was also unlike anything they'd seen before. The Dark One's soldiers were growing smarter. If it was the Dark One.
Ascollia gave a quick command in Elvish and immediately the wagon slowed and came to a stop. Yorik could guess why.
“Now if you two children have finished making puppy eyes at one another, we have business with Yorik.”
As if on cue, the shapes of several of the commanders and their clerics made their presence known in the canvas door behind Ascollia while he and Genivere both reddened some more. They quickly unlocked their hands.
Genivere at least though could escape, and she did so with almost indecent haste, leaving him to face the inquisition. These were no scribes surrounding him to ask the questions as he had expected, though he spied a pair standing behind them. At least five of the most respected commanders of the Order had chosen to interrogate him in person. That was unexpected. That two of them were elves was more so, though it shouldn't have been by then.
“Tell us of your memories of that day. Everything from the very beginning. Leave nothing out.”
It wasn't a request, and Yorik immediately began to tell them of how he'd first felt the enemy coming upon them, whereupon he was told to stop and start at the beginning from when he had first broken his fast, and from there to describe all of his thoughts on that morning before the battle. They weren't jesting he realised, when they'd asked him to tell them everything. But while it was difficult to remember some of it, it also gave him the chance to mention his doubts about their enemy. Doubts which he suspected they shared from the haunted looks in their eyes, even though they refused to discuss it. If he asked them a question they merely told him to continue, and he carried on.
It was a strange interrogation. They didn't mind if he rambled, veered off the topic, or even discussed things completely unrelated, as long as he kept talking. Meanwhile the scribes could be heard scribbling frantically in the background, and he guessed they would earn their coin this day as he tried and failed to collect his thoughts into a single cohesive telling.
An hour later, perhaps a little longer, he felt he'd told and retold them everything that had happened to him. Not just at the battle, but also in Myral's clearing, and Cross Roads Shire. There was nothing left to say. Which of course was when they started the interrogation in truth.
For another hour and then two the commanders and clerics peppered him with questions. How had he first known of the tunnel vipers? The Commanders were particularly interested in that as it seemed that he had been the first to have felt them even if he hadn't spotted them under his feet. Could he explain the feeling that had gone through his mind just then?
And from there the questions only became more demanding. What about the feelings that had run through him as he fought Mayfall? Bribak? They even asked him about his first meeting with Myral. If his story had rambled, so too did their questions seem to wander in strange places, most seemingly unconnected to the battle. But he did his best to answer them, conscious of the fact that these were the people who truly needed to understand everything that had happened. The fate of the Order itself lay in their hands.
And, though he didn't want to think about it, so too did his own.
Chapter Fifteen.
“Aaagh!”
Yorik cursed as he pulled back the string and loosed the arrow, knowing even as he watched it fly to its target a hundred paces away that the arrow would probably not stay fixed in it. He was simply too weak and too sore to use the double re-curved longbow as it was meant to be used. And with each shot, as his injury became more painful, his aim would slowly deteriorate. It was a completely predictable outcome, and one that was becoming only too familiar as he kept repeating it.
Time for a rest. Setting the bow down beside him on the soft grass, he collapsed backwards and spent some time simply enjoying the sight of the white whips of cloud as they blew gently overhead, while the sun warmed him with its delightful yellow light.
Against all his expectations he'd finally made it to the elven city.
Hammeral was exactly as Genivere had shown him in her fire and yet still as nothing he could have imagined.
With a total population of a hundred thousand elves or so, he'd expected it to be roughly half the size of Ender's Fall if a little more spread out. But if anything it seemed even busier. There were elves everywhere be they wandering the beautifully cobbled streets under the houses and businesses, or along the overhead walkways suspended between the trees.
One thing was strikingly different between the elves of Hammeral and the humans of Ender's Fall; the way they moved. The elves never ran, save for the children who skipped, jumped and played like any others. They walked gracefully, calmly, almost effortlessly as though the cobbles were air on which they glided. There was no jostling, no scurrying or unseemly haste, and yet despite that they made good time thanks to their long legs and practised strides.
No more did they raise their voices in excitement or anger. Everything, whether trading, casual conversation or even commanding horses, was spoken in respectful tones, with great restraint and politeness, exactly as the books had said. In Ender's Fall by contrast there would have been children running and screaming, vendors proclaiming the quality of their wares up and down the streets at the tops of their voices, soldiers marching or a thousand and one other noise
s to break the peace from dawn till dusk.
Yet it wasn't a quiet city for all that. The elves had replaced the noise of the human cities with their own sounds; those of music and nature. Everywhere he went he could find elves humming or singing as they worked – it seemed almost as much a habit to them as breathing – while the glades were filled with musicians playing their strangely shaped stringed harps. Added to that was the sound of birdsong and the tinkle of streams as they burbled their own sweet melody. And finally even where these sounds were quiet, the people had filled the branches of their trees with wind chimes, so that when the wind blew the city made its own music. It was a strange city.
The buildings that made up the city were vastly different from any he'd ever seen before. Whether they were houses, inns or markets – none of them complied with the rules of normal human structures. They weren't square or even necessarily straight sided. Instead they bent and flowed with the shape of the trees in which they nestled. Many of them stood three and four stories high as they scaled the gigantic trees that formed the backbone of the city. And for all that they refused to obey the dictates of normal engineering practice, there was nothing in them of poor construction. Instead they were well made; artistic and yet solid. Well designed and laid out, perfect for whatever use they had been built for.