When Elves Die : Episode One

by Richard Poche

CHAPTER 7

 

  The town of Carratris had close to four hundred elves spread out across a mile enclosure. The missionaries arrived in the afternoon. They drew a crowd as they journeyed past the town's narrow paths and ramshackle huts.

  The missionary caravan had half the town following them by the time they reached the village square.

  Nerasora, the unofficial mayor of the village, had purple eyes that looked at everyone with thinly veiled contempt. Her tunic had sleeves made of rabbit fur which she continually rubbed for good luck.

  “Zanfire,” she said. “What brings a group of Pegasin missionaries to this Godless tribe of elves?”

  “Greetings,” Zanfire said. “My group has traveled for over four days by wagon to offer our friendship. I bring with me Carella, Princess of Graceonna.”

  Carella stepped forward and extended her hand.

  “It is my pleasure, Nerasora.”

  “Likewise.”

  Carella smiled and returned to the wagon to assist the missionaries. Nerasora watched as Zanfire's followers took out drums, guitars and tambourines from one wagon. The rear wagon showed elves taking out a skinned calf and pieces of wood.

  “Is there a party that I should know about?” Nerasora asked.

  “I was wondering if we could talk in private for a few moments?” Zanfire pointed to an isolated spot between one of the tents.

  “This is private enough.”

  “The Dark Queen is gathering in strength,” he said. “Killtooth attacks have increased in frequency throughout the land. Entire villages have been massacred in some of the northern regions. We have a group that was supposed to meet us a few miles back and did not show up. Now we fear the worst.”

  “What do you want from us?” she asked. “We are pagans that your tribe exiled years ago. Remember?”

  “We have a common enemy-”

  “We can fight our own battles. We don't need you. Or your silly religion. So why don't you-”

  “When my body turns to dust,” Carella's vocals interrupted Nerasora. “And my soul turns to rust...”

 

  Elven children from the village began to gather around the singing princess.

  Carella worked the young crowd, caressing their faces and tousling their hair as her audience grew.

  “When elves die, the birds all cry,” her song built to a crescendo as she raised her hands up to the sky. The little children smiled, taken in by the sound of her angelic voice. Some of the adults had tears welling in their eyes as Carella's lyrics touched their hearts.

  The crowd stood silent after she completed the song. Then one elf clapped, followed by another, and soon the entire crowd applauded in unison.

  The princess bowed.

  “I am Carella from Graceonna. We are here because we don't want to be strangers anymore. We are offering our friendship and goodwill. Our chariots and wagons are filled with food. We have fresh beef, seasoned with the most delicious herbs and spices of our region.”

  She pointed to a large iron pot. One of the cooks stood there stirring up a broth with a huge grin on his face.

  “Please join us. Eat, drink and enjoy.”

  The elves were hesitant at first and no one stepped forward. Finally, one of the more chunky bodied villagers walked to the elf stirring up the broth.

  “I don't believe in your God,” he said. “But that smells really, really good. I'll have some.”

 

  “She's a great singer,” Nerasora said. “But singing will not fend off the Dark Queen or the Killtooths.”

  “We're hoping that you and your elves will come join us in Graceonna. There is plenty of room and, quite frankly, we need your elf power. It is written in our holy book of Arcanscape...That if we are not united, we will fall.

  Nerasora rolled her eyes.

  “I know you do not believe in the prophecies of our religion,” Zanfire continued. “But surely you can see the benefit in having both of our soldiers fighting side by side instead of dying separately.”

  “We have been attacked.” Nerasora admitted. “One of our girls is missing. I'm sure she's been caught and killed. A family of three were found killed last month. And I have thought about migrating but going north just gets us closer to Shaian. If we go west, well, there is the Great Unknown. And no one journeys past that point. If we go south, we have to contend with you folks. And you didn't want us-”

  “That's not true-”

  “We reached out to you a few years ago. We were starving. The bison were dying and we had little food. We sent a messenger to your tribe. Do you remember what you told him?”

  “Things were different then. I was different-”

  “Yeah. We needed you more than you needed us. But now that we are of a benefit to you, all of a sudden, we are worth talking to?”

  Zanfire stood at a loss for words. He had forgotten how he had dismissed the young elf that came as an emissary from this region. Back then, there were so many tribes asking for his assistance that he made the mistake of shunning some of them.

  Nerasora eyed Zanfire for a few moments then walked toward the gathered crowd.

  “Attention, please,” she said. “Zanfire has been gracious to offer us asylum in his town of Graceonna. In order to combat the growing forces of the Dark Queen, he thinks it wise that we join our tribes together.”

  The townsfolk stood silent. Each appraised the members of the missionary group, their reasons for arriving in town now understood.

  “To show his good faith and his connection with the divine, Zanfire has offered to heal one of our own.”

  “What?” said Zanfire.

  “Zanren and Walaver,” said Nerasora. “Please bring forth...Xavros.”

  Everyone in the crowd stopped eating. Zanren and Walaver, two young elves with stout builds, looked at each other and then at Nerasora with a questioning look.

  “Bring forth Xavros,” she said to her surprised conspirators. “And Zanfire will heal him of his madness!”

  The cleric grabbed Nerasora by the arm.

  “What are you doing?” he hissed.

  “I'm exposing you for what you are. And then you are never going to bother us again.”

  Xavros' bloodcurdling scream echoed throughout the valley as the elves brought him out of a distant tent.

  Hot sores smoldered on his face as he entered into the sunlight. He had handcuffs on both wrists with a six foot chain attached to each. The two elves pulled on the links at opposite ends and dragged the possessed prisoner forward.

  “Xavros was a victim of a Killtooth attack,” Nerasora said. “He is half-human, so he converted to the blood sucking monster that you see now. But now, today, Zanfire will heal him of his affliction! He will show us a gift of healing that was bestowed upon him by his God Pegasin.”

  Most of the villagers squelched nervous giggles. But one laughed out loud.

  Xavros' screams drowned out the mocking from the crowd. The direct sunlight burned his face so he kept his head bowed. Smoke rose from the back of his neck and ears. His clothes were torn with blood stains blotted across his shirt and pants.

  Xavros watched as Zanfire's long shadow on the ground moved closer to him. Green pus oozed from his eyes which were dark red slits with no discernible iris.

  The cleric rubbed his hands together, praying for a miracle. His golden hands that once upon a time could heal an entire village had now grown cold.

  He cursed his God. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself for the worst as he inched toward the possessed man.

  Tendrils of smoke oozed out of sores on Xavros' face. He snapped his jaws at Zanfire.

  The cleric reached out to touch the snarling Xavros. An icy shiver traced its way along the base of his skull down to his spine.

  Nerasora's elves drew back on the chains and Xavros howled in pain. Undaunted, he lunged forward again at Zanfire.

  The cleric ran backward, tripped over his feet and stumbled to the
dirt.

  The villagers laughed.

  “You see,” Nerasora said. “The typical holy man. His words fill his worshipers with false hope and promises. But when it comes to actually performing a miracle, he fails-”

  “Let him go!” Carella walked toward Xavros without fear.

  The demon snarled and lunged toward the blonde girl. The two elves struggled to hold him back.

  Xavros jaws snapped like a rabid dog.

  “What are you doing?” Zanfire said.

  “I said let him go!” Carella lifted her arms high above her head and brought them down. The locks on Xavros' wrists magically snapped open.

  With his newfound freedom, the demon bolted toward Carella.

  The two elves started to give chase but they were strides slower than the charging lunatic.

  “Run!” Walaver said.

  Carella refused the command. She stood in place and held up her palms. The charge of the possessed man stopped just shy of barreling into the young woman.

  She reached out and gently touched his face.

  “Shhhh...” Carella stroked his cheek for a few moments, tears welling in her eyes.

  Xavros stopped snarling. Then he fell to his knees.

  Carella lifted up his chin and waited until his eyes met hers.

  “You are healed,” she said.

  Xavros' body heaved as he started to sob.

  The villagers stood in silence. They could not believe or comprehend what they had witnessed.

  The burn sores on Xavros' face faded and healed.

  He looked up at Carella, his pus-filled red eyes now a bright and healthy blue.

  “Who are you?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.