“I remember you, Rane,” he said in a hard tone. “Captain of the 53rd Daggermen Infantry.”
Dahal bowed.
“Useful units, daggermen,” the Baron went on. “Devastating in tight areas. Forests. Towns. Ravines.”
That last note might have been intended as a bland compliment but it came across as mockery. Dahal’s scarred visage darkened.
“Do you hear me, Baron?”
It was peculiar question. Hadley didn’t know much about elves but had heard that they liked to bemoan mankind’s perceived inability to ‘listen’. Like most humans, her instinctive response was to question whether elves were delivering their messages coherently. In any case, she certainly hoped the Baron didn’t back down. The elves had come here, to an established human stronghold in the green fields of the Southern Reaches. If they were so determined to talk, they’d want to ensure they weren’t wasting anyone’s time.
“Your men fought well,” the Baron said at length. “The 53rd carried out its orders. We nailed a skrim general.”
Dahal smiled mirthlessly, a truly chilling sight, and stepped down off the table. The Baron’s bodyguards advanced in kind.
“Best not step any closer, elf.”
“It seems to me, Baron, that some lives are worth more than others under your command.”
“I don’t like your tone,” Duskovy returned, nostrils flaring. “There was a battle, there were orders. Orders, I might add, passed down from Command. A panel comprised of humans, orcs, dwarves and elves.”
Dahal Rane clasped his long, elegant hands behind his back. Truth be told, Hadley was astounded by his mental fortitude, to stand up to such scrutiny without the slightest hint of stress. Then again, elves were famous across Ardennia for their equanimity. It was the positive flip side to the inaccessible remoteness that humans often railed against.
“Baron Duskovy, you must travel with us to Staga,” Dane said calmly. “There, you will face the Fellowship War Tribunal.”
The crowd grew increasingly agitated. The Baron blinked several times before his face collapsed into a spiteful chuckle.
“You are mistaken, elf. I’m not going anywhere.”
The elf captain stood perfectly still, maintaining superb composure. Hadley wondered how anyone could possibly trust a man so devoid of recognizable emotion?
“I must insist, Baron. You humans have gotten away with far too much in your personal quests for glory. The Fellowship cannot abide it. I will not abide it.”
The Baron’s laugh was in direct opposition to the lethal steel in his gaze. Hadley’s heart lurched - the tension would surely be broken by violence. She wondered if these enigmatic elves were suicidal. If the dark smear they spoke of could only be washed away with blood. Yolanda and the boys had wisely withdrawn, but Hadley couldn’t spot them through the thick crowd. A fresh commotion demanded her attention - her father had risen to his feet. A fresh silence reigned as Devon Le Berne stepped past his former master and faced the murderous elf. There was something oddly familiar in his eyes, a steel Hadley hadn’t seen since she was a child. It was something of a shock to recall how vibrant he once was.
“Who is this man, Baron?” Rane asked contemptuously.
“This man is Devon la Berne, elf,” the Baron said. “You’ll notice he’s wearing the vestment of a Representative. My Representative.”
Hadley couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. The simmering animosity between the Baron and his long term Representative was something of a local legend. It was said they hadn’t uttered a word to each other for several years. Yet here they were, joining forces against an unexpected adversary from a distant land. Hadley found herself deeply moved by her father’s intervention.
“On what basis do you make your claims, civilian?” Devon asked coldly.
The term ‘civilian’ worked on a number of levels. From the outset it established the elf’s status as ex-soldier. Devon had a peerless reputation for pulling opponents apart through sheer semantics.
“Very well Representative, I will parley with you,” Dahal said, though he seemed slightly unsure of himself. “We make our claim under the War Reparations Agreement. A cornerstone of the Fellowship.”
“Interesting,” Devon commented, seeming more luminous than usual. For some reason it gave Hadley a twinge of sadness.
“Why is that interesting, human?” Dahal asked, neatly falling into Devon’s trap. The old man was using some of the tricks he’d learned over a forty year career.
“Because I don’t think you’ve done your due diligence,” Devon said. “If you had, you’d know that interracial summons need to be served by a registered Representative.”
An elf at Rane’s shoulder thrust a sheet of parchment in the air, but Devon shook his head.
“I haven’t finished,” he said icily. “If a war reparations claim is to be made against a defendant from the same original army, the summons must be served in the presence of a registered Representative of the defendant’s race. Fellowship Law.”
Rane frowned, his pale, bluish skin darkening with fury.
“You are here to witness our summons, human.”
Devon let the silence tick until it was almost unbearable.
“I am present,” he said. “But alas, I am no longer registered.”
Hadley’s father stared into those pitiless elf eyes and refused to blink. Nervous laughter erupted from some far corner of the throng. Hadley feared for Devon, wondering how Rane would respond. In the end it was with wounded dignity. The elf saluted the senior officers at the banquet table, then melted into the ranks of his company. The daggermen filed through the crowd, their cat-like grace making them appear ethereal in the dancing brazier flames. No one dared say a word until the last alien had disappeared under the gatehouse. Moments later the soft patter of their exquisitely-trained horses faded down Felwood Hill. The tension gradually receded, along with Hadley’s pulsating sense of dread. It was over. All she could do was look at her mother and shake her head. Whatever had just happened, one thing was certain - it was time to leave.
4 - Catelyn
The gig wobbled over the uneven track. Sitting with her shell-shocked siblings, Catelyn admonished herself for sharing those cups of mead with Josh Salliner. She’d gotten caught up in the excitement of the night and now that it had been cut short, her warm buzz had nowhere to go. She needed her brain back so she could reflect on the elf encounter. What was all that about? The intruders clearly had grievances, but why present them so publicly? On the other hand, she’d loved seeing her father in action. By the fat god, it was almost enough to make her head straight to Lakeshore Academy and demand they accept her late enrollment. Almost.
In any case, Catelyn was convinced she’d outgrown Guill. She was rapidly losing tolerance for small-mindedness in all its forms. Earlier in the night she’d discovered she had an unlikely admirer - Sange Duskovy, no less. The knight-in-waiting had slipped her a note within minutes of her arrival, suggesting they find somewhere quiet to “talk”. It had been a bold but humorous invitation, suggesting a charm lacking in many of the bull-necked squires of Duskovy’s garrison. And yet Catelyn felt nothing when she looked at Sange. Truth be told, all she saw was a thoroughly provincial squire. The Equinox Feast had confirmed what she already knew - that she needed to leave Guill, preferably with Hadley and Tanis. She knew their departure was imminent - she could see it in their eyes. Andra was a gateway to Ardennia at large. If the planets aligned, she might even find a patron. Someone who saw her as a prospective knight rather than a “maiden”. Her only regret would be leaving Doran behind at such a critical phase of his own training.
The hamlet of Guill almost looked pretty from Felwood Hill. Someone had hung lanterns all the way down Hearth Street. They flickered and winked through the low buildings. Doran said something that made everyone laugh, but a voice in the back of Catelyn’s mind pointed out that lanterns didn’t flicker like that. Frustrated with her shaggy mind, she squinted into the mu
rk. Those weren’t lanterns - they were spot fires. Probably a bunch of drunken yokels amusing themselves. But then again, if there was a positive to be said about the local folk, it was that they were usually respectful of the village proper.
The gig made painfully slow progress down the slope. The horses were clearly too old and near-sighted for the trip, especially at night. Devon and Vesna were talking in low voices, clearly troubled by what they’d seen up at the castle. Despite Doran’s attempt at frivolity, the la Berne siblings fell silent. For a minute or two the only sounds were the creaking wheels, the sluggish clop of the horses, the indignant shriek of a night crow.
“What’s wrong, Cat?” Devon asked, noticing the pensive silence and peering into the back of the gig.
“I’m not sure,” she replied vaguely.
There was definitely a commotion on Hearth Street. Silhouetted figures passed back and forth in front of the fires. Maybe a testosterone-fueled brawl. Farm boys who couldn’t handle their mead.
“You know what, these horses are too slow,” Catelyn said more angrily than she intended.
Her mind was still swimming and the elves had gotten under her skin. Plus, she was tired of ruminating on her future. On what she’d be doing in five years, ten years. All she knew was that Guill was too small for her. Not only that, but the linear future she’d spent so long cultivating needed to be smashed into a million pieces too. It might have been the mead, but at that moment she detested everything about the place that had molded her view of the world. From Felwood Hill the timber dwellings clustered around the village green seemed unbearably desolate against the boundless black of the Southern Reaches. The scattered fires on Hearth Street, and there could be no mistaking them now, were representative of the barely-stifled savagery at the heart of the village. In a rush of pique, Catelyn vaulted over the side of the cart and continued at a brisk walk.
“Stay next to the cart, Catelyn,” Vesna warned.
“Ril, come back here …”
A small hand grabbed hold of Catelyn’s little finger.
“Don’t be mad, Cat,” Ril said brightly, falling in alongside his big sister.
“I’m not, little boy,” Catelyn said, lifting him to her chest. “I’ve just been sitting down too much.”
Catelyn kept an eye on the village but she’d lost too much elevation to see what was happening. To soothe her strangely coiled nerves she gave Ril a tight squeeze.
A fizzing noise gave both of them a shock. A red cracker spiraling end over end no more than ten yards off the path to their right. Catelyn couldn’t see who launched it. The gig’s lantern was too far behind the pair to offer decent light. Ril yelped with joy and shimmied to the ground. Before Catelyn could restrain him, the boy was gliding across the tussocks to where the cracker was still spluttering.
“Ril, come here now!”
The child said something but Catelyn couldn’t hear him over the dying cracker. A shadow passed between them and she thought she’d swooned. Ril stood frozen, his eyes strangely unfocused.
“Ril …?”
Cursing the thick needle grass, Catelyn moved awkwardly across the hill. Ril wavered on his feet, close to toppling over. She stopped him just in time and cradled his small body in her arms. A wet slickness spread across her lap.
“No, Ril, no …”
She lifted his head, which lilted back way too far. A gaping wound across his throat was the culprit. Blood spurted from the carotid artery and sprayed hot on her chin. It was a moment before Catelyn realized she was screaming. Ril wasn’t moving. Part of her wanted to fling this nightmarish body away so she could go wrap the real boy in her arms, the boy who’d never jumped off that wagon. But the alarmed shouts behind her confirmed that her world had been turned on its head. She couldn’t look at the slain boy, nor could she remove the image of that wound from her head. Instead she held him close and waited for her family to arrive. The seconds passed while Catelyn’s heart heaved with such crushing sorrow she wasn’t sure she could move even if she wanted to. And yet there was no hand on her shoulder, no relieving of the impossible package she cradled. She opened her eyes, taking the first, critical step to re-entering a world that would forever be black.
Moving with the fluid grace of ghosts, there were several figures in the murk. Elves, vile and grotesque. They’d surrounded her. Occasionally a blade would flash in the weak lantern light. Every one of those elves brandished daggers. A horse whinnied in fright - even in her shattered state Catelyn knew it was Horatio. Somehow the urgent noise drew her further into her body, the physicality of the moment. She was torn between allowing grief to consume her and obeying a twitchy survival instinct.
“Go!” shouted Doran from somewhere to her left.
His voice was like a beacon through Catelyn’s veil of grey. Submitting to her blessedly unthinking body, she hefted Ril over her shoulder and allowed gravity to do the rest. She bounded down the hill into the darkness, not caring whether she tripped and fell. Even in the dark she knew the terrain well, making for the gully that would see her to the little bridge over the Ebbe Minor.
An elf stood waiting for her. She had no plan, no method of getting around her adversary. Ril’s body obscured much of her vision anyway. Figuring she may as well knock the elf over if she was going to die, she didn’t bother slowing down. With only a yard to go a third combatant launched into the alien like a battering ram. It was Vesna, grunting heavily as she tangled with the daggerman. Catelyn was almost overcome with anxiety at the sight but she kept running. She just wanted to take Ril away. All she knew was that she could never leave him on the muddy hillside if he was … Catelyn, just keep moving.
Lungs on fire, she reached the narrow, moss-sided gully and tempered her pace so she didn’t slip. All was quiet back on the hillside, which disturbed her more than the peal of battle. She hated the way these elves melted in and out of the darkness. She hated the way they moved like liquid death. It wasn’t honorable; on the contrary, it made her skin crawl. She picked her way across the dew-covered bridge carefully. One mis-step on the slick wood would see her tumble into the stream. Bracken clung to her dress as she renewed her pace on the other side, cursing the trickling water for potentially masking the sounds of would-be attackers. Her adrenalin fading fast, she forced her way up the hill that would see her to the village.
With legs like lead Catelyn emerged from a grove of gnarled oaks and was confronted with the alley in between the blacksmith and the tavern. Sam Gerrity’s alehouse was peculiarly quiet for this time of night, which was no surprise under the circumstances but did nothing to quell Catelyn’s surging anxiety. The shadowy space was primarily used as a rubbish dump and urine stop for inebriated tavern patrons. Local children also knew it to be a fantastic hiding place. The stink of rotten meat and vegetables was enough to deter all but the most determined seekers. It would serve as a place to breathe for a minute or two until Catelyn ascertained the lay of the land. She rested Ril against the bluestone base of the tavern wall, her heart breaking as the body flopped loosely.
She’d been dreading this moment. In the end, Ril made it brutally easy for her. His eyes were open but lacked life. There was nothing there, only her own madness if she lingered too long.
“Ril,” she said stupidly, laying a hand on his heart.
Tears rolled from her cheeks in a steady progression. She felt unbearably light, her insides scooped out and scattered for miles, never to be recovered. She had no idea grief could be such a brutal hammer blow. Like it had on Felwood Hill, the world gradually re-entered her mind via small details. Gradually she became aware of the world around her. There were sounds of conflict from the main street, no more than twenty yards down the alley. Hoof-fall and the gravelly sound of something being dragged. The distant shouts of villagers. The referred flicker of the fires she’d noticed earlier. Most immediate of all, the rank smell of rotting garbage and human excrement. Gerrity’s pit. Catelyn and her siblings had often speculated on what it would be lik
e to spend time in there, half submerged in shit and moldy vegetable matter. The perfect hiding place indeed, but no one, not even the unpopular children who were up for anything, had ever been game enough.
Catelyn was on the verge of making an unpleasant decision when a figure blundered into the alley. She took a step back, but something about the movement reassured her. Too clumsy, too loud to be an elf. It was Doran, panting hard. The first thing Catelyn noticed was his broadsword, which refused to reflect the firelight. It was slick with blood.
“You killed one of them?” she asked hopefully. The concept seemed improbably heroic at that desperate moment. Doran shook his head sheepishly.
“Blood’s mine,” he said in a strangled voice. “Nicked myself on the way down.”
Catelyn’s brother hadn’t made eye contact since he arrived. If he’d noticed Ril by the wall, he didn’t give any indication. Instead he paced up and town like a trapped animal. Something about his uncertainty sharpened Catelyn’s own resolve.
“Doran, listen to me,” she said. “We need to climb into that pit and stay there till sun up.”
Her words barely registered. Doran was too busy wrestling with a mauled and tattered sense of duty.
“I need to do something, Cat,” he said. “I need to fight.”
“That’s madness and you know it,” Catelyn said. “Survive. Live to fight another day.”
Oblivious to reason, Doran studied a head-high window ledge in the tavern wall. His sheathed his sword and hauled himself up. Catelyn was certain a murderous band of elves were about to storm the alley.
“Where in seven hells are you going?” she asked.
“Tavern could be easily defendable,” her brother said, not unreasonably.
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