by D. A. Adams
“Of course.”
“Do that thing you elves do and send a message to this army.”
“What message?”
“I need all of the ones who fought at Hard Hope to divide into a separate group, and from the others I need the best twenty-five leaders to present themselves to me. Can you make that happen before they arrive?”
“Easy enough,” Kwarck said, smiling. “Are you ready for some breakfast?”
Crushaw rubbed his growling stomach, and they headed for the house. Inside, the others were still sound asleep, weary from their hard journey, so the two ate alone, chatting about the day’s chores and the pending harvest. The weather had been nearly perfect all summer, and the crop, especially the corn, looked bountiful if they could get it reaped in time. Kwarck’s nomads would arrive soon to assist, but before they were due much work needed completing.
“I do have one concern,” Crushaw said, before taking the last bite of his eggs.
“Only one?” Kwarck grinned.
“Only one that matters. I can see from your silos and smokehouses and this harvest, that we’ll have plenty to feed the elves, but we’ll need quite a few of them to serve as cooks. That will weaken our force, and we need every sword and bow we can muster.”
“My friend, you’re not the only one who plans ahead.”
“How so?” Crushaw asked, arching an eyebrow.
“The humans who help with the harvest have done so on two conditions. First, each year, they receive enough food to get them through the winter, but second, and more importantly for us, one day they would owe me a favor. Now, that favor comes due. They will serve as our cooks for as long as needed.”
“You are quite the schemer. You would’ve made a great general.”
Kwarck laughed and shook his head. Crushaw gathered their empty plates and washed them. Then, he excused himself and went to his room. From his closet, he removed the uniform the dwarven tailor and blacksmith had fashioned for him on the way to Koshlonsen. The ash gray of the pants and gambeson were stained brown with blood, save where the mail cuisse and vambrace had covered them. He ran his fingers over the Great Empire’s insignia, remembering a time when that symbol meant more to him than his own life. Now, he hated Emperor Vassa and her insatiable greed. She and her kind were why he and so many others had suffered slavery, and he would make her army pay for that torment.
He grabbed one of his daggers from the closet and painstakingly cut each stitch that bound the insignia to the gambeson. When finished, he wadded up the embroidery and used it to polish his dark tan boots, mail cuisse, and vambrace. On the left arm guard, he ran his fingers over the indentions from the sand lion’s bite, marveling at the dwarven craftsmanship that had saved his arm. He laid each piece of the uniform on his bed and looked at it, unsure if the blood stains would inspire confidence or diminish the desired effect. He had to make an immediate and lasting impression on the elves, and it would start with the sight of him.
The second part of earning their respect would be more difficult, but he would have to prove to those who hadn’t fought with him at Hard Hope that he was still tough enough to lead them into battle. Each day, he felt his age. The ankle he had broken on the Slithsythe ached often, and his joints mostly ground bone on bone from a lifetime of hard labor and warfare. His muscles still held a fair level of strength, but his reactions had slowed over the last several months. More than once, Kwarck had almost caught him off guard in the fields, and he doubted whether he was up to this final challenge.
But if the plan had any chance of success, the elves would have to believe he was still Evil Blade, the bane of ogres, whether or not he actually was. He would have to get their attention swiftly for them to obey the rigorous training he would force upon them in the brief span of three to four months before they would leave for Rugraknere. The slightest doubt would create dissention, and they would not endure the daily pain he planned to inflict.
Grabbing his sword, he strode outside in the growing daylight and went through his old routine of practice slashes, parries, and rakes. From the summer’s labor, his physical stamina impressed him, and he completed the routine hardly breaking a sweat. While his legs didn’t have the bounce of youth and his arms had slowed, he hadn’t felt this agile in years, and that gave him an idea for how to win over the elves. It would be risky, but that was a chance he would have to take.
***
Two days later, Crushaw stood on a small rise beyond the farm, facing south and waiting for the elves. He wore his full uniform, blood stains and all, and held his sword in his left hand. The tip of the blade rested on the ground so as not to weaken his arm. The wind blew from the west, whipping his gray hair across his face and shoulders. He stood motionless, staring into the distance and focusing on his plan. His scar-flecked face remained stationary, a mask of unquarried stone, and any sane person seeing him for the first time would’ve believed even the most outlandish rumor about his ruthlessness.
When the elves came into sight, a twinge of nervousness overcame him, but he pushed it aside and held his stoic gaze. They could see no hint of uncertainty or weakness in him. They marched across the open plains, ten thousand strong, in perfect unison, and their precision lifted his spirits. If they could march so fluidly already, they could learn all he had to teach. As long as his plan to gain their submission worked, they had a chance to become the army he needed to face the Great Empire.
They stopped a few yards from him, and the silence of their footsteps ending punctuated their arrival. Crushaw recognized many faces in the first two rows from the Battle for Hard Hope, and he called for them to come forward. Both lines moved ahead and followed his gesture to stand behind him. Then, he summoned the twenty-five leaders from the others, and half of the third row stepped forward. Raising his right hand, he halted them a few feet from his position.
“You have been chosen as the best of your kin, but before you can join me,” his voice boomed. “Send me your three best swordsmen.”
The twenty-five looked at each other, and then, three from their ranks moved forward one step. Each was at least half his age, their bodies long and lean with muscles like tight ropes.
“You will fight me one at a time,” he bellowed so all could hear him. “And if any of you can disarm me, I am not worthy to lead. But once I’ve defeated each, my word is law for as long as the elves remain in my army.”
Behind him, the elves who had served with him remained silent, but a murmur ran through the mass in front of him.
“Do you all swear an oath to abide by this?”
“Yes,” the elves responded in harmony, the sound thunderous on the plains.
“Then, decide who faces me first.”
The other twenty-two rejoined the rest, and the three swordsmen moved back a few feet, whispering amongst themselves. Finally, the tallest and strongest one, a male roughly Roskin’s age drew his sword and approached. He was a Koorleine elf, with long blond hair and clear blue eyes. In one swift movement, Crushaw readied himself in middle guard, placing his feet and bending his knees for balance. His pulse and breathing slowed in anticipation. The elf also chose middle guard, his eyes studying Crushaw’s posture as he neared the old man. Crushaw held still, waiting for the elf to strike first.
With a flash of steel, the elf drove at him with a forward thrust. Crushaw slipped to the side, not moving his own blade. Agitated, the elf thrust again, faster and more powerfully this time, but again, the old man simply stepped away from the charge. Enraged, the elf slashed horizontally. This time, Crushaw stepped into the blow, blocked it with his sword, and with one twisting parry sent the young elf’s blade flying.
“Back in line,” Crushaw said, only audible to the disarmed elf.
The second soldier came forward, a female Loorish elf whose face seemed strangely familiar. Without hesitation, she attacked, swinging from high guard. He easily blocked that strike, but she spun around faster than seemed possible and slashed at his right leg. Instinctiv
ely, he used the mail cuisse on that leg to block the blow, but before he could counter, she spun the opposite direction and thrust at his left ribs. He moved just in time to avoid a fatal blow, but the blade sliced open his gambeson and raked his mail hauberk. Using his left arm, he trapped her sword against his body and placed his blade at her throat.
“Well played,” he hissed. “But back in line.”
His right thigh throbbed from blocking the second blow, and blood tickled his left arm from a gash opened when he pinned the sword, but the third swordsman stepped up, ready in high guard. He ignored the pain and stood in middle guard. The third elf, another Loorish, was the oldest and slowly circled him. This one had watched the first fail to overpower him and the second attempt to out-quick him, so Crushaw deduced this duel would be about endurance. The elf came with a downward strike, and the old man blocked it, but the elf withdrew his blade and retreated before he could parry.
The elf switched to low guard and reversed direction, circling back. Crushaw moved with him, minding his feet on the uneven ground. Suddenly, the elf brought his blade up, aiming for the taller man’s groin, and Crushaw stepped aside just in time. As the elf retreated again, the general glared at him for the attempt. The elf grinned, changing now to middle guard, and rushed forward with a torrent of slashes. Crushaw blocked each one, but the elf was too quick for any of his parries. Through each spar, the pain in his right leg grew, and the gash on his arm now screamed. For a moment, he feared this elf’s tactics might succeed.
Then, the elf came a fourth time, again from middle guard, but this time driving straight. The old man blocked the thrust with his sword, but released the grip of his left hand and struck the elf in the right forearm. As soon as his fist found the pressure point, the elf’s arm went dead, and Crushaw easily flipped the sword from his opponent’s left hand with one twist of his blade. Then, Crushaw dropped his own sword and grabbed the elf around the throat with both hands, lifting him from the ground. With all his strength, he flung the elf towards the main crowd and then stood, staring down at nearly ten thousand elves. He composed his face into the same stoic gaze as when they had approached and remained motionless, as if daring another approach.
The third swordsman scrambled to his feet, retrieved his sword, and moved back in line. Then, he made eye contact with the old man and nodded slightly. Crushaw held as still as he could, waiting. Then, once again, in unison, the elves kneeled before him and bowed their heads. Finally, Crushaw relaxed his posture and motioned for them to rise.
“If you want your lands back from the Great Empire,” his voiced boomed. “Follow my every order from this moment.”
“Yes, General,” they responded.
“First, the twenty-five leaders will join me here. The rest of you divide into groups of nearly one hundred and find places to camp. Go now.” As the main group disbanded, he turned to those who had fought with him at Hard Hope. “Each of you will serve as a captain. Pick a group and get them organized. Divide them into swordsmen and archers based on ability. There’s no time to delay. Move out.”
“Yes, sir,” they responded, breaking off to find their groups.
Crushaw then turned back to the twenty-five leaders, who had formed a half-circle around him.
“General, your arm is bleeding badly,” the third swordsman said.
“Is it near my heart?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Is the wound near my heart?”
“No, sir.”
“Then, it won’t kill me,” he said, scooping up a handful of dirt, which he smeared over the gash. “I care nothing for scratches and bruises. There is something you elves must accept, but it won’t be easy to hear.
“Your kind is strong and agile of body. You have keen minds. I knew many of you as a slave, and I fought with many to escape the orcs, so I have firsthand knowledge of your abilities. Do you know why both of your races fell to the Great Empire?”
“No, sir.”
“You are weak of heart.”
The elves bristled at the words.
“For forty years I fought the ogres and slaughtered them mercilessly, but I barely moved them back more than a hundred miles because they refuse to quit. For over fifty years, the Great Empire has pushed against the dwarves and has only a tenuous hold on half a kingdom because the dwarves are as tough as the stone they tunnel into. Both of your races were pushed into a forest where you’ve had to hide for all your lives. Those are the facts and the reality we face.”
Their faces contorted with anger and venom, and while he kept his expression stoic, inside, he beamed with excitement.
“The good news is this,” he continued. “For the next three months, I will purge that weakness from your hearts, and you will become the toughest fighting force in this world. My first order is go to each captain at each camp and tell them to run their squads five miles out and then back. I don’t care how far you’ve already marched today, and I don’t care how many puke or bleed. All of you must be back in camp in three hours to begin weapons training. You have your orders. Go now.”
The elves bowed and disbanded, spreading out to deliver his orders. Crushaw remained on the rise until they could no longer see him, blood trickling down his arm and dripping from his fingers despite the dirt. Satisfied they were far enough away, he turned and limped on his sore right leg back to Kwarck’s house, hoping the wizard could ease his wounds quickly enough to have him ready for weapons training.
Chapter 4
And the Life That Is
Molgheon entered Bressard’s house and found him in his sitting chair, dirty, disheveled, and weak. He had apparently spent a couple days there, unable to move, so she dropped her gear and rushed to his side. As she stroked his hair, he slowly opened his eyes, a flicker of recognition when he saw her. She ran to the kitchen and retrieved a dipper of water. Gently, she held the tin to his lips and allowed him to sip the cool liquid. He took several minutes to finish the serving. Once he had drunk, he whispered a scarcely intelligible thanks.
Molgheon pulled a chair beside him and held his hand. His skin was like fine parchment, and no strength remained in his grip. He closed his eyes and fell back to sleep, so she rose and organized her gear, hanging the bow and quiver in the closet and arranging everything else on the dining table. Then, she prepared lunch and ate alone in the kitchen. When finished, she returned to his side and monitored his breathing, which was slow and labored with a slight rattle. She had witnessed this same scenario enough to know she had barely made it back in time.
Bressard woke an hour later and whispered for more water. She brought another dipperful, and again he took several minutes to finish it. This time, however, instead of slipping back to sleep, he perked up slightly, his eyes dampening as he studied her face. She stroked his cheek with her free hand as he held the other.
“You returned,” he managed, his voice low and raspy.
“I promised I would,” she said, leaning in and kissing his forehead.
“Happy.”
“Save your strength,” she said, her eyes moistening.
“Bury me near the ironwood,” he said, each word a struggle.
“The tree south of the barn?” she asked.
He nodded slightly.
“Please, rest,” she said. “I’ll take care of you.”
He closed his eyes and rested his head against her hand. Molgheon waited for him to fall asleep and then found a pillow for his head and a blanket to cover his arms and legs. When sure he was comfortable, she stretched out on the old sofa and rested her legs from the long walk. She had hoped to have more time with him, to learn more about the mountainside and house, but that wasn’t meant to be, so she turned on the sofa to make sure she could watch him and waited for the inevitable.
***
She buried him a week later near the massive tree. That last week, he had hardly awakened, and in those brief minutes of consciousness, he showed little sign of awareness. Once the dirt was smoothed
out on his grave, she gathered good-sized rocks from around the yard and covered it to prevent any animals from disturbing him. She had buried many friends and even her husband, but for some reason, this death hurt worse than any other. While she had wanted the isolation of living alone, she had hoped for a transition, some time for just her and him to live together. Perhaps, she had wanted to care for him to repay for all he had done for so many others. Perhaps, she wasn’t quite as ready to be alone as she thought. Perhaps, she was simply tired of death. Her thoughts and feelings were too jumbled to be certain which, but she did know her sadness drove to her core, and she wanted to scream.
She sat on the porch and stared at the mountains. Summer was fading, the light and wind shifting to fall, and much preparation remained before winter. Meats and nuts needed storing, and the house required several small repairs before the heavy snows of winter, but at that moment, she couldn’t raise herself from the porch to start any of it. Her friends faced overwhelming odds against the army she had sworn an oath to fight, and the only reason she had left them was to care for Bressard during his final days. Now, he had passed on, and she felt as if she had let them all down.
This wasn’t how she had envisioned her new life. She had dreamed of harmony and tranquility, not pain and remorse, yet here she sat, feeling the burden of guilt for barely making it back and for abandoning others who had needed her, too. In the forest behind the house, twigs cracked, but she didn’t move, supposing it a deer foraging through the brush. She had no interest in hunting at that moment; there would be time for that after she had allowed herself to sort through all of the emotions racing through her.
***
Torkdohn watched Molgheon enter the house. When the twigs had cracked, he had been certain he had blown his element of surprise, but when she hadn’t even glanced in his direction, he relaxed and refocused on his plan. He would sneak into the barn, retrieve his net from his wagon, and wait for the perfect moment to catch her off guard. Picking his way through the brush, he kept out of sight and circled around the barn to the stall that opened away from the house.