by Jon Hollins
She should probably finish, she thought, on something stronger than that. On some great rallying cry. But she was abruptly out of words, standing there on that scorched plain, full of scorched dreams.
To be honest, failing to inspire them, sending them all going their own ways … it would probably be for the best. It would be harder for the Diffinites to track them. More would probably live. And it would be easier for her too. Fewer responsibilities. Fewer lives to worry about.
From the pile of charred soldiers, the woman who owned the barn picked herself up. Her nose was a ruin. Blood coated her lips and chin. The edge of her skirt smoldered.
Slowly, her arm trembling slightly, the woman wiped her face with the back of her sleeve.
“Okay,” she said, “so where are you leading?” She spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground. “Because I’m following.”
PART 2:
DRAGONS DOMINANT
22
Beauty and Grace Carven in Flesh
Will knew he should say something. It was getting ridiculous that he hadn’t said anything. It was coming up on a month since they had escaped from Bellenet. It had already been far too long to have said nothing.
Without meaning to, he let out a sigh. Lette glanced over her shoulder, back at him. “You better have a really good reason for staring at my arse right now.”
“What?” Will blustered. “I didn’t … I wasn’t … Just lost in, erm … thought.”
And that was most definitely not what he needed to say.
“Problem is being,” Balur rumbled from the back of the wagon, “if you were lost in thought about Lette’s arse.”
Which really wasn’t helping at all. Though, in fact, ever since he had come back to full-time consciousness, about two and a half weeks ago, Balur seemed to have had “avoiding helpfulness” as his main goal. There was almost no doubt in Will’s mind that the big lizard man could have gotten out of the wagon and walked along the road for a little bit by now, but whenever Will brought up the subject he would claim “My wound is hurting me.” And whenever Will tried to ride in the back of the wagon he was accused of crowding the lizard man and slowing the healing process. So he walked alongside the wagon, scuffing his heels in broken twigs and leaves, rather than sit up at the front next to Lette, all because he was too much of a gods-hexed coward to say … to say …
I love you.
How hard was that to say? It wasn’t even like it would be the first time he’d said it to her. It would be more like a gentle reminder than a shocking revelation.
I still love you.
Maybe that would be better. Except of course that the real problem was the word love.
I still have feelings for you.
Except she would ask what feelings.
Strong feelings.
And she would know that he meant love.
Complex emotions.
Except they weren’t complex at all. Love was brutally, stupidly simple.
Maybe I could hire a bard, Will thought. Bards are good with words. He glanced at Lette again, carefully, to avoid both staring and her arse. In the end, he thought, she seemed more likely to derive pleasure from gutting a bard and hanging him with his own entrails than from any sort of sweet song.
Maybe I could get her that?
“I am still saying it’s a stupid plan,” rumbled Balur, and for a moment Will was so preoccupied that he thought Balur was commenting on the availability of suicidal bards, and he blushed furiously. But then he realized that Balur was hitting a well-worn topic—one that he was more than willing to talk about.
“Well, then,” he said, “let’s go to gods-hexed Vinland instead, befriend them, and raise an army to defeat Theerax and all the other dragons like I suggested in the first cursed place.”
“We can’t go to Vinland,” said Lette with ill-concealed irritation, “because as we have pointed out before, we are wanted there on pain of death.”
“I know!” snapped Will. “Because we have this same pissing conversation every pissing day.” He stared daggers at Balur. “Batarra is lost to Theerax. Salera is lost to Gorrax. Chatarra is lost to Callax. Tamar is lost to Diffinax. The Five Duchies have finally been united under Pondrax. Every nation has some dragon at its helm. This we have heard in every tavern from Bellenet to”—he cast about—“around twenty leagues back, where civilization ended. The only holdouts are the elves here in the Vale, and Vinland. And of those two countries, you refuse to go to one, because apparently everyone there wants to kill you. Which I am increasingly assuming is because they spent a month on the road with you.”
He increased his pace so that he could stride indignantly in front of the wagon. However, he soon regretted it because he had blisters the size of golden bulls on his heels. Because he was constantly walking alongside the wagon. Because he didn’t have the stones to admit his feelings to Lette …
“Look,” he said, dropping back beside the wagon and affecting a more reasonable tone, “are you sure we can’t get out of whatever you two did in Vinland? I mean, if there’s anywhere where a god is most likely to manifest and make a stand against these dragons, surely it’s a nation entirely devoted to the worship of one god, right?”
This was met with silence that carried a certain weight. After a considered pause, he risked a look up at Lette and Balur.
Lette was shaking her head. “Gods,” she said. “Exactly how backwards was Kondorra?”
Which seemed a little unfair to Will. Because first, Kondorra wasn’t really all that backwards from what he’d seen of Batarra, and second, if it had been backwards it was because it had been dealing with the oppressive thumb of draconic rule for far longer than the rest of Avarra.
“Barph,” said Balur with the same supercilious tone as Lette. “The absent god.”
Will’s brow furrowed. “He’s the god of wine and … generally hedonistic nonsense.” He didn’t remember anything about his absence.
“Barph hasn’t manifested in almost eight hundred years,” Lette said, as if speaking to an infant. “It’s why Vinland is such a pissing joke. At least they would be if they didn’t mostly consist of well-armed, fanatical Barph worshippers. Which”—she put a finger to her cheek—“is probably why the dragons’ anti-deity message has had such a hard time catching on there.”
“Look,” Will said rather indignantly, “no gods have manifested in Kondorra since before I was born. They didn’t come up much.”
“Eight hundred years,” Lette repeated.
Which, Will had to admit, was kind of a fairly large knowledge gap on his part. “Okay,” he said finally, “so Vinland makes no sense then.”
“I don’t know,” said Balur, easing back on the cart. “The more the gods are staying in their heavens, the easier time we will be having convincing everybody to worship them and not dragons. Maybe the Barphists are fanatics because Barph isn’t screwing everything up for them?”
Which was a depressing idea. Not for the first time, Will wished he was trying to defend some deities not primarily known for their habits of seducing people and ruining shit.
He also wished he understood the goals of the dragons better. To replace the gods? How was that even possible? And why this intermediary step of conquering Avarra and making everyone worship them? Surely there was some intersection between the two desires, but what it was lay far beyond him.
In the end, as long as the dragons all ended up lying in a heap with lances through their hearts, it wasn’t a concern that needed answering. And he had seen sixty thousand men kill five dragons before. His dreams were not out of proportion to reality.
Around them the Vale reached heavenward and rustled. Over the past few days, the scraggly woods of Batarra had grown progressively larger and denser, ash and oak mixing with the elm. Then the occasional yew, pine, and fir had found their way into the mix. Branches had knit together above their heads, casting everything in shades of yellow and green. The trunks of the trees had thickened, the undergrowth s
urrounding them spreading more thickly. The world smelled fresh and fecund here. Wildlife seemed to be constantly moving somewhere out of sight.
Then three hours ago, Lette had pointed out the border stone marking the transition point where the road entered the elves’ domain. There had yet to be any sign of the elves themselves, though.
“You know what?” said Will, as his thoughts threatened to turn back to Lette again, “I’d actually love to hear your plan, Balur. If mine is so awful, what great alternative is it that you are suggesting?”
Balur snorted. “You know what I would love to be hearing? Your plan.”
“My plan?” Will looked to Lette for support, but her eyes were on the trees. “You were just complaining about—”
“Your plan,” Balur said, “is consisting of step one, coming to the Vale, and step three, leaving with an army. There is being a distinct lack of step two, I am thinking.”
Which was a point well aimed enough to give Will pause. “Well,” he blustered, “it’s, erm … contextual.”
Balur lacked eyebrows, but the look he gave Will definitely conveyed arched eyebrows.
“What?” Will felt that this really wasn’t as bad as they were making it out to be. “We’re asking them to rally against a group of dragons that are threatening their national borders. It’s not that hard an argument to make. They’re probably halfway there or more themselves. We’re really just offering information and expertise.”
Lette grimaced. “I think you might be overestimating the willingness of the elves to be helpful,” she said, glancing around at the forest enfolding them. She lowered her voice. “Elves are not exactly known for being the most open-minded of people.”
“They are beauty and grace carven in flesh,” said Will. He refused to be treated like some backwards hick. He knew the stories. “They are the most beloved of Betra, her chosen race upon earth.”
“Yes,” said Balur, which was pretty gratifying. “That was being the case right up until humanity was oppressing the shit out of them.”
“What?” Gods piss on it, thought Will. He was going to look like a hick again.
“The Century War?” Lette looked at him. “Seriously?”
Will just sighed. “Look,” he said, “the schooling system in Kondorra was organized by dragons. Ergo, there wasn’t one.” He tried not to be embarrassed by the fact that he was just using the word ergo to prove that he knew it.
“Okay, then. History lesson. The Century War.” Lette shook her head. “It actually only lasted about thirty-eight years, but historians are just as big a pack of liars as everyone else.” She pushed her hands through her hair. “Anyway, about two hundred years ago there were bad droughts for five years in a row. All the crops failed. People were dying everywhere. Disease was rampant. Bad shit. So humanity, being the ever-so-enlightened bastards that we are, decided that it was probably because someone had pissed the gods off. And humanity didn’t want the blame, so they took it out on everybody who wasn’t human. Which meant thirty-eight years of rounding up elves, dwarves, Analesians, centaurs, pixies, and anything else with pointy ears, and then stabbing them in their nethers.”
“Elves are thinking that you two are being total dicks,” Balur summarized, in case Will had failed to grasp the point.
Will nodded slowly. “Well, based on that history lesson, I think I might agree with them.”
“So …” Lette fixed him with a contemplative stare. “Asking the elves to assist a bunch of round-ears like us might pose a few problems.”
“And you only thought to mention it now?” Again, Will felt like this problem wasn’t entirely his fault.
“I was mentioning this numerous times,” Balur said, spreading his hands wide. “But—”
“When?” Will was having trouble believing this shit.
“When I was saying that I thought this was a shit plan.” Balur seemed confused that this needed to be explained.
“Saying that you think my plan is shit is not exactly the same as saying that for politico-historical reasons you think race enmity may mean that the plan might need some additional thinking.”
“Well,” Balur said, looking wounded, “I was thinking that that was implied.”
“I’m about to imply my fucking fist to your nadgers,” Will told him. Which wasn’t a realistic threat, but it made him feel better.
Balur shrugged.
“Honestly,” Will said, “I still think that the immediate threat of dragons looking to destroy your home kind of outweighs the wrongs done by folk several centuries ago, whom I suspect I would disagree with strongly.”
“Well, you are a racially insensitive fuck,” said someone who wasn’t either Lette or Balur.
Lette yanked on the wagon’s reins. Their horse let out a belligerent neigh and stumbled to a halt. Will fumbled for his sword. Then he noticed Balur had his hands up.
“Wait,” he said, “are you surrendering?”
“Obviously.” Balur rolled his eyes.
“I don’t understand what’s going on.” Will felt that statement summed up most of the past few months really.
“That is because you are being an ignorant round-ear pig-fuck,” said the mystery voice again. This time it was followed by a rustling in the bushes, and the leaves, and the branches above them. And then a dozen figures emerged on the road around them. And then a dozen more arrows peeked out of the trees above them.
“Oh,” said Will. And then, “Shit.”
23
Pièce de Résistance
Five days the journey went on. Five days of walking. No roads. No proper rests. No sign of others. No tents erected. No shelters of leaves made. And when the forced march was over, the elves simply lay down in shifts and slept on the cold earth.
Because, Lette thought, as she had tried to point out to Will, elves are absolute dicks.
Then finally, on the evening of the fifth day, she caught sight of firelight through the trees. And as they approached, the glow grew, and spread out, and separated into a hundred points of light, floating in the branches.
And then they stumbled into a clearing, and her jaw dropped just a little more than she was used to.
A whole town square floated in the trees above them. Inns, merchant shops, stalls, butchers, fletchers—she could see them all suspended thirty feet off the ground. Walkways of rope and wood were strung between them, lined with torches like diamonds draped around a noblewoman’s neck. Elves scurried back and forth, busy on errands. Children chased back and forth, their cries barely distinguishable from the soft animal noises drifting through the slumbering forest.
Their guide—an elf called Lothell, with sandy hair and lines around his mouth and eyes like whorls in the trunk of a tree—turned to them and gave them an acidic smile. “Welcome,” he said, “to Birchester.”
She stared around, then checked to make sure she was not playing it any more agog than her companions.
Will caught her eye. “Carven beauty and grace,” he mouthed at her.
Lette sighed. Apparently she could drop her britches and start slapping at herself and she would still be playing it cooler than Will.
There was a single structure at the center of the clearing, a large, low hut, perfectly round with a roof of green leaves. Lette couldn’t tell if they were just fresh picked, or if the whole structure truly was made of living wood. Whatever the truth of the matter, it was a fairly impressive effect, especially considering what a bunch of total dicks the elves were.
“All right then,” said Lette, who was about through with Lothell and his arrogant posturing, “so now you actually take us to someone important, right?”
“Or now,” said Lothell, “I tie you to a tree and reshape your ears with arrows.”
“You have a strange ear obsession, little man,” Lette said. “Makes me think you’re compensating for something.”
Which was why, when they were forced at arrow point into the low, round hut, she was gagged.
The space
was poorly lit, and clogged with slightly fragrant smoke. Lette could pick out fifteen shadowy figures in the gloom. Lothell and his men added another eight.
Basically, she decided, if she started something here, Will would die.
That shouldn’t bother her.
It bothered her.
So she went where she was prodded, and ended up on her knees before a throne of branches and green leaves. It looked like the same, living-wood gimmick had been used to create it as the rest of the building. And yes, it was impressive, but Lette was beginning to think that elven aesthetics were a bit of a one-trick pony.
Lounging in the chair, smoking a—quite frankly ridiculous—pipe was an elf dressed somewhere between gigolo and woodsman. He wore the tightest pair of leather trousers that Lette had ever seen. Exactly how he got in and out of them seemed like the sort of topic Quirk would like to investigate, especially considering the roll of fat that protruded at the waistband, before the elf’s silk shirt took over. The shirt was heavily embroidered with images of a skinnier man in equally tight trousers killing bears and bedding slender women. The ensemble was finished off with a bearskin cloak, and a circlet of bear teeth and claws that clung to the man’s forehead.
“His highest eminence, master of the bowstring, slayer of the round-ear fucks, commander of the Vale forces, fine-aspected Todger IV,” intoned Lothell in a voice that made Lette think the man actually believed the title was important.
“Oh yeah,” said King Todger, and pumped his crotch slightly.
Was it only total dicks who sought out power, Lette wondered, or did it make them that way? She shrugged. Probably a little bit of both.