Twilight of the Elves

by Zack Loran Clark

  Then, at the very end of the dream, he’d discovered that he was being watched.

  A ghostly figure observed his struggle from the edge of the trees, an animal that was just barely visible against the haze that surrounded them both.

  It was a fox. Zed realized it with the eerie certainty that sometimes came in dreams, before he’d even gotten a good look at its bushy tail. The fox, too, burned. Its slitted eyes flickered with the same ghastly green light that wreathed Zed’s throat.

  Those eyes stayed with Zed long after he’d jolted awake. He slept uneasily the rest of the night.

  Micah’s snoring had not helped in that regard.

  “Your bunkmate,” Callum said now to Zed, drawing him out of his thoughts and back to the hike. “Is he always such an . . . enthusiastic sleeper?”

  “It’s worse when the air is dry,” Zed lamented. “Or when he sleeps on his back. Sometimes when he’s eaten a lot. And on Luxdays, weirdly.”

  Zed couldn’t tell whether the elf’s expression flashed with amusement or pity.

  Their team was treading carefully along the trail. Even knowing the plan required it, their party still looked too small to save a city. When the rest of the elves and adventurers had split off, Zed’s stomach quailed at the sight of the scant company left behind.

  Frond had wanted to minimize their possible losses, but when Queen Me’Shala and her two remaining ministers insisted on joining, she didn’t put up much of a fight. Besides these retainers, the queen was flanked by her two sword sisters, and a team of elite rangers scouted their path.

  Of the elves, only Callum seemed willing to part from the queen. Zed had been surprised when the High Ranger fell into step beside him, but he was glad for his presence. Callum watched their surroundings like a bird of prey.

  “There aren’t any night elves on the mission,” Zed said quietly, hoping only Callum could hear him. When he glanced to the others, Zed found Threya was scowling, but scowling seemed to be the minister’s resting state.

  Callum nodded slowly, keeping his gaze on the trees. “As the queen said, there is mistrust among our kind. And the Lich himself is dro’shea.”

  Zed frowned. “But there are night elf rangers. Fel, for one.”

  “Felasege is young,” Callum said.

  “Well, then prepare to have your world turned upside down, because”—Zed passed a hand over his face, lifting an imaginary curtain—“I’m young,” he revealed.

  The High Ranger’s eyes flicked down at him. They were back on the forest just as quickly. “Yes,” he said. “You are. And bringing you was Frond’s decision to make.”

  Callum looked thoughtful for a moment. When he slowly exhaled, the pensiveness went with it, a doubt resolving into mist. “The night elves who survived the Day of Dangers were all captives,” he murmured. “Prisoners of a long and brutal war. Eventually, their descendants were freed, but it took nearly two centuries for all elves to be declared equal in Llethanyl. Two hundred years of lawful oppression.”

  “Oh,” Zed breathed. “Fel never mentioned.”

  “It’s not a happy subject for her.” Callum shook his head. “And as you’ve seen, declarations of equality mean only so much. Some say the ancient night elves lived in darkness and worshipped death, a concept our culture doesn’t officially believe in.”

  Zed frowned. “Didn’t we just attend a funeral?”

  Callum nodded slowly. “It was more of a . . . farewell. According to our sagas, the elves were once immortal, with fathomless life spans spent in quiet contemplation. Wood and sun elf traditions claim that druids still guard the secrets to our endless life. Thus our ‘dead’ are merely lost, until we prove ourselves worthy of eternity again.”

  Zed stared at the long path ahead, tracking it into the horizon. He thought of the elven shrine he’d discovered several weeks ago, the druids inside all collected in a hill of bones.

  “But we’ll never truly know what the night elves believed about death,” the High Ranger continued. “Their old traditions are gone now.”

  “Gone?” Zed asked.

  “Erased. The surviving dro’shea were converted to our sagas.” The ranger paused. His cheeks colored in what might have been shame. “Many of the dro’shea are angry at the theft of their culture. They’re right to be. The night elves lived in a small, isolated district. As rangers, Fel’s parents fought for a city that might one day be worthy of their daughter. I, too, wish for such a city. She’s a good elf, and she deserves a better world. But for that dream to be realized, there must still be a Llethanyl. And a Fel.”

  “A good elf,” Zed mumbled. “You said the same thing about my father once.”

  Behind them, Jayna shrieked as Micah stuffed a clod of frozen earth down the back of her cloak. Zed grunted in annoyance. He glanced back upward, hoping Callum would continue the thread, but the elf’s attention had drifted.

  “I’d always thought healers were a compassionate sort,” the High Ranger said mildly. His eyes stayed focused on something far away.

  Zed snorted. “The nicest thing Micah’s ever done is fart downwind of me. Once.”

  Callum laughed, an extraordinary sound, and Zed found himself grinning as well. Then Frond barked for quiet, and the group fell again into silence.

  They paused for lunch beside a jumble of enormous gray rocks dusted by flecks of snow. As far as Zed was concerned, the whole configuration looked unnervingly like King Freestone, and he privately dubbed the spot the Kingrock.

  He wondered if King Freestone had discovered the queen’s disappearance yet. Not that he could stop them at this point.

  While Zed and the others watched the trail, Me’Shala’s two sword sisters swept the Kingrock for Dangers. Both were wood elves, though that was where their similarities ended. One was tall and reedy, her tawny skin almost green against the pallid white of their surroundings. She moved in sharp, precise jabs.

  The other was stocky—or at least as stocky as elves got—and there was no other way to describe her complexion but pink. She always seemed to be smiling serenely. Once, she’d winked at Zed when she caught him staring.

  Zed hadn’t learned their names yet. They didn’t appear to speak the trade tongue at all, and Callum had warned him to steer clear while they guarded the queen. For now he just thought of them as Thorn and Petal.

  After a few moments of searching, Thorn caught sight of something hidden within the rocks. She stabbed her longsword into a crevasse, then revealed a diminutive Danger impaled on the blade.

  It appeared to be a strange cross between a clock and a bird. Four levered mechanical arms scrabbled at the sword, while a pair of colorful wings beat futilely against the air. The creature had no head to speak of, though a single large eye spun wildly inside its brass abdomen.

  “I believe that’s a cherubet,” Hexam called. “Lux origin. They’re among the weakest class of celestials. Perfectly harmless.”

  Thorn bashed it against the stone anyway. After a mechanical-sounding crunch, the cherubet went still.

  When the Kingrock was finally deemed safe, the party sat down to lunch. Though they’d been walking for hours, Zed found his feet didn’t yet hurt. Which was only a relief until he wiggled his toes and discovered he couldn’t feel them at all.

  After Frond passed around their lunchtime rations—twice-baked bread that had been soaked in oil, and two small morsels of cheese—Zed removed his boots. He held a cupped hand just in front of his feet and called forth a small gulp of mana.

  Above his hand, a fork of green fire untwined. Zed warmed his toes like this for a while, careful not to let the flame touch his socks.

  “No magic,” Frond finally ordered. She gnawed at her loaf, ripping a piece away in a manner that reminded Zed of dogs destroying upholstery. “Sarve wur marna,” she added, her half-chewed food on full display.

  Zed sighed, quashing his marna and the warmth with it.

  The queen, her ministers, and the sword sisters all sat in a separate group from
the adventurers, closing themselves off into a forbidding circle. The rangers hung around more loosely, their eyes ever on the trees.

  “Perhaps we could sing to pass the time,” Jayna suggested between nibbles of cheese. “Adventurers enjoy . . . bawdy stories, right? Fife certainly knows plenty. In the Silverglows, I once heard a very naughty song about an apprentice who accidentally sends her instructor’s robes billowing up during—”

  “No singing, either,” Frond said.

  So they ate in silence. Or as close to silence as Frond’s chewing allowed. Zed couldn’t help but notice Selby, the queen’s minister, start a small fire in the center of their circle with a flick of magic.

  Zed only repressed another woeful sigh by imagining Frond’s voice barking, No sighing!

  Dear Brock, I’m sorry.

  Zed crossed out the line with a grunt.

  Dear Brock, he wrote. I’m scared.

  He dipped a small wooden pencil into a phial of ink. Technically, the writing tools were supposed to be for his lessons with Hexam, but since Zed didn’t record the same magical formulas Jayna did, he decided he’d put them to more practical use.

  Well, if you see any of those people, tell them I’m just fine.

  Zed grimaced, remembering his last harsh words to Brock. In truth, he wasn’t fine at all. The weight of the task he’d undertaken lay heavily across his shoulders. After several more hours of trudging—so much trudging!—the group had stopped again to take a brief rest.

  But Zed’s mind was whirring.

  Why, with everything that was happening, had he ever agreed to this? Kill the Lich? Him? Zed could only barely control the green fire he summoned. Worse yet, he’d lied about its origin.

  A whole city full of elves relied on his mastery of sorcery, but Zed knew the truth. The fire Makiva had given him was something else entirely. Something darker. Brock had been right all along.

  I should probably start at the beginning, Zed wrote, when things first went wrong.

  “Ah, there you are!”

  Zed glanced up to find Selby, Queen Me’Shala’s minister, grinning over him.

  “Oh!” Zed cried. He quickly folded the note in half, then leaped to his feet. “Um. Wow. Hello!”

  “Continuing your studies even in the midst of our journey?” the minister said. He flashed a handsome elven smile. “That’s wonderful to see. Your industriousness does you credit.”

  “Th-thank you!” Zed replied far too loudly.

  “It must be difficult to be a sorcerer among humans,” Selby said. “I suppose they don’t quite know what to do with you. Sorcery is more common among our people, you know. There are few families who don’t have one or two examples.”

  “Are you one, Messere—I mean, Lord . . . ? Um. What should I call you?”

  “Call me Selby,” the elf said with a wink. “You might have noticed, but I’m less formal than my fellow minister. To her endless annoyance.” Selby shrugged sheepishly. “As to your question, no, I wasn’t blessed with natural magic. I did have an aunt who could conjure cold when she was feeling depressed. She made these delicious chilled drinks, but it took a toll on her mental health.”

  The minister began rummaging through a satchel at his side covered in luscious white fur. “Every sorcerer is different, however, even within bloodlines permeated by magic. It makes you hard to teach, but . . . ah!”

  Selby retrieved something from the bag. It was a small, beautiful book. The leather that bound it was pure white, and its latch was made of glittering mythril. The minister held the book out, but it took Zed a few stunned moments to realize that he was meant to take it.

  He retrieved the tome with shaking hands. “What is it?” he asked.

  “A codex of arcane exercises for sorcerers, developed over generations. It’s been translated into the humans’ trade tongue, don’t worry. Queen Me’Shala thought perhaps it could be useful.”

  Zed pressed the book to his chest. The world spun around him. “You’d really give this to me?”

  “It’s a small thing,” Selby said, “compared to the incredible risk you’re undertaking.”

  “Oh, it’s . . . I mean—”

  “Now, don’t be modest,” the minister said with a smile. “We all know how dangerous the mission is. Why, the undead could be watching us this very moment. You’ll need every tool at your disposal.”

  Zed nodded slowly, his elation giving way to dread once more. He caught a strange scent on the air, clinging to Selby’s clothes. It was sweet—almost edible smelling—but also had a gamy quality, like leather. Then he remembered: Fel had called it myrrh.

  “That was a beautiful ceremony you gave,” Zed ventured. “For the babe.”

  Selby chuckled bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thank you, but if I’m being perfectly honest, Zed, I felt a bit ridiculous. I’m glad it brought the mother some comfort—truly—but from my vantage point, I could see the expressions on your Stone Sons’ faces. They weren’t comforted.”

  Zed frowned. “Aren’t those traditions important to you, though?”

  “Oh, certainly, to many of us,” Selby said. “But tradition can also be a yoke. I encourage Queen Me’Shala to be more . . . forward-thinking. So many elves are obsessed with the druids bringing us back our immortality.” He held out his arms, waving across the fallow landscape. “If the druids had really held such power, don’t you think they would have used it well before they were wiped out?”

  “It’s a nice idea, though,” Zed said softly. “That our loved ones could return to us.”

  Selby opened his mouth, then paused. He nodded, smiling wistfully. “Yes,” he said. “It certainly is.” The elf patted Zed on the shoulder. “Happy reading.”

  As the minister crunched through the frost heading back to the elves, Zed turned the sorcerous codex over in his hands.

  On the back cover, a tree had been imprinted into the leather, wreathed by a flock of birds.

  Brock was fretting and pacing before the wall of mounted monster trophies when Syd and Fife returned late in the day.

  It had been unusually—and uncomfortably—quiet in the guildhall since the mission to liberate Llethanyl had begun the day before. Lotte had insisted on business as usual for the remaining apprentices, and she pushed them hard through the regular battery of sparring and drills. But even she could keep them occupied for only so many hours in a day, and with the packed-to-bursting building suddenly all but empty, those left behind found themselves with time to burn.

  Brock spent that time revisiting old conversations and wondering what he might have done differently. And not just the conversations with Zed. The Lady Gray had charged him with stealing from the queen’s own treasury, and he was unlikely to have a better opportunity than would have been provided by a quest to Llethanyl itself. He didn’t look forward to facing her disappointment at the fact he’d been excluded from that quest.

  On the other hand—what if Zed pulled it off? What if he returned as the hero who single-handedly stopped the greatest threat to Terryn in two hundred years? Zed wouldn’t need Brock’s protection then. What harm could the Lady’s accusations of forbidden magic do to a hero of two cities?

  These were the thoughts occupying Brock’s mind when Syd poked his head into the guildhall basement. Only a few years older than Brock, Syd and his best friend, Fife, were among the more sociable members of the guild. They’d left with Frond and the others the previous morning, as part of the larger decoy party, and weren’t due back for another day or two.

  “You’re the one who isn’t squeamish, right?” Syd asked. He wore both a helmet with three horns and a perpetually sleepy expression. “I could use your help.”

  Brock followed the older boy back to Hexam’s work chamber, a subterranean room, warded with cold, where the man performed his most important duties as archivist, stripping valuable organs and fluids from the monsters defeated beyond the wall. Evidence of his grim harvest was preserved in jars and vials all around the room. E
vidence of Fife’s weak stomach had been splashed against the far corner.

  “I’ll . . . just get a mop, shall I?” Fife said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand on his way out.

  “It attacked us after Frond’s party split off. They had me and Fife drag it back so it wouldn’t spoil, while the rest of them flush out this one’s nest,” Syd explained, seemingly unconcerned with his friend’s departure. In truth, Brock himself found it difficult to focus on anything but the table at the center of the room, shrouded as it was with a heavy white sheet. Whatever lay beneath that sheet was vaguely humanoid . . . but just vaguely. “I’ve been working with Hexam,” Syd added. “Not the mage stuff, but the monster stuff. He asked me to fill in while he’s away. Starting with this.”

  Syd drew back the sheet, revealing a beast that appeared as much salamander and insect as human. Its flesh was waxy and wet but covered in large patches of hard shell like natural plate mail. Its humanoid chest ended in a long plated abdomen, hanging from which were a half-dozen segmented insect legs. Its two dead eyes were affixed to the ends of long stalks, and its toothless mouth hung open like a craggy gash between razor-sharp plates of exoskeleton.

  “Gross,” Brock said.

  “Yeah, that’s what they all say,” Syd responded. “But you should see what Lotte can do with locustrix chitin.”

  “Locustrix?” Brock said. “I read about it in . . .” He gestured at the empty platform that usually held Hexam’s monster book. “Oh. Do you need the book?”

  Syd nodded. “Probably. I need to get the plates off without breaking anything. And I’m not sure if the eyes have any use. . . .”

  “I’ll get it,” Brock said, and he stepped into the relative warmth of the hallway, leaving the door to Hexam’s workroom ajar. Rather than heading immediately upstairs, he snuck a peek back inside the room. Syd was lining up the tools he would need for the autopsy, as if the hulking beast laid out before him were no more intimidating than a jigsaw puzzle.