The Devil's Deuce (The Barrier War)

by Brian J Moses

  He risked a quick glance and saw Hoil was reacting much the same as he was, but Maran crouched with an easy, practiced style. The elf caught Birch’s eye and smiled thinly, then looked away and concentrated on their surroundings. At another whistle, the squirrels left the ground and scampered quickly up into the trees. They moved with a sure-footed speed that perhaps even an elf might have envied, bounding across tree limbs and leaping gaps with a perfect ability only nature can grant.

  At one point they slowed to a crawl and went under an interlocked series of branches, and Birch prayed fervently the harnesses would hold as he clutched desperately at the upside-down squirrel. Above them, Birch heard the distant sounds of civilization and realized they were passing underneath a small village up in the trees. Then the houses were behind them, and the squirrels bounded upright and back to their full speed.

  Birch began to get lightheaded, and he closed his eyes and felt the world flash by him. He was used to flying on dakkan-back, but the dizzying blur of colors streaming past him was altogether a different experience.

  Then suddenly the squirrels stopped. Birch opened his eyes and saw they had stopped on a deserted path of tree branches tucked out of the way behind the wooden wall of some building.

  “Dismount quickly,” Maran murmured. Birch glanced over and was nonplussed for a moment when he didn’t see the elf. “They must be released before anyone notices their presence. Since I cannot allow myself to be seen here, others would wonder how two humans came to ride chiplins.”

  Maran released the giant squirrels and whispered directions to the two men. Birch felt more than slightly out of place, and he noticed that the elves around them were doing their best to ignore humans in their midst while at the same time radiating curiosity and trying to hide it. Furtive glances and lilting whispers tickled at the edges of Birch’s awareness, and he did his best to ignore them in turn. The Tricrus on his breastplate reassured him and helped project the image that he belonged in their lofty city. He was a paladin, a warrior for God on a mission, and few men would willingly stand in his way.

  After a few hundred yards, projecting that surety became easier. Birch noticed with a sideways glance that Hoil displayed little difficulty in projecting the image of a wealthy merchant disinterested in his surroundings and his mind clearly interested on other matters. He surmised it wasn’t the first time his brother had role-played in some confidence scheme or another.

  They traversed the woodland city without incident, and Maran’s whispered instructions eventually led them to a pair of enormous crystalline gates standing between two of the thickest tree trunks Birch had ever seen. Each tree was easily big enough that a dozen men could have linked arms and barely encircled its girth. The gates themselves were twenty feet tall and their thick, intricately wrought bars were practically see-through, but only a fool would think them fragile. A dakkan could probably crash into them at full speed and not make a scratch.

  It was only as they drew closer that Birch saw the gates in detail, and he realized each of the vertical bars was a slender representation of a different type of tree. Branchless trunks of ash, pine, maple, oak, and dozens of other species he couldn’t recognize. There was even a stylized representation of his namesake – a birch tree.

  His inspection of the gates was necessarily brief as they drew close enough to warrant the direct attention of the dozen elven guards standing impassively in front of the crystalline barrier, staring silently out at the city. They wore confidence and competence with equal strength and ease, and Birch had no doubt they were quite deadly with the twin-bladed swords they all carried, which Maran had told them were called halvens. The weapons resembled two short swords melted together on an elongated hilt; one blade was straight and serrated on one side, and the other was curved slightly like a scimitar. They wore chainmail armor with links too small for Birch to make out from a distance and, while it looked too light to be of any practical use, he recognized true warriors when he saw them, and their armor was surely first-rate.

  “What brings you to the seat of the elven capital, humans?” the foremost guard asked in the human tongue, his voice neither offensive nor overly respectful. He had the look of a true professional, someone who had earned the right to act beyond such trifles of social niceties and slights. All the guards were more muscular than average elves, but other than that there was little to differentiate them from any of their fair-skinned kindred. Still, something about the foremost elf in particular bespoke lethal power and well-earned self-assurance. Birch watched him carefully for the first signs of hostile acts, knowing that this one at least would strike swiftly and without warning. He was dangerous, but perhaps not an enemy.

  “We come seeking audience with the king,” Hoil replied. “I am Hoil de’Valderat, and my brother Birch is a paladin of the Prismatic Order. He comes on a matter of grave importance to your nation and to the world.”

  The elf looked at Birch, taking him in with a single glance. The elf’s eyes lingered a fraction of a second longer on Birch’s eyes, but Birch would not make direct eye contact. No sense in ruining their chances at getting in by cursing the elf to see into the Hell within Birch’s gaze.

  “He wears the holy symbol upon his breast, but his cloak is not that of a holy warrior,” the elf said, his voice betraying none of his thoughts. Birch was impressed with the man’s command of the human language. His accent was negligible and more a function of an elf’s normal vocal tones than an unfamiliarity with the language. The only elf Birch had ever heard with a better command of human was Maran. This was clearly no ordinary foot soldier.

  Hoil nodded. “He is the Asan’don’meshir’eln,” Hoil said, somehow not twisting his tongue over the alien word. It sounded strange, hearing such a melodious, flowing word from non-elven lips, “and he carries the sun in his pocket and the shadow at his back.”

  Birch barely refrained from frowning at such a strange thing to say, but the elven guard reacted instantly. He bowed slightly at the waist and barked commands in a tone that was harsh, but still inherently musical. Immediately, the two gates swung open and they were led inside.

  “Please allow me to escort you to see the king,” the elf said. “I am El’Siran, captain of the Elan’Vital.”[19] Now he accorded them some measure of respect, but Birch couldn’t figure out what his brother had said to so affect the elf. He leaned close to Hoil.

  “What did you call me? And why did they let us in?”

  Birch nearly leapt out of his armor when he heard Maran’s silky, soft voice right beside his ear.

  “He called you the Asan’don’meshir’eln. Loosely translated, it means he who has crossed into death and returned to life,” Maran said, his voice a barely audible murmur. “Even here your reputation precedes you, I’m afraid. And they let us in because Hoil gave him a pass phrase which only a select few could have possibly given to us. It is not the same as when I lived here, but there are similarities. If anyone asks, you were given the phrase by a paladin named El’Shakir in Nocka, who was unable to come on this mission himself.”

  Perhaps Maran might have said more, but then his voice choked off with a noise that the other elves couldn’t help but notice. Birch stifled a fake sneeze and tried to look apologetic, but none of the elves would meet his gaze. Birch didn’t really blame them. Then he noticed that instead of simply avoiding his eyes, they were actively searching every nuance of the environment around them with practiced, piercing eyes. They split their attention between this search and quick glances at a young elf who had just appeared on a path near them. The elf had two others trailing behind him, each wearing similar armor to the guards accompanying Birch and Hoil.

  Birch knew his discernment of elven features was unpracticed at best, and every elf he’d seen looked somewhat alike and universally alien, but he would have sworn an oath on his faith that the young boy before him was related to Maran. Their lips were similar, their facial structures close ─ allowing for the difference in age ─ but their eyes
may well have been mirror images to each other.

  “Who is it?” Birch asked, sub vocalizing without opening his mouth. There was a long silence until the young elf disappeared into another door and their escort reduced its vigilance. Then Maran whispered into Birch’s ear.

  “That was my son.”

  Chapter 15

  Let the thread stand for the skein.

  - Elven Proverb

  - 1 -

  Birch resisted the impulse to stare at the spot where Maran was standing.

  “Your son?” he murmured beneath his breath.

  “Shhh. Yes, my son, but raised to believe my brother sired him. I’ll explain it all later,” Maran whispered. “Keep walking and follow the guards.”

  The small procession resumed, and they were soon inside the palace proper. Birch stared hard at the walls, trying to decide what they were made from; they looked like stone, but there were no seams, and something about the fluidity and design hinted they were something different than the stone walls crafted by Stone Weavers. The walls were so perfect, they could have been alive.

  “Excuse me,” Hoil said to the head of their escort, “but I can’t quite decide what these walls are made from.” Birch held back a smile.

  “It is a living stone, crafted through the combined skills of the Weavers,” Siran answered in a clipped but respectful voice. “The ways of making them have been lost to us over the centuries, and this palace is the only remaining structure of such make in the world. It is fitting.”

  After that, they walked in silence through the wide halls, and Birch marveled at their surroundings. Lavish tapestries and works of art were arranged with exquisite taste on almost every wall, but despite their obviously expensive nature and their frequency, there was no sense of excessive opulence or showing off. They were there because they belonged there, and after a while Birch found that he looked past them as nothing more than a natural part of the surroundings.

  The floor was covered with a soft, red carpet that all but muffled their footsteps. The fibers were densely packed, but short, and it was immaculately clean, like everything else around them. The ceiling arched gently overhead, and every few paces a globe hung from a thin, silver chain and glowed with a soft radiance to illuminate the halls.

  Eventually, they reached the throne room and were asked to wait in the outer chamber to be announced. Hoil paced before the door, his broad frame looking even more impressive compared to the two elven guards posted on either side of the massive wooden door. Birch stood in a corner, enjoying the openness of the room. He didn’t feel closed in at all, even though there were no windows or doors leading outside.

  “The king will see you now,” a soft voice said. Birch turned and saw that another elf had entered the room unnoticed. He was thin, even accounting for the natural slenderness of elves, and his aged skin looked drawn and almost translucent. His eyebrows were raised slightly in the center of his face, giving him a perpetually worried expression. Birch found himself pitying the elf for being stuck with such a look.

  “He has dismissed the court, so it is more private than most are granted,” the elderly elf continued, then sniffed. His tone of voice made it quite clear that why such an honor was being given to a pair of humans was beyond his reasoning. Birch no longer felt sorry for the elf’s unfortunate appearance.

  “Remember,” Hoil murmured, “let me do the talking.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Neither does he,” Maran breathed into Birch’s ear gently. The elven thief had apparently regained his composure and dry sense of humor. He’d been so silent, Birch had all but forgotten the invisible elf was still with them.

  The throne room was a natural extension of the rest of the palace, and once more Birch found himself marveling at the sheer sense of balance and rightness exuded by the building’s decorations. A dozen pillars shaped like tree trunks were planted in a wide double-column leading from the main door to the throne, and the upper branches of the false trees melted seamlessly into the vaulted ceiling, which looked so much like the canopy of a forest that Birch was surprised the whole structure didn’t shift and rustle with unseen wind. The king sat in a throne that glowed so softly Birch wasn’t sure at first whether it emitted light or if it was a trick of the room and the distance between them. There was no definite shape to the throne, but it flowed around the aged elf like a gentle, loving hand, adjusting slightly with his every move.

  The king sat up straight and his chair stiffened behind him accordingly, but it was clear to Birch that it cost the aged elf a great deal to maintain such a dignified appearance. The king’s face was lined with the cares of ruling, but his lips were crisp with strength and a habit of resolve that had etched itself into his very flesh. There was a definite tiredness around the king’s eyes, as much from weariness as from simply having seen too many years of life. But even there, Birch saw strength and a will so powerful it was a wonder the king himself didn’t glow.

  “Your majesty, Birch de’Valderat of the Prismatic Order and Hoil de’Valderat accompanying,” a herald proclaimed loudly in elven (or so Maran whispered in translation). The herald continued in thickly accented human, “His majesty, El’Vareille El’Eleisha, king of elvenkind and lord of the living wood.”

  Aside from the king and the invisible Maran, once the herald left there were only four other elves in the room. The captain of the Elan’Vital who had escorted them stood off to one side near an older elf who wore violet, gold-trimmed robes. Maran’s son stood calmly at the king’s right side, and a middle-aged elf stood at the king’s left. This elf was armed with one of the twin-bladed halvens Birch had seen outside, and was by far the most muscular elf Birch had ever seen. He was only a few inches shorter than Birch, and had twice the chest size of any other elf. His eyes looked dull, and Birch wondered if any intelligent thought went on behind their vapid gaze.

  Deep bows and head nods were exchanged.

  “The violet-robed man is Decein,” Maran whispered as Birch straightened, his voice softer than a spring breeze. Birch detected more than a trace of disdain in their unseen escort’s voice. “He leads the Diet’Si, the parliamentary body.”

  “Welcome, both of you,” the king said, his voice firm despite his appearance. He spoke in elven, however, and Birch was forced to wait for Hoil to translate for him. “Please, approach. El’Siran tells me you have some matter of grave importance to discuss with me.”

  “If you please, your majesty,” Hoil answered in elven. “My brother speaks no elven, but he has entrusted me to state our warning and translate for him.”

  Vareille nodded. Maran provided a running, whispered translation so Birch knew exactly what his brother was saying. Birch was an experienced Dividha player, and he knew how to keep his face from revealing hidden knowledge. No one in the room could tell he knew every word his brother was saying.

  “Some few months ago, the Prismatic Order noticed a fluctuation in the Merging and discovered that a group of powerful demons had somehow managed to cross into our world,” Hoil said. “It was The Three, if your majesty is familiar with demon lore, and they have already begun to cause havoc in the mortal world.”

  The elves in the room stared first at Hoil, then at Birch with shock, then uneasiness and finally fear.

  “You are certain?” Maran’s son asked. “No, forgive me. Of course you are certain, else you would not be standing here.”

  The king nodded approvingly.

  “Gentlemen, my apologies. May I present my grandson, El’Rill,” Vareille said with unmistakable pride, but with considerable pain hidden underneath. “Now, what is your involvement with these demons?”

  Hoil made a show of translating everything the king or his grandson said into the human tongue for his brother. When Birch nodded, Hoil continued.

  “My brother is part of a jintaal assigned to hunt The Three and destroy them,” Hoil said in answer to the king. “He has already succeeded in destroying one of the demons an
d now seeks the remaining pair.”

  “He seeks here?” the king asked. “You have reason to believe one of these demons is on this island? In this city?”

  Hoil opened his mouth to answer, but was stopped short by Maran’s son.

  “My father,” Rill said softly. “You think this demon may have had something to do with his death.”

  Vareille glanced at him surprise and approval, then looked back at the human pair shrewdly. While Hoil translated for Birch, he put a slight emphasis on the elf’s use of the word father, subtly reminding his brother that Rill believed he was the son of Maran’s sibling.

  “We heard about your father’s untimely death, highness, and yes, we feel there is a distinct possibility that a demonic presence could be involved,” Hoil answered at Birch’s prompting. “The Three seem bent on fomenting chaos and disorder in our world, which we suspect may precede an offensive of some sort from Hell.” Quickly he described the fall of the dwarven capital Den-Furral as Birch had described it to him. The elves had apparently heard of the mountain city’s demise, but not all of the details Hoil provided. “At a time when we would most need stability and support from all the mortal nations of the world, they seek to sow discord and confusion to minimize the resistance, at least at first. Once they’ve gained a foothold here, it may be too late to stop them.

  “This is mostly conjecture, you understand,” Hoil qualified at Birch’s prompting when the translation was caught up, “but there are disturbing indications and possibilities too dangerous to ignore.”

  “I must agree with you,” the king replied. He looked piercingly at the two humans. Some of the tiredness seemed to have gone from his body. “How can you know for sure if a demon was involved in my son’s death?”