“Such responsibility is freely given,” Kytain continued. “But you must work to keep it. And that will not be easy. This house is filled with temptations: delights that you will find almost irresistible. You must learn to govern your cravings. If you wish to be treated as a man, you must behave as one.”
It was Kytain who'd taught him to hunt. His favorite time was at night when the wild predators were about. It was thrilling, but he knew better than to do this alone. He would quickly find himself becoming the hunted. And though he could effortlessly vanquish any beast that the forest offered, he had no desire to kill them simply for doing what came naturally.
Creeping forward, he sniffed the air. The musk of a wild boar entered his nostrils. A dangerous prey. And his favorite. A smile crept upon his lips and his mouth watered as he thought of the meal to come. To him there was nothing better than enjoying a fresh kill. Let the wealthy houses feast on rare delicacies covered in spices if that was what pleased them. To Martok, no fare could match what he would soon be preparing on his campfire. His father said it was the influence of the dragons that made him feel this way. Maybe so. But he knew that Kytain felt exactly the same.
During the four years he'd lived in the Prustoni house, the man had become almost like a second father to him. He'd been completely open and forthcoming with all his knowledge, teaching Martok not only wondrous spells and incantations, but also much about the politics of the great houses and how to best manipulate the families into getting what he wanted from them. The principles of this were quite easy to understand. As Sylas had once told him: 'Self-interest governs all'. And Kytain taught him how to use this simple truth to maneuver into positions of personal advantage.
Martok spotted the boar twenty yards ahead. Not an exceedingly large specimen, no more than a hundred and fifty pounds; it was little more than a piglet really. Easier to butcher and then carry back to camp, he thought. One never butchered meat where you slept. A night fighting off wolves had taught him that lesson well.
The boar was busy digging its snout into the turf, oblivious to his presence. Silently, he notched his bow and took aim. One shot. One kill. A good hunter didn’t wound an animal. He waited patiently for the opportunity to place an arrow straight into the animal's heart. As the boar continued to forage, he slowed his breathing and focused. It had almost turned enough for the shot he wanted. Just a little bit more.
Clumsy approaching footfalls and the sound of a coarse voice ruined everything. “Move your ass, scum, or I’ll ram a dagger in it!”
Martok’s heart sank as his startled prey tore off into the brush. Cursing softly, he lowered his bow and returned the arrow to his quiver.
“Let’s just kill him and be done with it,” a second voice suggested.
The newcomers were a short way out of sight, over to his left. Already irritated that they had frightened away his prey, Martok stalked toward them.
“I don’t like this. Why not take his head? They’ll pay for that too.”
So far he had made out three distinct voices. And they were clearly not woodsmen or hunters. In a way he had been hoping to encounter other hunters on this trip. They nearly always had interesting stories to tell, not to mention a good supply of strong wine. Many mage houses totally forbade hunting on their lands and jealously guarded their wild game, even if none of them actually hunted themselves. But Martok’s father didn’t mind so long as people didn’t kill more than they needed. He understood very well that some families depended on hunting for survival. And he was not the type of man to stand in the way while poor people went hungry.
This lot, however, were bandits or sell-swords most likely. Riff-raff.
“The dwarves pay triple if they're delivered alive,” the first voice insisted.
Even though he had heard only a little of their conversation, the mention of dwarves was enough for Martok to make a good guess at what was happening. He positioned himself so that he was able to follow the party unseen and continued to listen to what was mostly idle chatter for a time. There were three of them. That was certain. And from their accents they were from the south, probably near the coast. Though he was in no danger whatsoever from these men, he found stalking them to be rather enjoyable.
After half an hour, he finally decided to move in closer. The moment they came into view he could see that his guess had been correct. Three men in travel worn leathers and with unkempt appearance were dragging along an elf by a rope they'd fastened around his neck. He had been stripped naked and his hands were bound behind his back. Judging from the assortment of bruises and cuts over his face and body, his captors had already enjoyed quite a bit of cruel sport at his expense.
Martok's father had often warned him about getting involved in matters concerning elves. People detested them even more than the dwarves. But at least with the dwarves, humans were able to barter and trade. The elves offered nothing. And the tales of their brutality were widely told.
Despite all this, to see people abusing a helpless victim had always stoked Martok's anger. In any case, these lands belonged to his family. He would do as he pleased.
Stepping into the open, he shouted: “Halt!”
The three men spun, their hands instantly on the hilts of their swords.
One of them pushed his way to the fore. He was of average height and build, with close cropped black hair and a deeply tanned complexion.
“What’s your business?” he demanded.
His comrade holding the rope jerked it sharply back and kicked the elf’s feet from beneath him. “Don’t move, vermin,” he warned, remaining alongside his prisoner.
The last of the trio moved up to join the first man.
“I'd like to know what you are doing here,” Martok said, taking care to keep the anger from his voice. A lesson learned from Kytain. Never let other people know what's in your heart.
The first man, presumably the leader, gave a quick glance to the others before responding. “Our business doesn’t concern you, stranger. Move on.”
By now, the one standing at the back had placed his boot on the elf's neck and was leaning his weight down with intentional cruelty.
Martok forced a smile. “I'm afraid it is. You are trespassing. And I would know why.”
The leader sniffed. “This land belongs to the Dragonvein family. And I can tell by the look of you that you’re no mage. So move on before I give you a beating.”
Martok cocked his head. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want that, I suppose.” He rubbed his chin for a moment, as if in thought. “Then again, maybe I would. Yes. A beating. Why don’t the three of you try giving me one? You were able to do so to an elf. And from what I hear, they are fierce fighters. In that case, I should pose no challenge at all.”
Martok’s confidence was clearly unsettling them. “What is your name?” the leader asked. His hand had slipped away from his weapon.
“My name?” His smile suddenly took on a vicious quality. “My name is Martok. Martok…Dragonvein.” As if to drive his words home, his eyes began to glow a vivid red.
All three men stepped back, palms held out and terror stricken.
“M…My Lord,” stammered the leader. “Forgive my rudeness. I didn’t know…”
Martok’s hand flew up, silencing him. “You can be forgiven of ignorance. And if you go now, you can depart with your lives intact. But you will leave the elf with me.”
“But, My Lord,” he protested meekly. “The dwarves pay a rich bounty for a living elf.”
“Is it enough to raise you and your friends from the dead?”
“No. No, My Lord. Of course. He is yours. Thank you.”
Without further prompting, he gestured for his companions to leave. After making a clumsy bow and mumbling a few more words of apology, he set off after them at a fast walk. This quickly turned into a full pelt run. Within seconds, all three had vanished into the trees.
Martok waited until he could no longer hear them before approaching the injured elf, still lyi
ng on the ground. Piercing green eyes glared back at him defiantly. Martok thought that even naked and beaten, the he still maintained an air of dignity and pride. He had never seen one of his kind so close before. Only a few glimpses from afar.
Martok knelt beside him. “Do not be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The elf huffed. “Do what you will, human. I will not submit. Not even to a mage.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I said I wasn’t going to hurt you.”
“Your words mean nothing. All humans are liars.”
Martok laughed. “You are right about that. But not all lies are evil. For example: Should I be asked by anyone if I have seen you here today, I will lie and say no. If I did not, people would become afraid that elves were wandering around the forest close to their homes. They would then come to my family for protection. And that…well, let us just say that is not a situation I would want to see arise.”
“My people go where they please,” he shot back. “We do not fear the mages. We wander all lands.”
Martok flicked his wrist. “Wander all you want. I could not care less. And you may not fear the mages, but remember, we do not fear you either.” He rubbed his hands together briskly. “Now, I’ve never tried this before on anyone who wasn’t human, so I’m not sure if it will work.”
The elf shifted back in alarm as Martok reached out. Undeterred, he gave a reassuring smile and touched the elf’s battered face. But it was a fleeting contact. In an instant, Martok’s eyes shot wide and he pulled back.
“I’ve never…” His voice trailed off. “The magic. It’s a part of you.”
The elf eyed him curiously. “You attempted to heal me. Why?”
Martok was at a loss. He had never experienced magic in such a way. Though it was well known that elves could not actually conjure spells, it was also said that they were able to connect with the very essence of Lumnia herself. And that it was this ability that gave them their superior speed, agility and unnatural stealth. Now Martok knew this to be true…and why.
“Answer me, human,” the elf pressed. “Why are you trying to heal me?”
Ignoring the question, he once again placed his hands on the elf’s wounds. This time he was better prepared and did not withdraw. Though not especially skilled in healing magic, he knew enough to mend superficial cuts and bruises, and even a broken bone if necessary.
The elf’s body was much the same as any human, so it took only a few seconds for Martok to adjust. In less than a minute, the bruises were fading and the cuts closing.
On finishing, he sat back, dazed from the experience. Healing could be a very personal process. Though he had only used this skill a few times, he was aware that the healer would often catch glimpses into the heart of the one they were treating. Such was the case with this elf. He had seen the freedom and love his people shared with one another. And in spite of brave words, they were afraid of the mages.
The elf pushed himself into a seated position. “You told the humans that your name is Martok Dragonvein. Is this true?”
He shook himself back into the moment. “Yes, it is.”
A little shakily, the elf stood and then bowed. “I am Shelraya.”
Martok took a moment to stare into his eyes. He could still see trepidation and mistrust. But it was definitely less than before. He rose and returned the bow. Only then did it fully occur to him that Shelraya was standing there as naked as the day he was born. Most humans would have been embarrassed by this. But the elf either did not notice, or did not care.
He raised his hands and concentrated. The turf over to their right began to stir as if caught on a stiff breeze. “Ina Zailis Varta,” he commanded.
A large portion of earth, leaves, and grass rose a few inches above the ground. Tiny sparks sizzled and popped within the mass, culminating in a bright flash and a loud crackling sound. Where the forest debris had once been, there was now a set of pants and a shirt.
The elf gave him a sideways glance. “Human magic is...peculiar. I have never seen it performed first-hand before. But now that I have…” Crossing over to the clothes, he examined them closely. “Very peculiar.”
After putting the garments on, it was immediately obvious that they were rather too large for his slim frame.
Martok extended his arms and spread his fingers. “Varta Mol.”
The clothes began to shrink. For a moment the elf was startled, but before he could do anything, the spell was complete. Both the pants and shirt now fitted him perfectly.
He raised an eyebrow. “Can all mages do this?”
Martok laughed. “No. Transmutation is far from easy. Most of them can create nothing more than small objects – trinkets and baubles. Only those with great skill can make complex items.”
“And what do you expect from me in return for your kindness?”
Martok could see that this was a genuine question, put to him without a hint of malice or judgment. “I seek nothing from you,” he replied.
Shelraya knitted his brow. “It was my understanding that humans always expect payment. Are you saying this is untrue?”
He considered the question for a moment. “No. It is true…for the most part. But as you have nothing I desire, there can be no payment.”
“I see. And should I possess something of value, would you then wish for payment?”
“That would depend. But I did not help you in the hope of receiving a reward.”
“I know. When you did your healing, a portion of your heart was revealed to me, as mine was to you. In particular, I saw your great dislike for those who prey on the helpless. So in a sense, perhaps you have already received payment.”
Martok chuckled. “That's one way of looking at it, I suppose.” He paused before adding: “However, now that I think about it more, there is perhaps one thing you could give to me.”
Shelraya's eyes narrowed. “What is that?”
“Your company for a while longer. If you would like, you can join me at my camp. It would be very interesting to learn more about you…and your people.”
The elf shook his head. “I cannot. The humans you chased away were only able to capture me because I was trying to protect my daughter. I must go to her.”
Martok gave an understanding nod. “Then don’t let me delay you any longer.”
With a brief raise of his hand as a parting gesture, Shelraya set off nimbly through the trees and brush. In almost no time at all he was completely gone from sight.
Martok found himself considering their encounter for some time before starting back to his camp. He had never imagined that he would get to speak with an elf, let alone save the life of one. And now that he had briefly touched Shelraya's spirit, everything he'd been told about elves was coming into question. They were not savage brutes who lusted for blood and relished the screams of their victims. Yes, they were certainly dangerous. But not aggressively so.
He had met several dwarves and usually found them to be guarded and deceitful. Their hatred of the elves was no secret, though he had attributed this to the long history of war between their races. He'd also assumed that the hatred was mutual. But perhaps not. He recalled the men saying that the dwarves were paying a bounty for an elf – dead or alive. Perhaps the elves were merely reacting to those who meant them harm.
As he set off back, he resolved to investigate the history of this further. There was clearly more to the past than he was aware.
He spotted a patch of wild strawberries and stopped to fill the pouch on his belt. These and the jerky he had brought with him would have to serve as his dinner. Though the hunt was ruined for now, he still had three more days in the forest to look forward to before returning home.
There was still daylight remaining by the time he arrived back at camp, so on a whim he made his way to a nearby river and spent an hour or so sitting on the bank while reading a book on magical theory. Having been written in the very early days of the mages, it was mostly rudimentary information. But it did give hi
m insights into the nature of magical power at a time when it was believed to be a channeling of spiritual energy from ancestors. Only later was it discovered that, in truth, the power originated from the heart of Lumnia herself.
The hunt next day went reasonably well. Though the wild boar were elusive, he did manage to kill a young buck. Venison wasn’t Martok's favorite meat, but it was still far better than the fare at any manor.
As the sun waned, he leaned back on his elbows beside the fire and watched as a portion of his kill slowly roasted to perfection. He took a long breath and smiled with contentment. There were times when he wished he could stay in the forest forever. He loved his home, and since returning here from Kytain's care two years ago had made vast improvements not only to the house itself, but to the surrounding lands as well. He had increased his family’s holdings significantly – an accomplishment largely thanks to the tutelage of Kytain in the skills of negotiation and diplomacy.
His father had returned from the Dragon Haven the day before his sixteenth birthday. He recalled the distraught look on Kytain’s face upon receiving the news that Ralmar was back and desired his son to come home. By way of softening the blow, Martok had promised to visit his mentor often – a promise he duly kept by staying at the Prustoni estate in the summer and then returning to Dragonvein Manor just in time for the harvests and trade negotiations.
Martok was also pleased that Kytain and his father had become friends. Though not exceedingly close, their mutual love for him ensured a bond of which the other great houses were acutely aware. This went a long way in helping him to make a good number of highly advantageous deals. Kytain had continued to grow ever more influential, and by now had more than doubled his wealth. Though there were growing whispers that he had become too powerful, no one had the courage to openly say a single word against him.
A rustle in the nearby brush roused him from his musings.
“Peace, Martok Dragonvein,” came a strong male voice.
A moment later, Shelraya stepped out from the darkness. He had shed the clothes previously conjured for him and was now wearing tanned leather pants and a light cloth vest. A long blade hung from his belt.
Dragonvein Book Four Page 10