Resistance

by Alex Janaway

  With her hand resting lightly on her blade’s pommel she inclined her head in greeting. ‘Welcome, Member. I will escort you to His Majesty.’

  Patiir nodded in return and the guard turned to lead them inside.

  They entered a small chamber. Fillion was momentarily taken aback. The walls and floor were bare wood, smoothed through time and passage and, with the application of some kind of varnish, shining, mirror-like. On a pedestal, a small glow-stone and the walls took up the light and intensified it. The result was space that defied the absence of daylight, it was so bright.

  Patiir touched his arm, a small smile playing on his lips. ‘Magic and nature have made this place. Nothing here should be so, but it has stood for millennia. Now, close your mouth.’

  Fillion did so and nodded, his enmity briefly forgotten. Damn, but elves came up with some impressive shit. Embedded in alcoves set to the left and right were flights of stairs disappearing into the floor. Directly ahead was another portal, similar in design to the outside door though just as polished as its surroundings. The guard pushed at the doors and they swung inward. Beyond was another set of steps, climbing up and framed within what appeared a far larger chamber. Without waiting for invitation, Patiir strode forward, confident in his destination. Fillion followed, not into another chamber, but a gallery of sorts. The steps were carved out from the wood and, climbing upwards the space fell away below and around them, the entire space hollowed out to create a void. With no railings, Fillion found he was moving instinctively to the centre of the steps. There was more of this unnatural light, emanating from far above. He looked up and spied globes, like moons in the sky, throwing their cold light into the depths. He could not tell from here how they were fixed or suspended. Their destination was ahead at the end of the flight, atop a wide pillar of wood standing within the gallery. As they reached the top, the plateau revealed itself. It was, as far he could judge, a perfect circle perhaps twenty-five or thirty yards wide. The floor was smooth, though not reflective as the earlier chamber, and covered in swirling designs. Four guards stood at equidistant stations creating four points of a square within the circle, facing towards the centre. On the far side was another entrance which opened on to a short corridor feeding on to the circle and in front of that was a dais and upon that a throne. Wooden, naturally, but remarkably simple; it was of one piece, high-backed, with curving arm rests and a bare seat.

  If anything, Fillion was a little disappointed. He thought of the Emperor’s audience chamber and, well, there was a throne! Made of iron and gold and silver, and studded with precious jewels. And behind it a huge bronze representation of the sun, burnished bright, reflecting the sun’s rays lancing through crystal windows set high in the ceiling. Fillion had only seen it once and the Emperor had not been in attendance, but he could well imagine what it would have looked like to be in the presence of such blinding grace.

  Patiir motioned for him to stay in place and walked across to take position in the centre. Their escort stayed with Fillion. They waited in silence. By the set of Patiir’s back, he appeared to Fillion relaxed and certain of his purpose. And why wouldn’t he be? How many times had he been in attendance here? Fillion glanced across at the female elf next to him. She stood at parade rest, her hand still at the pommel. Her gaze was fixed upon the throne. Fillion placed his hands behind his back, letting them rest against his belt, his palms facing outwards, the fingers not touching. Against the backs of his hands he felt the hard iron of the blades through the cloth. They were, by necessity small, short stabbing knives, no good in an actual fight. He felt annoyed that his precautions in hiding them were wasted; the lack of even a rudimentary search meant he could have stowed something more meaningful. Trust the arrogance of the elves to believe they were free from danger. What would it take then? It would have to be quick, retrieving the knives on the move while going straight for the throne. Those guards were perfectly placed to close on any danger, but he was counting on a few moments of surprise his actions would generate. And then there was the elf next to him. He was worried about her the most. She looked too damned competent. His left index finger twitched, tapping against the metal. After a few moments, he realised what he was doing, and stopped. How was he going to get to the King? If she was any kind of soldier, she’d sense something was wrong, would see him going for the knives, and pull out that mean fucking longsword. There had to be another way to get closer to his target.

  And, with perfect timing, his target appeared.

  He hadn’t even noticed his approach, had heard no footsteps coming towards the throne. Lujan, the King of the elves, seemingly glided on to the plateau. He wore a single silver robe the fringe of which dragged along the floor. And then he saw the others settling into a kneeling posture, their right knee bent, their left knee touching the floor, and heads bowed. Not the four guards, just his two companions. Unthinking, he followed suit. A few seconds passed and then a deep, resonant voice spoke.

  ‘Really, Patiir. I do not expect an elf of your years to bend the knee.’

  ‘But I pride myself that I still can,’ responded Patiir.

  ‘Quite so,’ said the voice, a little lighter, suggesting amusement. ‘Please, rise.’

  And with that Fillion stood to finally regard the symbol of all his hatred. The King sat at his ease upon the throne, his hands resting lightly upon its armrests. His hair was a light brown, held back from his face by a finely wrought circlet that looked silver, but Fillion could not be sure at this distance. Other than that, the King was possessed of features that Fillion had come to regard as average. There was nothing striking about the elf, other than an air of quiet authority.

  ‘And what is your business today, Patiir?’

  Patiir indicated the centre of the plateau. ‘May I?’ The King inclined his head and Patiir took six steps forward. ‘I wish to discuss with you the matter of our dwarf neighbours.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Of course,’ replied the King. He appeared remarkably relaxed, like it mattered little. Fillion would have thought it warranted more concern than was on display.

  ‘It would seem that the dwarves have … lost control of their situation, my King.’

  ‘How so?’

  Patiir clasped his hands and rested them against his stomach. ‘As part of our bargain, the dwarves took more, assumed more, than we had agreed to. As I reported to you previously, they had a human slave population which they employed in their mines. In and of itself, an issue I was willing to resolve through normal diplomatic channels–’

  ‘Yes, I recall,’ interrupted the King, ‘but it would seem that the humans had other ideas.’

  ‘Quite so, my King. They have revolted against their masters, and are now wreaking havoc through Dwarf territories.’

  ‘And where are they headed?’ asked the King.

  ‘West. Heading home.’

  ‘And I assume the dwarves are being less than diligent in stopping them?’

  ‘The humans are many, and they appear organised.’

  The King drummed the fingers of his right hand against the armrest. ‘And I would deduce you have come here to ask for us to intercede?’

  Patiir dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  The King raised his hand to his chin.

  ‘I had thought this business ended, Patiir.’

  ‘As did I.’

  ‘You know, I still recall when I was in the last campaign, before the humans. We appeared to be successful then.’

  ‘They were driven from our lands. Never to be seen again,’ agreed Patiir.

  ‘I miss that time. I know I must refrain from such youthful desires, my position will not allow me to undertake such adventures, but I would have liked to lead my armies against the Tissan Empire, to see them routed once again.’

  ‘I suspect these humans will linger.’

  ‘And can we expect them to threaten us? How many can there be?’

  ‘Our reports suggest thousands, perhaps twenty.’

  ‘Warriors
?’

  ‘Few, if any.’

  ‘Then they are a desperate remnant, driven by fear and the instinct to survive,’ suggested the King.

  ‘True. But the dwarves believed that too.’

  The King flicked his fingers in the air, conceding the point. ‘The dwarves cannot be relied upon to finish the job?’

  ‘I would feel,’ Patiir paused and looked up into the light-speckled roof of the gallery, ‘more confident if there was an elven input into the matter. Just to make sure.’

  The King smiled. ‘Patiir. Your understatement belies your intentions. I know you well enough. You want this matter ended once and for all. There is to be no hope for this species? A second chance?’

  Patiir shrugged. ‘In a few hundred years perhaps a new society may arise. One with no knowledge of their past, a society we can guide and develop. But twenty thousand living Tissans? That constitutes a nation. A shared memory. Memory that would become dogma, a never-ending hatred. This we cannot allow.’

  Fillion was surprised. Patiir had never suggested a future which involved humans before. But he doubted humanity would ever be allowed to evolve into something like the old Empire. The elves would be sure not to make that mistake again. He closed his eyes for a moment. Such thoughts weren’t important. What was important was his rapidly shrinking window of opportunity. He had to do something before the moment passed.

  The King dropped his hand back on to the armrest. ‘You are right, of course. We must monitor the situation and act accordingly. A column perhaps, to offer assistance if the humans stray south?’

  ‘Yes, my King. Something like that would suffice.’

  ‘And twenty thousand you say? Then two thousand cavalry would do it.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘I shall give orders. It will take some time for them to be in a position to assist.’

  ‘We have time. They will eventually discover those survivors that the dwarves fail to apprehend.’

  ‘Very good.’

  Patiir bowed his head and started to step back. Fillion swallowed. He had to move. And that was when he realised the King was looking right at him.

  ‘Is this your new son-in-law?’

  Patiir stopped and glanced back at Fillion. ‘It is indeed. And now the father of my first grandchild.’

  ‘Truly? You mean the line of Kings will have to endure the endless badgering of your progeny? Step forward … ah, your name?’ The King tilted his head in enquiry.

  ‘Sabin, Your Majesty,’ Fillion replied quickly. He took a single step. Was this it? He looked at Patiir, who beckoned him forwards. Fillion took the remaining steps as calmly as he could, taking a position next to Patiir.

  The King leaned forward to better study him. Closer now, Fillion thought; he was close enough now to detect grey in the fringe of the King’s hair. ‘Where are you from, Sabin?’

  ‘The west, my lord, the border country.’

  ‘You fought in the war?’

  ‘I did.’

  The King nodded his approval. ‘And tell me, how does the life of a politician suit?’

  Fillion made a show of considering the question. He stood straight, placing his hands behind his back once more. His moment was coming.

  ‘I will not lie, Your Majesty. I would not wish it on anyone.’

  Patiir shot him a look, an eyebrow raised.

  ‘Hah!’ The King leaned back and clapped his hands on their armrests. ‘An honest answer. Well done, Sabin. It fills me with hope!’

  Fillion shifted a foot, positioning himself. ‘Apologies if I was too blunt.’ He hooked his fingers into the top of his belt. That guard would be watching him but hopefully she would see nothing threatening in his actions. Not yet.

  The King shook his head. ‘Not at all. Patiir, don’t smooth out his edges, he is fine as he is.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Patiir with a wry smile.

  ‘And Sabin,’ the King continued, ‘you have a child?’

  ‘Brynne.’

  ‘Brynne. A beautiful name,’ the King said with a thoughtful nod. He smiled at Fillion. ‘I ask you to do something for me.’ He raised a finger into the air, his face turning grave. ‘Raise her well, and make her understand that the things we do are sometimes terrible and awful. Tell her that peace is the true struggle. And when she is old enough …’ He paused and the smile returned. ‘… bring her here. I want to meet her. My children are already too grown and it would be good to enjoy the innocence of youth. Would you do me that honour?’

  Fillion blinked. His hands were still in his belt. Why? Why had he not moved? He felt the silence, felt the eyes off all upon him. He bowed deep. ‘The honour would be mine, Your Majesty.’

  The King nodded and smiled. Then he stood. And as his rose, the party returned to their knees. In the quiet of the King’s departure, Fillion’s heart was pounding. What are you doing? You bloody fool! The King was leaving. His chance was fading away as he knelt in deference. He felt beads of sweat run down his back. His vision swam. Go. Just get up and make a run for it. But he couldn’t.

  And with the softest creak of leathers their guard stood. Fillion waited a moment, took a breath and rose. Patiir was looking at him with a smile.

  ‘Shall we?’

  Fillion nodded. His throat was too dry to speak.

  ‘Member,’ said the guard indicating the steps.

  Patiir moved past and with long years of practice, led them all back out of the gallery, back down the steps, through the mirrored chamber and with a few words of thanks to the guard, back on to the boulevard.

  ‘Are you well, Sabin?’ asked Patiir.

  ‘I am feeling a little light-headed.’

  Patiir reached across and patted his shoulder, an unexpected gesture of affection.

  ‘I would be surprised if you were not. I’ll let you in on a secret. I remember when the King was a babe, I have seen him grow, have seen him march to war. I have counselled him, debated with him and once or twice even raised my voice.’ Fillion arched an eyebrow. ‘Yes, it’s true.’ Patiir laughed. ‘And, for all I may look calm and collected, I always have to take a mental breath when in the presence of His Majesty. I think about who he is, and more importantly what he is, what he represents. For in him resides the bedrock of our society. Our culture, our continuity, the reason we have all that you see.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t say that to me before we entered. I think I would have soiled myself.’

  ‘Sabin!’ Patiir admonished, with amusement. ‘There’s your soldier’s bluntness again.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. Our King was quite taken by you, wasn’t he? Well done. That’s a relationship worth cultivating.’

  ‘Did he mean it?’ asked Fillion. ‘About wanting to see Brynne?’

  ‘Oh yes, the King is not known for making frivolous requests. I believe he would be delighted to meet her.’

  ‘I had better start teaching her some manners.’

  Patiir waved a dismissive hand. ‘And rob her of her father’s charm? The young can afford to be honest in their innocence. Else what has this all been for?’

  Patiir stopped a moment and regarded Fillion.

  ‘Of all the service you have given me, the gift of my granddaughter is the most precious. I thank you for that, Sabin. The future of our family and its place in our world is secured by it.’

  Fillion inclined his head. What could he say?

  Patiir smiled, and stepped off. ‘Now, let us turn our thoughts to the situation at hand. The disposition of the military campaign is not my affair but the Parliament must be informed.’

  Fillion barely listened as Patiir droned on. He had his answer. The reason why he still had two unbloodied blades within his belt. The reason he still lived. It was because of Brynne. His little girl. How could he let her live among these people? Not knowing her true heritage, with no one of her kind to tell her the truth. She would become an elf, but would she age like a human? That was yet to be revealed
. Would she be rejected, cast out? Or worse? She needed him. And he could not throw his life away. He could not leave Brynne alone. And his plans were in ruins. His vengeance left incomplete.

  ‘Yes,’ he muttered in response to some command by Patiir. ‘I will do it right away.’

  Fillion corrected himself. His vengeance was not incomplete. It had only just begun. The chain of events he had started in the north was his vengeance. He had instigated a rebellion. Hundreds of dwarves were dead, and there was a rampaging human army in the west. It was all due to him. And, with some work, he could do more. Much more.

  Fillion felt his heart lift. He had a beautiful daughter to raise and a war to foment. And he knew where he had to start.

  Fillion entered the royal library. He took a moment to inhale the dusky smells of dry paper and parchment. He was surprised to find he looked upon the interminable rows of books and scrolls with something like fondness.

  ‘Sabin! It has been such a long time. What has happened to you?’ asked the ancient library-keeper, Lenard. He held a single wax candle up to Fillion’s face, and he pulled back a little as the flame got uncomfortably close to the tip of his nose.

  ‘Fatherhood,’ said Fillion.

  ‘You have a child?’

  ‘Yes. I did tell you.’

  ‘Did you? My goodness. What is it?’

  ‘A girl!’

  ‘A girl? How old?’

  Fillion stepped back. Really?

  ‘Not even six months.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lenard pulled his candle back. And scowled at Fillion. ‘Even so. Six months of learning lost!’

  Fillion raised his hands and turned slowly to encompass the library. ‘I have a lifetime to study all this.’ It did seem a lifetime ago that Patiir had sent him to Lenard as preparation for his role of Servant.

  ‘There are a thousand lifetimes of learning in this place,’ warned Lenard, his liver-spotted hand pointed at him accusingly.

  ‘Then perhaps you’ll stop chiding and provide me with some guidance?’ asked Fillion, with a smile.

  ‘I can offer you all kinds, but I fear most of it is already too late for you. However, history, that I can give you.’