The following day, Ahna began her training with the Shrike Wing, heeding an order called by Cedric Rover. She was to train with the shrikes before their lope to East Haven in a few days. The fact that she had not wielded a dagger or sword in real combat for so long made it a strict necessity. She did wonder, perhaps, if their captain simply enjoyed watching a good fight against something better than a scruffy dokka dummy.
After a new rather intense training session, Ahna headed to the chapel again. Perhaps she had hoped to have yet another pleasant conversation with the Varkadian cleric. She entered an empty room, only lit by the numerous candles. At the humble stone ring, there were not six statuettes, but a seventh one had found itself next to Ghydra’s. The once banished now absolved, silver dragon of Terra’s dawn, Morxairen.
Ahna was fascinated by the grandeur of the barracks of Orgna. Fifty years spent as a recluse at the edge of Bravoure, she would have never imagined such a strong military force had won the hearts of so many. So many different souls who fought for the same cause. So many who refused to bow before a false king. She was so astounded, it almost brought tears to her eyes. She had heard the echoes of a rebellion after the war, but most seemed to have lost hope after the failed Uprising. Only Kairen’s fire and enthusiasm had reached her. Her protegee would visit each Sol before and after the harsh winter, and tell her short stories of their accomplishments. And she would especially speak of David, her commander, whom she had fallen in love with and married.
Commander David Falco was the leader of the garrison of swordsmen and women. Each squadron had its own captain, Diego, from the lunch with the swordsmen, was the captain of the fifth squadron, and Kairen of the eighth. In total, there were many, many soldiers, Ahna could not count them all. She noticed as she walked through the training halls that some of the soldiers preferred to wield spears or lances. Though referring to the squads as a battalion of swords made it easier! David was under Joshua’s command, the high commander of the Resistance, who bore the royal claymore. The greatsword had been passed on to him after the death of the last high commander. The Resistance Guard, the men and women guarding the barracks of Orgna, was personally led by Joshua Sand.
In the next room were members of the Shrike Wing, all under Jade Lark’s command, the Resistance spy. She had been close to Lord Sharr for a very long time. She was no soldier, but a master at the art of deception. To lead the shrikes, she had appointed her best assassin, Captain Cedric Rover. The shrikes did not operate in groups or squads, rather spontaneous units of two or three, all depending on the mission. They were masters of stealth and combat with the blade, always with rather a shortsword than a long one. Some liked to use daggers or other smaller weapons.
Sometimes, a different pack of soldiers trained with the shrikes, and sometimes with David’s garrison of swords. Those were the scouts of Councilor Luk Ma, the man-lynx. Those were the eyes of the rebellion. Most of them sindur, some of them were elves or humans. They had the incredible ability to hide in plain sight and were often sent out on reconnaissance missions, sometimes along with a shrike or two. They worked closely with the Shrike Wing but always remained in the distance. For that, shrike spies were better when it came to collecting close intelligence. The sindurs had the best eyesight of Terra. Therefore, they made excellent scouts!
Most units, when inside Orgna, wore the military tunic of the prewar Bravan army. Officers wore the fir green that had become the emblem color of the Resistance. Swordsmen and women wore an oak brown attire, in the same design as their officers’. The rangers wore forest green leathers, and the scouts wore light brown ones. The guards of the barracks were the only ones in armor. The cadets and new recruits, no matter from which branch they were, wore the white uniform of young soldiers, which symbolised their innocence.
Ahna headed to the main hall. She crossed paths with Councilor Myria Fel, the high elf who led the Antlers through Senris, the captain of the Fae. From what Ahna had heard, the councilor did not live in Orgna. She stayed in a town to the west, Elgon, bordering Fallvale, the land of high elves.
The fires of rivalry between ljosalfar and dokkalfar had burnt for many centuries. Ahna had always managed to stay away from this eternal feud. When Ahna had first seen the councilor, the high elf had reminded her of the ones she had known back in the capital. Most of them held an aristocratic status within the city and were renowned for their elegance. Comparable to their dokkalfar counterpart, ljosalfar had precise preferences and established standards of beauty. Ahna had first found their nearing arrogance similar to the dokkalfar’s she had known long, long ago. However, ljosalfar strived for balance and peace, unlike the chaos of the Dwellunder. High elves were not the friendliest of creatures, but once one got close to them, they were the kindest souls Ahna had known. High elf magi were also incredibly skilled and gifted. Ahna had grown close to some of them at the Magi Academy of Bravoure, especially one of them.
As Myria nodded at Ahna, she noticed a vidthralfar and another ljosalfar accompanied her. They signed at her with a semblance of respect. Ahna, surprised, blushed and headed to the foyer. As she passed the gates of Orgna, she saw the captain of the shrikes stand by the open doors. He seemed to be in a conversation with an unknown soldier. His attire was different from the usual black leathers or the training iron. He wore the same kind of garments as the commanders from the Council, but the shrike’s was as black as night, with no epaulettes. When he noticed her, his eyes changed from soft blue to strict indigo. They remained fixed on her as she made it to the stairway.
Upstairs, Ahna sat alone for a moment, on her assigned bed in the dorm. She wanted to find some peace. She slept there with the many swordswomen of David’s garrison and a few sindur scouts. As far as she knew, there were no shrikes. She walked toward the small window at the edge of the dorm. Outside, she had a view on the stables, but she could not see the horses.
Her thoughts then rushed to the image of Bark, her brown steed. She almost prayed to the gods for him to be safe. In her hand, she held the marble with the encrusted glyph, the one from her small stone house in Miggdra. That was the only thing she had kept from her past. None of them here knew, but the symbol actually did not mean anything in particular. It was the first letter of the alphabet of the Ancients, that was all there was to it.
The sky was grey at the moment, and the sun hid behind the clouds. The weather in Bravoure had never been too warm. A temperate climate with a cold sun, but not much rain, just white fleecy clouds. Winters were harsh but bearable, and summers were not too hot. In the Dwellunder, there was only one kind of weather, the darkness of the caverns underneath Terra. But that time was long ago, and the memories were now distant and blurred.
As the sky grew darker, the sun sought refuge behind the mountains. Ahna could almost see the moon rise. A thin purplish silver, waning crescent that indicated the new moon was soon to come. She still held the small marble that, to her, symbolised Bravoure and what the kingdom stood for. She would soon depart on her first mission. A mission in the name of the cause, the freedom of Bravoure’s people who had suffered far too much.
Another blunt head fell to the cold ground of the capital. The plaza stones were blooded. Tears of warm and red fluid dripped along the stairs slowly into the streets of the golden city. The dokkalfar grand vizier in his long dark robe marched amidst the blood and addressed the frightened people. His men picked each head from the ground and discarded them one by one into carts pulled by nightmare stallions.
By the foot of the stairs, a dark and sinister guard kneeled with his arm around a frail woman’s neck. The grand vizier approached her. When he was close enough, he bent over to face her. He seized the collar of her gown and ripped it open. Her bare breasts were exposed to the people of Bravoure. He stood up again and cast a glare of disdain over her defiled body. He pointed his sword at the base of her sternum, right below her ribcage.
A malicious scowl drew upon his face. His vile smirk terrorised the poor woman who tremble
d convulsively at the cold touch of the blade. The grand vizier seized the pommel into his right palm and with the left hand, he gently pushed downwards. The edge of his sword pierced through her soft skin. She let out a faint scream as her voice broke into the aghast crowd’s murmurs. He pushed further. The blade slid smoothly between the rifts of her flesh, and she cried louder. Her shrieks seemed to sound like music to his ears. He hummed a macabre melody as he pushed the sword down further. His head danced from left to right to the symphony of her dying breath.
When the blade pierced through the meat by her spine, she yelled out once more before sealing her eyes and sinking into a deep lifeless sleep. The grand vizier descended his sword further until it reached the ground. Her warm blood dripped smoothly to the side of his blade before it reached the cold plaza stones. The dokkalfar guard let go of the woman’s neck, and her dead corpse slid along the sword and fell sprawled out beside him.
The grand vizier bent over and glanced. “Hvíldu í fridth, rest in peace, human,” he spat with obvious disdain.
As the dark elf pulled his sword out of the stained carcass, his master’s footsteps shook the ground beneath the crowd. Behind him stood a tall, dark figure, the symbol of a half a century old oppression itself. The man wore a long black coat over his boiled leather cuirass, decorated by the ornaments of his province in the Dwellunder. He glanced over the crowd of coerced citizens.
“Kyær’ da, Sodiln,” his deep and husky voice greeted his grand vizier.
Sodiln turned and bowed to his King. Taller than most dark elves, Xandor had the skin of the dim blue twilight and the long silver hair of Dwellunder nobility. His ears pointed to the sky he owned. The crowd glanced at the Dark Lord, each more terrified than the other. Xandor strolled toward one of the carts of fallen heads and laid his hands on the edge.
“Insurgents?” he inquired.
Sodiln came to join him. “Most certainly, Master.”
Xandor smiled. His flaming eyes rested on the bewildered crowd and the dead woman’s dumb body. His breath was calm. A dark and inexplicable power emanated from his malicious allure.
“Dispose of them in the pits. And get these animals away from castle grounds!” he commanded.
The guards acknowledged and began dispersing the crowd. Xandor marched to the middle of the plaza, followed by his grand vizier.
“We are almost ready, Sodiln. A new day will dawn.”
Sodiln bowed again. “The day of your absolute glory, Master,” he said with a submissive tone.
Xandor glanced over his closest associate. “We still have work to do,” he pressed.
Sodiln then smiled. “Well, about that. We have something that may be of interest to you.”
Deep beneath the Bravan castle were the dungeons, a fortified prison where the Dark Lord held the most ruthless opposition captive. Sodiln led his Majesty through the dark hallway to a small cell. Xandor never ventured into the dungeons, but Sodiln had sworn he would be pleased.
“There she is,” the grand vizier said when the guard opened the barred door.
Xandor opened his mouth slightly in surprise. His eyes then darkened, and he glared at the captive soul with anger. The woman kneeled in the shadows. Her hands were bound, her clothes were soiled. There was dried blood on her face and old bruises on her arms.
“Our doubts proved to be correct, she’s a rebel,” Sodiln said.
The Dark Lord remained silent. Instead, he stared at the human female who had stood by him many times.
“Should we execute her, make it a spectacle the protesters will never forget?” The grand vizier asked enthusiastically, his deranged tone echoed in the cell.
Xandor stayed pensive, studying the captive woman. “It’s amusing how their skin turns to this piss-yellow color when their bruises heal,” he commented, intrigued.
The grand vizier chuckled with gloom. He then turned to his master expectantly. Xandor took a deep breath. “Delay the execution. I may have a use for the vermin after all.”
Sodiln acknowledged. He instructed the guards to close the door while Xandor disappeared into the hallway back to the throne room.
4
Sabotage
The new moon was impeding, and the newly formed Resistance unit would depart at dusk. In the meantime, they had to kill time. Ahna picked up a training iron sword and swung it immediately against the blade of her training partner, the shrike lieutenant Jules. For the first time, they had a new audience. Squadron Five, their mission partners from Commander Falco’s garrison, was watching the fight and cheered for either Jules or Ahna to win. Some of them had even placed bets.
“You’ve got a few fans, I see!” Cedric, who leaned against a wall, exclaimed with a grin.
Jules took another swing at Ahna, which she swiftly dodged, but his blade brushed over her forearm. For a second, the elf thought it had cut through the linen around her left wrist. She signaled for a timeout, turned around, and inspected the bands. No cuts, good.
“What are those anyway, fancy dokkalfar fashion?” she heard Cedric snigger from the other side.
Ahna hushed him and came at Jules with her blade. The irons clashed again. Her opponent sneered at her as they both assumed a high guard. She cast a ferocious glare at him. He swayed his blond hair back and winked at her.
“Careful, Ahnny, you might not kill me with your sword, but you will definitely kill me with these eyes!” Jules playfully hissed.
The two opponents dueled in a dance of blades. They moved back and forth, parrying cut after cut, never letting the other slide through. But in this vehement cadence, any of them could error accidentally.
When Ahna’s cuts weakened, Jules did not waste any time. He pressed in, with his blade against hers, and thrust forward to make her lose balance. Before the fierce shrike could declare victory, a natural instinct made her catch a firm grip around his wrist, pulling him in with her. She used the momentum of his fall to raise herself up and tilt her body so to slink behind him. She knocked her hand against his back, and he fell face first. As he raised his head, he clasped his hands behind his neck to declare a forfeiture. Ahna gently swayed the point of her blade and held it above his shoulders.
“You’re dead, Jules,” she softly declared.
As her opponent recovered his stance, she turned around seeking the eyes of the shrike captain. The other spectators had their jaws hanging in awe. Everyone had recognized that last swirl yet no one spoke. The notorious dokkalfar slither: the mork shan. Cedric threw an apprehensive glare at the dark elf. She brought the training sword back to the rack and left the room.
“Ahna, wait!” Jules’ voice called from behind her. She turned around to the lieutenant, who looked way too enthusiastic. “You have to teach me that move!” he insisted.
A burst of gentle laughter came out of the elf’s lips. She wondered for a moment whether Jules was serious, but his eyes showed a genuine interest. They sparkled with youth and eagerness, he always smiled with peace and a little curiosity for the unknown.
“I don’t know many dokkalfar,” the shrike lieutenant began. “But your combat tricks are fascinating.” A light of interest shone in Ahna’s eyes—amusement perhaps—so Jules continued. “You use your opponent’s weight against them! It’s handy for a one-on-one drill, but in a battle, it seems to hinder you. Too many distractions!”
“Maybe later,” Ahna eventually told him. “I need to take a bath!”
Jules chuckled. “I’ll hold you to that! Baths are upstairs.”
Ahna nodded and headed into the hallway. She made her way to the spiral staircase leading to the floor above them.
The lieutenant was right. Dokkalfar excelled in the art of stealth and hand-to-hand combat. But on the battlefield, their smaller size did put them at a distinct disadvantage. Dokkalfar armies were known to select based on height and weight, purely for that reason. However, as humans or taller races had mastered the sword and the art of war, most dark elves did not bother sending an army to the surfa
ce. Until Xandor Kun Sharr.
The baths were a collection of pools, heated by the water source from underneath the nearby mountains. The dwarves had built an advanced irrigation system underneath the quarry, that would allow for purifying, heating, and filtering of volcanic water that flowed through the barracks. There were two main chambers for men and women and smaller rooms for those who required privacy. The private rooms were usually used by officers or the few high elves, who valued intimacy more than most. Opposite to the baths was a large hall, split in two by a series of cabinets. They used this installation as a wall to create separate garderobes for men and women.
Ahna stood north of the room. She took off her leather corset and felt some soreness in her arms and shoulders. She stretched out her tense neck and passed her hand along the side of her body, to check for any cuts or bruises. There, she felt the ridge of an old scar that reached deep into her skin—the mark of a moment she had almost forgotten. Or she would rather forget. As she undressed, she heard a faint noise on the other side of the room. It sounded like odd, inaudible whispers.
“Not now,” someone had said. The murmurs were strangely similar to Cedric’s voice.
The elf found a little space between the cabinets that she could peek through. There, she saw the captain of the shrikes. He stood with his back toward her, his training cuirass removed, and he wore but his breeches and leather greaves. When she noticed he was not fully clothed, Ahna blushed and instantly looked away and leaned against the cabinets. There were so many scars on his back…They reminded her of hers, the cuts and bruises she never dared to think about.
Then Cedric whispered again. “Give me some more time,” he stuttered, almost beggingly.
Tempest of Bravoure: Kingdom Ascent Page 5
