by David Rice
Galen cleared his throat. “Ballok. No.”
Ballok looked towards Galen and reached for the sword. The gem flashed briefly and Ballok stumbled back a few steps holding his hand.
Silence filled the circle until Ballok took a knee. “First sword that’s ever taken a dislike to me,” he grumbled.
A few smiles appeared and faded. Dorak’s brow wrinkled. Eko looked on in amazement.
“Third Warden,” Galen asked Siandros. “Why are your hands blistered?”
Siandros looked at the ground. “Just like Ballok, the sword burned my hands when I first lifted it. I used a blanket to carry it here.”
Dorak shook his head. “A sword no one can lift will not help us against the drakes.”
Siandros’s frustration grew once more. “Our loremasters will reveal its secrets.”
Orweh raised her voice. “Perhaps we should ask the child? Has she been able to carry this sword so far and not be burned?”
“Ridiculous,” Siandros spat.
“Unnecessary,” Ballok added. “It was forged by elves to be used by elves.”
“Not necessarily,” an elderly voice squawked from the distance.
All heads turned to regard the frail form of Alvilas shuffling towards them. Eko jumped up to help his mentor sit without dropping any scrolls.
Alvilas squinted at the sword. “So, this is the Fahde.”
“It’s obviously the work of our greatest artisans,” Ballok stated.
Alvilas sniffed as he rubbed his nose. “It was forged by our kin from the wastelands in the south.” He shook a scroll at the First Warden while he explained. “Forged when the drakes were awakened by fools, and tamed by The One.”
Ballok chuckled. “The One sleeps. Our hands must do all of the work now.”
“Ballok,” Orweh and Galen chimed together.
“Always sacrilegious, aren’t you?” Alvilas scolded. “Horsewardens—”
Ballok’s eyes flashed. “Tougher fighters than any of you.” “Enough,” Galen shouted.
His efforts only sharpened the tensions of the circle as it fell into rancorous debate.
“We must attack Lornen’s army—”
“We must guard our home—”
“We can’t forget the dwarves—”
“The drakes remain the greatest threat—”
“Will the Salt Isles assist us? The Horsewardens?”
“We can’t risk more losses—”
“Children. We need more children to survive—”
Galen rubbed his temples and turned away. He noticed his friend Dorak observing the interactions in his typically detached manner.
Dorak’s sad eyes met Galen’s. “The louder our voices become,” the forestward commented, “the less we are heard.”
Galen regarded the Fahde once more and silently cursed its appearance.
The sword remained at the centre, gathering light.
As the arguments ebbed and flowed around the circle, the rivalries and bitterness that had been hidden away for so long gradually yielded to exhaustion. Only then did anyone notice the tentative shuffling crowd approaching from the east.
Dorak estimated there were perhaps a hundred elves. More curious onlookers were coming down from their platforms and joining each moment as if it was a Calling. He recognized his understudy Tyrin near the front of the crowd, keeping everyone at a respectful distance from its leader. At the front and just coming into focus was a girl with a bow, a sword, a stiff upper lip, and a touch of swagger. Her auburn hair triggered a gasp.
Dorak pointed and his voice slipped from him harsher than intended. “The Starwatcher child. She has returned.”
The circle quieted and turned. Amazement, fear, and bitterness twisted in them all.
“Be peaceful,” Galen called out. “Be calm. Remember our oaths.”
Kirsten stopped a dozen steps from the collection of elven nobles. The trees above dazzled her with their majesty and latent presence. Her heart jumped as she caught sight of the Fahde, and jumped again when she recognized her attacker. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder towards Tyrin where he stood at the front of the burgeoning crowd. His expression was inscrutable but his eyes were bright.
Chills shook Kirsten and her heart seemed to stop between beats. She struggled to remember her father’s advice from their final moments together but most of his words fled from her mind—They have a sacred duty if asked. She took a deep breath to regain her calm, the way Helba had shown her so many times. Then she held aloft the pendant that had been crafted by her mother and spoke clearly in the best elvish Raisha had ever taught.
“I request the boon of—”
Galen winced.
“—of instruction.”
Kirsten followed this with a deep bow. Then she took a knee and waited while her body vibrated with untapped anxiety. Would they judge her now? Or would they be bound by an older oath?
Ballok growled to himself. Siandros cursed. Alvilas rolled his eyes upward and whispered a curse. Dorak suppressed a smirk. A recognition surfaced in Cinn—Kirsten looked just like her mother at that moment. Stubborn and strong.
Even though many feared it, everyone knew what the response must be.
Galen stepped towards Kirsten and offered his hand. “Stand, Kirsten Starwatcher. The elder race is bound by the One to honour your request.”
Kirsten accepted Galen’s hand for a moment and stood slowly. She fought back a sudden dizzying rush. She hadn’t failed?
Most of the surrounding elders stepped back out of deference to Galen’s gesture. Siandros remained near the Fahde and his stance defied Kirsten to approach.
“I am safe?” Kirsten tentatively asked.
Galen nodded. “As safe as any of us, as long as you adhere to our laws.”
In spite of her tumbling emotions, Kirsten smiled at Galen. “Thank you. I’m here to learn how to use the sword and prove myself worthy.”
Galen nodded, tight lipped. “Then you will need to be an attentive and patient student.”
Kirsten’s voice shook with resolve. “I—will.” She set down her pack and carefully drew an elven sword. Her mind screamed to call out the thief for his cruel attack. She bit her tongue. “I have something to return that one of your warriors—left behind.”
Galen raised an eyebrow. “I see. Who—lost this sword?”
Siandros tensed as Kirsten thrust the sword towards him, pommel first.
“He did. He never gave me his name.”
“This is our Third Warden. Siandros.” Dorak offered.
“I can speak for myself,” Siandros snipped. He accepted the offered blade with minimal grace. “Is that all, sivulinnen?”
Galen grimaced at the insult.
Kirsten stepped back and bowed slightly struggling to be polite. “I also request that an item that has been in my care be returned to me.” She looked directly at the Fahde, its gem softly shining.
“No,” Ballok shouted.
“This cannot be allowed,” Alvilas grumbled.
“Is this the sword that has been in your care?” Galen asked. “If so, elves are not thieves. The Fahde remains yours.”
Kirsten took another deep breath and stepped towards Siandros who blocked her way and did not move.
The Third Warden leaned close and whispered. “You seek to embarrass me? That would be a mistake.”
Kirsten’s eyes hardened and she stepped around Siandros to reach the silver blade.
“Help yourself, little squirrel,” Siandros taunted.
Kirsten grasped the sword firmly and pulled it easily from the soil. Its gem flashed once as she held it above her head and slowly turned to face each of the elders. Thinking of Plax, her smile twisted with the hint of a snarl.
“This is disaster,” Alvilas murmured.
“An insult,” Siandros griped.
“Retribution,” Dorak suggested.
“No,” Galen replied. “You are both wrong. This is hope.”
XVI
/> Arch-Duke Gow stood up from his desk to face the Barons who were threatening to ruin his afternoon. He tore their letters into thin strips, crumpled them carefully into balls, and tossed them into his fireplace. He took a moment to watch each flash brightly, darken to ash, and disappear.
“Are you insane?” he finally asked.
The three Barons each represented a respected Duke. They each commanded over a thousand men. All three remained at attention and said nothing.
“Look,” Gow continued. “For your sakes, I will pretend that these ridiculous requests were never received.”
The oldest of the three Barons tensed his square jaw and replied evenly. “I beg your pardon, your Grace. These are statements of intent, not requests. These are copies of our orders from our Dukes. Consider this a courtesy so that you may make adjustments.”
Gow slammed a fist on his desk, upsetting his tea cup. “I’m not interested in making adjustments for anyone. This is mutiny, Gladstone.”
The three Barons exchanged glances. Baron Gladstone pressed ahead. “We have a duty to obey the orders of our Dukes, your Grace.”
“You have a duty to obey your King. And I speak for the King.”
Baron Villetem, a red-faced man with thickly calloused hands, cleared his throat. “And who, exactly, does the King serve?”
Gow’s eyes enlarged and he gulped air like a toad before raising his hand and pointing to the door. “Out! Before it’s the gallows for the lot of you!”
Baron Dumfrie began to leave but Gladstone’s hand held him in place. Baron Villetem stood firm and his glare summoned the anger of every villager fearing starvation over the next winter. “When spring comes we need equipment, animals, and enough folks to put in the next crop.”
“The campaign will be over by then,” Gow bellowed.
Gladstone’s patience stretched like a wire. “Same thing’s been said every cycle for a decade now. The people have suffered their full limit. Any more and they’ll break.”
“If you’d been raised managing families and lands then you’d respect our voices a bit more,” Villetem snipped.
Dumfries let his anger unbottle. “We’ve also been raised believing the King serves the One. But then who goes butchering the Blackthorn? The King and you. Friends forever lost from our villages. Family.”
Gow collected himself. “I have representatives of every Duchy here. They’ll have no desire to fight alongside traitors.”
“Marshall Gow,” Gladstone pressed on, “We are the three representatives the combined Duchies selected to speak with you.”
“Since the King’s pushed everyone to the brink, we all share the same risks, and we all have the same demands,” Villetem explained.
“Every Duchy wants some of its men back home now,” Dumfries added.
Gow’s expression hardened to a mask of stone. He stood speechless for many moments while his eyes blazed and his hands shuffled parchment. When he looked up again, his voice held the sneer his mask could not. “You think you`ve forced my hand then? The King shall hear of it.”
Gladstone exchanged a wary look with Villetem and Dumfries. “So, we’ve your blessing to send one out of every five skilled workers back to their homes, your Grace?” the Baron
ventured.
Gow revealed a smile as thin as a garrote. “Of course not. With or without the King, we march on Longwood now. Ready the army. All of it.”
“In this cold? This snow? With no rations to spare?” Villetem erupted.
“The King is sending a column from Graniteside. He may very well be leading that column himself. Do you think he will take kindly to word of your flagrant disobedience?”
The barons exchanged worried glances.
“If the King leads, the men will follow, Your Grace,” Gladstone relented.
“Do your duty,” Gow replied. “Now go.”
The barons saluted and departed the Marshall’s office as swiftly as their disbelief allowed. Once outside they huddled together at the corner of the building, their breath puffing small halos of steam.
“What nonsense,” Villetem grumbled. “Ready the army to move? Bowel movements are all my men are capable of these days.”
“But when the king gets here, we’ll have to go, won’t we?” Dumfries countered.
“Let’s spread the word to be ready,” Gladstone added. “I’m not sure the King is capable of advances on the enemy unless they’re all wearing skirts—”
Villetem roared with laughter. “Glad I have no daughters—”
“—but it’ll make the Marshall feel better to see us preparing.”
Dumfries raised an eyebrow. “What else are you planning?”
“Can’t let my kin starve,” Gladstone answered quietly. “It’s best we send away what we can spare a few at a time from each patrol. That way Gow won’t even notice.”
“Aye. That’s the way to do it,” Villetem agreed. “I’m sure the others will, too. And best before that sod of a King thinks of showing up, too. The sooner the better.”
Dumfries coughed. “Doesn’t this place the Dukes in a precarious position with the King?”
Villetem stared hard at his fellow baron. “The way I see it, Lornen’s put himself in a precarious position with the Dukes if it comes down to it.”
“I don’t like this at all,” Dumfries answered slowly. “But I don’t see that we have any choice. Crops have to go in or we’ll suffer even worse than the plague.”
Gladstone chuckled darkly. “Wasn’t that what we went to war to fight against? And now look at us. Who’re the plague bringers now?”
***
Gow slammed his fist upon the desk and called out for his orderly. The sergeant materialized instantly from the next room. He stood to attention and saluted.
“Beckett. Take my horse and a personal guard. You will deliver a message to Baron Egrant’s patrol along the King’s Road. He must receive it without delay.”
Sergeant Beckett bit his lip, knowing better than to mention the weather or Baron Egrant’s habit of shifting his whereabouts. “I shall do as you order, Your Grace.”
Gow nodded once. “Return when you are prepared and provisioned while I fetch an officer to command the unit. Dismissed.”
Beckett saluted again and departed smartly.
Gow knew of one officer who could be trusted to do anything he asked. He had even captured the Starwatcher from where he was hiding in his homelands, and been willing to turn on traitors who were once friends of his grandfather. He was obedient, ambitious, cold-blooded, and opportunistic, characteristics Gow thoroughly respected during a time of war. The Arch Duke bellowed for an orderly.
A meek boy in an overly large trooper’s uniform hurried into the room, almost stumbled to a halt, and saluted clumsily.
Gow did not wait for the boy to speak. “Find Major Poll. He is encamped with the Cavalry units. Bring him immediately.”
The boy mumbled something impressively subservient, saluted once more, and dashed away.
Yet again, Gow commanded an empty room. It was disappointing that his own officers had forced this decision upon him. He gathered ink, quill, wax, seal, and parchment. This would be no routine order he was issuing to Egrant. This was an emergency and required stern and immediate action to hold his army together. Gow’s only hope was that Beckett and young Major Poll would be able to find Egrant quickly and not have to chase him to the edges of the realm.
Gow always kept his orders concise so there could be no room for misinterpretation. He scratched out the final words with grim satisfaction.
When Poll arrived, cheeks cherry red and eyes wide with ambition, Gow held up his hand. “I am placing you in command of a special detachment, Major Poll. Sgt Beckett and elements of my personal guard shall accompany you. You shall enforce the following decree, and deliver it with speed to Lord Egrant.”
Major Poll hid his disappointment. A courier’s mission would keep him from the coming battle. “Of course, Marshall Gow. I shall fulfill y
our orders to the letter.”
“I never doubted it,” Gow smiled thinly. “Now listen as I recite: From this time forward, the movement of army units south of the King’s Road must be accompanied by a letter of authority granted by Arch Duke Gow, Marshall of the Army of the Realm, or King Lornen III.” Yes, he thought. Their army could abide no desertions. They had to stand strong until the offensive could begin. The dukes did not understand. The defeat of the elves was necessary. He added a post-script to the order, reading aloud. “Any army units not in possession of a letter of authority shall be treated as deserters and immediately put to death.”
