by RG Long
Bernard and Pumpkin quickly overtook Lincoln and his horse. Even with two riders, they were less of a burden to their mount than Lincoln was to his. Hooves hit the ground hard as they tried to catch up with Kilgore, who was getting further away with each moment.
“Knife!” Pumpkin yelled as they sped along the road.
“What?” Bernard asked, trying to keep his hands on the reins that had flown wildly when they had first burst away from the Wrents.
“Give me something sharp!” she said again.
“My right side,” Bernard replied. He kept a small knife there for whatever the sword on his left couldn’t handle. And he didn’t like the idea of giving this potentially mentally unstable elf his best and longest blade.
Pumpkin reached for the dagger, grabbed Bernard’s leg first instead, and felt around a moment before finding the sheath. The whole thing made the soldier quite uncomfortable for a few breaths. She finally reached the handle of the blade and removed it from its case. Then she leapt from the horse.
“Hey!” Bernard shouted, pulling the reins hard and trying to stop the horse. Pumpkin had rolled into the dead grass on the side of the road and gotten to her feet gracefully. Bernard could imagine the number of bones he would have broken attempting the same maneuver. The Wrents were running full tilt towards the elf, thinking they had found an easy target.
And, to Bernard’s astonishment, Pumpkin was running in the direction of the Wrents.
“I think we should do something,” Lincoln said as he turned his horse.
Bernard swore and spurred his own in the direct opposite way he wanted to go. But, he acknowledged as he sped towards the elf, this was the way to fame and to glory. He drew his sword and yelled as a Wrent jumped for him and his horse. The beast bucked and sent Bernard flying and kicked at the fox on its way down.
The horse’s aim was such that the creature was dead before it hit the ground.
Bernard, however, did not fare much better. He hit the stone road hard and had the breath knocked from him. His vision went black for a few breaths and he was sure at any moment a horse would roll over him or a Wrent would stab him to death with its stone tipped spear.
Neither happened.
Instead, he heard Wrents yapping and an insane, menacing laugh echoing all around him, mixed with the running hoof beats of his horse as it fled back the way they had come. He tried to steady himself with his hand and return to his feet, only to be knocked down again by Lincoln’s passing boot.
“Oops,” the large oaf said. “Sorry, Bernard. Are you okay?”
Bernard swore again.
“We’ve got to help Pumpkin!” he yelled as he once again tried to get to his feet.
“I don’t think we’ll need to, actually,” came Lincoln’s subdued voice. “Except maybe to clean her up a bit.”
When Bernard finally got to his feet, and regained his breath and his vision, the sight that met his eyes was a grisly one. Pumpkin was covered in blood and Wrent hair. One large patch was just over her shoulder. She was breathing heavily and held the knife she had taken from Bernard loosely in her right hand. In her left, she held the head of one of the beasts. Its eyes were still twitching.
“Mine’s the red, small kind,” she said as she looked from Bernard to Lincoln. “Where’s the horse?”
“Small... red?” Bernard stammered in bewilderment.
“Apples,” she said, shaking her head. “The small red kind. The yellow ones get in my teeth.”
Kilgore came riding behind them with Bernard and Pumpkin’s horse in tow behind him. He looked from Lincoln, who was scribbling again on his piece of parchment, to Bernard who was balancing on his sword, to Pumpkin, covered in the blood of her defeated enemies. What was left of the Wrents lay strewn across the road.
“Tell me again why you haven’t decided to kill any of us?” he asked the female elf.
She shrugged and threw the head of the Wrent off to the side of the road.
“He tells good stories,” Pumpkin replied, pointing at Bernard and then looking at Lincoln. “And I like his poems.”
Kilgore sniffed and then nodded.
“Come on,” he said as he turned his own horse back around. “It’ll take us a week to get back to Lone Peak if we don’t run into any more problems.”
Pumpkin walked past Bernard, who had finally found his voice.
“Green,” he said, finding himself looking at the blood-smeared elf who had just killed ten Wrents with a knife and, from the looks of it, her teeth.
She smiled at him. Her mouth was stained red but Bernard tried not to grimace. Instead, he returned the smile and helped her up onto the horse.
Pumpkin was someone he did not want to offend.
4: The Scattering of Ashes
Ash and smoke filled the morning air. Wrents ran in packs in all directions as they chased elves in large groups. There were many who howled with pleasure as they rampaged over the last few surviving elves of either Wood Walkers or Enoth Empire. It didn’t matter to the Wrents if the elves wore armor or not. Their teeth and claws could find flesh on either.
Cuno yelled as the Wrents ran like wild dogs in all directions.
“Come back and reform, Red Paws!”
Fire blazed from his paw, the one in which a red piece of Rimstone was imbedded. White fur ran up his arm as he forced more and more flames to explode amidst the ruined forest of the Wood Walkers. He used his fire to blow a hole in the earth in front of a group of Wrents as they chased down two younger Wood Walkers. The explosion ended the sport the Wrents were after in a single blast. The foxes, however, instead of obeying Cuno’s commands ran after the next closest elf. This one was armed and attempted to fight, wearisome and ash covered though he was.
Wrents covered the elf in moments. His yells for battle and revenge were soon silenced.
Cuno was livid. Where was the fear of him? Where was the loyalty? His Wrents were running in every direction and acting as if the greatest leader of their race was not standing right there, ordering them into submission.
Another blast of fire reduced the pile of Wrents on the elf into smoldering ash.
Cuno howled with rage and anger. More Wrents ran from him, avoiding the blasts of fire he was sending in every direction. After torching many of the beasts, Cuno stopped and breathed heavily for several moments, gasping and panting. Two Wrents came walking his direction. These he did not burn to cinders. Not on sight at least.
“Why do they refuse to obey!?” he yelled as his second in command, Lacha, came striding forward and knelt before him. Kika, his forceful mate, bowed as well. The two stood at Cuno’s side as he heaved great breaths of smoke filled air. His paw blazed with fire. His mind was also a whirlwind of flame.
He, Cuno the Red-Handed, had united the Wrent tribes under one banner and marched them south. He had won a great victory over the elves of both wood and metal. Now, his Wrents were overcome with bloodlust and battle and would not obey orders.
Turning, he looked into the eyes of Lacha, who was observing the chaos before them.
“Wrents want blood,” he said. “Cuno give blood.”
Cuno shook his head, disbelieving.
“We must gather them back and regroup,” he said. “There are still more long-legs. If we are scattered, we will have no hope of fighting them. We’ll be driven north again and humiliated.”
Kika stepped forward, her eyes narrow and her mouth set.
“Claim your strength,” she said. “Do not let them so easily run from you, or they will think you weak.”
Cuno snarled and took a step towards her, his fire blazing hotter in his paw.
“Do not think you can hold my favor with crooked words.”
A howl of a group of Wrents caught his ear and he turned. Several were chasing down another elf.
“You!” Cuno shouted as he blasted the vine wearing elf with a stream of fire. The female fell wordlessly to the ground, blackened and skeletal. The Wrents who had pursued her stopped short
and looked up at Cuno, first with anger in their eyes. The look quickly turned fearful at the sight of his paw lifted towards them.
“Gather every Wrent who wishes not to perish by my hand and follow me.”
The group scattered, howling and barking as they went. Cuno began to walk east through the burned forest.
“Come,” he ordered Lacha and Kika. “There is still more to burn.”
5: Quests Given
The shore of the Great Sea was lined with broken tree branches and the bodies of both Wrents and elves. Heavy fog filled the air, obscuring the horizon and making it seem like the sea went on forever. Hidden birds called in the distance, unseen by even his skilled eyes. The great waters hid many things today.
He stood on the edge, surveying the damage that had been done by the previous battle. How had the empire failed to eradicate the Wood Walkers? They had stood so openly in rebellion to the might of Enoth. His master had it all planned so well. Balling his fists together, he looked fruitlessly out over the water.
Emperor Rophilborn would not be pleased. His spell was broken. The prisoners had escaped. Their crowns were undone. All of their careful planning was wasted.
The masked elf worshiped death. Would he now find his own at the hands of the one who had trained him? He had failed. His punishment would be great. To calm his troubled thoughts, he took deep breaths of the sea air. The smell of the wind was calming to him. Water lapped up on the shore as he breathed in and out, wondering if these beats of his heart would be his last.
“Looking for something you’ve lost?” came a voice the masked elf knew too well to attempt to run from. He began to sweat heavily. A bead of it rolled down his neck as he tried to keep his breathing calm.
“Some of our scouts saw the Wood Elves sailing away in boats, Your Excellency,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice steady. He swallowed hard.
“The three females you had put under your control appeared to have broken free and gone with their friends along with the Wood...”
He found his throat too tight to continue on. It was as if the air around him went solid. Try as he might, gulp and gasp, nothing would enter into his lungs. His chest burned with fire.
“I know they are gone,” came Rophilborn’s voice, dangerous and rising. He came around to the front so that he stood between the masked elf and the sea. “You failed me.”
With a flick of his wrist, the masked elf fell to the beach, gasping for breath as the air around became blessed air again and not solid earth. Deep, ragged coughing both filled his lungs and burned him as he inhaled as much as he could handle. Meanwhile, he heard boots making circles around him in the sand.
“Were you anyone else,” Rophilborn said. “Any other servant of mine, whether loved or not, you would be dead.”
The pacing stopped and the masked elf felt his robes being pulled from behind his neck. He quickly rose to his feet and stood at attention before his master. He looked him in the eyes and saw, through the slits in his mask, the terrifying face of Rophilborn denied his victory. The forest may be his and the resources it provided for his taking, but this was not the annihilation he had desired. Nor did they acquire the treasure they had sought. If thousands of Wrents hadn’t poured through the forest, disrupting the battle, he was sure he would have succeeded in his quest. But the emperor did not deal in possible outcomes.
“I will not so easily throw away hundreds of years of training as to end your life,” Rophilborn continued. “This time.”
He turned to look out at the sea as well. Pushing his hands out in front of him, the air moved rapidly, clearing away from the area the mist and fog. Great billowing waves of mist rolled out towards the middle of the sea and up into the atmosphere.
“Go,” Rophilborn commanded. “Find the Wood Walkers, the prisoners, and their friends. Bring me back proof that none survived the encounter.”
The emperor walked behind him and continued to speak.
“Take a ship and a company of my soldiers,” he said. “But fail me again...”
The masked elf felt the air harden again and choked. For a moment, the agonizing feeling of not being able to breathe returned, but then it was over. He coughed once and replied through a small fit of gasping.
“Yes, Your Excellency,” he said.
The message was as clear as the horizon Rophilborn had just cleared.
6: Regrets
Morning birds flew with the ships as they fled from the wreckage and devastation caused by the great battle in the woods. The wind was in their sails. Winter was coming, but the cold was driving them on towards their destination. At the same time, it made no effect on the princess of Thoran who stood at the helm of the foremost vessel, The Dragon.
Teresa stood with arms crossed, hair matted, and armor still in the same place it was when she woke from the terrible dream in it three days ago. Her skin was filled with bumps and her hair stood on end along her arms. It didn’t matter. The coldness of the morning could do nothing to reach the ice in her heart.
How could she have killed him? Tory had been nothing but faithful to her and her family for years. A decade. Sure, he had complained with the rush of a waterfall when it came to just about everything, but he was faithful. He was a warrior. Her warrior.
And she had slain him in cold blood.
It had been a dark dream she was in when Rophilborn placed the crown on her head. She found herself back on her home continent of Ruyn, fighting alongside her father again. The two were leading a campaign against the ravaging goblin hordes. They were defending their realm as father and daughter, king and princess. He was back. Given to her from beyond the grave. She had cherished the time she spent with him, though it was an illusion of her mind.
And then, when she woke, she found that, instead of killing the troll that had her father pinned to the ground and was a moment from a death stroke, her blades were lodged into the heart of her faithful soldier.
“A sword for the queen.”
Those had been his last words to her. He didn’t waver in his service to her, even in the last moment of his life. Even in the death she had caused.
Ealrin had to drag her from the battle. An elf with an armored bear had come and placed Tory’s body on the animal and carried it safely back to the shore. Holve had Wisym at his side and the assassin carried Elen.
They filled the last few boats headed out to sea. Waiting ships were already pulling up anchors when they reached them. Teresa could hardly recall what had happened next. All she could remember now was standing in this spot, looking out over the sea. She hadn’t eaten a morsel. She had barely taken drink.
She only watched.
It was a terrible thing to dwell on. Of the two soldiers who had come with her to Irradan, this land of elves and empires and woods, she had killed one. All that remained now was Holve. Her general. Her advisor.
What he must think of her.
“You’ll catch your death out here,” said a soft female voice.
It was Wisym.
She put a blanket over Teresa’s shoulders. The princess remembered vaguely it being there before, but not when it had fallen off. The elf then pushed a mug of something hot into her hands. Teresa didn’t move to drink it. But the warmth of the mug began to penetrate the numb fingers that grasped it.
For a long time, the two of them just stood there, watching the sea roll past them with the wind in their hair. Wisym broke the silence after several long minutes had stretched by.
“I was fighting with Galebre, a general from Talgel. He was like a father to me. It was bliss to be by his side again.”
“My father,” Teresa croaked. Her voice was cracked from lack of use. She took a sip of the mug and felt the hot liquid glide down her. It was an ale that seemed to warm her bones. But not her heart.
“I was with my father again,” she said, this time keeping her voice steady. “He and I were defending our realm. But when I woke...”
Wisym nodded.
“Holve
held one of my wrists and was fighting the sword I was trying to cut his head off with.”
Teresa made no reply. She couldn’t bear to think about what it would mean to admit that she had killed Tory Greenwall, though everyone knew that it was what had happened. She could not put the truth to words. Not yet.
“We’re going to bury him at sea,” Wisym said. “The preparations are nearly ready.”
Teresa blinked twice before the words made sense to her. Tory. They were going to bury Tory. Out at sea. She vaguely remembered their trip here. He had complained nearly the entire time their vessel was on the water. What he must think to have his body rest in the deep waters.
She shook her head gingerly.
“Alright.”
It was all she could manage. They were soon to bury the man she had killed. The faithful soldier. The warrior from Ruyn. Tory. A sword for the king.
THE SAILORS ABOARD the vessel had treated the body with what spices they had to keep it pleasant enough to have on board. They had heard from Holve and the others how this man was a friend and companion to the new group. He wasn’t to be tossed unceremoniously off the side when they feared they were being pursued by Enoth. Since the empire had not brought ships to aid in their conquest of the forest, however, they had found no pursuing elves on the horizon for the last few days.
That meant it was time to bury the body of the slain.
Tory was not the only dead who had come aboard with them. Two Wood Walkers had been carried aboard by their families and a sailor who had only just landed on the shore to help survivors get into the boats had found an arrow in his back after he went looking for more to save. He had only lasted a few moments once he was brought back onto the ship.
The four were laid out on boards by the edge of the boat. Draped in cloth and wrapped with the gifts of their friends around them, they looked like peaceful sleepers. Ones who had ropes tied around them, at least.
