by Greg Curtis
The gaol was a typical human structure. Stones sides, stone walls and small windows. Perfectly designed to keep people locked up within its cold stone embrace. Elodie instinctively didn't like it. But she liked even less the dark feelings she could feel from the prisoners. The hatred and anger was like a physical force settling all around her. And she hadn't even entered the building.
Regardless, she carried on, walking up to the front door and then stepping inside.
There she met the guards, a pair of ogres, who had taken up the duty. There were more of their people about these days, wandering the lands, and for the most part turning out to be good people. Strange people and barbaric looking. But that was perhaps just more proof of the old adage that you should never judge people by their appearance. They might judge you the same way.
“Guardian,” one of them greeted her. “Exactly on time.”
“But so small,” his friend added. “And just a girl. You should eat something!”
“The prisoners are ready?” Elodie ignored the comment. She understood what the ogre meant and that he meant no harm by it. It was simply that to the ogres, most other people looked like children to them. They were all small and slim by comparison. To their eyes, most other people were not fully grown. And even the giants were far too thin as far as they were concerned. They called them scarecrows.
It was worse though for the dwarves. To the ogres they were almost babies and they wanted to pick them up and hold them! Give them some milk and put them in their cots. They actually thought dwarves were pretty!
“Yeah,” the first ogre replied. “We moved them to the yard. Without their markings they don't seem to be much of a threat.”
“Good.” Elodie nodded. And she had to think that that was one more oddity to come out of this. The ogres had for centuries, ever since the shades had been born, thought of them as monsters. Demons of the night. They had regarded them as deadly. And it had never occurred to them that in truth they were weak, made powerful only by the enchantments they wore. Now it seemed a simple casting of healing left them helpless. Could things get any stranger?
But then the dwarves and the humans were dangerous warriors too. Powerful soldiers. But only because of their technology. Take their rifles and steam powered contraptions away, and they too would be weak. True strength came from within. From the soul and the magic it contained.
“Show me the way please.”
Obediently the two ogres turned and led her into the prison, and along its long stone corridors. Past endless walls of cold steel bars which were the fronts of the cells. All of them were empty, she noticed. But then why would they be occupied? The prisoners were all shades with a single exception and they had been removed from their cells to be interrogated.
It was a surprisingly long walk with more than a few turns into different steel bar lined corridors. Just how many prisoners did the humans normally have that they needed this many cells? But she supposed that Stonely had been a fairly large town before the people had been stolen away to mine lava.
One thing surprised her about the prison. With its heavy steel bars and thick stone and concrete walls she would have imagined that this was a place where the most terrible of criminals were held. She would have thought that there would have been more of a feel of anger and hate and despair about the place. But try as she might, she didn't sense that from this place. More … boredom. Years of dullness. Maybe the humans brought the most terrible criminals somewhere else.
In time though they arrived at the yard, which turned out to be a flat section of grass surrounded by extremely tall stone walls. At one end there were seats, worn wooden benches, which the most senior of the casters had claimed for themselves. Meanwhile the shades, all of them with little in the way of clothing, were standing around on the grass looking a little worried. They were bare armed and backed she guessed, to show that there were no markings on their bone white skin.
Why was their skin so pale, she wondered? It looked not just unhealthy but unnatural. It was the alabaster of the grave and it made her shudder a little. But she controlled her reactions, knowing that there was no danger here. These prisoners, these shades, despite all the terrible things they had done according to the ogres, were harmless. Without their markings they had little in the way of magic. Little they could do. And they were watched. If they tried to mark themselves again or their cells, they would be stopped.
For the moment though, they seemed helpless. They were simply standing on the grass staring at the casters on the benches, outnumbered two to one. Maybe that was why they were gathered together into a tight group. Like a herd surrounded by wolves, looking to break and run – save that there was nowhere they could run to.
But it occurred to her that maybe this was more an exercise yard than anything else. Maybe the prisoners here were supposed to run for the pleasure of the audience. But no one seemed to be doing that.
Meanwhile the visitors on the benches were patiently sitting and watching them as they stood there. And she recognised a few of them. One of them she didn't want to. Yarin Coldstream was sitting at the far end of the front bench, and she had to wonder why he was there. He was no sage and neither was he one of the leaders of this town as far as she knew. But mercifully he seemed to be without his flask for once. He might even have been sober, though that was unlikely.
And then of course there were the dryads. They were everywhere these days, and so she understood, they had built three new settlements around Stonely as well as the one opposite Chy's home. But then Stonely was becoming the magical capitol of this world and it seemed they liked to be near such places. And of course there were the thrones in Chy's front yard.
She was a little disturbed by the presence of the dryads, even though she'd known that they would be here. This entire show was their idea. They were the masters when it came to knowing the thoughts and feelings of others. And they were good people. But still every time she saw one of them, it took her back to the day they had made her remember what the thrones had done. And while it had been painless, the memory of being so helpless in their magic troubled her.
And of course there was Chy, sitting at the back. He had to be there. Not because he had the wisdom of the sages – though he was turning out to be remarkably sharp witted. And not because he was a leader of anyone. He hated the very idea of being in charge. It ran against his nature to give anyone an order – except his sister! But still he was the one who had sent the first sending to all the casters, telling them what they had to do. Whether he led the efforts to keep the worlds in order or not, people considered him as some sort of leader. A figurehead. So when something important was happening, he simply had to be there.
At least he'd dressed for the occasion, she thought. And for once he looked almost respectable in his heavy black robes. Save that they weren't robes she realised when she looked a little closer. It was a great coat of some sort with a hood. But it was clean and tidy without any sign of a tear in it. That was a sign of some effort for him.
She thanked the ogres for having brought her here and then took a seat on one of the back benches beside Chy, who she noticed was looking a little the worse for wear even if his clothes weren't.
“What happened to you?” she asked as she stared at the bandages on his hand.
“The damned cat!” he muttered. “It was on the bench, hiding behind the bin when I reached for the bread! You don't want a pet cat do you?! To keep you company in the Temple?!”
“No.” She declined his offer while trying to hide her smile.
“How about a pig? With wings?”
“I don't think so!” What was it with him and animals, she wondered? He'd sat on the lion throne a few times. He should at the least have some sort of dominion over them. But if anything they seemed to hate him even more than everyone else. Though to be fair, that damned cat was a bad tempered scoundrel to everyone. Born under a dark moon.
“Damn! Bloody beast has nearly eaten my entire vegetable gard
en!”
“Pigs will do that,” she commented casually, still trying to keep from smiling.
“And it's not as if I can just put up a fence to keep the beast out.”
“No,” she agreed and turned away to stare at the distant clouds, before she burst out laughing at his tale of woe. But he was right. How could you keep a pig that could fly out of your vegetable garden? She didn't fool him though.
“It's not that funny,” he muttered, sounding a little peeved. “And I still can't work out how that little pork belly managed to make it onto the kitchen bench either. She's too fat and lazy to jump and she doesn't have wings!”
“Maybe she had help,” Elodie suggested.
“Probably!” He stared morosely at her. “From the gods! They hate me!” Chy shook his head and started staring at the ground.
“So how are you getting on with the perfect elves?” He changed the subject.
“They haven't tried to force themselves into my mind again. And they've actually been quite helpful. Bringing me books to help with the enchantments of the portals.” Not that she could look at them without remembering that terrible day. But she was coping with them most of the time. “I'm still not sure what they are though.”
“I know. It has to be –.” He stopped in mid sentence as his eyes fixed on something behind her. “Oh!”
Elodie turned to see what he was looking at and then instantly wished she hadn't. It was Fylarne, walking out escorted by a guard, wearing a set of manacles.
All the blood drained from her face in that moment and she grew shockingly weak.
“I'm sorry.” Chy wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders. “I should have known he would be here.”
“So should I,” Elodie agreed numbly as she stared at the former head guardian as he was shown to his seat at the front. “This isn't fair.”
“No. It's not. But it is what has to be. He's the only one in all the worlds who knows the ancient tongue. Who has read what was written in those books in your library. And if what the ogres have said is right, the shades have something to do with the ancient ones.”
He was right of course. She knew that. But that didn't make it any easier to look at him.
Thankfully she didn't have to do it for long as the dryads began their work. Speaking as a group at the shades and slowly wrapping them up in a shared vision of some sort. Much the same as the one they had used to see her memories. And it was an easy thing. There was no pain. No fear. Not even when some of what she and the rest saw was frightful.
It began with the abductions. Little children stolen from their parents. Little green children stolen from their ogre parents. These children in front of her.
Elodie was shocked when she saw that. Not simply because of the violence of the act, but because it hadn't occurred to her that the shades were actually ogres. They were too small, too thin and what had happened to their skin? Why wasn't it green? She didn't understand. But if it was shocking for her, it was surely a thousand times worse for the ogres. She heard them gasp and cry out their denials. They hadn't realised it either. And why would they? These people, the shades who they feared, looked nothing like them.
But she supposed, who else could they be? They came from Prima and the only people who lived there were ogres. And they didn't have portals. She should have guessed the truth.
Some of the mystery was explained soon after as she saw the memories of those children in their new lives with the shades. Being fed foul concoctions that made them cry and wretch. Being injected with more potions that flowed straight into the blood. Obviously that had something to do with the changes in their bodies.
But why would they do such things? That was what she didn't understand. The ogres were already a physically powerful people. Why make them weaker and smaller?
Elodie sat back on the bench and watched the memories unfolding with the others. And while there wasn't an answer to be found in any of them, she saw the same thing in all their minds. All of the prisoners had endured the same thing. To them it wasn't even wrong. It was just the past.
Thankfully the memories moved on in time, mostly to the children in classrooms. Different classrooms being taught by different teachers. But all the teachers were shades and all the lessons were the same. Lessons about combat.
It was shocking. These children were taught to fight and kill from a horribly young age. Taught to use everything they had as a weapon. Little children were taught how to bludgeon one another to death with their fists. To smash in skulls with whatever they could lay their hands on. And to enchant to make themselves faster and stronger so they could fight better. Everything in their lives was about fighting and winning. About becoming champions. They actually had lines they learned by heart. Great passages of text they read and recited. All of them devoted to that single idea. To fight and become a champion. Because only in combat could they achieve greatness.
“Could you stop there please.” A voice called out as they were watching the prisoners' memories of their classrooms.
“Why?” A dryad replied.
“Because what they're remembering isn't right. It doesn't match what is written.”
It was Fylarne Elodie realised. And instantly she felt waves of emotion running over her. Painful emotions and bitter memories. But she controlled herself as best she could. This wasn't the place, and maybe he had something important to say. Something useful.
“Explain please.”
“This champion. This lofty goal they're being taught. Mighty victor as they're calling it. But the words that are written actually mean head guard. And when they talk about defeating the enemies, the different ones as they call them. The words that are written are changed ones. Someone's translated this wrong and taught them the incorrect version.”
Guards? Elodie didn't understand that. But she also wasn't sure that it mattered much. Whether they were guards or champions they still attacked and killed people.
“Of course they're guards you schist swilling dolt!” Yarin unexpectedly called out. “Isn't that obvious?”
“What?” someone asked him.
“That's how you control prisoners. You lock them up. Put them in chains. And every so often find the biggest, meanest among them and start smashing heads. That way the prisoners learn respect for authority. They do as you say. And in the end you don't even need the chains. They learn respect. They learn to obey the law. All you have to do is keep beating them.”
“That's barbaric!” someone else shouted out.
“Why?” The dwarf spat on the ground. “What's barbaric is this vast prison. We don't need prisons like this in the Strongvein Clanhold. We don't have people breaking the law twice!”
Elodie wanted to object to that, but she quickly realised that there was no point. The dwarf was never going to listen. And besides, one of the very first lessons she had been taught when she had become a guardian, was never to judge. Others would do as they would. You didn't have to agree with what they did. Simply accept it as their way and leave it alone. Anything else was pointless. Certainly no one was going to change their ways just because you thought they should.
But others didn't realise that simple truth. And soon there was an argument raging as the dwarf took on all comers in a battle for what was right and just. Meanwhile the reason they had come here was forgotten. And for what? What did she care if the shades had mistranslated a word or two? It didn't change anything.
Still she had to sit there quietly and wait until the others had sorted things out. And unfortunately even as they did, Fylarne had found some more words that had been mistranslated.
This time it was the changed ones – again. For some reason the shades had mistranslated the changed ones as prisoners and criminals, when before they'd been the enemies. In fact all through their classes they constantly got that word wrong. But what did it mean? Nothing as far as she could tell.
And then Chy had to speak up.
“Fylarne, didn't I hear that you came across
a prison in Prima. One with a hospital and wards or wings for the different races?”
“Yes.” Fylarne turned around in his seat to face Chy and naturally spotted her sitting beside him. In a heartbeat his gaze lowered and his face became a picture of misery.
“And Nga Roth, didn't you say that there were others the same?” He turned to face the ogre standing on the far side of the benches.
“There are others. What of it? At least they treated their prisoners when they got hurt.”
“No. Actually I don't think they did,” he replied somewhat cryptically a look of horror on his face. “In fact if I'm right they did truly terrible things to them. Monstrous things.”
Suddenly everyone turned to face him. All the arguments were forgotten as everyone fell silent. Elodie knew the same silence. He had a way of being right – in the most terribly wrong way.
“It all makes sense if you look at it slightly differently. The changed ones. Prisons and guards. Prisoners and enemies. And of course we were looking for a war. Some reason why a world would be broken up into little pieces. We shouldn't have been so short sighted. There is more than one sort of war.”
