Venom and Song

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  “No wonder I like the beach so much,” said Kat. “I always felt better there.”

  “That’s right,” said Goldarrow.

  “But what happens now?” Johnny asked. “I mean, do we all go back to that hall and crank up the crystal?”

  “No,” Manaelkin replied. “We keep the opening above Luminary Hall sealed, except for special occasions. It is too risky to have anything for the Spider King’s troops to discover so close to our main fortifications.”

  “How do we get sun, then?” asked Autumn. “It might help me heal faster.”

  “It would,” said Grimwarden. “Just wait. You’ll see.”

  “In the time we’ve been underground,” Goldarrow continued, “we have increased our network of tunnels one-hundred fold. In various places beneath the Thousand-League Forest, we have constructed outcroppings and small clearings where the sunlight falls regularly. All Elves in our underground homeland have a scheduled time to sun themselves. We never use the same place twice in the same week, never for more than a few hours at a time, and never without a strong military escort nearby just in case.”

  An awkward silence descended. The young lords exchanged glances. Until the events of the past year, Tommy hadn’t spent much time thinking about death. Then, with the attacks of the Drefids in Maryland, the fierce battles in Scotland, and the ambush in the Dark Veil, death had become a constant threat. One wrong step, one missed detail—it would all be over. But now . . . now there was another reason for fear. The lack of sunlight. Such a simple thing, really. Not much different from water, Tommy told himself. Can’t survive without water for more than a few days, right? And yet, this was different. Every moment they spent underground, a clock was ticking. They can’t bottle sunlight. It was then Tommy truly began to question if he should have come to Allyra at all. He knew it was a big deal, this whole Lord of the Elves thing and all, but he had no idea just how big. And that it might cost him his life? Well . . . maybe that was more than he could chew.

  “Excuse me, Lord Manaelkin?” Tommy raised his hand. “But how long have we been underground, then? Like three days already, right?”

  “Fear not, Seven Lords,” said Manaelkin. “You have forgotten the glorious, colorful rays in Luminary Hall last night. Those will sustain you.”

  “Elder Manaelkin, if I may,” said Brynn, standing. “There’s more.”

  “Of course, Flet Marshall, please continue.”

  Brynn bowed her head. “As you know, the Spider King’s forces have closed all of their usual portals into Earth. The last, of course, was the portal into Scotland. We’ve kept scouts in place to monitor them all, and they are still closed . . . abandoned, it seems.”

  “Surely the enemy knows of Sarron Froth’s betrayal,” said Ril Taniel, one of Grimwarden’s esteemed generals from the Fall of Berinfell.

  “I agree,” said Grimwarden. “Sarron Froth provided us vital information for a time, but doubtless it will no longer be of any use.”

  “Pity we could not give him more in return,” said Goldarrow.

  “We gave him a chance to redeem himself,” said Alwynn. “A place of friendship and peace when he drew his last breath . . . for Froth, there was infinite value.”

  The Gwar seemed especially moved by this statement, nodding their ascent.

  Brynn nodded. “Every portal Froth mapped out for us has been closed,” she summarized. “However, the Spider King has begun opening new portals.”

  “What?” Manaelkin started at the news. The Elves spoke openly among themselves now. The room buzzed. “Order!” The gavel banged again. “Why were we not made aware of this sooner?”

  “My scouts from Vesper Crag have only just returned,” answered Brynn. “All three of the new portals are in the Spider King’s own realm. From our observations—perilous spycraft you should know— one of these portals is in almost constant use: Warspiders, legions of Gwar, cadres of Drefids. Many depart but few return.”

  “Where does this portal go?” asked Grimwarden. “Earth?”

  “Likely,” said Goldarrow. “Froth told us that the Spider King had yet to find another world with a suitable slave population.”

  “We’ve not been able to send a flet soldier through,” said Brynn. “There is almost constant traffic there, and he keeps a legion of Gwar on station.”

  “We will need to monitor this situation carefully,” said Manaelkin. “I do not know what the Spider King is doing, but I don’t like it.”

  “Nor do I,” said Grimwarden. “Brynn, increase the scouts entering Vesper Crag threefold.”

  “It is decided,” said Manaelkin. “Thank you, Brynn. Your efforts, as always, are vital to our survival and our success. Endurance and Victory!”

  “Thank you, Elder Manaelkin. I will personally see to the new scouts.” Brynn bowed and took her seat.

  There was some murmuring among the Sentinels until Manaelkin spoke again. “Now we turn to the primary reason for this hallowed gathering.” He waited for full attention. “Beyond all hope, the young lords have returned to us. Long have we planned for this day. And as such, it is time to consummate our plans for rebellion. Guardmaster Grimwarden, as chief of the military, what is our timeline?”

  Grimwarden stood. “Thank you, Elder Manaelkin. It is the recommendation of the Sentinels and Dreadnaughts that we take the young lords to Whitehall Castle to train them in Vexbane.”

  “Whitehall?” Manaelkin’s eyes widened. “That is not an easy trek. Nor a secure location. . . . Why, it’s aboveground. Have you lost your senses? Why there?”

  Grimwarden made an attempt at diplomacy. “Surely you know. Whitehall is the birthplace of Vexbane, the combat style of our Dreadnaughts and our lords.”

  Manaelkin bristled. “Of course I know about Vexbane,” he said. “Was I not trained by Aldarion Kel himself? But what need have the Seven of Vexbane? Their powers are waxing, and the enemy’s surely wanes. You’ve fought two battles against the Spider King and won them both, have you not? What more should the Seven need to learn?”

  Grimwarden ground his teeth. So much for diplomacy. “Has it escaped your notice, Elder Manaelkin, that there are far fewer Elves who have returned from those stunning victories? Has it escaped your notice that one of the lords was impaled on a Drefid’s claw and nearly perished—precisely because her powers are raw? The lords must learn to hone their individual gifts so that they might use them together and thus be all the stronger. They are lords, yes, but lords raised in peace with no knowledge of war. They need training, time to adjust to our ways. They need the discipline of Vexbane. And we can only train them properly at Whitehall.”

  Manaelkin did not respond immediately. He turned questioning eyes to the other elders. Alwynn nodded in reply, but none of the others so much as twitched. Manaelkin turned back to Grimwarden. “Very well. Take them to Whitehall. How long?”

  Grimwarden smiled. He didn’t lose often. Not on the battlefield. And he wasn’t about to be pushed around by a politician. “The training period depends mostly upon the lords,” he said. “If they learn quickly, and we compress a year’s worth of teaching—which I don’t recommend, mind you—they may be fit for battle in six or seven months.”

  If Manaelkin’s eyes had been volcanoes, they would have bathed everyone in the room in scalding hot lava, gas, and debris. “Six to seven months?! Have you gone completely mad? Eight hundred years of waiting, preparing, and training, and you want us all to wait longer? This . . . this is lunacy!” He threw his hands in the air. “One month. Nothing more. This is all you shall have. Do you contend?”

  “Oh, dear”—whispered Goldarrow to Brynn—“this is not going well.” Goldarrow knew the Guardmaster’s quirks. She watched as Grimwarden’s upper lip curled into a snarl, and his right eyelid twitched.

  “Yes,” said Grimwarden. “I contend.” His whispered words were like the hiss of a drop of water flash vaporizing on smoldering plank.

  “Very well,” said Manaelkin. “Bring your witnesses. An
d be swift.” Manaelkin banged his gavel.

  Goldarrow was at Grimwarden’s shoulder in an instant. “No, Olin,” she whispered, holding tightly to his elbow.

  “So help me, Elle, I’m going to take that gavel and—”

  “Leave it be. See to your witnesses.”

  “You’ll be one, won’t you?” he asked.

  She glared at Manaelkin. “I’ll be first.”

  6

  Stirring Convictions

  GOLDARROW STOOD up behind the table and announced, “Elders, Dreadnaughts, fellow Sentinels, and Lords, we have come to a turning point in the history of Elvendom. The lords have returned, bringing us great hope to one day destroy our enemy and reopen the gates of Berinfell. The lords’ returning is a gift . . . a gift that Elder Manaelkin would have us squander. For to push the young lords into battle before they are prepared is foolishness. The Spider King has not been idle these eight hundred years.”

  “I will answer!” announced the elder on Alwynn’s left. He had bristling red eyebrows and a shaven head covered with reddish stubble. He stood and bowed. “I am Naramyn Sunfire and, along with Grimwarden, I have overseen our military preparations. We have not been idle, either, Sentinel Goldarrow. While you were away, we have grown our army to three times its greatest strength in Berinfell. We have improved our armor-craft. We have cultivated underground oceans of Nightwish flowers . . . for production of the spider weapons. And we have labored over war plans, detailed plans to invade the Spider King’s stronghold in Vesper Crag and rid Allyra of his menace for good.”

  “I contend,” said Goldarrow. “Elder Naramyn, have you seen the Seven Lords in action?”

  Silence.

  She waited.

  He said nothing.

  “Do you even know what their gifts are?”

  “Well . . . I—I presume their powers . . . are the same as their forebears’.”

  “They are not, in fact, all the same,” Goldarrow said, keeping her tone level. “All the preparations are meaningless if they do not include the lords; to say otherwise is blasphemy.” A small tremor rippled around the room. “And all plans that include the lords are worthless unless they take into account the gifts of each lord, as well as how they work together. I yield my point for the next witness.” Goldarrow sat down to a chorus of murmuring, but it was much louder on the elders’ side.

  “Your point is understood,” said Manaelkin. “I am not against training the lords at all. But seven months? Now, listen, one and all. We cannot afford that kind of a delay. Our success—our very survival— could depend on the element of surprise. The Spider King has not reinforced his stronghold to prepare for a forward assault or even a siege. Up to now, he has not likely concerned himself with the possibility of an attack from Elves. In his eyes, he has beaten us down, scattered us, and left us without leaders. And in his mind, without hope. But he knows now that the lords have returned, and he knows that they were powerful enough to thwart his plans on Earth, as well as his ambush on the Dark Veil. At the very least, the Spider King will redouble his efforts to find us and fortify his stronghold. Every week we wait, he grows stronger.”

  “Wait,” came a quiet voice from across the table. It was Autumn. “I mean, wait please.” She looked to Nelly. “That is . . . if I can say something?”

  Manaelkin’s stony confidence softened. He said, “Of course you may speak, Lord Miarra. Please.”

  “Miarra,” she echoed. “I love that name. It’s so pretty. But it will take some getting used to. I’m still very much Autumn Briarman.” With great effort and a squeaky kind of groan, she stood. “I want to tell you about something I did in battle back on Earth.”

  Nelly looked up. Johnny stared into his lap. The chamber became silent.

  “The big battle,” Autumn continued, “was in Scotland . . . outside Dalhousie Castle. Nelly, Johnny, and I . . . we got there late. Nelly told us to stay in a hiding spot while she entered the battle. She told us we weren’t ready. But I didn’t want to hear it. All those Elves . . . my family, sort of . . . and they were getting killed right in front of me. I couldn’t just stand there and watch.”

  Manaelkin grinned knowingly. Indeed, Miarra had the blood of lords flowing in her veins.

  “I didn’t know what I was going to do,” she went on. “But I went for it anyway. Nelly was already gone and far ahead. Johnny tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t listen to him, either. I ran. And as I ran, something happened. I was moving faster and faster, but it took no extra effort. In a blink, I was in the midst of the battle. I found a sword, but more than that, I had found my gift. I used the supernatural speed and ran circles around the Gwar and Drefids. I . . . I think I killed a lot of them.”

  “We have heard your tale,” said Manaelkin. “It was a valiant effort. And all the more reason we should—”

  “No,” Autumn said, her quiet reply shutting off the high elder like a slammed door. “No, I was not valiant. I was stupid. I should have listened to Nelly.” She looked to Nelly, then to Johnny. “I should have listened to my broth—to Johnny. I used my speed the best I could, but it wasn’t good enough. A Drefid got in my way. That’s all he did. He just stood there, holding out his sharp finger blades, and I ran right into them. Thing is, I was going so fast . . . too fast. My eyes aren’t used to that kind of speed. I didn’t even see the blades until it was too late. Nelly was right. . . . I wasn’t ready. I’m still not. And neither are the rest of us . . . not really. I’m sure Guardmaster Grimwarden here is a good teacher, and this Whitehall must be the perfect classroom for Vex-whatever-it’s-called. But a few weeks, a month . . . well, that’s just not going to be enough. We don’t know what we can do . . . we barely know each other. Shoot, I can’t even master everything they teach me in math in a school year. And that’s ten months or something.”

  Autumn paused and scanned the room, everyone captivated by her. “I don’t know how this vote is going to go. I’ll . . . I’ll do whatever you think is best. But I’d feel a lot better about this whole situation if I knew I had some time to adjust.” She took a deep breath. “Thank you.” Then she sat down.

  Grimwarden beamed at Autumn. As did most of the Sentinels, Dreadnaughts, and the other lords. The elders, for once, were not enveloped in murmurs. They sat placidly, eyes fixed.

  Manaelkin seemed stunned. When he spoke again, there was little conviction and none of the confidence from before. “We have heard enough,” he said. “I call now for the vote.”

  The quiet discussion and murmurs continued as attendants served each weighing member for the vote, handing them two candles. “The choice before you,” said Manaelkin, “will likely determine the fate of Elfkind on Allyra. Light the purple candle if our people would be better served by the lords spending at least half a year at Whitehall. Blue if you believe one month of training and a swift and sudden attack on Vesper Crag will ensure our victory. Choose well.”

  Tommy leaned over to Kat once more. “Well?”

  “Just a sec,” she replied, staring and squinting. “Things have changed,” Kat whispered. “I think.” She was quiet a few moments more, listening to conversations in her mind. “Many of the Elves are remembering the Spider King’s attack on Berinfell. It was a surprise attack. Some believe that was the only reason the enemy won. It seems like many are leaning toward Manaelkin’s plan.”

  “Throw us right into war again?” Tommy shook his head. “I definitely don’t like that plan.”

  “Yeah,” said Kat. “Me, either.”

  “So what’s going on now? Can you tell what they’re—?”

  “Shhh!” She shook her head. “I can’t . . . hear . . . strange.” Voices whirled in and out of her mind. She’d isolate one for a moment . . . and try to place the voice. Voice, that was what she called it, for most Elves subconsciously put their thoughts into their own voices. She’d heard Alwynn once. . . . “But they’re so young.”

  She heard Manaelkin. “Ridiculous. We shouldn’t even be having” . . .

&n
bsp; But then, then a strange stream of thoughts pushed momentarily through the others.

  . . . “journey to Whitehall” . . .

  . . . “fortunate turn” . . .

  . . . “must not be seen” . . .

  . . . “slaughter” . . .

  Kat sat bolt upright and scanned the room. Slaughter? Who? Her gaze fell in turn upon every Elf in the room, but she didn’t recognize the voice. And no facial expressions revealed anything she could connect to those thoughts. Something about the Seven Lords going to Whitehall . . . had to be, but Kat didn’t know what the last couple of thoughts meant. They might have meant nothing at all, just random words. Maybe even from several different Elves. No, not unless several Elves sounded alike. That handful of phrases had been uttered in one voice.

  “You okay?” asked Tommy.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she replied. “Fine . . . I thought I heard something a little strange.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ah, it was nothing,” she said, still wondering. “I really need to learn to focus better.” Duh, she thought. Maybe the voice wasn’t an elder at all. She looked at the Sentinels, who, for the most part, were silent. Intense, but silent. Kat felt an odd weight on her left shoulder and whipped around. Mr. Wallace was staring hard, seemingly at Goldarrow. But . . . was he staring at me?

  “Ignite the Flame of Conviction,” Manaelkin instructed.

  Each of the Elves with voting privileges put up a previously unnoticed metal screen, hiding the candles from others’ view. Once these were in place, the Elves began to vote.

  “Ah, this is going to drive me crazy,” said Tommy.

  “Uh-huh,” said Kat, but she wasn’t really paying attention to her friend or to the vote. Her mind was so intensely focused on trying to single out that one thought-voice again that she couldn’t really attend to anything else.

  Jett leaned over to Jimmy. “What’s going to ha—?”

  “I’m not tellin’ yu,” he replied quickly. “Those screens are there for a reason, yu know.”