Knight and Champion

by Steven J Shelley

  Truly, the evening couldn’t have been better. The sun disappeared in a scarlet smudge, depositing a unfathomably deep night sky. The breeze occasionally supported their slow, patient progress up Felwood Hill. Duskovy Castle loomed grandly to the north east. Classically designed, it sported five towers and a deep, nigh impassable canyon on its near side. The castle’s north and east sides were even more dramatic - a sheer cliff face dropped for over two hundred yards before spilling into the verdant Dawn Forest. It was said that Duskovy Castle profited from the most defendable geography in the Southern Reaches. The keep hadn’t fallen in over a thousand years, and even back then a year-long siege had been required.

  As the gig made steady progress up the hill and raucous notes of merriment drifted down from the castle yard, Catelyn voiced the question on everyone’s mind.

  “Papa, will the elves be there tonight?”

  Hadley pursed her lips - there was a time and place for such discussion. Catelyn couldn’t control her questing mind and sooner or later it would get her into trouble.

  “I’d be surprised if they weren’t,” Devon said at length. “Too much of a coincidence otherwise.”

  “Do you think they were invited?” Catelyn pressed.

  Hadley tried to get her sister’s attention but to no avail.

  “No,” Devon admitted. “No, I don’t. But we could do worse than approach them with open minds.”

  The rest of the journey passed in thick silence. The younger children sensed the night would hold even greater delights than they dared imagine. Elves were not a common sight in the Southern Reaches. The Border Village in the Dawn Forest regularly traded with elves but not many farming folk in the district would’ve seen one up close. What did it all mean? At the very least it gave the villagers something to talk about. Several groups of common folk, ruddy-faced and buoyant in the crisp air, waved and slapped the gig as it trundled past. If the earlier elf sighting had caused any consternation, it certainly wasn’t evident. Then again, a fair portion of these people were probably already drunk. As darkness settled in and the various shouts and exclamations lost the security of a visible source, Hadley made a conscious effort to find the inner poise she’d been relying on all her life. Her breath caught in her throat as the gig rounded the final bend and the castle gatehouse loomed. Tonight the huge structure, so forbidding by day, was alive with colorful lanterns and winking moss lights. Never had the castle looked so alluring, so welcoming.

  Sange Duskovy, the Baron’s middle son, welcomed guests as they rolled in. Hadley met his gaze and unless she was mistaken, there was a jolt of something. Before she could process what had happened, the gig had passed into the yard proper and she wasn’t about to turn around. Sange was tall and handsome in a boyish way but Hadley had never really noticed him before. He looked bigger than she remembered - all those dawn drills with his comrades were clearly paying off.

  Devon steered into a makeshift stable, where a pair of stewards looked after the horses. The la Bernes alighted with as much decorum as possible and gathered around their father.

  “Stick together if you can,” he said. “Doran, Hadley, Catelyn, Tanis - keep the young ones with you. Work together. Stay away from the mead. Keep your heads. Be aware of these men. Remember, most are out for themselves.”

  Warnings heeded, the family ventured into the swarming courtyard. Hadley felt numb from the sheer sensory overload. There was an electric charge to the castle this year, a magic that was difficult to describe. Exciting, yes, but also dynamic and unpredictable. Hadley was aware of her inherent conservatism, an influential trait that might have explained why the scene filled her with trepidation instead of joy. At least two hundred folks were already filling up on mead and bidding goodbye to their inhibitions. Surely this throng couldn’t wear its dumb smile all night? She didn’t want to be around when the tide inevitably turned.

  The red and white Kingdom insignia flashing in and out of the drab grays and browns was a welcome sight. The soldiers conferred a semblance of stability to proceedings, even if they were also drinking. What’s more, there seemed to be genuine interaction with the common folk. The Baron liked to keep his troops under lock and key most of the time, so they were probably starved of fresh voices and perspectives. An officers’ table had been set along the eastern wall of the yard. Devon and Vesna had seats as honorary guests. The fact that Devon and Baron Duskovy hadn’t spoken for years didn’t enter the equation. Tradition was a hard habit to break in the Southern Reaches. Hadley spotted the Baron chatting somberly with a pair of officers. The prevailing view of Vladimir Duskovy wasn’t particularly flattering. Rumor had it that whilst he wasn’t an outright tyrant, he could be a cold, remote presence. He certainly appeared dour, though Hadley didn’t necessarily see that as a bad thing. It was appropriate for a leader to maintain a certain distance from his charges. After all, he was liable to send them out to die at a moment’s notice. She also didn’t have an issue with his disdainful attitude to common folk. What was the point of mixing with the unwashed? The Baron had regional security to handle. Petty local concerns could only drag him down.

  “What a night.”

  It was Sange Duskovy. As he squeezed past Hadley’s shoulder to stand opposite, she caught a whiff of honey-infused mead on his breath.

  “Perfect,” she agreed.

  Hadley was about to elaborate further when she spotted an ordered row of pale-skinned folk near the keep entrance. Elves.

  “My father was involved in last year’s Allocation,” Sange said, following her gaze. “Traveled to the Veld in the far east. He saw many elves there.”

  The “guests” regarded the party with chilling disdain. Hadley couldn’t prevent dread from pluming in her gut.

  “I hear last year’s Allocation bids failed,” she said.

  Sange’s face clouded over.

  “I’m sorry if that was out of order,” she continued quickly.

  “Not at all,” Sange said with a smile. “Your source is correct. We lost every single bid and father took it hard. Worse still, his delegation was escorted from the Citadel, such was the animosity toward him.”

  “I hate them,” Hadley said, surprising herself with the sudden emotion. “Elves. Dwarves. Orcs. Back-stabbing thugs, all of them.”

  Sange chuckled, then seemed to realize the potential misinterpretation.

  “I apologize,” he said gallantly. “I appreciate your turn of phrase. Indeed they are, Hadley.”

  This time there was no mistaking the eye contact. His use of her name was, of course, calculated. The brief glance at her cleavage was most likely uncalculated.

  “What have those races actually achieved anyway?” Hadley asked, deftly defusing the awkward moment. “The orcs are disgusting cannibals. The elves refuse to expand. The dwarves have zero ambition beyond accumulating material wealth.”

  Sange laughed openly at that.

  “Humans have the three largest cities in Northern Elesta,” he said, warming to the theme. “We have perfected the art of swordcraft, surely the noblest of combat arts.”

  “The only ones to conquer horses and turn them into fighting machines,” Hadley said, inching closer to the soldier in his dashing red and white livery.

  “Our arts and sciences …”

  “Our disdain for magic.”

  Sange’s eyes glittered with admiration and Hadley knew she’d scored a direct hit. To be fair, magic was an easy target - she had yet to meet a soldier who didn’t loathe the practice. As Catelyn liked to point out, the use of magic in Ardennia wasn’t illegal. Pockets of Tevalo magic still remained on the fringes of human society, but its practitioners were inconsequential. There hadn’t been a strong mage for over a thousand years. As far as humans were concerned, magic was all but dead.

  Sange was standing very close now. His elbow occasionally brushed Hadley’s left breast when he shifted on his feet. She was about to lean in and shift the discussion from politics to something more personal when a herald’s
voice rang out.

  “A call to the Dance of the Eyes. This is a call to the Dance.”

  An excited murmur rippled through the crowd. Was it that time of night already? Sange took Hadley by the hand and led her into a cleared space. This would be her fourth time in the Dance. Only young, unattached villagers and garrison soldiers were eligible. Within a minute twenty bemused Guill women stood facing at least thirty men. This number included eleven soldiers, who regarded the women with a certain complacency afforded by their uniforms. The contrived situation had developed so quickly that Hadley needed a deep breath to compose herself. Sange was smiling in her direction. Catelyn gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. Hadley was inexpressibly relieved to have her sister on the wing.

  “Look at Tanis,” Catelyn said, laughing.

  Though he looked urbane in his midnight blue caban and breeches, the poor boy looked green around the gills. Thankfully Doran was there to reassure him.

  “I know how he feels,” Hadley said, gripping Catelyn’s hand tightly.

  The women were required to nominate their partners. Order of selection was from eldest to youngest. As there were more men than women, a good deal of them would be forced to withdraw. It was said that three or four marriages a year were arranged as a direct result of the Dance. Hadley wasn’t surprised by this, considering the paucity of social interaction between village and castle. The buoyant, rosy-cheeked crowd, some two-hundred strong, fell silent with anticipation. Just for a moment, the elf presence was forgotten. The smell of roasting meat wafted over from the spits. The night air was crisp and invigorating. Selection was ready to commence.

  Shonda, the blacksmith’s daughter, chose first. She pointed straight at Doran, who stepped forward sheepishly. The pair held hands and waited in the cleared area. Hadley was next. She paused for a moment before nominating Sange. In the light of their recent exchange, she had every reason to expect an instant smile. Instead, his face fell with poorly concealed disappointment. Numb with shock, Hadley forced herself to take a step forward.

  “You honor me,” Sange said stiffly as they came together.

  “Likewise,” Hadley returned in a hollow voice.

  In the background she vaguely heard Catelyn nominating her partner, but none of it mattered now. Hadley could’ve kicked herself - the truth was so stark, so obvious all of a sudden, that she felt like requesting a reset. Sange had wanted Catelyn. She had been the beneficiary of his smile before the dance. Telling herself there would be plenty of time to cry later, Hadley chose to focus on the requirements of the moment. Her social duty, which admittedly seemed insurmountable in the short term. Catelyn was laughing with Joshua Salliner, an oafish farm boy. Probably a mercy selection. As far as Hadley could tell, she hadn’t once looked in Sange’s direction. By this stage dance partners had been selected and a quartet of balladeers launched into a romantic sonata. The still night air made for excellent acoustics. No stranger to the required moves, Hadley locked eyes with Sange and bowed. Their hands met and formed an arch. The whole thing seemed pointless and silly now that she knew where his heart lay. Her humiliation subsided a little, eroded not by equanimity but by anger.

  “I can see the attraction,” she murmured on a close pass. “She’s not unattractive and actually has a brain.”

  Sange frowned, then reddened.

  “Was it that obvious?” he asked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mislead you.”

  “We just talked,” Hadley said. “Hardly a moonlight tryst.”

  Sange grinned, but there was a note of desperation in his eyes. “What can you tell me about her?”

  Hadley returned a rueful smile. The boy needed to act quickly, lest he be forced to wait an entire year for the next Feast.

  “Only that she’s special,” she said. “The man who wins her heart will need a mind quicker than a grassland kestrel.”

  Sange had no opportunity to reply - the dance had reached its conclusion. The partners came together in the middle of the floor. The knight-in-training gripped Hadley in a firm embrace, then he was gone. His comrades laughed and slapped him on the back as he melted into the crowd. The simple comforts of Tavalen seemed highly attractive at that moment. As soon as the actual feast was over, Hadley would offer to take the children home. Yolanda was shepherding Billy and Ril. Hettie was in Vesna’s arms and wouldn’t budge.

  “Let’s find a seat for the boys,” Hadley suggested, locking arms with her sister.

  Thankfully, Yolanda seemed to have recovered from their earlier confrontation. Already twelve, she was eligible for the dance next year, but Hadley couldn’t picture it. Like Catelyn, she had a somewhat cerebral personality, but without the bold spirit. Which made her a little bookish. Glad to find solace in her siblings, Hadley wrapped an arm around her sister as they followed the children through the milling crowd. The sharp smell of mead cut through the haze of dusky, aromatic arello smoke. The castle yard was a sea of colliding hormones. For Hadley at least, the promise of sexual intrigue had faded fast, replaced by a faithful bedrock of crisp, no-nonsense pragmatism. She entertained the boys while Yolanda ventured off to procure food. By the time she returned they were cranky and ready for bed. At least the succulent, tender roast meats guaranteed some respite. Oblivious to the gradually escalating noise around them, the siblings found a quiet table and dined on the exquisitely seasoned fowl for several minutes.

  Her residual embarrassment all but vanquished by the meal, Hadley found Vesna and offered to take the children home. Her mother smiled tiredly.

  “Let’s go together,” she said, rocking an out-of-sorts Hettie. “Take this one and I’ll meet you at the stable. I think Devon needs rescuing.”

  Hadley glanced at the officers’ table. Trapped between two of the Baron’s aides-de-camp, Devon looked decidedly stony-faced.

  “I’ll go,” Hadley said.

  As she approached there was a commotion to her right. One of the elves climbed onto the banquet table, his cold, severe eyes surveying the throng. His green leather armor almost looked black in the light cast by distant braziers. Baron Duskovy gazed up at the alien in astonishment. A pair of guards raised their sword hilts, ready to act with lethal force. A hush fell over the courtyard. The bold elf’s next move would decide his fate.

  “Humans of the Southern Reaches,” he called in broken Dellacque, the human tongue. “I humbly request your attention for a short while.”

  Hadley looked over her shoulder at Vesna. There was nothing humble about this elf. The way he paced back and forth on the table spoke of belligerence and barely-checked aggression. Hadley was overcome by a peculiar coldness as she studied his lithe, sinewy body, coiled like a viper. She’d seen elf hunting parties on the east bank of the Ebbe, passing in and out of the Dawn Forest like ghosts. As a child she’d always imagined them to be rather tall, elegant creatures, blessed with perfect bone structure and languid grace. With his pale blue skin and red-rimmed eyes, the elf before her was more like a goblin. He moved with a hunched-over, incredibly well-balanced posture, suggesting he was capable of covering twenty feet at a moment’s notice. Hadley felt as though her soft, tender middle-class throat could be ripped free before one of the lumbering soldiers could do a damn thing about it. But then, that was precisely the kind of fear the elf clearly sought to elicit. Hadley steeled herself against her dark thoughts.

  “My men and I have traveled hard and long,” the alien began. “In thanking Baron Duskovy for his hospitality, we wish to reveal our reason for being here. My name is Dahal Rane.”

  No one dared make a sound. The vast majority of onlookers would never have heard an elf speak before.

  “If you will indulge me, I will relate my story,” said Dahal. “My company served as daggermen infantry in the recent war against the dune skrim. We ran ground support for the Seventh human host. Baron Duskovy’s army.”

  The Baron waved his guards away. Like everyone else, he was pinned down by the elf’s weighty presence and would hear more.

 
“One clear, hot day, your horse scouts were successful in drawing the skrim into a narrow ravine. A fine trap. The Baron placed sappers on high. Each man was allocated a barrel of red lung. The skrim didn’t stand a chance. My elves scaled the far end of the ravine to cut off the enemy retreat. The best word for what happened next is ‘diabolical’. My men were engaged, but once your sappers caught up, the red lung was released. Skrim and elf alike were burned by toxic rain. Barely half of my company survived. All who did were grievously wounded, their lungs in tatters. To illustrate, I cannot climb my horse without my lungs crackling like cinder. The human responsible for our welfare, Baron Duskovy, couldn’t abide the prospect of elves vanquishing the skrim general. We were given cursory medical attention and the incident was promptly forgotten. Until we returned to our homeland, where our families shed tears over our broken flesh. Until we were rejected by our regular host and declared unfit for duty. Until we were shunned like lepers from our own forming enclaves.”

  The only sound in the thick tension that followed was Rane’s wheezing, bone dry throat.

  “We seek compensation,” he rasped. “We would not like to leave this place without it.”

  Frowning at Vesna, Hadley inched closer to her younger siblings. This wasn’t good at all. She hadn’t seen much violence over the course of her admittedly sheltered life, but the alien reeked of it. All eyes were now locked on the Baron. The elf had thrown down his challenge and it was now up to Duskovy to ensure that everyone walked away with their lives. No mean feat considering the old man had been accused of heinous crimes in front of his own men. He stood slowly, feigning dignity. In truth he looked like he would give anything to be back swapping dirty stories with his senior officers and steadfastly ignoring everyone else. This was a moment that demanded decisive, firm leadership. Though the elves of Rane’s company were elite, battle-hardened daggermen, there weren’t enough to represent a genuine threat. The Baron would need to tread a fine line between authority and diplomacy. If the rumors were true, the man’s limits were about to be sorely tested.