Twilight of the Elves

by Zack Loran Clark

  But Liza was already making her way down the line. “This armor looks serviceable, but we have better stuff at the guildhall.”

  Then she reached the chests. There were six in all. Five were the same size and make: simple wooden trunks with iron supports. The sixth looked slightly wonky. The proportions were all wrong, and it leaned almost at a tilt, as if the cooper who’d constructed it had been hitting the dwarven ale.

  Liza knelt down, reaching out to open the first chest.

  And then Zed saw the sixth chest, the strange chest, open its own lid. The inner walls of the chest transformed, its smooth wood exploding into hundreds of curling points. The interior bottom, upholstered in scarlet fabric, swelled into a fleshy, viscous blister. In the span of a moment, the chest was filled by rows of jagged teeth, leading down to an enormous dripping tongue.

  “Liza!” Zed screamed.

  The girl turned just as the tongue lashed out, gripping her arm like a frog snagging a fly. Liza yelped as she was jerked toward the monstrous trunk. She tried to wrestle her hand out of the tongue’s grip, but it held taut, dragging her across the floor to those awful teeth.

  Zed rushed forward, his hands raised, summoning up his mana as quickly as he could.

  “Don’t! You’ll burn her!” Brock’s voice brought him up short. He was right—Liza was too close to the chest. She’d be caught within the flames.

  The other three boys were fumbling for their weapons, but they were too slow and too far away to help. The Danger jerked its meaty tongue one more time and Liza was yanked from her feet. Her arm fell into the gaping mouth of the chest.

  It snapped shut. Liza screamed as all those teeth closed down upon her arm.

  Brock appeared behind the Danger as if from nowhere. He raised his two pointed daggers high above his head, then stabbed them into the lid of the transformed chest. It let out a series of distressed croaks and its body sagged, the boxy shape melting away. The monster was looking more like a giant frog by the moment.

  “Aim for the tongue!” Liza shouted. “And don’t stab my hand!”

  “So many rules,” Brock complained. “How am I supposed to remember them all?” He yanked the blades from the Danger’s head and viscous, vivid yellow fluid oozed out of the twin wounds.

  The chest’s mouth drooped open as it croaked unhappily. Liza used the opportunity to jerk her arm from its maw, kicking her feet out and bracing each against the rims of the trunk. Her chain mail had protected her from the worst of the creature’s bite, but healing would be needed soon.

  The monster’s tongue held fast, though, dripping not just with saliva, but the yellow muck. Zed rushed to Liza’s side, joined by Micah, and they each grabbed her entangled arm to help pull against the creature’s grip. Micah’s glowing hand bounced around as they strained, casting a shadow play of the struggle across the shelter’s walls.

  Brock moved quickly, stabbing down on the tongue with both daggers. The monster’s gloomy croaking turned immediately into a blood-curdling shriek, and the deformed chest began to lurch from side to side. As its grip slackened, Liza grabbed up more of the tongue, wrapping the cord around her arm like a coil of slimy rope. Sweat dripped down her face as she locked her legs, holding the seesawing chest in place.

  “Any time now would be great!” Liza shouted.

  That was when Zed saw Jett—his giant hammer already raised high. The dwarf let out a bellow that echoed off the stone walls as he plunged the maul down upon the Danger’s head.

  The shrieking abruptly cut off, punctuated by a loud, wet crunch. The walls, equipment, and all five apprentices were splattered by a torrent of yellow muck.

  There was a moment of quiet, broken only by Zed’s and the others’ labored breaths.

  Then the wooden door flew open, and Callum burst into the room. Three quails hung from a loop of rope in his hand. The elf’s eyes widened as he took in the scene.

  “We should probably wash up before dinner,” Brock huffed.

  Freestone’s walls rose high above the tree line the next evening, as Zed and the other apprentices trudged home. Zed didn’t think he’d ever seen a sweeter sight in his life. Each of the apprentices carried a giant pack of equipment, and they’d taken turns dragging a makeshift sled bearing the recovered armor. Jett pulled it now, having insisted on doing his share.

  Zed heard the gate horns blare, announcing their arrival. His grip tightened on the scepter in his hands. He intended to keep that particular trophy; not even Hexam could pry the magic implement from him.

  The portcullis creaked open before they’d even made it through the wards, and Zed saw several figures standing within the archway.

  Alabasel Frond loomed at the front, her arms crossed. Her scarred face was as still and serious as ever.

  Behind the guildmistress, Lotte and Hexam looked a bit more taken aback. Zed realized he and the others must have made an interesting sight. The five apprentices were all covered in dried yellow crust, their once-beautiful blue cloaks now stained and grimy.

  Only one of the younger guild members accompanied the three master adventurers to greet them. Jayna stood beside Hexam, nervously wringing her hands. The young wizard had passed her own apprentice journey the previous year, so she hadn’t been allowed to accompany her friends on their trip.

  A day before they left, Jayna had come about as close to Frond as Zed had ever seen her willingly go, intending to ask for special permission to join the expedition. The girl had summoned up her courage, sought Frond out in the guildhall, and approached her slowly, one step at a time. Then, just as Jayna was five feet away, Frond turned around.

  Jayna had quickly scurried down a side hall.

  Now, as the adventurers passed beyond the invisible boundary of the city’s magic wards, Frond stepped forward to meet the party.

  “How did my apprentices do, High Ranger?” she called to Callum. “Are any of them fit for questing?”

  Callum quickly bypassed the five young adventurers, who were all showing the strain of their long trudge through the woods. He alone was clean of any yellow goo.

  “You’ve trained a fine group of apprentices,” Callum said, waving a hand to Zed and the others. “I would recommend all five as quest-worthy. But, Frond—”

  Jayna squealed happily, interrupting the ranger. She dashed forward to hug Liza. The two girls clasped hands and danced around in a circle. With the rangers having crowded into the Adventurers Guild hall, private quarters were a thing of the past. The apprentices had all been paired with roommates—Jayna with Liza, and Brock with Jett—while Zed had been stuck with Micah even before the elves arrived.

  Since moving in together, Jayna and Liza had become almost inseparable friends. Zed watched them for a moment, the sting of jealousy threatening to spoil his own excitement. He glanced at Brock, who was shucking off his heavy pack. It fell to the ground with a metallic rattle.

  Once, Zed and Brock would have celebrated their accomplishment together. But things had changed in the last several weeks. Zed and his once-best friend had drifted. Now Brock’s gaze passed briskly over Zed as he turned toward the city gate.

  “It looks like you ran into a bit of trouble,” Frond said, eyeing the apprentices.

  “A Danger had infested the wayshelter,” Callum said. “A shapechanger. I failed to spot it hidden among the equipment. Frond, we must—”

  “Did you know there are monsters that can disguise themselves as chests?” Brock said. “Because that’s just really not fair.”

  “But everyone’s unhurt?” Lotte said, approaching the group. Her long blond curls had been tied back into a ponytail. The quartermaster lifted Brock’s pack from the ground like it weighed nothing at all.

  “Liza was bitten, but the healer tended to it,” Callum said. “But Frond, we have more urgent matters to speak of. The Lich—” Callum cut himself off. His eyes flicked to the apprentices, then up toward the knights standing over the gate. He stepped closer to Frond before continuing in hushed tones.<
br />
  Frond’s eyes widened.

  The Lich.

  Nearly two months ago, an army of undead Dangers had risen from Llethanyl’s own crypts, led by the mysterious conqueror. Zed didn’t know much about him, except that he was once a high-ranking minister who’d defiled the elves’ sacred traditions.

  Because the undead had risen from within the city, Llethanyl found itself caught off guard by the attack. The elves fought back, of course, but those who fell to the horde all rose again, adding to the Lich’s vile army.

  In the end, all the survivors could do was flee. The elves lost their home, and Zed lost all hope of ever visiting his father’s birthplace.

  Hexam and Lotte joined the other two adults, the four of them speaking and gesturing animatedly.

  “What’s going on?” whispered Jayna. “What did you all see out there?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Liza faltered. “Callum said it was nothing.”

  “Grown-ups lie,” Micah said with a big stretch. “Or hadn’t you figured that out yet, sis?”

  Finally, Frond held up a hand. She turned and marched through the gates without another look at the apprentices. Callum grimaced, then followed closely at her heels.

  Hexam glanced back at the others with a long sigh before departing. Zed noticed the wizard eyeing the scepter in his hands, and he clutched it closer to his chest.

  “Leave the gear here,” Lotte said as she returned to the apprentices. “I’ll have Syd and Fife fetch it back to the guildhall.”

  “Lotte,” Jett started, but the quartermaster just shook her head. She suddenly looked very tired.

  “Later,” she said. “A meal’s been set, with plenty of ambrosia. I’d hurry, though—those scuds are more than happy to start a celebration without the guests of honor.” Lotte smiled wearily over the apprentices, even Micah. There was enough pride in her eyes for both herself and Frond. “I’m sorry, kids. I’m sure this wasn’t the congratulations you were hoping for. But, truly, well done.”

  Zed felt his ears flush. He turned to Brock with a grin. “At least we’ll have a head start on Fife. You coming?”

  “Mh,” Brock grunted in reply. “Save a plate for me. I need to run into town.” The boy unclasped his stained cloak, letting it fall to the ground, but he left his travel leathers on.

  “Really?” Zed asked. “Right now? Where are you going?”

  “Just a quick errand,” Brock said. “I’ll be back before last bell . . . or not too long after.”

  Zed frowned. “What should I tell the others if they ask about you?” he said. “Which animal cowl do you want to wear at the party?”

  But Brock was already slipping away. Zed lost sight of his friend before he’d even cleared the gate.

  Freestone had changed since the elves had come.

  Brock had spent nearly his entire life within the confines of the city’s walls, and in that time he’d walked every street and alleyway, visited every plaza and market stall. He knew the best shortcuts, knew which benches enjoyed the most sunlight on an autumn afternoon. Above all, he had the great statues of the Champions of Freestone thoroughly committed to memory. These he could see with his eyes closed: the paladin’s grim face glaring from within his helm; the enchantress’s ornate staff raised high; the priestess with her arms outstretched; and the assassin, Dox, staring impassively ahead, his unblinking eyes forever upon the city he and his companions had saved so long ago.

  Brock wondered what Dox would think of that city now.

  Traveling intown, away from the wall, Brock skirted the large area that had once been the marketplace. Where craftsmen and merchants had once practiced their arts beneath a sea of brightly colored canvas, now there was a shantytown. Those same colorful tents had been repurposed to provide meager shelter to the thousands of elves who had survived the journey from the faraway city of Llethanyl.

  The population of Freestone had exploded overnight. Not surprisingly, that had caused some problems.

  Brock’s eyes flitted among the elves, but he was really counting the human knights—the Stone Sons—among them. The Sons had always been responsible for keeping the peace in Freestone, but usually that amounted to standing guard outside important buildings, pacing the top of the wall, and breaking up the occasional tavern brawl. Brock had never seen so many of them stationed in the same area before the elves moved in.

  There was no law keeping the elves within their shantytown. But the sheer number of armed men surely sent a message that this was where the elves belonged. And from what Brock had seen, they found little welcome elsewhere in Freestone. Their language, lyrical and strange, drew suspicious and even hostile looks when spoken in mixed company. Their alien features and manner of dress had become favorite subjects of mockery for Freestone’s bards. Worst of all was the popular idea that the elves were somehow to blame for their own misery. As if their unfamiliar customs and talent for magic made Llethanyl’s fall inevitable. As if that made it any less of a tragedy.

  Brock sighed sadly and moved on.

  Near the very center of town, just before the drawbridge that led to Castle Freestone, was a park—one of the city’s few natural spaces. Ringing that park was a series of buildings, each large and very old and of an architectural style that spoke of a more affluent time, when stone and wood were less precious and could be molded in whimsical flourishes. Brock loved these buildings for their strangeness. Each time he visited, he attempted to find some small detail he’d missed before: some pattern or carving he’d previously overlooked.

  The largest among them was the guildhall of the merchants. Brock had been coming here since childhood, and the building fairly towered in his memory. With its tall marble columns and oversize doors, it towered over him still.

  The story went that Dox the Assassin had founded the Merchants Guild on the day after the Day of Dangers. His best friend and adventuring partner, Foster, had been the warlock responsible for tearing open the gateways between worlds, allowing monsters to pass over in such numbers they consumed all of Terryn. It had fallen to Dox to execute his friend, and in doing so, Dox had saved the world—or what was left of it.

  Brock had always believed that Dox’s establishment of the Merchants Guild was in some ways the more impressive achievement. The merchants oversaw everything. They ensured there was always enough food to eat, enough fresh water to drink, enough ore and timber for construction and repairs. There were lean seasons when everyone had to do without some luxury or other, but for the last two hundred years, the guild had provided. They had it down to a science. Or they used to, before the elves had come.

  This night, however, all appeared to be business as usual within the guildhall. There was a banquet under way; three hundred candles lit the voluminous central room from a dozen chandeliers and four times as many sconces. Musicians played, servants circulated, and a lavish spread of food acted as the centerpiece for a lively gathering. Brock, in stained leathers still wet with snowmelt and his own sweat, looked severely out of place. He ducked quickly into a washroom, where the servants he’d befriended let him keep a spare set of clothes in their supply closet.

  Face scrubbed clean, in a shirt and tunic smelling of lavender, Brock was less self-conscious upon his return to the grand hall. Whether or not he belonged here, he at least looked the part. He hadn’t gone two steps before a servant lowered a plate of pastries before him.

  His mouth watered. He took a sticky cake from the tray and brought it immediately to his mouth. It was so sweet it made his cheeks tingle. He finished it in two more bites, then licked his fingers unabashedly.

  “Wow,” he said to himself. “I thought we were supposed to be rationing.”

  “Well, elves don’t eat cake, do they?” said a woman at his elbow.

  “Not if they can’t pay for it, they don’t,” a man answered, and they both chuckled.

  Brock screwed up his face. Suddenly the treat seemed to have a bitter aftertaste.

  He strode through the gran
d hall with renewed purpose. In a corner of the room, he approached a wall-mounted candelabra and, after licking his finger and thumb once more, he pinched out one of the flames.

  It was only a matter of seconds before a servant appeared. “Allow me to relight that, Messere,” he said.

  “The light offends my eyes,” Brock said. It was the secret phrase the servant was expecting, and when the man nodded and stepped away, Brock knew to follow.

  As they walked along the edge of the great hall, Brock scanned the crowd for his father. He knew just where to look. These past few weeks, the elder Dunderfel had been the constant companion of Borace Quilby, guildmaster of the merchants.

  Quilby stood in the very center of the room, ruddy-faced and jovial, sloshing wine from his cup as he regaled those around him with some story. Brock’s father stood at his elbow and laughed on cue, his status with Quilby obviously undamaged by Brock’s own troubled dealings with the man.

  Brock was genuinely surprised to see who else stood at Quilby’s side. Ser Brent, guildmaster of the knights, tugged at the collar of his formal white tunic and attempted a smile as Quilby droned on. The false smile didn’t suit him. Ser Brent was handsome and bold, and he tended to be the focus of any room he was in. Now, though, standing among Quilby’s bootlickers, he looked as comfortable as a kitten in a basket of kobolds.

  Brock was deeply curious. In his experience, good things rarely resulted when the town’s guildmasters got together. But it wasn’t as if he could elbow his way into that conversation. Quilby hadn’t so much as spared Brock a glance since last season’s failed attempt to oust Alabasel Frond from the Adventurers Guild. That didn’t usually bother Brock, though; he knew, now, who was really in charge here.

  The servant led him out of the hall, through the kitchens, and to a nondescript wooden door, which he unbolted with a key and threw open. Brock stepped within, and the servant did not follow, instead shutting and latching the door.

  Brock descended a spiral staircase and walked through a long low-ceilinged corridor lined with torches. The stone walls grew damp as he traveled beneath Castle Freestone’s moat and into a space that had once been the castle’s dungeon.