by Vox Day
There was barely time to stow their packs and change from their well-stained travelling clothes into attire that was worthy of the High King’s table.
Nevertheless, Lodi somehow managed to acquire a bowl of hot water. With this and his dagger the dwarf adroitly shaved Marcus, insisting that there wasn’t sufficient time to enjoy the usual spectacle of watching Marcus butcher himself. Despite fingers that were thick and stubby, the dwarf had a surprisingly delicate touch. The shave Lodi gave him compared quite favorably to the best shave Marcus had ever received from an Amorran barber. Rubbing his smooth and unlacerated face afterward made him think for the first time just why dwarf-worked weaponry was valued so highly.
The feast was held in a different building within the palace grounds. This was a wide, rectangular edifice that appeared to be used for some sort of theatrical events, perhaps musical performances. A broad set of stairs led to large auditorium with stages on either side, although the tiled floor made Marcus think that music was probably unlikely. One stage held a large, ornately carved wooden table. The other was hidden behind a green curtain.
The floor tiles were ornate, laid out in intricate patterns that appeared to be runic. They were painted in a light, attractive color scheme that reminded Marcus of peaches and apricots. Colorful banners embroidered with scenes of elves at the hunt and at war—usually, but not always, with orcs—hung from the ceilings to obscure the unadorned stone walls. The entire chamber was well-lit with the bluish flameless torches that Marcus had come to think of as elf-lights.
Marcus was seated at the third table, the one to the left of the royal table at which the bishop, Father Aestus, Captain Hezekius, and one of the older Michaelines were dining. Cladius Serranus was one of the five Michaelines at the second table, while Lodi, Marce, and Cassius Claudo’s two priests were seated with Marcus, in addition to two elf lords and three noble elvith.
The latter were exceedingly beautiful, excrutiatingly so, comparing favorably with their woodland cousins in much the same way that the great ladies of Amorr outshined the female villagers dwelling in the country. Their hair was impossibly long, first sweeping up in a variety of strange, sculptured figures, then falling down nearly to their waists. Marcus estimated that without whatever magic it was that held their hair into place, they would be unable to walk without stepping on it and falling.
The elvish ladies’ clothes were equally impractical, making use of an incredible amount of fabric to do such a poor job of concealing the alabaster skin beneath it. Fortunately, they were not voluptuous—an Amorran woman wearing such daring clothes would look more like a sausage exploding in the fire. Although their high cheekbones and elegantly sculpted features were inarguably beautiful, all in all, Marcus found the elvith too alien to be attractive, let alone irresistable.
Lodi sat grudgingly at the table, silently refusing to so much as respond either to the elf lord across from him or to the elvit at his side. Whatever disinterest Lodi and Marcus were showing to the elvish beauties around him, Marcipor was more than making up for. Marce’s eyes were devouring the slender beauty sitting next to him. Meanwhile, the younger of the two bishops revealed an unexpectedly dashing aspect to his personality as he engaged in what could only be described as a flirtation with the very elvit Lodi was studiously ignoring.
Marcus found his eye drawn to a pretty elvit at the table below him and to his left. She was dressed more simply than the other elvith, and her white hair was tied into two simple braids joined together at the ends by a clip in the form of a golden hawk. She wore a dress that would not have drawn notice anywhere in Amorr, being little more than a black sleeveless tunic. Sitting amongst the colorfully, strangely attired elves and rich blues and golds of the warrior-priests at her table, she stood out as starkly as a Quiricusian grey-robe surrounded by Michaelines.
Her eyes met Marcus’s. They were green and filled with a lively intelligence. He nodded politely, feeling more than a little embarrassed. In return, she favored him with a flicker of a smile, and then, to his shock, she winked.
Astonished, he looked to both sides and behind him, assuming she must have been looking at someone else. But no one was looking in her direction. He turned back to face her and saw that she had turned her attention elsewhere. There was, however, what looked suspiciously like a self-satisfied smile on her face.
The food set before him was less foreign to him than the fashions. After all, meat was meat, vegetables were vegetables and grain was grain. The elves did make use of some unusual spices he couldn’t identify, but they only added an exotic flavor to what was a very good meal. Of course, after nearly a month on the road, almost anything would be a treat.
However, there was one dish that looked as if it was supposed to be some sort of Amorran noodle served with slices of barely cooked fish. But the noodles had been left to boil too long and were far too soft to the bite for his liking. The wine, on the other hand, was quite good, although sweeter and served cooler than most Amorran wines.
As dessert—green shards of sweet flavored ice—was served, the High King rose to his feet and offered a toast. “To the Amorran Senate and people. Long may they prosper … in peace.”
Elf and man alike raised their glasses and drank to the peaceful prosperity of the Republic. Not a man there missed the significance of the royal stress placed on the final word, though.
Cassius Claudo then stood and raised his glass in return. “To the High King and queen of the fair realms of Elebrion, Merithaim, Kir Donas, Glaislael, Kir Kalithel, Arathaim, and Falas. Long may they prosper, and may the Immaculate God grant that that which is fallen shall rise again.”
Some of the men looked confused, but most of the elves drank without hesitation and murmured approvingly among themselves. Marce glanced at Marcus and raised his eyebrows in question. Unsurprisingly, he had no idea what the bishop had done. King Mael, on the other hand, clearly did, as his face showed signs of both amusement and bitterness at the unlikely prospect of elven cities long dead rising once more.
“Claudo’s just saying Amorr wishes the elf kingdoms well,” Marcus explained to Marcipor. “There used to be seven where there are now only three.”
The bishop’s toast sparked an animated discussion between the bishop and the two elf lords at the main table, Marcus could hear. Earlier they had been discussing if the fall of Glaislael had always been inevitable or if the High King should have attempted to pursue an alliance with the kingdoms of man sooner than he had finally done. Marcus, having little interest in the subject at the moment, glanced back at the fifth table and was startled to see the pretty elvith with the white braids staring at him.
She raised her glass to him, the surprise of which caused him to choke on the wine he’d just imbibed and embark upon a violent fit of coughing. When it finally ended, he looked up, eyes streaming, to see that she was still laughing merrily, as were Marcipor and the elf maiden he’d been assiduously courting.
Fortunately, the High King happened to choose that moment to unveil the surprise he’d prepared for his guests. At his command, the huge green curtain rose from the far stage. It did so without ropes, Marcus noticed. These elves practically swam in an invisible sorcerous filth. It almost made him wish for the knucklebone of Saint Ansfrid of Tolanon, which was somewhere in his bags. Souls or no souls, they were most certainly damnable for all their wealth, magic, and beauty.
Speaking of which, he took advantage of the way everyone was looking at the stage to sneak another glance at the pretty elvith. She looked to be shorter than most of the other elves, and although it didn’t seem possible, her features were even more delicate as well. She started to shift in her seat as if to turn toward the stage and thus toward Marcus, so he quickly returned his attention to the stage.
To his horror, he realized that the Ulfin was standing on the stage, devoid of any chains or clothing. Even the cord it had worn around its neck since they’d captured it was gone. Unbound, it looked every bit as deadly as Marcus knew it wa
s. Its long, man-like hands were tipped with claws as long as a man’s finger and teeth longer than a man’s knuckle. But its eyes were wide, and it seemed to be breathing rapidly, which caused Marcus to conclude that the elven king had it somehow bound by his magic.
“Ikhiss stowbraahr rekksletnan …” the wolf-thing snarled at the seated crowd in its guttural tongue.
King Mael raised a finger and his queen murmured a word or two under her breath. Suddenly they could understand what the Ulfin was saying.
“ … of Svangor Ironjaw’s tenth pack. And you will release me, furless whiteskin, or I will crunch your skinny neck between my teeth.”
“Amazing, is it not,” said the High King, completely ignoring the beast’s ravings. “The strength of an animal, the mind of a man, and the dark power of a demon, all bound together in delicate balance! Monstrous, to be sure, and yet a thing of perfect beauty all the same.”
“I will take your wenches until they whine like lapdogs in heat! With my own jaws will I snap the heads off your pups and swallow them whole!”
King Mael did not appear to even notice the snarling threats. And yet, with a barely noticeable gesture, the beast suddenly fell silent, its jaws snapping shut as if an invisible iron band had been clamped around them. Its eyes bulged nearly out of their sockets, and the monster began to growl.
But its growls quickly turned into whines as it realized that not only had it been silenced, it was being suffocated. Marcus held his own breath, amazed and unsettled to realize that he was actually seeing true elvic wizardry on display! It was evil, to be sure. Clearly wrong. But it was also incredibly impressive.
King Mael watched impassively as the wolf-thing thrashed madly about, helpless in its chains both magical and material. Just as Marcus thought the beast was going to collapse, the king gestured again and was rewarded with a loud series of desperate, heaving gasps from his victim.
The beast’s jaws yawned open wide, but its teeth did not seem quite so terrible now with the long red tongue lolling limply between them. The creature’s raw vitality was such that it took only a few moments for it to recover, but when it did, the fire was gone from its eyes, replaced with a fearful wariness.
“In Elebrion, creature, we expect a certain amount of civility from lesser mortals who have ascended to our heights uninvited,” the king said to the Ulfin. “If you cannot keep a civil tongue in your head, rest assured I shall see that it is removed.”
“I came not by choice!” the Ulfin growled. “I was made prisoner and dragged to this place in bondage.”
“That is true. And yet is it not also true that when you were made prisoner, it was while you and your companions were intruding upon my lands? Were you not engaged in hunting down and killing my subjects at that time?”
“They attacked us first!”
“If so, they were right to do so. You invaded my realm. Your lives were forfeit the moment you set foot upon Merithaimi soil without my leave.”
The beast snarled, but it offered no defense of its actions. There was none to offer.
“Do you wish to attempt to purchase your life by telling me precisely what six Ulfin scouts are doing on the wrong side of the White Sea, hundreds of leagues away from the coast and deep inside the Shadowald?”
The only response was another contemptuous snarl.
“As you wish. Rest assured, your silence will avail your people nothing. Already my rangers are scouring the forest for others of your kind. My sorcerers are tracing your tracks. It will not be long before they discover the purpose of your expedition. But fear not, for your death shall serve a great and mighty purpose, one that your people will never forget should they dare to cross the sea and lift their hands against me.”
“I am not afraid to die!”
“I said nothing of dying, wretched creature. Do you not know that there are fates far worse than death?”
Several of the elves laughed. It was a cold and merciless sound. Marcus exchanged a glance with Lodi, who merely shook his head and looked grim.
The elf king raised his hand, and a servitor approached the stage and mounted it from the left side. He bore a sword by its blade in both hands. When he reached the High King, he knelt, holding the blade over his head as if he were a squire. The king took the sword by its hilt and held it aloft, admiring it and turning it slightly to let the light reflect from it. It was covered with etched runes, not unlike Cladius Serranus’s elf-sword, but it was longer and straighter, designed for two-hand use.
“This blade was named Wolfslayer, creature. It was forged two centuries ago at the order of my father, who was High King before me. At the time, he believed his armies would be joining those of the kings of men in order to wipe out the wolf-things that were threatening to conquer the Vargeyan Isles. As our guests tonight know all too well, his armies never sailed from Kir Donas, which is why they did not drown in the winter passage across the White Sea.
“However, this is not the time for recriminations. Was it not this very afternoon that we laid those long-troubled ghosts to rest? I only mention the past to explain that for all this time, this blade has waited for a creature such as this to … activate … the spells that were placed upon it by High King Mondhryten and the Custodas of the Collegium Occludum.” He twirled the heavy sword effortlessly in one hand and smiled. “Your gift was more precious than you know, my lord bishop.”
Cassius Claudo’s face was taut with tightly controlled emotion, but Marcus couldn’t tell if he was angry or frightened. He didn’t understand why the bishop would be upset about the elf king’s theatrics, but he suddenly had a very bad feeling about what was about to happen. Most of the elves were smiling and looking as if they were anticipating something. The little elvith at the next table, however, appeared to be angry.
“You mean to torture this thing we presented to you as a gift?” Claudo asked, his careful articulation hinting at the depth of his feelings. “Is this intended to be an insult?”
“An insult? By no means! Think of this as an experiment of sorts. I am given to understand that your high priest has recently begun an extensive inquiry into the way in which diverse beings are animated. Whether or not they have, what is your word, souls. Well, tonight I mean to expand his knowledge. I promise, what you will see should prove most informative for him.”
“You are speaking of foul sorcery,” Claudo said, his cheeks flushed. “Such witchcraft is abhorrent of God. We will not stand by and permit this abomination to take place.”
“Will you not?” The king smiled and pointed his sword at Cladius Serranus. “The famed Order of Saint Michael is here in force, are they not? The great anti-mages! Then I give them leave to interfere, so long as they do so without leaving their seats or lifting a material hand against me. We shall undertake two experiments in one. Magic against magic. I expect the latter will be of as much interest to Amorr’s generals as to mine.”
Cassias Claudo started to speak, but Captain Hezekius raised a hand and cut him off. He spoke to his men. “Take no action, Michaelines. No one interferes with the High King. Not a one! Do you hear me? We are guests here!”
“Captain,” the warrior-priests barked as one.
“You are too kind, Captain,” the king said. “Indeed, much too kind. I should have welcomed the test of your—what is your spellcraft called—fidelie? I should have welcomed a test of it against elven sorcery.”
Perhaps you’ll get the chance sooner than you think, Marcus thought to himself. And he doubted he was the only Amorran thinking that way.
“What is unusual about this sword is that it is a living blade,” Mael said. “It is both weapon and vessel. There are not many of these swords, for they require an astonishing effort, and there are few indeed with the skill. But they are worth it, for they are of particular efficacy when used against that from which they have been born. Or perhaps ‘drawn’ would be the more precise word? I speak, of course, of the Law of Opposites, which is a core concept of our practical philosophy that you
insist on calling magic.”
The king paused and waited for Cassius Claudo to protest, but the bishop said nothing. His lips were firmly pressed together and his arms were folded, but he was clearly loathe to override the captain and risk causing an incident that would likely ruin all the objectives of the embassy, including the part about returning safely to Amorr.
“I agree with your silence, my lord bishop: this is no place for a philosophical lesson. Let us then proceed to more pragmatic concerns. Now, note the rage in this exquisite creature, the fury that animates it. Its anger is a craving for vengeance that, quite naturally, supersedes the compassionate desires. It is that lupine craving that, when harnessed, will give the weapon its unstoppable force against all Ulfin for all time.
“The key is to transfer that craving for vengeance into the blade. And not only transfer it, but transform it and redirect it toward the target we require. Even those sworn to chastity must know that love quite readily transforms into hate, even self-love. You see that the more proud and arrogant the subject, the better. And this one, I am pleased to see, has it to spare!”
The High King saluted the bound Ulfin with the sword. The man-wolf only snarled and spat at him. Then Mael glanced back at his queen, who began chanting quietly.
He turned one circle, then two, then three. As he completed the third turn he shouted something loud but unintelligible and hurled the sword at the beast like a shining spear.
The wolf-thing howled as the blade struck it. It stared down, transfixed at its breast, as an evil yellow smoke spilled from the wound. The Ulfin collapsed, its invisible bindings released.
“Lord Faelan,” the king said, “as you are nearest the stage, would you please withdraw the sword from that which has tempered the spells of the sword?”
Looking uncharacteristically nervous, the elf lord climbed the stairs to the stage, gripped the hilt, and placed a booted foot upon the body of the Ulfin. With difficulty he wrested the blade from the corpse.
