Bridge Between the Worlds

by R. B. L. Gillmore

  “Are there any known settlements near to this side of the mountains?”

  “None that we have found. It is wilderness for at least a day’s flight from here.”

  Demeron widened his search. Surely if they knew they were being followed they would not have backtracked before changing course.

  He kept himself bent over, scanning the ground in an ever-widening circle around the area until finally he found what he was looking for. A set of tracks clearly etched in the soil near a little creek. The numbers were hard to determine but Demeron estimated at least ten sets of human feet which had been running north. Whether any of the prints belonged to an elf was simply impossible to tell. For one thing, in boots they would have looked identical to a human’s footprint and for another, elves only left the lightest of impressions, even in soft ground like this.

  “You say scouts have been a day’s flight from here searching. What did they find to the North?”

  “Nothing of immediate interest. The forest continues along the mountain range as far as we can see. Surely Lord Gorhoth knows the lay of the surrounding area within a few days march of his Citadel?”

  “The east has never been inhabited. He knows of the land but scouts rarely, if ever, cross the mountains. Gorhoth may know that the forest exists. I did not. I come from the south west and the caverns of Malaket.”

  Surely, he thought to himself, Gorhoth would suspect this. He was no fool. He would have read the signs, the failure of the Hartiani, the existence of the forest. So, what did he want?

  “I have seen enough. We shall return to the camp.”

  “You don’t want to try and hunt down the elf?”

  Demeron considered how best to answer without sounding like a coward but he needn’t have worried. The Hartiani continued without waiting for an answer.

  “Well, maybe you are wiser than your late colleague here. Only a fool would try to hunt an elf through the forest alone.”

  This, thought Demeron, could not have been more truly spoken. He took another look at the harrowing reminder of what such an action led to.

  “What is your name?” he asked with an even, measured tone.

  “You do not have the physical ability to pronounce it but for those who can’t, I am known as Seressa. Use that name if you wish, but never in front of my kind.”

  “Do all Hartiani have secondary names?”

  “Not a single one that I know of past or present. Our kind considers human form to be a historic weakness left over from our ancestors. Even a humanised name is a disgrace.”

  “Then why do you have one? And why do you transform so willingly?”

  “Because, unlike my kin, I find this form exceptionally useful for manipulating humans. I also think more… creatively in this form. I cannot really explain it.”

  Demeron actually grinned. Hate the race as much as he might, he liked this Hartiani. She was, against all stereotypes and expectations, clever, talented and manipulative.

  “Solid reasoning. I like the way you think Seressa. You are right, only a fool would believe that they were the lone hunter in a forest with an elf. I believe my late comrade must not have realised who and what it was that he was pursuing until it was too late. I will not follow his mistakes. I will return to Gorhoth and request reinforcements to help track down and eliminate the elf. I will be sure to acknowledge your help.”

  He added this last part almost as an afterthought but the laugh she gave in response was more like a content kind of cooing.

  “Shall we be on our way?” she asked silkily.

  It was late at night by the time they returned to the mining camp but the sound of work carried on endlessly. Just because it was night time didn’t mean the slaves were allowed to stop working. Bright lanterns and torches had been lit along all the little work paths and on into the mine.

  “I will leave you to your duties” Demeron said as the commander of the Hartiani flew down to greet him. Demeron remembered Seressa’s request not to use her name around her kin. “I may have need of your services again Hartiani. Farewell.”

  He had left the camp and was well on his way westward when it happened. A flurry of screeches came from the camp with a tone of chilled anger. Demeron dimly heard humans shouting amidst the cries of the Hartiani and the unmistakable cracking sound of metal being struck hard and heavily. The sky did little to provide any kind of light. Clouds had formed a blanket so smooth and complete that it simply appeared as though stars didn’t exist. This made the glow of the camp all the more distinct and Demeron could see that something was terribly wrong.

  Whilst the southern side was still aglow with torch light, the northern slave’s quarters were shrouded in darkness. Demeron didn’t need to be there to confirm it, he knew that an escape was happening right now, under his nose as it were. If Gorhoth heard that he had been present and slaves had still escaped… He knew the consequences. He ran at full, incredible speed back down the path to put an end to the apparent insurrection, albeit uneasy about what he would actually find in the camp.

  The scene that greeted him was utter chaos. The slave’s quarters were not just dark because torches and lanterns had been extinguished. There was actually a smoke-like black cloud making it impossible to see more than a meter ahead. A group of Hartiani had formed a ring, low in the air around the quarters and were letting off strings of magic which simply dissipated in the cloud harmlessly. It seemed none would actually dare to enter it. As he drew a heavy axe from his back and prepared himself for the task at hand, he felt he could not blame them. If the elf was truly inside somewhere, then stumbling in blindly was close to madness. In his moment’s hesitation, a figure loomed up before him and his heart beat soared while he rapidly raised the axe. The figure held up an open palm to suggest it was a friend and as it drew closer, Demeron realised that it was Seressa in human form, dressed in the rags of human slaves. She had acted quickly.

  “Do not waste your time! No one is inside!”

  She spoke very quickly and continued moving with determination away from the camp and on eastwards. Demeron fell into step alongside her. He shouted to all the guards within earshot to follow him and the flock became like the carrion fowl above an army preparing for battle. Demeron and Seressa flew more metaphorically down the path.

  Their breathing was heavy but measured as they charged on. The other Hartiani above them occasionally let out a cry. The hunt was on. Demeron could not help but feel that he was contradicting every consideration he had made earlier that day by chasing after the elf but the alternative was telling Gorhoth he had simply allowed the slaves to escape unhindered. He didn’t really have a choice.

  The pounding of Demeron’s hooves meant they had no hope of hearing their quarry but Demeron was following his nose. The humans would be easy to smell and sure enough, it wasn’t too long before he picked up the scent. Whilst Demeron would never have considered it this way, he was like a hound leading the pack of Hartiani hunters, following a trail that they could only pursue with his abilities.

  They left the path much earlier than they had done in the afternoon and the sound of their pursuit was muffled by the floor of pine needles underfoot. Demeron had to slow down a little to determine the right direction now that his nose was fighting the tumult of forest smells. His nostrils flared as he snuffled deeply, pulling in the air. He made a decision and ran on.

  It seemed like he had been hunting through the forest for an entire hour before he finally caught a glimpse of someone’s back disappearing into a fresh line of trees across a clearing. He was within reach of his prey. He charged forward, not noticing that Seressa was no longer behind him. Halfway across the clearing he halted abruptly.

  A figure, hooded and cloaked had appeared in front of him as if out of nothing, standing guard at the tree line where a human had just disappeared. The boldness of the figure to stand calmly against him would have been proof enough that it was the elf but its smell also affronted his nostrils. His heart beat increased even
more than it had been whilst running. He was not immune to fear. Then again, his hatred and lust for revenge was more than powerful enough to overcome it. He drew his axe again slowly but purposefully. Where the hell are the Hartiani? As he thought about it, it had been a long time since he had heard their cries above him. Under the trees his presence had been hard for them to follow accurately. He was only one creature in a forest of many. He had charged ahead recklessly.

  At least I have more room to fight than Torth did, Demeron thought.

  The elf did not seem to be bothered even slightly by this particular circumstance. He walked gracefully forwards into the open space and drew his sword deftly, which, upon being exposed to the open air, burst into flame. Its tongues licked the already perilously sharp blade and offered just enough light to be reflected in the elves eyes. Whilst the elf seemed undeterred by the light, Demeron’s eyes, slower to adjust to a change, were burnt and blinded by the sudden appearance of the bright flame in the darkness. He had to stumble backwards a number of paces in fear before his eyes adjusted. The elf hadn’t advanced any further. Was he playing for time while the humans continued to run? That would be just like an elf.

  “I did wonder if you had survived as well Demeron. Like master like slave. I cannot say that I am pleased to find you alive and well.”

  The voice was not so deep as Demeron’s but seemed far more rich and full. Calm though it seemed, the hatred which filled it was truly a match for Demeron’s.

  “I could say the same for you, elven filth. You were supposed to be buried alongside the fool Teldenar. Was it not your place to protect him? Seems you failed.”

  “Oh, very observant! I am impressed that you at least noticed the connection. Nevertheless, you are still wrong. When last we met in war, it was no longer my task to protect the archmage. He went knowingly to his death. I simply protected his legacy.”

  “The elf maiden!”

  Demeron snorted.

  “Well you needn’t worry, Gorhoth has no interest in her.”

  The elf laughed long and bitterly.

  “Do you really expect me to believe that when I have felt his presence slithering through the dreamplane like a serpent? He hunts her but she is beyond his reach.”

  The necessary part of the conversation was over Demeron felt.

  “Mistaken fool, no enemy is beyond our reach!”

  He leaped forward ferociously with a swing that would have cleaved a human neatly in two. The elf was simply too fast. It had side stepped the attack with ease and flicked its blade listlessly at Demeron’s neck.

  Demeron was no fool. He had not truly expected to catch the elf so easily. He allowed himself to overshoot his mark so that the elven blade missed him by a hair. He could feel the heat of the flames brush past before he spun his axe around at hip height. This time the elf had to parry. It swung its sword back in line with the axe so fast that it caught the axe’s head before it even neared the elf’s body. Then he hooked his blade underneath it and thrust the attack upward so that Demeron was thrown off balance.

  He had just enough time to fling himself backwards to escape the next deadly thrust towards his chest. As he regained his balance he realised with humiliation that the elf was toying with him. He could have taken advantage of Demeron’s instability but instead had waited calmly with his sword by his side. Demeron’s axe haft had been damaged slightly just below the head and he threw it to the ground. Trying to use it any further was a risk and it was clearly too slow of a weapon. He drew a sombre broadsword and readied himself but the elf still didn’t move. It just stood there, eyes glowing in the light of its sword. They were gleaming like jewels from under the hood.

  “Why don’t you attack! Are you a coward, alone and afraid?”

  “Alone? Yes. Afraid? It is long since I feared anything for myself, Demeron, and there is nothing now, not even death. Thank you, however, for noting that others are with you. I do not see them though. Did you ask them to stay back while we fought? I was not aware that Minotaurs bothered with the so-called nobility of combat.”

  This was the sort of elvish insight that Demeron hated. He hadn’t said anything about allies so far as he was aware, yet the elf had deduced that support was near at hand. There had been no doubt in his voice. He knew, and so Demeron didn’t bother to try and play dumb.

  “I would say they are probably ahead and not back, butchering the human slaves that you so foolishly allowed to leave your protection.”

  “They are quite safe and well, I assure you, and moving ever further away from here as we speak, exactly as planned. But you knew that Demeron.”

  There was a flurry of blades as the two figures clashed again, this time face to face. There was a rapid series of exchanges and the loud clash of metal finally led Seressa and the Hartiani in the right direction. They swooped down to the clearing where the figures were just visible by the light of a flame, circling each other.

  A few of the Hartiani sent bolts of lightning towards the elf but he had been waiting for them. His hand was outstretched as if he intended to catch the lightning, and indeed it did not pass his hand. A ball of twisting, snarling energy writhed a few centimetres away from his palm, suspended in the air as the elf resisted the attack. Demeron took his chance and lurched forwards one last time but again, the elf was prepared. He aligned his blade straight into Demeron’s so that the broadsword’s point slammed into the elf’s guard with such force that it was wrenched out of Demeron’s hand, letting out a high pitch ringing. At the moment the swords had struck the flame of the elven blade was extinguished and something slammed Demeron to the ground.

  The energy that the elf had been holding at bay was released in a tremendous explosion that lit up the clearing like a stadium with flood lights that were much too big for it. Demeron and the Hartiani had their eyes forced shut by the pain of the light’s assault. It took some time before they could start to make out the world around them, and the elf was gone.

  The first thing that Demeron noticed was that a Hartiani was crouched on top of him, its wings forming a kind of protective half sphere. As he eased himself up, Seressa took human form again, perhaps to make communicating easier.

  “What happened?” Demeron demanded.

  “I flew to your aid as the elf was absorbing energy from our attacks. My kin were being foolish and I could see what was going to happen. As you attacked the elf I dove down and managed to pin you to the ground as the elf channelled the energy towards you. When the energy missed its target it dispersed, letting off all the light and leaving us unscathed but momentarily blinded. I do not know where the elf has gone.”

  Demeron was in no mood for pleasantries but the sound he made somewhere deep in his throat seemed to express his thanks.

  “Do you intend to continue the pursuit?” asked Seressa.

  Her tone was utterly neutral. She gave no sign as to whether or not she deemed this a good or bad idea.

  “No. It is obvious we cannot fight him here. At least we pursued him and fought. I will have to tell Gorhoth that we need more of my kin to hunt the elf.”

  “Very well,” she replied, still toneless. “I do not envy you. I would not wish to be the one who reports this to our master.”

  On this point, Demeron wholeheartedly agreed but regrettably it was his duty to perform. He started the long trek back to the citadel.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Somewhere deep inside the sunken palace of the lizardmen, Fasal looked at his King with a calculatedly blank face. He was, after all, a diplomat and an experienced one at that. One who knew that it was wisest not to display any emotion or response until you were certain of which would be the most appropriate for your needs. He was not remotely surprised that Silas had come to speak to him about this, it had only been a matter of time.

  “You are telling me that we don’t know the key players behind the political turmoil in the North? I thought it was the corps job to know precisely this kind of thing?”

  “Yes indeed Ma
jesty, and up until recently I could have given you a particularly comprehensive report on the political figures of all the major provinces. Alas, since the Duke refused to send us aid, our… agents, have been busy trying to find the source of the attacks. I can, of course, remedy the situation for you but it will take time.”

  King Silas paced back and forth in front of Fasal’s impressive marble desk.

  “I see. How much time will it take?”

  “A number of months at least. The attacks on the human towns has meant a severance of regular trade and it is through our merchants that we gather our most valuable intelligence.

  We will have to rely on the diplomats in the provinces, and of course ambassador Lesanah in the capital. But in uncertain times like these, diplomats are treated with extra distrust. Information gathering will need to be done with great delicacy.”

  “I understand.”

  Silas let out a sigh.

  “See to it that we start immediately. The current trajectory of the Duke’s policies is simply unacceptable.”

  He ceased his pacing in front of a framed piece of parchment, on which was simply written, ‘Those who would seek war, prepare for war.’

  Silas tilted his head to one side as he considered the meaning of this odd phrase in his chief diplomat’s office.

  “I don’t suppose it is worth pointing out to you that this is not the correct phrase from the human philosophers?”

  “You could, but in fact this phrase comes from a fictional City-State ruler, used in the creative works of their philosophers to demonstrate the potential benefits of benevolent tyranny. Any diplomat will tell you that it is far more sound, conceptually, than the original human phrase, ‘If you would seek peace, prepare for war.’

  “Seems rather redundant.”

  “Perhaps, my Lord, perhaps. But throughout history we have nevertheless found it to be accurate, and accuracy is a rare treasure in the field of international relations.”