by Andrew Day
Dogbreath started howling. Brant and a few others joined in. Serrel stood quietly, and tried not to throw up.
The Faelands grew closer and closer. The expanse of sand seemed devoid of any life. The troop carriers at the very front of the flotilla hit the sandbanks of the beach and slid to a halt. Doors in the hull opened, ramps were dropped, and the Legion poured out.
The Hounds watched as the first battalions gathered into formation. They waited for the first attack, for the defending army to come tearing from the tree line, for the first arrows to start raining from the sky, or maybe for missiles fired from catapults to plummet downwards.
Nothing happened.
The knot in Serrel’s stomach grew tighter and tighter, as their ship came closer and closer to shore. When they could hear the sandbanks scraping at the bottom of the ship, Snow gave the order. They cast ropes over the sides of the ship, and quickly slid down into the water. Serrel wedged his staff between the straps of his pack, and waited his turn nervously. He watched Brant skilfully take the rope and drop down into chest high water, then took the rope himself, and climbed over the side of the ship.
He managed the first metre or so fairly well, but then lost his grip and dropped straight down into the icy water. In his defence, Holland had been fairly lax in his rope climbing lessons, something Serrel had actually been happy about during his training. Not so much now, as he surfaced from the water, soaking wet and spluttering.
Brant grabbed him by the collar and yanked him forwards. They waded quickly through the water and onto the wet sand of the beach. Caellix was already there, having been the first one off the ship. Her dogs were bounding around her, barking excitedly.
“Form up, Hounds!” she yelled at them. “Move it! That tree line there? That’s ours. Go!”
The two dozen Hounds, plus Caellix’s two dogs, charged the tree line. Serrel’s nerves kept him on edge. He half expected an attack any second. When they reached the trees, Caellix held up a hand and slowed them. They stopped, watching the shadowy forest for movement.
“Schteillen,” she snapped at the dogs. They tore off into the forest, barking loudly.
Serrel waiting with Brant, shaking, and not just because he was cold and wet.
Caellix ground her teeth. “Come on. Where are you...?” she muttered.
Shapes moved among the trees. Serrel tensed. But it was only the two dogs bounding back, tails wagging.
“What happened?” asked Brant. “Did we forget to tell the elves we were invading?”
The was a sniff from Captain Snow. “Fall back.”
They retreated back to the beach, where the rest of the Legion was landing. There were now several hundred soldiers waiting in formation, looking on edge, and somewhat confused at the lack of greeting.
A tall fearsome figure clad in highly polished armour approached them on horseback.
“Captain Snow? Report,” barked a woman’s voice impatiently.
“There doesn’t appear to be anyone home, General.”
“That can’t be right,” said the General. It took Serrel a moment to realise it was Arch-General Jadia Dillaini, leader of the Imperial Legion herself. He wondered briefly where she had got the horse.
“I don’t know what to say, Ma’am,” said Snow.
“Two days of giant squid, monster sharks and gods damned jellyfish, and there’s nothing here waiting for us? Perhaps they are hiding.”
“With respect, Ma’am, no one hides from us. We’re the Hounds.”
Dillaini sniffed irritably. “Fine. Take your people and scout ahead. If there are any surprises, I want to know.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Snow.
“You heard the General,” barked Caellix. “Move it, dogs! There might be elves up ahead that need killing.”
“I hear elves taste like chicken,” Dogbreath put in. “Heheh.”
Serrel thought the lack of opposition would have been a relief. But the General was right. They’d been beset by all kinds of monstrous sea creatures for the past two days. Someone had clearly wanted to slow them down, had in the very least gone to great lengths to intimidate them. So where were they now?
From the top of a hill that was a safe distance away from the Legion’s landing site, an elf lay prone on the ground, and watched.
In a previous life, he had been called Gorundil, and by those with a flair for the poetical, Gorundil Dullstar. He had been, in all fairness, a fool. And an untalented fool at that. All his life he had wanted to be a mage, or a wizard, or perhaps even a great sorcerer. He didn’t actually know what the difference was between those three things, but sorcerer sounded butch. But as a member of a species that legend said had been forged by the gods from the very ether itself, he had succeeded in demonstrating the same ability at weaving as the average toadstool. And toadstools at least had other qualities that made them useful. Gorundil had been regarded by his teachers, his friends, even his family to be, and this was putting it as kindly as possible, a lump.
Then came Vharaes and the rebellion. Then came the Ferine. Now all of those people would have been hard pressed to recognise the elf they had once known and looked down on.
Now he went by the name Ghoraes. All the elves of the Ferine changed their names, to distance themselves from what they had been, the weakness that they had embodied. All of his life he had wanted power, and now he was power and strength personified.
As he watched the Imperials stomping about the beach, he could smell their sweat and blood on the air. He could smell their fear. He dragged his long black claws through the sand in excitement.
“Can we?” came a hopeful voice behind him.
He turned back to another elf waiting at the base of the hill.
“Not yet,” he grunted. “Wait. Watch.”
In truth, he was beginning to speak proper elvish less and less. The words were becoming harder and harder to use. It was happening to most of the Ferine. They regarded it as a minor issue. Most of them had hardly been erudite before the ritual. Communication was actually easier now. Words were just wasted breath, but a snarl, a flash of yellow teeth, an exposed belly, the delicious scent of blood in the air, that said more than words ever could.
Ghoraes smiled, revealing long wolf-like fangs.
Let there be blood.
The fear didn’t go away, not completely. But as it lessened, Serrel finally acknowledged the thought that he was currently walking in the Faelands. Apart from one eccentric uncle that had run off to join the merchant navy, Serrel’s entire family for the last three generations had never travelled further than the village of Sad Weasel, and that was only half a day’s travel from his own home town. But here he was, possibly the first Hawthorne in history, to walk upon the soil of the Faelands.
He might have enjoyed the moment more if he hadn’t been so on edge, waiting for someone to pop up and try to kill him. After krakens, he would not have been that surprised if the ground opened up and started spewing death worms.
“I wouldn’t worry,” Brant told him. “Death worms are vegetarians.”
“Then why are they called death worms?”
“Oh, they’ll still kill you. They just won’t eat you afterwards.”
“What a waste,” added Dogbreath.
When they followed a wide track up from the beach, they soon came to the first settlement. It was a small fishing village proclaiming itself to be Martin’s Rest on a sign made out of driftwood. The Hounds watched the village for a while, taking in the empty streets, and the closed doors. The locals had either abandoned it, or were hiding. Either way, it seemed obvious that they were aware a large army was walking down the road towards them.
Snow sent a runner back to the main body of the Legion, then took the Hounds into Martin’s Rest to investigate.
To Serrel, the town could have looked like any town from the Empire. It was obviously not a particularly rich town, and there were only a few different ways a person could build a hovel. The fishing must have been good though
, as there was a long line of large smokehouses where fish were being preserved, and every house had a rack of drying fish in front of it.
There were only two streets, and they met at a small T-junction at the north end of the village. At the junction, sat the village’s largest building, an old wooden longhouse shaped like an inverted boat.
When no one made themselves present, Snow shrugged, and called out, “Hello?”
Serrel heard a few faint whispers, then the sound of wooden shutters slamming closed.
“These people are clearly glad to see us,” noted Brant drily.
“It’s not as if we’re coming to save them from a gods damn civil war or anything,” muttered Holly.
Snow went up to the longhouse, and knocked on the think double doors. “Hello? Is anyone there? We are members of Her Imperial Legion, and we would like to speak to someone in charge.”
There was another burst of faint, and this time somewhat heated, whispering. Then a thud as the doors were unsecured. They opened just enough for a giant man with greying hair to squeeze his way out, then slammed shut again. Several loud bangs suggested it was being barricaded again.
The man towered over all the Hounds. He looked down at Snow fearlessly.
“My name is Asbjorn Martinsson,” he said in a deep voice. “I speak for the village. If it is food you want, please take what you will and go. We have nothing else of value.”
“We aren’t raiders, good sir,” said Snow. “We mean you no harm. I am Captain Tobias Snow. As I said, we are members of Her Imperial Legion.”
“Yes. I heard you. That means nothing to us. What do you want?”
“Information perhaps? We are on our way to Vollumir.”
“On foot, it’s three days journey north. Stay on the main roads, and do not go into the forests.”
“That’s very helpful. Thank you,” Snow said politely. “Have you seen any other soldiers on the roads, or perhaps moving cross country? Elves perhaps.”
“No. No one comes out here, except the occasional tax collector.”
“No one at all?”
Asbjorn Martinsson’s face was perfectly blank. “What difference does it make? If there is nothing else, please be on your way.”
“There is no need to be afraid of us, Mister Martinsson. We are here to help.”
At this, Martinsson snorted. “Help us? What help do we need?”
“You are aware of the... unpleasantness occurring in Vollumir?”
“In my experience, there is always unpleasantness in Vollumir. It makes no difference to us.”
Caellix shook her head. “There’s a civil war brewing in your country, and it doesn’t matter to you?”
“Why would it? What does it matter to us who is in charge? We stay out of the way, and no one gets hurt. Now, please, I must insist that you leave.”
“Or what?”
“Sergeant,” Snow said gently. Caellix fell silent. He turned back to Martinsson. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience we may caused you. We will be on our way.”
Martinsson took a step backwards to the door of the longhouse, but didn’t go back inside. He glared at the Hounds as they retreated back down the street.
“Definitely not happy to see us,” commented Serrel.
“He’s hiding something,” said Caellix. “I could smell it on him.”
“Most likely he was,” said Snow. “But whether it has anything to do with us is another matter. So unless they’ve managed to squirrel away an entire army in one of these little houses, I think maybe we should move on. Once the Legion’s passed by, he might feel more inclined to speak with us, especially if we offer him gold in return for his time.”
“We’re here to help them,” put in Holly. “Shouldn’t they want to talk to us, anyway?”
“They’re just afraid. I mean, look at the Sergeant. Wouldn’t you be afraid? You could try to be a little less intimidating sometimes, Caellix.”
Caellix scowled under her war paint. “I am being less intimidating.”
During the entire conversation with Martinsson, the group could hear a deep rhythmic booming sound that grew steadily louder and louder. Now as they watched, the Imperial Legion marched up the track in perfect formation. Over a thousand armed men and women in their green uniform, and at the very lead was the shining figure of General Dillaini riding on horseback. It was an imposing sight, and one that was hardly going to go unnoticed.
“Should she be up front like that?” Serrel asked.
“Our new General is very bold woman, Caster,” Snow replied.
“Or very sure of her immortality,” put in Caellix in a low voice.
They stood to attention as Dillaini rode up to them, accompanied by two soldiers in matching steel armour and several lower ranking officers also on horseback.
“Report, Snow,” she said by way of greeting.
“Small village, Ma’am. The resident elder says they haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary. Well,” Snow added, glancing back at Martinsson, who still stood glaring at them. “At least until now.”
“And you believe him?”
“I don’t believe he would have any reason to lie. But I feel that once he sees we are not a threat, he might be more open to cooperating.”
“He is subject of the Empress,” Dillaini stated flatly. “He is duty bound to offer us aid.”
“I’m not sure he feels the same way, Ma’am.”
“Does he not?” she said returning Martinsson glare. She dismounted. “You!” she called to Martinsson. “Come here! NOW!”
Snow shifted uncomfortably. “Ma’am I...”
“How long have you been a Captain, Snow?”
“A few weeks now, Ma’am.”
“Then you still have a lot to learn. You! Here now! Do not make me repeat myself!”
Snow held his tongue as Martinsson approached Dillaini, still eyeing her defiantly.
“Do you know who I am?” Dillaini asked him.
“No.”
“I am Arch-General Dillaini of Her Imperial Legion, and you answer me truthfully and respectfully. If you don’t, it will go very hard on you. Now, have you or any of your people seen enemy soldiers in this area?”
Martinsson’s was rigid. “Yes. I am looking at one right now.”
Snow sighed. The two other mounted soldiers slid from their horses.
“You regard me as an enemy combatant?” Dillaini asked in a low voice.
“I know a bully when I see one.”
“That wasn’t what I asked. Since you are clearly ignorant of the proper way to address a general in Her Imperial Legion, I will ask you one more time, and you will be civil or I will cut out your tongue. Have you or yours seen any enemy soldiers in this area?”
Martinisson clenched his jaw. “No, General. I have not.”
Dillaini stared him in the eye. “You’re lying. Take him.”
The two armoured soldiers seized Martinsson by the arms. He struggled, and being far bigger than them, almost succeeded in pulling himself free. Dillaini stepped up, and punched him hard in the gut. Martinsson doubled over gasping, and the soldiers forced him to his knees, twisting his arms behind his back.
Serrel stared in shock. He took an impulsive step forwards, and Caellix elbowed him roughly in the stomach, and shot him a glare that asked, Are you really that stupid?
Dillaini drew her sword and held it at Martinsson’s throat.
“Where are the soldiers?” she demanded.
“What soldiers?” Martinsson asked in exasperation.
“The elves, you maggot! Where are the elves?”
“Elves? By the gods, you stupid woman, there were three elves passed by days ago! But they weren’t soldiers! They were dressed like noblemen, but all ragged like they had been travelling!”
“Three elves! You expect me to believe only three elves passed by here?”
“It’s the truth! They stayed but half a day! I even offered them a bed for the night, but they turned me down.”
“Where did they go?”
“I don’t know! Last I saw they were headed east, into the forest.”
“Is that where the army is hiding?”
“I don’t know of any army!”
“The main road goes right by your shitty little village, man! Are you telling me you failed to notice a bloody army of elves marching right by you? Are blind or stupid?”
“There was no army! Not until you lot came by!”
“You’re a lying little maggot, and a traitor, and I will get the truth from you,” Dillani promised.
She stood upright and addressed the closed and barricaded doors of the village.
“People of Martin’s Rest! You are guilty of harbouring a traitor to the empire, and of colluding with the enemy! On behalf of the Empress, I hereby confiscate all of your property, until such time as I determine that you are not enemies of the Empire! If you do not leave your filthy homes and present yourselves for questioning in the next ten seconds, I will personally raze this worthless little mound of shit to the ground, and execute you all for treason!”
She fell silent, and waited for a moment. Then she started counting, “One... Two...”
The doors on the nearest house few open, and a man and a woman with several crying children emerged with arms raised.
“Arrest them all,” Dillaini told one of her officers, who were all watching with stunned expressions. “Kill anyone who resists. Question them, search their houses. Burn a few if you have to, I don’t care. But there is supposed to be an army here, waiting for us, and I want it found, NOW!”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said one of the officers quickly.
“Ma’am,” Snow bravely stepped forwards. “If there were elves here, they would be long gone by now. But if my Hounds and I could search-”
“Roth!” Dillaini ignored him, and called to her second in command. “This is a good location for our first camp. It’s easily defensible, and close enough to the beach to set up a supply chain. Get the men to work.”
“Yes, General.”
“And get a squad of your men together and go take a look for these elves. If they’re still around, I want them found and brought to me. And you,” she turned back to Snow. “Take your Hounds and scout the surrounding area, so we don’t get any more little surprises. Do you think you can handle that, Captain?”
