by Ted Neill
“Best you go now, Captain,” he said. Val nodded and swung over, the girl following close on another vine, Cody, too.
Haille was left staring eye to eye with the elk. Without arms the animal would not be swinging. Instead he backed up to make a running jump. But as he did, the horde appeared at the top of the steps, a gray reaching up to tear into his hindquarters with his claws. The elk stumbled. Haille rushed to help, swinging his sword from his shoulder in a sweep that severed the gray’s forearm. But it was already too late. The other beasts had climbed the stairs, overrunning them. All they could do was swing, hew, and hack at the claws, legs, and limbs that tried to gain purchase on the steps, fighting for the high ground. The flood was too much. The two of them could not withstand the onslaught.
Haille heard movement above and looked up to see a figure bounce through the branches only to land behind him. He turned and caught the swipe of claws just as the blue-black leader of the beasts attacked. Haille pivoted towards the elk to close his flank while the blue-black thing raised his scimitar for a cross strike. The blow was like catching a landslide. Haille stumbled back into the elk and would have lost his footing had not the elk turned and nudged him with a grunt. Haille raised his sword to block another strike from the leader, this crowned king of the monsters, then another. The blows came too fast for him to do anything but block and dodge. There was no counterattack, this beast was too . . . good. He fought with the reflexes of an animal and the skill of a master swordsman. In his eyes Haille could read a fierce intelligence as well as a burning hate, directed at him, the elk, and his friends.
Haille knew when he was overmatched and he gave ground, backing up towards the broken end of the bridge, bracing himself against his opponent’s attacks. The melee between the elk and the horde continued behind the king as he stalked Haille, moving in long careful strides with his bowed, lizard-like legs. Haille brushed up against one of the vines, felt it twitch, and realized he had a new problem. No sooner had he sidled away from the awakening vine when the king came at him. Haille mounted no defense. Instead he rolled beneath the oncoming swing and listened as a sheaf of vines dropped to the floor in the wake of the scimitar. They flopped about onto the stonework, squirming like snakes. A green imp slipped past the elk and Haille had just time to swing his blade into its face before the king was on him again. Haille knew he was lost, for his guard was down and the king’s arm was cocked back ready to strike.
The swing did not come. Instead the king of the beasts’ eyes bulged and his body jerked as the muscles across his chest flexed. The vines had seized his sword arm. Not willing to let his opportunity pass, Haille found the angle on the trapped arm and swung for the wrist. His opponent proved too fast again, twisting his arm and seizing Haille’s own wrist in a crushing grip. He lifted a leg to trap Haille under his foot, but as he moved, the vines rescued Haille once more, wrapping around the king’s torso and neck. Now his attacker turned to swipe at the vines threatening to strangle him. Having lifted one foot, he lost balance and toppled over, more vines swirling and encircling him. Haille knew he had been granted a reprieve and instead of closing in for an uncertain death-strike, he called to the elk.
“We need to go, now!”
The elk tossed one of the imps from his antlers into the wall of attackers, sending them all falling backwards down the stairs. Then he turned and began galloping towards Haille. In that instance Haille understood the shared plan. There was little other choice. He sheathed his sword, glancing over his shoulder one last time. As he did, something in the blue-black monster’s shoulder popped. The leathery skin tore, and vines writhed into the gap that opened between arm and shoulder. Haille looked back to the elk who was approaching at a full gallop. He would only have one chance and as the elk passed alongside him, his head low, Haille took hold of his mane, threw a leg over his back, and pressed his body against the animal as he jumped into the empty air beyond the bridge.
They landed with a clatter of hooves on the far bank. Haille lost his handholds and slammed into the ground, sliding through leaves and loam, his breath knocked clear out of him. His vision grew dim at the edges before he started to gulp down breaths of air. He was startled to look up and see his friends laying side by side on the ground, their faces slack and eyes closed as if in slumber. Even Storn was hunched over, his head drooping into his chest like a passed out drunk. The elk came alongside Haille and helped him up.
“Val, Cody, Katlyn,” Haille said. But no one responded. No one moved. The girl was striding towards him, unaffected by whatever spell had overtaken his friends.
“What is wrong with them? What happened?”
But the girl did not answer. Instead she raised her hand and uttered a single word, “Sleep.”
Haille’s vision was flooded with white light before going completely dark.
Chapter 13
King Talamar
Gail spun in close to the squire, ducking his swing, letting her momentum carry her legs into his. She fell. To some it must have looked like she had lost her footing, but it was by design: her legs, tangled with Kevin the squire’s, threw him off balance and caused him to tumble over. His overextended swing worked against him. Gail landed painfully on her hip but it was worth the pain to bring Kevin down. She pivoted, scissoring her legs as if running, came to a half-kneeling-half-standing position, the point of her sword pointed downward at Kevin’s neck.
“I yield,” he said, shamefaced. There was a scattering of applause from the edges of the ring, the most fervent of which came from Patrick, the other squire she had just bested, who now had company in defeat. She considered the two squires. In every way, Patrick was Kevin’s opposite: tall and fair where Kevin was dark and stocky. Patrick was careful, meticulous, and measured in his methods of attack. Kevin charged like an angry bull. But she had had the best of both of them.
And perhaps their grudging respect too.
Darid had kept her secret in the weeks that had passed, but her size had not won her many believers. It was only when she had the opportunity to fight in the practice ring that the soldiers and squires began to learn her name—Alex—and stop calling her Horse-boy as Sergeant Callum had named her.
Not that he had made any effort to change himself. “Nice work, Horse-boy,” he said from the edge of the fighting square. “Call us when you are full-sized and we’ll have a rematch.”
There was laughter, Gail wondering if it was directed at her or Callum himself, who would wear the scar she gave him for the rest of his days. He had surely concocted some story of heroic, high adventure to explain it, but she suspected most of the regiment knew the true story. Gail reached out a hand to help Kevin up. He took it. It was late, the sun setting and lighting the sandstone buttes and arid steppes to the east blood red. They had marched just shy of two weeks and here in the borderlands between Karrith and Antas was the first time they had stopped for more than three nights while scouts sought out the lay of the land and the position of the enemy forces.
The men were bored, restless, and likely scared, although they covered it with bluster and an outward eagerness for battle. Too eager, Gail thought. Fights had broken out among men of rival houses and nobles were squabbling with knights over who got to sit closer to the king at mealtimes. Kevin and Patrick told her all about it. Setting up fighting rings for the men to expend their extra energy had been Darid’s idea, and a good one.
“That is the first match I have lost in a long time,” Kevin said, dusting off his britches.
“Who had the best of you last time?” Patrick asked, handing his friend a waterskin.
“The king’s son himself,” Kevin said between gulps. “He’s undersized like you Alex, but quick as a bat.”
“I thought he was an imbecile,” she said, handing her practice sword to the next squire to take the ring.
“He suffers from the shaking sickness,” Kevin said, giving away his own sword and clearing the ring for the next pair. “But he can fight.”
&nbs
p; “The shaking sickness . . . ,” she said, her voice trailing off. Seemed it was a more common malady than she had imagined, having just run across Derrick and his condition. Not a bad swordsman himself, come to think of it . . . .
They made their way along the main avenue of the tent city that was the camp, the air redolent with the smell of roasting meat, horse manure, and the smoke of a thousand campfires. The clack of practice swords and even real ones accompanied by the eruption of cheers or jeers followed them all the way back to the noble’s compound, that circle of tents in the heart of the camp where the king’s court was held and their master’s tents were pitched. She said farewell to her friends and parted ways, knowing that both young men would be required to wait on their lords for the dinner hour. It was a secret Gail kept closely guarded that Darid did not expect much from her. He preferred comradery to servitude and they often ate at the camp table as equals. From the way he driveled on about an ebony-skinned woman with wavy hair waiting for him in Karrith, she never suspected Darid of wanting anything more from herself than friendship.
She stepped around the fire pit. Soot cawed at her from the peak of the tent. It was no surprise to her that Darid himself had already set a cauldron of boiling vegetables and beans as well as a chicken carcass over the fire. She reached in, pulled out a stewed carrot, and threw it to Soot. Her stomach grumbled as she caught a whiff of the stew before she put the top back on, then snapped back the flap and stepped into the dim light of the tent interior. What she saw caused her to stop short and bite her tongue, silencing the casual greeting she had been about to blurt out to her master.
Darid was seated with his back to her, in the very seat she was accustomed to using. Across the camp table from him sat a man who even in his chair gave the impression of being tall. His hands rested on either arm of the chair and his purple cloak with blue border was tossed over the back. The seal on his surcoat was a hammer crossed over a sword. His hair was black but for gray at the temples that shone in the light drifting in from above. His face was freshly shorn but was still full of furrows and shadows as if he were a man of deep worries and old sorrows. He was still but for his eyes which darted to Gail as she entered unannounced. Darid’s chair groaned as he turned.
“Alex, take a knee for the King.”
Her throat caught and her knee smarted as she crashed down to genuflect, her chin on her chest, her eyes to the floor.
“My liege,” she said, her hands trembling, outlaw that she was, in the presence of the living law himself. “I will take my leave.”
“No,” Darid said. “Fetch us some goblets and wine, Alex.”
Gail obeyed. She obeyed as she had never obeyed her own father, pulling the goblets from their traveling trunk, uncorking the wine, and pouring the cups half full and filling the rest with drinking water. Her hands shook. She was untrained to serve royalty. Darid did not even require her to serve him. As if he sensed her uncertainty, Darid motioned for her to simply set the cups on the table. Then she stood back into the shadows as she had seen other servants do at her own father’s manor, wishing herself invisible. The two men continued their discussion as if she were not there.
“The scouts report to me that the countryside has been raided and ransacked. The tribe of barbarians, the Maurvant they call themselves, have murdered woman, children, and warriors. Until now they kept peacefully to the steppes, why they attack now is still a mystery. They have taken no holdfasts nor do they set up lines to demark their territory. Instead they strike at random. The people are frightened and have fled to the refuge of the city walls. Now breadlines are long, streets are choked with people, and gutters are overflowing. The city bursts at the seams. King Oean must keep his forces around the city to protect all of the refugees that have flocked there.”
“Things have grown worse since I left,” Darid said.
“Which is why I know my own mind and wished to share it with you before the court. I will make a show of deliberating, but we must push forward before the sun sets again.”
“Understood, but sire, why not give the order now?”
“I am giving it. You will discreetly share it with the other captains of the regular troops. I will let the nobles debate it. It is what they are best at. A necessary step. They will choose to move forward, once every man has spoken his piece and each man’s pride is satisfied. It is the illusion of compromise and contribution while not losing time on our part.”
“Well played.”
“It’s not that I do not have reservations. We do not know the Maurvant’s numbers, their locations, or why they have turned on us now after so many long years of proximity and coexistence. But I fear the people of Karrith have waited too long and our own men are restless.”
Both sentiments rang true to Gail, however, something did not sit right with her. Something so straightforward she was vexed that neither Darid nor the king mentioned it. She curled her toes and pressed her lips together. Sweat pooled in her armpits and she felt a bead escape and run down her side. The tactics of the Maurvant were familiar to her. They were her own, from her previous incarnation as Avenger Red. But who was she to speak out of place among a captain and a king?
They would know better than she. They had to.
She remained silent as the men continued. When discussions concerning the enemy were concluded, Darid asked news of the king’s son.
“Still no word. Missing now since before we left. But I trust Yana to find him.”
“Ill times for a prince to go missing.”
“No doubt, but do not mention it, lest nobles start to talk of conspiracies, that goes for your squire too,” the king said, nodding at Gail.
“Don’t worry,” Darid said. “Alex is good at keeping secrets.”
Chapter 14
Gandolin and Seraphina
Haille woke, rubbed his eyes, and listened to the familiar chirps of the jays. With relief, he realized he could see clearly, the pain in his eyes gone. He was laying on his back looking up into a glass dome overhead. The support beams were not cut and measured planks but rather the irregular twisting of tree roots, trained like vines on a terrace, into a shape that held the glass above. Beyond the dome rose the majestic trunks of the Sidon trees, but unlike the cursed black trunks he had become accustomed to, these were a more ordinary red-brown, topped with boughs of green needles and clusters of fat pinecones dripping with crystalized sap.
The smell of pine was overwhelming and refreshing. Haille propped himself up on his elbow and saw his friends lying asleep on either side of him. They were not alone. Two figures stood before them, a man and a woman. He was dressed in the colors of the forest overhead, shades of green in his robe and a tunic that was red-brown beneath—all of it cinched by a braided leather belt at his waist. On his left was a woman, she in the darker colors of the forest they knew already: a sash of deep red, a black robe with a twilight purple border. Earrings and a matching necklace dangled like silver tear drops. Her face was benign, friendly even. Their ages were hard to guess. Both had white hair and deep lines radiated from their eyes and framed the corners of their mouths, yet there was a puckish quality to both of them.
Haille immediately warmed to both of them and as he stood up he noticed a third figure. The girl they had rescued stood just to the side of them. She was in fresh clothes: a black velvet skirt and a flowing white top, a thick belt hanging askew on her hips, and a broad sword resting in its sheath. Her hair was pulled back and her face was bandaged where Storn had wounded her.
Storn was not there among his friends, Haille realized, but the elk was, drinking from a pool filled by a tiny waterfall coursing over a sharp ledge. He could see fish darting and playing in the water, gobbling up the drops that fell from the elk’s chin. Sunlight dappled down through the network of tree roots and cast the space in an amber glow. Everything bespoke peace and serenity, from the falling water, to the jays’ song, to the wind he could hear in the trees above. Haille, even though with strangers, felt safe.<
br />
His friends started to wake. Like he, they scanned the room and rose to their feet.
“Welcome and our thanks to you,” the strange man said, spreading his arms wide before clasping his hands together over his heart. “For you have rescued one of our own, Veolin Crossborn,” he said nodding towards the girl.
“I am in your debt,” the girl he had called Veolin said.
“This is Gandolin,” the woman said gesturing to the man who had spoken. “I am Seraphina, we are elders here.”
“Where exactly is here?” Val asked.
The man and woman exchanged knowing glances. “There is much to explain, forgive us, for we have not had human visitors in a generation,” the man said.
“Human?” Val repeated the word carefully. Haille studied the three figures before him once more, searching for something out of place. He and his friends certainly had had their share of nonhuman creatures, but for all appearances these people seemed . . . normal. Perhaps their faces were a bit long and almost other worldly in their beauty but nothing so terribly out of the ordinary that Haille was alarmed. Then the girl—Veolin—moved her hand to draw a stray wisp of hair back behind her ear—an ear that stood pointed.
Katlyn noticed at the same time. “By the stars, they are elves,” she blurted.
Haille felt Val and Cody draw Katlyn closer to them.
“If these woods are not full of monsters and myths,” Val said.
“We are no myths, I assure you,” Veolin said, an edge to her voice. “We are just as real as the vaurgs that we escaped from.”
“Vaurgs, well that seems like a fitting moniker,” Cody said, testing the word.
