by RG Long
In those moments, Blume thought several things. She wished she knew how to fight with a sword. The sword was chilled in her hands. She wanted to see Ealrin again. She felt useless without her magic. She was tired of feeling useless.
Mustering all the courage she could find, she gave a cry of battle that echoed off stone wall and ran for the Wrent. She would not be trapped in the cave by a creature she detested. Blume was going to fight. She pulled the sword back to her shoulder, ready to swing it down on top of the Wrent's head if she could and leapt out of the cave.
The creature lunged at her with his own spear. Momentum carried Blume to the right as she swung her friend's sword at her enemy. His spear caught her dress. A loud rip told Blume he had hit only fabric. She struggled against the weight of the weapon she wielded and tried to swing it up at the fox's stomach, but its reflexes were far too quick. It jumped out of the way.
Holding his spear high above his head he made to throw it at his attacker. Blume brought up the sword hilt to try to block the blow and closed her eyes. But the blow didn't come. She opened one eye to see the Wrent, frozen to the spot, holding his spear up. It was breathing heavy as a steady stream of red stained the white patch over his heart. The knife blade that protruded from him was buried deep into his chest.
He crumpled to the ground, twitched, and moved no more. Blume looked behind her to see a panting Silverwolf. She was covered in scratches and was sweating heavily.
“You're welcome,” she said through panting breaths.
“I was doing just fine,” Blume retorted, though she let the blade's weight take it gratefully to the earth. Her hands ached.
Silverwolf walked up beside her, then to the dead fox. She pulled out her knife and cleaned it on a rag already stained with much blood. A distant roar told them that at least Panto was alive and well. Amrolan couldn't be far off.
“Next time,” Silverwolf said as she returned the blade to a sheath on her calf. “Leave the fighting to the adults.”
Blume had too much adrenaline pumping through her system to be mad properly. She had charged a Wrent with only a sword and battled it. No magic. No amulet to help her. Just a blade and her wits. She was both exhilarated and embarrassed.
“Teach me how to fight,” she blurted out.
Silverwolf turned and looked her up and down.
“Oh, you're going to need more than lessons,” she replied after a moment's silence.
“Okay,” Blume responded. “Whatever it takes. Just teach me how to fight so I'm not worthless.”
She expected the assassin to say no. To make a joke, scoff, and then go clean other blades she had stuck into other Wrents. But, instead, she just looked at her hard.
“I won't go easy on you,” she said. “And you had better learn with a different blade.”
Turning and walking off to see to the other Wrents, Silverwolf made no other comment. Blume gasped for air, realizing she had been holding her breath. She looked around her and saw the bodies of many Wrents scattered about. Before she could rightly count how many had been slain, Amrolan came running towards them with Panto at his side.
“We must leave,” he said. “They're still tracking us far off. We need to throw them off our scent.”
As if to give credence to his words, a distant howl rang out through the forest. Blume heaved the sword back onto her shoulder. Whatever Silverwolf had to say about it, she would carry the sword with her. She felt safer when she held it. Like it was protecting her. Or that she was remembering some of the strength Ealrin had shown in battles he had faced. Though it had been cold to the touch moments ago, it was now warm and pleasant to hold.
“I'm sold,” Silverwolf said, walking back to the rest of them and putting a blade into a sheath on her back. “Where to?”
In reply, Amrolan pointed into the cave.
14: The Men Who Saw a Map
Bernard sat with his hands tied behind his back. Lincoln sat opposite of him. If the short man could have kicked the larger, he would have. But his feet were also tied up and staked to the ground. This was his punishment for his first attempt to wiggle free of his restraints and escape the tent they had been placed in.
It had been two days since they were apprehended by the elves of Enoth. Each night ended much the same: they were told to sit while a tent was erected for them, and then they were placed inside of it while a captain or other soldier came and asked them questions about why they were spying on the elves.
No matter how many times they explained their tale, it wasn't enough to satisfy their captors. They were stuck for the time being. Bernard was wondering why Kilgore hadn't made a fuss and come searching for them. Then he remembered the look on the captain's face whenever he addressed them both.
He was beginning to think the captain didn't like them very much.
“This is all your fault,” he accused Lincoln. The large man turned his gaze on Bernard. He had been, for the last several moments, looking at the crack in the tent's entrance.
“Come again?” he asked, obviously having missed his friend's remark.
“I said,” Bernard answered with increased irritation. “This is all your fault. If you hadn't been so slow, we would have never ended up with these elves. Now they think we've been spying when we haven't!”
“Strange,” Lincoln said as he turned back to the crack in the tent's fabric. “Why would they think that?”
“Haven't you been listening!?” Bernard said, losing his temper.
“Quiet in there,” came a voice from outside. “No more chatter.”
Bernard huffed and stared burning holes into Lincoln's head, or at least he tried to. He was as convinced as ever that if his oaf of a companion hadn't gotten hurt, they would be marching alongside their guard and earning Kilgore's approval, not stuck as possible spies in the camp of the elves.
“I thought we were allies,” Lincoln said in a low voice. “Why would they think we were spying on allies?”
“I...” Bernard began in as quiet of a reply as he could muster. But the words got stuck in his thoughts.
Why had they assumed they were spying? Weren't they marching to the same goal? To defend against the Wood Walkers? Allies don't spy on one another. He had been so consumed with anger at being tied up and the injustice of being falsely accused that he hadn't even considered the thing he had been accused of, much less about what it meant.
“Good question,” was all he could mutter before the tent's opening burst open and a tall elf walked in, looking down at them.
The two men were on the floor on top of woven mats that served as their beds. Food plates sat beside them, both empty, that they had licked clean half an hour ago. The elf considered them a moment before speaking. It was the one who had first asked if they were lost.
“I am General Finore,” he said at last. “After being held and questioned these last two days, it's been determined that you had no ill will towards the elves of Enoth and were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He looked back and forth between the two of them. Bernard thought he liked this elf a little more now.
“As such,” he began. A noise outside stopped his next words from getting past his tongue. He turned and took a step before exiting the tent. Bernard thought he heard him say something about “priests” before he closed the flaps behind him.
“I suppose we're not leaving yet,” Lincoln said as he tried to find a more comfortable sitting position.
The noises outside were growing louder. It seemed like a fight had broken out, as best as Bernard could tell at least. He scooted himself over to the tent entrance, trying to get a peek.
Outside, the suns were setting deeper and a darkness was beginning to cover the land. Many points of light shone in the coming night, but Bernard saw nothing strange. Just lit torches and maybe a crowd of elves. One that was getting closer. The noise beyond the tent was growing with each moment.
“Do you suppose we ought to...” Bernard started to say, but was cu
t off when their tent collapsed around them. A pile of bodies fell on top of the two of them. Elbows flared, feet trod on them, and the canvas of the tent was all around then. Bernard felt a definite blow to his stomach. He curled up in pain.
Just as soon as it had happened, it was over. The bodies were all gone or taken away and the noise continued over to their right.
“Lincoln!?” Bernard shouted through a mouthful of canvas and a throbbing stomach. He was trying to wiggle his way through the fabric so that he could see what was going on around him.
“And I had just thought of a great way to start my next poem,” came a voice from the largest bundle of cloth. Bernard squirmed his way over and, thankfully, found that the peg that had anchored him to the floor had been trodden on and broken. With his hands still tied behind his back, he wasn't much help getting his friend out of the cloth that wrapped around them both.
“Come on,” Bernard said. “Let’s try to get out.”
With much wiggling and straining, the pair were finally able to get their heads poked out of what used to be their tent. Night was falling all around them. Bernard looked around for the source of the commotion. It didn't take long for him to find it.
A group of elves in yellow robes appeared to be in the center of a large group of elves, chanting or talking or something, and stirring up the others into a frenzy. Spears and swords were held high in the air by the soldiers of Enoth. Priests swung flails. Bernard thought he could hear the voice of the elf who had just come to see them, but it was hard to discern among all of the shouting.
He looked down and saw, to his great delight, a knife that had been lost in the collapse of the tent. It lay plain as day on the trampled grass. Perhaps one of the soldiers had dropped it. Whatever fate had designed, Bernard was tired of his legs being tied up.
“Let's get out of here before we get trampled again,” he said to Lincoln. “Help me cut my rope.”
“Won't we get in trouble?” Lincoln said, hesitating.
“You big oaf!” Bernard answered. “If we don't get away from that riot, we'll get trampled to death! Especially with my feet in knots. Grab the knife!”
Trying to stay concealed under the tent and not draw any attention to themselves, Lincoln reached out and grabbed the knife in his teeth. He also managed to get a mouthful of grass along with it. Before long, the two of them had managed to cut their restraints. Fearing that they'd be spotted, Bernard told Lincoln to stay down and wait a bit more.
“They're moving further away,” he said in Lincoln's ear. “Looks like most of the guards around here went to go deal with the ruckus. I think we can make a break for it if we're fast.”
They stood and got untangled from the tent. Bernard looked left and right.
“Which way?” Lincoln asked, voicing the dilemma going on inside Bernard's mind.
The shorter grabbed the larger and pulled him in what he thought to be a safe direction. More lights came from a little bit off and several tents were erected in a pattern he thought he recognized.
“That ought to be Darrion's troops,” he said as he started running towards them. “Come on!”
As he looked back, he saw Lincoln jogging slowly, obviously still in pain. He limped a bit with each step and perspiration already covered his brow.
“Confound it, Lincoln!” Bernard said in the loudest voice he dared. “If you get us caught again, I'll burn every verse you write from here on out!”
“Don't say that,” Lincoln replied, looking injured in more than leg. Bernard ran up and attempted to let his big friend put a small amount of weight on him. It nearly crushed him.
“Tent to tent,” Bernard said. “We'll sneak our way there if we can't run for it.”
And so, they hobbled from behind one elven campsite to the next, trying to guess where the main ruckus was coming from and on which side of the tents they could sneak without being seen. They hadn't made it far when the noises began to get uncomfortably close again.
Plus, Bernard thought he was going to faint from exertion.
“In here for a minute!” he said as they passed another large tent. “We can rest for just a minute but those elves are getting closer!”
They looked around for guards or other soldiers and saw none, so they cautiously entered through the canvas door. The tent was empty of elves, so the two shot inside. The place was a mess; obviously the traveling from one spot to another had taken its toll.
Around a table were a few scattered chairs, all of excellent craft. Many chests and barrels were scattered around the room. On the table lay several papers, an inkwell, and a feather pen. Little metal figurines that resembled elves stood on the largest parchment that was to be found.
Bernard began looking in the room for something they could use for a crutch other than himself. He couldn't carry Lincoln back to the guardsmen. He scrambled from corner to corner of the tent, looking for anything to serve. Meanwhile, his comrade leaned against a chair and studied the table.
“Bernard,” he said in a soft voice.
“Not now, lump!” he said as he uncovered a large wooden rod he thought might do the job. Turning around he faced Lincoln and saw two things at once.
First, the rod was far too short to be of any help. It would have been just fine for him, but it would hardly do as a walking stick for the tall soldier he was caring for. Secondly, he saw little purple flags covering the paper on the table. Each was standing upright in a little metal weight. He had missed them on the way in.
“Aren't those Enoth flags?” he asked as he examined the parchment more carefully. His eyes went wide.
“On Darrion cities,” Lincoln answered.
It was true. On four cities in the country of Darrion, little Enoth flags flew proudly. A large “X” was marked through two others. Bestone, Bernard's hometown, was one.. Lone Peak was the other.
“Blessed suns,” Bernard said under his breath. “We've got to tell Kilgore.”
“He already knows,” came an answer from the entrance of the tent.
The two spun around and, to their astonishment, saw their captain framed in the door. He looked both surprised and very upset to see them.
“Now let's get out of here before they kill all three of us,” he ordered.
Without a moment of hesitation, the large and short man both exited the tent, following their captain. The ruckus outside was still ongoing and still close at hand. Kilgore was now helping Lincoln to walk. Bernard was glad for the reprieve but still shocked by the map. This march wasn't a protection against Wood Walkers. It was a purposeful takeover of their country.
“We need to get you a healer,” he said with a strained voice. “And then you two and I are going to North's Beach. Ahead of the army.”
“What are we going to do?” Lincoln asked as he continued to hop along.
Kilgore didn't answer right away. The noise from the commotion was dying down, yet they were still far from the human camp. Their captain looked grave and determined.
“Save Darrion,” he said.
15: Entryways
Serinde crouched alongside Omioor as they made their way down a winding path that led down to the city of Eccott. They had waited for nightfall to approach so they could enter without being seen and without questions. The rocks that had caused them to stumble and fall were now their protection. The heavy boulders served as a screen for them to walk behind.
Omioor had said that the walls weren't as guarded as other cities, seeing as how the entire city was surrounded by mountains. The Elves of Enoth assumed that if Omioor were ever to be attacked, it would come from the sea. Serinde had seen the walls that protected the city alongside the rivers and outlets that led to the ocean. It was large and menacing. Obviously, the empire had given priority to that defense when forcing the elves to build up their own city.
The wall they were now slinking along, however, was less impressive.
Gray rock was stacked on top of each other in a seamless fashion, but not as tall as Serind
e thought would be needed to defend against a full siege. But she knew little of these things. She was only guessing.
“Here it is,” Omioor said as he stopped in front of what looked like the rest of the wall they had been passing by.
“What?” Serinde asked, whispering, though she hadn't seen any guards on the wall above or paroling around the outer edge of the city.
In reply, Omioor pushed aside a rock that seemed out of place: a black stone amidst a mountain of gray and brown. He began to dig with his hands in the dirt and beckoned for the sisters to do the same. Serinde stooped down and was overtaken by curiosity, so she dug her nails into the earth.
Erilas came down slowly and removed small handfuls of dirt at a time. Serinde could tell she didn't trust this old elf. But what choice did they have now?
Only a few moments passed before Serinde felt something scrape against her nails that wasn't dirt. It made a hollow thunk that echoed a bit.
“There she is,” Omioor said happily, scraping the dirt away from the spot Serinde had just cleared. “Our door.”
A few more moments of digging revealed a metal hatch that was underneath about a foot of dirt. They cleared the debris until Omioor could open the door. Serinde could see a ladder that led into a dark tunnel. The air smelled fresh and clean, despite it being so damp looking.
"Where does it lead?" she asked.
"About thirty paces into the city, into a safe house of the resistance against the Empire," Omioor replied. "Ladies first. I'll need to make sure the hatch is covered well enough until we can come back and do it properly."
Serinde looked at Erilas, who didn't return her gaze. She sighed and put a foot onto the ladder.
"Follow me," she said to her sister, who still didn't look at her. "I'll wait at the bottom for you."
The ladder wasn't as tall as Serinde had first thought. The tunnel wasn't tall enough for her to stand at her full height, so she hunched down and waited for Erilas to descend the ladder. It only took a moment before her sister's feet touched the same earth she did. From the light of the moons, Serinde could see that the tunnel had walls that were stoned and reinforced with metal arches. She marveled at how a city that might pride itself on being well protected would allow such a door for invading armies to discover.
