by RG Long
Bernard looked around at the fighting and the chaos. Kilgore had walked out of the barracks and up to three horses. He saddled the proudest looking beast and turned its head towards the gate of the city. Bernard had grabbed a blade from the stack of them laid out on a stand at the entrance to the barracks. It was a plain double-edged sword in a black scabbard. Nothing too fancy, or, as he found out, too sharp either.
“Well?” Kilgore said, looking down at Bernard. Lincoln was currently attempting to mount his horse. The poor beast looked positively downcast at the prospects of having such a large man sit on top of him.
Bernard took a deep breath and mounted his own horse.
“You’re free to go wherever you’d like, Pumpkin,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
She looked up at him, confusion in her eyes.
“But I want to go with you,” she said. “You tell nice stories.”
Kilgore looked from Bernard to the round-faced elf and shook his head.
“I’m not taking on any more strays,” he said. “Our provisions are low enough as it is.”
Bernard bit his bottom lip before, on a whim, deciding he’d play the hero he wanted to be.
“I’ll share mine with her,” he said, patting his horse.
A smile burst across Pumpkin’s face as she jumped from the ground onto the horse in a graceful leap and hugged Bernard’s stomach. She rested her head on his back and sighed.
“I’ve always wanted to go on a horse ride,” she said.
Kilgore rolled his eyes and shook his horse’s reins. Lincoln had finally managed to climb onto his own mount and smiled at Bernard and Pumpkin.
“Hello there,” he said, waving a hand at Pumpkin. “Why were you in the prison?”
“I think I killed too many elves,” she said in a serious tone as she pulled the reins from Bernard’s hands and shook them to get their horse running.
“Hyah!” she shouted enthusiastically.
“You what!?” Bernard yelled as their horse followed after Kilgore and ran out of the city gate.
37: The Proclamation
Dilinor wanted very much to be a part of the marching vanguard. He longed to see the forest again and to be with the troops who were getting the best view of what was going on. Marching in the rear of the line was terribly exhausting to him. The only thing he could see was the back of the recruit in front of him.
His father had placed him here on purpose. Perhaps it had been to keep his son safe and out of the danger of the front line, but Dilinor was done playing the obedient son. He wanted to actually partake in this.
Or, at least, that’s what he told himself.
A slight unease had crept into his mind as they had continued to march along the coast and to the next human settlement. Each and every time a Wrent pack came close to them, the human army was what took the force of the attack. Even though it couldn’t have possibly have been planned this way, the men of Darrion were being wearied out by the fox’s relentless attacks, while the elves of Enoth continued to avoid much of the harm.
The men grumbled, of course, Dilinor could hear them at it. They thought they were cursed with terrible luck by accompanying the elves. Morale was not very high.
But still they marched. Finore, his father and general of the elven army, had declared that they must make it to the edge of the Wood Walker’s realm by sun down. They had spent many days camping by each city of Darrion that they had passed on their way. At each, a portion of the Enoth army had stayed behind to help fortify the city against wood elf attacks. That had been what Finore had told the Darrion generals and that had been what they believed.
Dilinor couldn’t help but think that this was not his father’s true intention. His guess was put to the test that very afternoon. As they marched up the river’s edge that marked the end of the kingdom of Darrion and the beginning of the Wood Walker territory, a halt was called for and camp was ordered to be made. Though his company had not yet reached as close a point to the river as the others, Dilinor could plainly see the tops of trees over the heads of the elves in front of him.
He and his companions began quickly setting up their tents, as instructed. He had not yet unrolled his completely when a shout made him look up. It had been his name that was called. Part of him tensed. He had been scorned enough when his father was the second in command general. Now that he was the elven lord of the army, his companions had given him more than his fair share of ridicule.
“Dilinor,” a captain on a brown horse said as he pulled his beast up to their group. “Your father requests your presence at his tent towards the front of the line. Leave your things.”
He groaned inwardly, but stood straight up and saluted just the same. His reputation with his fellow recruits was not worth the punishment he would endure if found out of line. He gathered his uniform around him and left his tent, intending to return and set it up.
“It must be nice to have your father save your delicate bottom from sleeping on the cold ground like the rest of the soldiers,” came a harsh whisper, conveniently missed by their captain.
He ignored this comment and marched quickly towards the front of the line, where he saw the captain on his horse returning. Elves were hurriedly obeying orders, constructing their tents and ensuring all was put together properly. Dilinor saw the men of Darrion doing the same to his left, but then he paused. The men had been marching behind the main elf army and in front of the newest elven recruits. They naturally would have elves in front and behind, but this was not the case.
A company of elves was moving to the west of the men’s camp and at least one company was marching back north, to the east of the men. They hastily went about their business of setting up tents of their own, but only after they had completely enveloped the human army.
Dilinor began to walk at double speed.
It took nearly a half hour to arrive at the front of the line. There were more elves on this expedition than even Dilinor had first guessed. As he walked, several trumpet calls were made. He recognized them as the signal to gather for the next meal. His stomach rumbled just thinking about eating. Though he didn’t eat much, during his time in Darrion where food was more plentiful than the empire, he had developed quite the appetite for whatever was placed in front of him.
He soon found the large purple tent that belonged to the general and his staff. He approached it and waited for the guards at the front entrance to allow him in. One looked at him, nodded, then hurried inside. Dilinor stood at attention while he waited. The other guard made no sign of recognizing that there was anyone there at all.
Instead of being called inside, as he was expecting, Finore and his commanding officers all came out of the tent at once. Dilinor took several steps back and saluted.
“You’re here. Excellent,” Finore said, returning the salute and motioning for him to follow them as they walked.
“I’m about to make an announcement and I wanted you close by for it,” he said as they made their way into the camp.
“An announcement?” Dilinor asked before he could stop himself. Commands were common and orders were necessary. But his father had very little to do with announcing news.
“Perhaps ‘proclamation’ may be a better way to describe it,” he said as they made their way from the tent to a line of provision carts that had just arrived that day.
Several elves were stacking barrels up onto each other to make a kind of stair to the top of the wagon, which was laden with food and other necessary supplies for the march south. Shipments came at least once every other day to feed such a massive army. Dilinor suspected this cart came from the last city they had come from.
The elves backed away from the stacks and saluted as Finore climbed the barrels.
Both elves and men were coming closer with each moment, waiting to stand in line for their rations. The general of the elven army atop a wagon was a strange sight to them, Dilinor saw it in their eyes. Some looked curious, while others smiled as if this were enterta
inment for them. The human captains and generals, however, were exchanging glances that seemed neither curious nor entertained.
Finore held up his hands for silence, which was doubly enforced with the blast of two trumpets nearby. Dilinor stood beside the wagon so he could see both his father and the gathered troops. Finore’s face was alight with an emotion Dilinor was not used to seeing.
“My good elves and men, warriors and soldiers,” he said. “I have a proclamation for you from the emperor of Enoth!”
The shuffling in the crowd stopped as all eyes turned to Finore. Dilinor hoped he would not ever have that type of attention fixed upon him. He really despised the spotlight.
“We are on the brink of a battle we must face united,” Finore continued. “The emperor is, at this moment, also marching to war against the Wood Walkers, the demons of the forest. We know this will be a difficult task. We know that we will be fought at every tree, that every root will be defended and hard won. This is why our two nations must no longer be two, but one!”
Men turned to look at their comrades. Generals and captains looked with hard gazes at Finore.
“The emperor of Enoth has sent each city of Darrion a letter, requesting their allegiance and their loyalty to the empire. I ask the same thing of you, brave men who have come to join us on this quest.”
Finore lowered his hands. Elves on all sides drew blades and notched bows with arrows. Each of them pointed inward to face the men they surrounded. A man with dark hair and dark eyes, a captain by the look of his uniform, drew his blade. It dropped instantly from his hand as three arrows pierced his heart.
“We desire for this to be a peaceful allegiance so that our one glorious empire can rule all of Irradan and remove the filth that seeks to stain it,” Finore continued.
Several of the men gave him disgusted looks, while others slumped their shoulders and hung their heads. A general of the army stepped forward, looked up at Finore as if he were a piece of dirt, and then dropped to one knee in a bow.
One by one, the men of Darrion followed his example. They had no other choice. The elves of Enoth outnumbered them six to one by the looks of things and had them surrounded.
Dilinor could see a smile on his father’s face at the sight of the men bowing down in a pledge of allegiance to Enoth. The sight did not put a smile on his own face, however. He was thinking of the humans he had met in Darrion. What would be their fate now?
Elves began to cheer as the last men dropped to their knees. Dilinor turned his gaze to the ground. His lot was to follow his father, be an obedient soldier, and cheer for the glory of Enoth.
Why was doing so becoming difficult for him?
There came a commotion and he looked up from the grass he had been staring at. One lone man remained standing, defiantly crossing his arms and looking up to Finore. Several elven archers raised their bows, but a command came from the general’s mouth.
“Halt,” he shouted. “Bring him here but do not harm him.”
The man began walking towards Finore without a single elf approaching him. He carried no weapon that Dilinor could see, but his eyes were small fires of determination. The end of this confrontation was already in his mind’s eye.
After a tense moment, the man was close enough to Finore for the elves who had come to escort him. They barred his way with spears. He gave them a sour look, then directed his attention up at Finore and glowered.
“You think you can promise us a peaceful allegiance and then demand we surrender to you out of loyalty?” he spat on the ground.
“I may not have captains with spines, but I have one and I refuse to use it to bow to you.”
Finore did not smile, nor did he raise his hand to commit this man to die. Dilinor was surprised that his father did neither of these things.
“You will then use your bravery to fight the elves of the woods,” he said with finality. “And if you so much as turn to face left or right, I shall personally put an arrow in your back. Enoth values bravery. But disobedience, we will punish.”
The man stared defiantly at Finore and crossed his arms.
“To hell with you,” he said.
“No, brave soldier,” Finore replied, jumping from the wagon and walking straight up to the man until he was steps away from him. “To hell is where we march with the morning suns.”
38: To Kill a Snake
Serinde was livid. Her sister was being a completely irrational elf who apparently didn’t care about the wellbeing of their city, their country, their race, or their own livelihood.
Erilas just did not understand what was at stake when it came to the plans of the rebels and their desire to destroy the empire before they were all consumed by it. So what if enemies of the rebellion had to die along the way? Hadn’t they been the ones preventing the overthrow of a terrible government that sought to use its people until they were unable to hold a chisel or lift a stone?
Why couldn’t she just see that?
“You’re becoming too willing to shed blood,” Erilas said as they continued their argument on the balcony of the mansion they had been brought to yesterday. “It scares me.”
Her older sister sat on a chair with her arms crossed and her eyebrows furrowed. Serinde was tired of the belittling look she had received so many times since putting her own willingness to serve the rebels out in the open. It was like Erilas didn’t even believe that what they were doing was right.
“What scares me is that you don’t care that the empire is killing elves for no good reason! They are dying under their watch! Father died under it!” Serinde shot back.
Her sister only gazed at her more determinedly. A heavy silence sat between them as the ocean breeze blew upon their faces. The winds had turned colder as the days had gone by. It would soon be the onset of winter and the snows would begin to fall. By that time, if the rebels’ plan worked, the empire would fall and the southern kingdom would return rule of the elves back to the ones who had it before the rise of the empire.
It was such a clear plan. Serinde was furious at her sister for not seeing it. Serinde paced the length of the balcony twice before gripping the stone banister with her hands. It was cold to the touch of her warm hands. She felt hot all over and knew it wasn’t because of the weather outside of her.
“To kill a snake, you cut off its head,” she said coolly, trying to regain her calmness and rational thought. “To finish off the empire, we take out the emperor. Without him to lead, the whole thing will fall apart. He has no heir or successor that we know of. Without him, there is no empire. We get our lives back.”
Erilas closed her eyes and shook her head. It made Serinde want to explode to see a small smile on her sister’s lips. She hadn’t smiled in week, but now that she was arguing, she felt like it was the time to find joy in life again?
“We can’t ever get our lives back,” she said, her smile fading. “Killing others won’t bring him back. Defeating an entire empire won’t raise him from the dead. He’s gone Seri. He’s gone.”
She hit the banister so hard it made her hand sting. She heard Erilas calling after her as she walked back into the mansion through the balcony door, but she didn’t care. These weren’t the words she wanted to hear. She wanted to be told that she was going to make a difference. That she was going to make things right. If it cost her everything she had, she was going to do it.
Wayan. She needed Wayan.
Through a gilded hallway, down some stairs, and then left through another hall, she found her way back to the lavish dining room they had first eaten in. The space, when not in use as a place to consume the various dishes presented each mealtime, was the unofficial base of operations of the rebels in the city.
The place was a hive of activity at the moment. Elves darted here and there with papers, maps, plans, and packs. None paid Serinde much attention. It didn’t matter. She spotted who she needed right away.
Wayan was seated at the long table, speaking to a small group of elves with their heads
all bowed down. Serinde came up to see that they were looking over a map. She tapped Wayan on the shoulder and proclaimed her purpose.
“I want to go on the mission,” she said.
There was a moment where the elves around the table just looked at Serinde blankly. One to the left of Wayan gave a little cough. The old and large bellied elf stood to his feet. With a look of concern on his face, he took Serinde by the arm and began to lead her from the table.
“I know you’ve proved yourself, Serinde,” he said before she wrested her arm from his.
“And so I’m ready to go,” she said, crossing her arms and planting her feet. “I want to help.”
By now, several elves around the long table had turned their attention to the conversation between Wayan and Serinde. Inside, she knew her volume was the reason. Her voice had begun to reach shouting levels.
“Serinde...” he said, looking over his shoulder at the staring elves. “I’m not sure your father...”
“Wanted me in harm’s way?” she shouted. “Yeah, you mentioned that. Well, it’s too late. I’ve already been there, Wayan. I want to do more! I can’t just sit here doing nothing!”
“Serinde,” Wayan pleaded.
She felt bad. This wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t in charge of the mission. It wasn’t his call to make. But she didn’t feel like she could voice her frustrations at anyone higher up.
“Let her go.”
Serinde turned to face the voice that had spoken behind her and saw someone much higher up than Wayan.
Throdiore Orthon. He looked regal with his gray hair slicked back and green robes with a white flower pinned to them. Not even his small round glasses took away from his kingly appearance.
