"In which the thieves are bound" — Den
The rising Sun's faint rays poked out from cracks in the thick and hoary cloud-cover. There was no rainfall, just a thick moisture hanging in the air: the dewy mist of earliest dawn spreading out across the land, not yet burned away by the Sun's oncoming heat. Denbas Sorman wiped crusting residue from his eyelids. The day was upon them once more; a cold spring morning, portending rainfall.
Rubbing bleary eyes, Den glanced over at Prince Phemelius. The noble Elf never seemed to tire; or maybe it was that he was always so stern, nearly gloomy, that his exhaustion blended in. He smirked at Den. "Still awake, Sorman?" There was a rustling in the cart behind, and a cough. "Hop back and grab some sleep then. My Captain has awoken, early as always. He will take over your watch."
Den saluted dutifully, then clambered back into the cart-bed, fighting the clumsiness of sleep-craving. He caught Dregal looking at him as the two passed each other by; the Captain gave him an approving nod. This was the plan, Den thought to himself. They had to test if they could trust me. The Captain, at least, seemed happy to see Den brought into the fold. This sort of camaraderie with the men was not so rare a trait among lower officers. And I'm in it, now, Den thought. I'm a part of the Prince's Mission. He slept with a smile, happy as the stone resting snugly in a border wall.
***
Dreg reached out a hand to catch one of the first raindrops. He looked up at the gray sky, then flopped the hood of his black cloak over his head. "Phem," he said. "Are you sure about this lad? He might not be a wicked sort, but he also might not be… for The Mission, as it were."
Grimly, Phemelius dipped his chin to one side. "There can be no certainty. Not least until he knows everything, and…" They shared a knowing look.
"She told me her worries," said Dreg. "And… hell, she's probably—" he lowered his voice to an over-loud whisper: "...actually, she's quite the nasty thing. Spose we leave 'er behind, and be done with it." Only Phemelius could see him grinning.
There were two throat-clearing noises from the back of the cart: one in a woman's voice, and the other, the obstinate growl of a sardonic, ginger-haired man. Phem rolled his eyes at Dregal, who still was beaming amusedly. "Well, as for this conversation between me and you, Dreg, I say there's hope. And seeing as Fia is asleep—don't you go telling her I said this—it's my opinion that she feels the same way." Another scoff from behind. Phemelius continued: "I imagine she'll be most put-out when at last Fia realizes I know her mind better than she does." This scoff was more of an annoyed half-laugh; Jaskell stifled a full-on chuckle.
"Sir." Dreg pulled Phemelius closer and whispered: "Let's not be waking the other two. And… don't be a lout. I know it's her way too, but it affects things. Every silly insult warrants three sincere admirations, I say."
Phemelius scratched his bald chin. His Elven eyes twinkled. "Yes," he said. "Yes indeed. I'm not saying this to her—she's asleep, remember—but: all things weighed, she's about the kindest person I've ever met. I wouldn't want anyone else at my side in a fight, and I fear her senses for people truly are better than mine." More scoffs and annoyed grumbles from their passengers. "I'm lucky that she's not awake to contest that last one."
"We're all lucky to be here with both of you," said Dregal. "For The Mission's sake, you couldn't ask for wiser warriors, nor friends more kindly-hearted. Um, not because you're Elves, and we human… because you're you two, you see."
"Not so lucky, as I see it," said Phemelius. He sat up, neck straight, and eyed the road ahead. "That's another thing to consider: Den's being worse off, should he become one of us."
Captain Dregal picked at the callouses on his thick fingers. The rain went from drizzle to full on shower, and the cart splashed on through the puddling sod of Newandrale's country roads.
***
Den had felt raindrops on his face, but there was a cloth close at hand under which to hide. He only properly awoke to a knock on the cart-wall next to him, by which time the rains were subsiding, and a ray of sunlight breached the clouds from above. The knock was Corporal Jaskell, who gave a muttered: "Meal time," before walking off. Den rolled into a seated position and rubbed his eyes: the others were standing in a circle around a pile of wet wood. He stumbled out of their wagon to join them.
Phemelius began to speak as soon as Den reached the collected company—Dregal handed him a bowl to eat as he listened. "This is to be our last stop before the city. We will need a great deal of supplies, as we will be… rushed, in our forthcoming travels westward. Word could reach Signestad before we did, so the utmost secrecy is required. Dreg, Jaskell, and you, Sorman: you three will go into town, so no talk of Elvish Princes spreads South." Den looked around them; the party was in a forest clearing, with only an encircling wall of trees in sight. But then, secrecy. This town must be close by.
"Food that will keep," said Fia. "And Dreg, you'll need to remove that soldier's tabard. You're to be common travelers, unworthy of a second glance."
"Indeed," said Phemelius. "We'll meet you south of town later tonight. Den, the Captain's seen the map, so stick with him. Couldn't hurt to keep your ears open: any whispers relevant to our plans could be of use. And mouths shut; do nothing that might attract attention." He glanced at Jaskell, then looked back at the three as a group. "Now go!"
"Why they get t'do the gettin'?" said Getta, as the other three humans departed, first to the cart for supplies and Dregal's outfit change.
"We've gotta go over the plan for the Big Score," came Fia's gleeful reply. "Sharp scheme, no doubt—can't go wrong with Princey here as our number one."
***
Captain Dregal led the three through the woods, and back out the road. There was another town here after all: a larger one, nearly a city, with a decent fence around its center, and guards posted without. They strolled up towards this gate: Den, Jaskell and Dreg, they flanked by outlying farm lands which wafted muddy aromas, thick with sowers and mud-tilling field hands.
Den, coming awake in the sun of mid-day, squinted and turned to address Dregal on his left. "Captain, Sir," he said. "What do you make of Fia being a Hy—I mean, of her being an Elf-human mix? I'm not sure how many of those I've made friends of."
"Huh," said Dreg, with a quick glance past Den's head. "Well… it's an unenviable position she's in, not really belongin' among us humans or Commander's Elves. Way I figure, you'd end up havin' to choose what you are, and make that choice bravely known."
From Den's right came the high voice of Jaskell, pleased: "She's good at what she does."
"Oh…" Den thought about their strange companion, her bold outfit and direct, almost cutting manner of speech: "That must be why she's such a help with the planning, the nature of our dress. If you can, uh, choose to be something, you could choose to be anything."
"She's a troubadour," said Dregal. "A performer. The covert nature of our mission, it's almost like a work of theater." He regarded Den curiously. "I'm told Commander Phemelius went into more detail with you last night. What do you make of our Mission, Sorman? Bit odd to be robbing our own people, what with The War on, no?"
"Yes," said Den. He remembered his worries. "It's, um… I don't like it. But I think I see why: some humans seem to have turned against the Elves, our friends in the Western Kingdom. They're at least keeping this burner weapon's location a secret. And I know that things have been… unkind in Newandrale lately. Probably it's human foolishness, turning us away from the Western light, that's caused our worsening." Den looked up at Dregal resolutely. "Come what may, I'm with The Mission, that the Prince might set things right."
"Eh…" said Dregal. "Phem doesn't fancy himself as much of a Prince. A Commander, maybe…"
"He's ashamed of his own failures, or what he sees as failures," Den said, and protested: "But he's still the Duke's son, and furthermore a Hero! There can be such a thing as too much humility, I say."
Jaskell rolled his eyes at Den and the Captain (who'd already been smiling back), said only: "And also not enough."
Dregal brought the three to a halt just outside of town. Any closer and people would start to hear, even in their hushed tones. He spoke more quietly: "Strong drive: belief you've a wrong to atone for. Phem's a wise man, wise beyond 'is years—and 'e's got more a' them than I do. Ain't the same as self-doubt; and don't you doubt his conviction for The Mission, or his principles. He believes in us, more'n a lot."
Den glanced around anxiously, saw no eavesdroppers, and lowered his own voice: "...He relies on you, doesn't he? Well, what good is a Captain you don't trust?"
Dreg smiled, took Den by the shoulder, and bode them continue. "Nay, blabbermouth old butcher like me would hardly be 'is first choice for trustin'." He saw Den's skeptical expression and widened his eyes plaintively. "No, seriously. Look, Den: he prob'ly trusts Fia the most, then Jaskell, maybe meself next, then Getta, and then himself."
Jaskell shook his head. "Butcher or no, that's self-doubt, y'old softy. You're above me no question, in the eyes of any with good sense."
They hadn't noticed Den's shoulders sag. "But not me," he said, sighing.
Dreg patted him on the back. "Bah, he just don't know you so well yet. Twenty-seven years I've worked with that big hickory-switch of a man, and hardly ten smiles through it all. Anyway, he don't have to trust'cha to care for ya—and that he certainly does." Jaskell scoffed, to which Dregalshot back a dirty glare.
"But… he values all your wisdom over his own?" Covertly, Den pointed with his eyes back at Jaskell. "He's a High Elf."
"Not as 'high' as you might figure. He's got a clear sense of direction." said Dregal, and the Captain averted his attention to their surroundings. Officer-speak again.
Den could've probably guessed that the Prince didn't fully trust him yet. Only last night had he revealed The Mission to him, and they were all outright hostile to him not two days prior. Still stung. Well, at least Getta was also low in the ranking—no great surprise to be wary of a common thief. There was an interesting tidbit Den hadn't seen coming, which he now turned over in his mind: it was Fia of all people whom the Prince trusted most highly. Not that she lacked skill, wisdom, or the nobility of Elven blood; Den still found himself disagreeing with the sentiment. He was ashamed to find himself feeling that she was more like Getta; that she would abandon any of them for her own ends. What is a soldier without such a people-sense?
Jaskell called out from a meter or so away: "I'm splittin' off to find some dry goods for us potato-eaters. Time's a-wastin', men!" He carried on down a rightward side-street.
Dregal shook his head. "A wonderful knobhead," he muttered, smiling. "But a knobhead all the same." The two reached the center of town, where artisans and merchants hawked their wares, crowds perused them, and a fancy-dressed Town Crier stood on a box above the throng, ringing a little brass bell and shouting the local goings-on.
"I'm not sure I, um…" Den looked to Dregal, venturing. "I'm not sure about that man Jaskell. He's good with a bow, no question. But is he really worthy of a such a high degree of trust?"
"Phem would tell you t'doubt his own judgment, but I won't," Dreg replied. "Jaskell is the best man for this Mission. Maybe got a high opinion of himself, but I say it's warranted. And I should know; who you think built a little fire-headed scrawn into that soldier you see?"
"Oh, uh… you?"
Dreg shook his head and wagged his finger. "Takes many. Now c'mon, let's do our duty."
The Captain found a butcher's stall and began to assess the meats. "We ain't got so much coin to spare, and only one day where we can eat this 'fore it's spoilt," he said, half to himself. "Hmm…"
Den surveyed the rest of the area. There were stalls for dried vegetables and cheeses, glass-wares, medicines and clothing; a blacksmith's stall with forge and anvil, for the repair of common tools. And there were a few market guards adorned with the Wolf of Lord Benail's men; he shrunk, averted his eyes down, tried to maintain his resolve. This was not a place to be found out. The good news was that he, personally, was not anybody of note. Even if someone knew his name—unlikely—they wouldn't think much of seeing him. 'There's that failed guardsman,' or 'hey, my old friend from Tarlast,' or whatever.
On the topic of news, Den thought that the Crier might have something worth hearing (or perhaps the gossips gathered around him in the central square), and, with one eye on Dregal behind, drew closer to the squarecatch a few lines from the word-streamover the din.
"—TWO INJURED IN WAGON ACCIDENT!" shouted the newsman. "DAYLE PORTER LEG BROKEN, MINSHRA PORTER BEDRIDDEN WITH GUT CRUSHED, 'CAUSE THEIR WAGON FLIPPED INTO A RUT ON A HARD TURN! …POTTERY SALE! TWO FERMENTATION VASES FOR ONE BRONZE RAY! …DUKE DEAD! GENERAL MOLIESVAR SUCCUMBED TO AGE AND INJURY IN HIS KEEP IN OREVICTORUM! … GOOSE SEASON! LORD BENAIL TO OFFER—"
Den very nearly jumped; he plowed through the crowd and tapped the man on the thigh. "Ho, Crier!" he shouted, and the Crier stopped his screed to glare at Den, obviously annoyed. "Is it true? Duke Moliesvar's passed away?"
"Yea," said the Crier. "Word reached Joriantum yesterday." He raised his head to continue shouting over the crowd, and stuck an extended palm out at Den. Expectantly, with professional poise. Sorman fished around in his light money-pouch and found a ten-Beam coin to press into the man's palm. Wasn't much, but it would have to do. He hurried away through the crowd, still listening.
He found Dregal again, now peering over a little spice stall. Wouldn't mind some salt, thought Den.
"What'd he have t'say?" Dreg muttered without looking.
"Uh… nothing much," Den lied. I'd best tell the Prince myself, he thought. "I was hoping to hear some news about, you know. Our destination."
Dreg twisted and leaned back to whisper in Den's ear: "There's a Sergeant yonder to the southwest… uh, by that rug stall over there. Don't look now! I dunno the man, but there's a chance he'd recognize me. Should spyin' be yer game, that's where I'd begin."
Den saw them, two guards: a sergeant and a wide-eyed initiate. He tarried a moment so as to appear natural, then stalked away, skirting the crowds. The key was to look like you were trying to buy something, meandering around the ring of stalls with eyes downcast and feet unhurried. He tried his best. In a minute or so he'd made his way to a stall selling leather goods (which was next to the rug stall); here he came to a halt, and listened for the muttering of guards as he picked up and inspected a hide bag. Guarding was the most droll sort of work; these two at his rightwere bound to start chattering about something or other.
He heard the speaking of the older guard, the sergeant; the middle of some conversation: "…she ain't much of a looker, that's the truth of it."
The younger guard responded more quietly, his voice a snicker: "Yeah, but… in the bedding?"
"Uh-huh," said the Sergeant. "Ravenous for it. But—a biter; and there's the lesson fer life: don't go stickin' it in a girlie who can't keep 'er eyes on straight…"
Well this was going nowhere. If there was one thing that guardsmen could discuss forever it was 'girlies,' and this was hardly the sort of information Den was after. He himself was a guardsman, though (a guard-for-hire more than one of these recruited men, but he'd been both), so he could speak their language. He could even afford to be sort of honest as, again, he wasn't someone worthy of note.
Den stepped up to face these guardsmen and address them directly, at which they became immediately annoyed. "Oi," he said to the sergeant. "I'm a man like yourself, out of Inemestrel up North. Any word of work for another guy stuck standing around?"
The Sergeant was taller than Den, and looked down the length of his nose at this new stranger. "We've got enough guards," he said gruffly. "Move along."
This was a fine example of Officer-Speak, but Den wasn't going to give up so easily. "Oh no," he said. "Not here, necessarily. Must say I'm quite desperate to make a difference wherever services are needed. I've heard there's greater demand in Signestad, where things are not nearly so… well-guarded."
The Sergeant crossed his eyes. "Signestad? By the Front?" He flicked a glance at his companion, and then smiled back at Den. "I'm sure they'd be happy to take a hero like yourself into their service. Good pay too, no doubt. Long-term pay—now that's a sheezin' investment! 'F'you've got a lady, she'd make out with lots a' fancy things in the arrangement." The younger guardsman sneered.
Den could tell that he was being mocked. And some part of him, some red sore of wounded pride, wanted to spit back (or perhaps imply) that he was, in fact, on a heroic Mission for Phemelius the Lost Prince himself. He was stupid in those days, but not quite that stupid. He settled for sputtering out a "Thanks…" and then, forcing himself not to leave (as these two men clearly wanted, much as the embarassed Denbas Sorman) he ventured to ask: "…is it truly, um, so dangerous there? I've never been to Signestad…"
After swallowing the annoyance that Den was still here talking to him, the Sergeant smiled and swept a hand out into the air before himself, portraying wonderment and glory. "That there's a Frontier of Opportunity. You play your cards right, kid, I'm sure there's a sweet bit of land out there for you to water, and—" He stifled a chuckle. "...fertilize." Both the young guard and the Sergeant burst out laughing, and Den, red-faced, slinked away. From behind the Sergeant called after him: "And don't forget to show them Darks who's boss! They make good fertilizer, too!" prompting another bout of mocking laughter.
He returned to Captain Dregal, who handed him a parcel to carry, and looked at him with pity. "Don't worry yourself too much about them cruel bludgers," he said to Den. "They don't much know yer troubles… there's the problem, case 'n cause."
"Not just cruelty," said Den. "It's like… like they don't even believe in The War anymore. In goodness. Like they're content to just wallow here, low and selfish, mocking from afar those brave men who die for the cause!"
"Hmm," said Dregal, and he eyed the guardsmen. "Now there's a growing sentiment. Come now, Sorman, we have our own work to worry about. Go have another look at the leathers, that belt of yours is worn thin."
Den wandered away dejected. He realized that there was a reassurance: The Mission had already energized him, lifted him out of hopelessness and apathy. The War had lasted many years, and many recent defeats had his people suffered. Should the Prince's Mission succeed, it would be just the boost in morale to save the spirits of his human kinsfolk—perhaps even from themselves. Victory was close at hand; Den had to do whatever he could to ensure Elven grace would reignite the hearts of men. The Mission had to succeed.
Before he'd got to bed, Dregal had taken back the short swords they'd been training with, but Den could guess that they'd have one for him; that he was worried about Den's belt because he'd soon be needing to carry a sword on it. The matter was, as officers say, 'Mission Critical'. Den scoured the leather-stall with the seriousness of a Hero searching for a captured noble maiden. All throughout the day he followed Dregal's orders with aplomb, and busied himself with ensuring that they'd have the best possible chances in Signestad, their target.
***
The Sun was nearly setting, and the clouds returned, when Den and Dregal, well-laden and freshly belted, first saw Jaskell return from his own ventures. They were on the southern side of the town now, taking care of—in Dregal's words—'a last few sundry matters.' Jaskell sauntered towards them with a hefty sack over each shoulder, grinning and whistling as though without a care in the world. Dreg said: "Aye, let's be off then," and found a southern-heading road.
Den eyed Jaskell warily, and looked around the streets behind him. "Where did you get all that?" he hissed, for Jaskell hadn't been in the markets. The man had bundles of food, no doubt, but even if 'saving humans from themselves,' unscrupulous means of 'getting' would draw ire again, and Phemelius had mandated: 'don't attract attention' quite clearly.
Jaskell smiled back at Den's sharp frown. "What? Oh, don't worry, Sour-man. There's no mob of farmers after me... and there won't be, I've seen to it. There's more than one way of swindlin'…"
Den noticed that Jaskell's belt was lined with a few new pouches, too, and fat ones. He was confused, but no less suspicious. "What…"
Jaskell followed Dreg down the road, and Den after. "Oh, you know," he said. "Some of the people here are of considerable means. Plenty of big houses… but not stealin,' see—the key is to aim higher, with a smile on your face. The older ones are wealthier and lonelier, their husbands inattentive, or even dead..." He shot Denbas one final grin. "Such generosity, to nice, handsome young soldiers passing through…"
Oh, excellent. Whatever matrons he'd 'swindled,' Den hoped they would keep their lips closed on the matter, and Jaskell, too. Such transgressions were harder for men to notice, but also harder to forget, and worse to hear—these husbands wouldn't stop for any arrow if they knew. And this didn't seem much fairer than flat robbery; worse, really. Dishonorable. Why Prince Phemelius settled to bring this wily, wicked Jaskell on The Mission—and greatly trusted him, if Dreg was to be believed—Den could not begin to guess.
The three soldiers were on the outskirts of town, now, and Dregal pointed towards the trees ahead. "We'll make a left into the woods there," he said, and they did. There was no sign of a trail here; it was thick leaf-mat and underbrush they tramped through, so Den could only put his trust in the Captain's sense of direction. The woods still smelled of dampness, of the morning's rainfall mingling with the rot of fallen leaf and ancient stump. Only a lick of golden sunlight reached through the canopy to them, so that it was very nearly dark.
***
The three men emerged into a little grassy clearing, and there were Phemelius, Fia, Getta, and their traveling cart. These three greeted the returning supply-collectors warmly as those same supplies were set down on the ground or in their vehicle. Den saw Jaskell take a pouch off his belt and cinch it open, then in two fingers twirl a golden coin from it before the eyes of Getta. Those two, the foul ones, had their own little thieves-parlay; excited whispers and the jingling of swindle-gotten gains. Dregal revealed a package of meat to the other two, the Elves, and already there was a fire smoldering in the clearing for the evening's dinner.
Den tapped Phemelius on the shoulder and, when the Prince turned, whispered solemnly: "My—um, Commander, Sir. May I speak to you in private for a moment?"
Phem looked at Denbas and, seeing the human man's sincerity, took him by the shoulder. "Yes, yes," he said, "come, let's go into the forest a-ways…"
"What's the matter, Den?" Phemelius asked, once they were out of earshot.
"It's…" Den shuffled awkwardly. "Um, I don't know how to say it. Well… it's your father, Sir, the Duke. He's… passed on, he rests with Emolelei in the Heavens. The Crier in town insisted that word came directly from Orevictorum not two days hence." Den knew that city to be the Prince's place of birth; Duke Moliesvar's manor-lands in the Elven Kingdom far to the West, further West even than Nuvikolona, the westernmost human state.
Phemelius held his head, and set himself sitting down upon a fresh-looking stump.
"I'm sorry, Sir. I thought you ought to know first, that you had a right to know. And that it might help, you know, the—"
"I can but focus," said Phemelius. "On the way he lived." He raised his head, and with reddened eyes beheld some distant tree. "You remember, don't you, Den? You said—where did you say you were born, again?"
"Tarlast, Sir."
"Tarlast, yes. I believe we went through there with our parade. Do you remember it? Our Alliance Victory March sixteen years ago, after my father's assassins cut down half the Night-Elf council?"
Den smiled. "Of course! I remember well that day, when the bravest of the General's soldiers defeated three of the Dark Masters." Den did not dare speak the names of the Dark Ones in their own black tongue. "The Dusk Witch, the Moon King, and the Queen of Blades all were slain. Your father had their heads on pikes at his side!" That was a better day indeed. Of all that Den had seen of High Elves, Moliesvar was surely the greatest. He was confident that Phemelius would get there, too, and beyond; that was The Mission. To prove the Prince deserved his station.
"Mmm," said the Prince. "Your translations are lacking. Ahkt-Elskein-Muweleamayet named the one, in Night-Elvish, 'Knife-Sister'. The other two are closer to 'Glow-Binder' and 'Moon-Stalker,' I think."
Den was taken aback. "You speak the demon tongue?"
"As I've said, Den, I seek to understand friend and foe alike. A greater insight can only ever help me navigate this War, my own drives, and our Mission."
Den considered this, a finger scratching his slightly scruffy chin. There was a clear evil in the words of the Dark Ones; they could cast cruel spells using it, to poison any who heard them. On the other hand, in knowing their speech, one might be able to intercept their schemes, their covert planning. It was a difficult matter; to study the black speech seemed a mix of wisdom and foolishness both. But the Prince was wise; one as noble as he might be able to resist the pull of evil, and even conquer it, dredging mire for glinting weaponry and sure footing. This was all a part of his Elvish mystery. Perhaps this was his way to grow beyond the greatness of his father; a new approach to battle-wisdom that could be enough to change the winds of war. That was the nature of The Mission, wasn't it? A novel approach, one only Prince Phemelius could have devised. "I suppose that make sense," said Den. "No wonder you bested so many of The Enemy, studying their nature. Most Elven heroes could hardly boast the same. I'd like to learn more their language, if you'd teach me."
Phem sighed. "'Heroes'… Den, I wouldn't be so certain…"
"My—my Prince!" Den put passion into his words. "You mustn't be so hard on yourself! Humility is one thing, but how can you grow into your destiny if you continue doubting your own Elven greatness?"
Phemelius snorted, amused. "You… it need not be an evil. Skepticism. As for 'Hero,' just you wait. I'll have the word off your tongue, on my behalf at least." He turned away, and waved a hand at Den. "Go! Have the sup you've earned. I need a moment alone."
Den saw the sorrow that the Prince was trying to hide, and knelt down to meet his eyes, speaking softly, gently: "I'm so sorry, Sir. I know you loved him."
"Still do." said Phemelius. "And that's the difficulty. Affection… affects."
The Prince said so many strange things—they had the air of wisdom, but Den could not see their meaning. At the least it made sense he mourned his father, and felt some shame for how that ending came about.Den left Phemelius to his grief.
***
The fire crackled pleasantly, and the smell of stew was on the air. Meat and spice and tubers they'd bought (or 'swindled') by the day, all swirled together into a delightful mix thanks to Captain Dreg. Eventually Phemelius joined them all around the fire pit and sat, munching and enjoying the conversation as much as any other. Jaskell had even been 'gifted' a little wicker-wrapped bottle of wine, and though Den disagreed with the method of its procurement in the strongest possible terms, he could not deny the way it warmed him. Warmed the very air between the band of soon-to-be thieves.
"And then what'd he say?" Fia asked, mirth dimpling her face.
"Oh, well…" Den shied and frowned. "That there'd be 'land for me to fertilize'. I think, um, I think he meant my corpse." There was a moment of uneasy silence.
"Hah!" she snapped back. "That or with your shit! Oh, your human language such a delightful thing, its harshness like a paddle to the head. 'Fuck' this, and 'shit' that, I've never heard a tongue so fit for cursing."
"...Wait," said Den. "So you speak High-Elven?"
"Suppose I'd better," she said, and wagged a thumb at Phemelius. "At least as well as that big oaf." Jaskell smirked.
Dregal stood and collected empty bowls from the others. When he reached Den, he said: "Commander's been teachin' us all a bit of the Westerly tongue. Might have to give you a couple phrases before we make our way over the border and into those sun-soaked lands."
Den considered this with awe. They were going to the Elven Kingdom, once they'd stolen their Elvish weapon back from the humans in Signestad. They'd be welcomed as heroes! Well, assuming their Mission went as planned… "Will we truly be safe in Signestad? That's near the War-Front, right? From how those guardsmen told it, it sounds as if there is a battle coming."
"Nothing is certain," said Phemelius. "But, yes, the humans are planning military action for tomorrow; it is likely that Lord Benail himself will be in the city to oversee. This timing is a blessing: the humans will be preoccupied with matters Eastward, and won't see our trouble coming from the northwest."
"Okay, but…" Den's face sank. "Depending on how the battle goes, we ourselves could be faced with… um, Night Elves." He gulped.
"—And that's why we'd do well to prepare," said Dregal, and he pointed at the men in turn: "Jaskell, go collect us more firewood. Getta, you're on dishes tonight; there's a stream a few trees eastward; Fia will show the way. Den, you're with me, we've got more sword-practice to—"
"Nay," the Prince piped in. "I will help Sorman with his exercises tonight." The others were already up and hastening to fulfill their own tasks; Den stood, and Phemelius led him away. "He means well, but… he is perhaps not the best teacher," the Elf whispered. "Probably pushed a whole bunch of words on you, before you could stop to absorb any of them, huh?"
Den shrugged. "Wasn't so bad. I think I learned a lot… but, I mean, I could certainly learn more." To be trained by an Elven Prince was a great honor; Den's chest swelled out.
"Yes. Best to be warmed by many fires," said the Prince. "For each may strengthen you in its own irreplaceable way." He collected a sheathed sword from the cart, then took Den to an open space on the opposite side of the field. "Violence is a matter of muscle, knowledge, and confidence in the harmonious use of both. Best to start simple, for a foundation: a Sword can slash a man, and the neck is a vulnerable spot. You've already learned of stabbing with a spear, no?"
Den nodded.
"Very well." He handed Den the sword, hilt first. "Close your eyes and imagine now an enemy before you. What do you see?"
Den did as the Prince asked, and envisioned a Dark Elf charging at him, brandishing a wicked blade. He shuddered. "It's coming to kill me," he said.
"An urgent matter," said the Prince. "So what will you do?"
Den unsheathed the sword and swung a sidelong cut ahead, near to where the neck of a Night Elf might be, just higher than his own neck. He exhaled.
"And then?" The Prince said. "What do you imagine you'd have done?"
"I… I suppose I killed it first. Before it could get me, I mean."
"Doubtful," Phemelius said. "Your stance was poor, and swing slow; easily defended from. And anyway, a Night Elf is likely to be shorter than you, so you'd have probably hit their nose, and bounced your sword off the bones of their face. A gruesome injury, no doubt, but the opponent would be alive enough to have their own way, and none too happy at the pain." Phem held out his hand, and ashamed Den pressed the sword into it. The Prince crouched low and held the sword pointed straight ahead, at a height slightly lower than Den had, and lunging forwards swiped the blade in a tiny arc, only a few centimeters across, and dragged it back into a steady stance. "A neck is a soft thing; you need not deliver it some great swirling chop. A little cut like that will kill any living thing whose neck you can reach with it. Try again." He returned the sword.
Den crouched into a low stance and tried to copy the Prince's movements: a swift and measured swipe of the blade-tip. Dissatisfied with his own rendition, he tried once more, and again, until he felt the move sufficiently mastered. "Alright, let's—"
"Good," said Phemelius. "That's the spirit. On the battlefield you will need to be at least as swift, and have this cut, and others you may come to learn, feel as second nature. One only feels such confidence swell in them as a result of practice, and thoughtful practice at that. Practice that strike… hmm… six hundred and ninety more times; by then you will have achieved greater mastery of the sword, the killing of Enemies, and the limits of your own muscles. Don't forget to consider the effects, and how you might have done it better, after each attempt—balance, speed, and the right measure of strength. Reflection is a luxury you will not be able to afford in the heat of battle, so now you must use it well." Phemelius turned and started back towards the fire.
Den was dumbfounded. "What, the same—"
"Six hundred and ninety," Phemelius snipped from a few more meters away. Officer-speak of the gravest kind. Elven, royal-speak.
Well, the Prince knew a thing or two about fighting, no question. He'd been hoping for something more like a spar, but couldn't argue the point that he could use even the simplest of practice. He sighed and took a battle-stance again.
***
The black of night was fully upon them as Den trudged back to the fire; stars twinkled, and the Moon was but a sliver. He threw himself onto the ground and sighed heavily, sweating, flexing, sorting a sour Sorman's sore sword-arm. Wordlessly, Jaskell passed him the wine bottle, and Den eked out a few final sips. The others had been conversing, but the return of Denbas Sorman had halted their hushed chatter.
"F-Fia," he panted. "How about a… song?" Fia smiled and raised her eyebrows.
"No," Phemelius said. "Not tonight. We are on the eve of yet the most perilous leg of our journey; tomorrow we venture into uncertain danger, and will succeed only by the strength of all together. Amusement is not what we need." He stood and strode over to their cart. Den looked around confused; everyone else seemed to know what he was doing. Dregal smiled solemnly.
Phemelius returned with a rope; a plain sort of rope, as one might use to leash their least favorite horse. "Come, comrades," he said, and pressed a fist forwards over the fire, saying: "meet your hands with mine."
Den followed the others standing, and six fists met, two Elves and four men of human birth, shadows over the firelight. There was a certain radial pattern to their collected fists, and with his other hand (and help from Dregal, Jaskell and Fia) Phemelius began to tie a knot around their hands and wrists. The wrapping of the rope came to resemble a six-pointed star; Phem pulled it tighter, passed its end through all their fingers. Then with quiet fury he chanted a war-poem, battle-promise, be it a blessing or a curse, and all six glanced with flame-lit eyes at one another as the grave-faced Elf did say:
By the night, by the metal,
By the blood spilled and the darkening Moon,
By the treachery of those who'd see us end,
There will be no defeat, no conquering,
While our people still draw breath,
And no ending to our bond,
We will not be broken,
My strength is yours to give.
Then with speed Phem drew a blade from beneath his cloak, a steel blade, a plain soldier's dagger polished sharply, and stabbing thrust it downwards towards the center of the knot. Den's eyes widened with fear, but somehow did not shy away—and it was not as though he had the option to withdraw his hand. Maybe that knowledge was why he stood firm, perhaps it was some magic in the chant. The rope split, and the knife missed all six hands; not a drop of blood was spilled. Phemelius took his fist, now freed, and raised it, the ropes still bound around his wrist. "The rope breaks, but we shall never be sundered," he said, and shouted: "NOYSS! We warriors… US!"
The other four raised their own fists; Den, caught up in the emotion, did the same. "NOYSS!" each man shouted, and it is a word in Phemelius' native tongue, one meaning 'We,' or 'Us'. Den could feel it now. He was a part of The Mission. He beamed and looked around at the others; there was quiet wonder in the air, a flame of fellowship. And then the moment ended; Phemelius sat back down, unraveled the rope from his wrist, and cast it into the fire. The others sat around him, somber, for minutes in silence.
Den perked up. "We should be getting sleep," he said. "But… someone will need to keep watch! I can do it… I'm ready to serve The Mission!"
Phemelius smiled. "You'll have your time, Den, but it's been quite a day for you. That arm of yours needs the bed-rest. Jaskell! Fia!" Those two stood slowly. "You're on watch tonight. And do try to keep the noise down…"
Jaskell grinned. "Wouldn't wanna ruin anyone's beauty sleep," he said.
Den could hardly protest; these were orders, and he was plenty exhausted. There was a tent for two and the cart beside, with plenty of fresh blankets and sacks from town. Den and the other three men found satisfying sleeping-spots and curled up for the night. Tomorrow, Den thought with anticipation.Tomorrow will be the day to end all days. Glory to the Prince, and all of us! He fell soundly asleep not long after the thought ran its course through his mind.
***
"So, what… a scholar of Western-speak, but still not much for speaking it?" asked Jaskell.
Fia was staring into the sinking embers of the fire pit. "I will not say 'noyss,' not while things are yet uncertain," she said.
"Yeah, well, I guess you can't…" Jaskell glanced back at the cart, where two human men lay sleeping. "That Denbas guy's a real stickler, huh? Wonder why Phem even bothered keeping—"
"Uncertain," Fia said again. "There's a peace in certainty. A… a 'metal'." She sighed heavily, then looked up at Jaskell and smiled. "I'd like to sic you on him, yeah. Would be funny. We can't afford to be indulgent, though. It's all very delicate…"
"I'm sorry," whispered Jaskell. "I don't mean to—"
"Nah, you're good." She smiled again, a full grin into Jaskell's eyes. "We've each got a battle to face. Yours is: shutting up."
Jaskell remained somber, despite the joke. "Not face alone. Stronger Together," he said, and the fire popped and sparkled. His part of the rope still lay around his wrist.
Fia nodded. "We all are. Den… I wish I knew for sure how things might land."
***
Den Sorman woke before the sunrise; in the morning gray, a meaty hand grabbed hold of him, and from its yanking back and forth did the young man's eyes pop open. The hand was Dregal's, and the man attached said: "Sorman! We're gonna get movin'. Grab a snack and help us ready."
Den watched their Captain do the same to Getta and rubbed his eyes, yawning. The soreness in his arm panged dully. Jaskell jumped up into the cart-bed next to him, and handed Den a carrot and a few bits of cured meat. "Eat and let's be at it then," the Corporal said, and he hurried off also. Den caught him continuing to glance back as he went to pack down the tent. At least it wasn't accompanied by the usual acidic smile.
Den had never been one to enjoy carrots; after gulping down some jerky he looked around, and walked over to feed the vegetable to their horse. The beast seemed to appreciate the gesture, it snorted, and Den patted it on the snout. He then found Dregal, and the officer was quick to hand out orders. Soon the cart was fully packed; Dreg bode Den to sit up front with him. The Elves, he said, would be hidden away from all passerby from now on, and covered permanently when they reached the city.
Their cart jerked forwards and the group was off. Den fingered the rope-bracelet he'd fashioned on his wrist. A reminder: they were all part of the same Mission now. Personal differences would have to wait. Maybe Jaskell's had the same thought, Den thought to himself. Anything to mellow the man was a blessing.
Getta chewed up the last end-knob of his own carrot (his teeth were in poor shape) and tapped Den from behind, saying: "Ey, Sour-man. Why couldn't'cha get us bread?"
Jaskell reached into a sack and produced a hearty loaf, then tore a piece; Getta's eyes lit up as he grabbed it. Jaskell called up to Dreg and Den: "Want some?"
Couldn't hurt. Den twisted back and took a piece gratefully; behind the two men, he saw Fia and Phemelius looking over big wrinkled pieces of parchment and whispering to each other. Elves, he thought. What delightfully mysterious creatures. They could be admiring some old Elven ballad at a time like this, just as easily as—
Phemelius caught Den's eyes. "Oh, Den," he said. "You need to be caught up on The Plan."
The Plan, of course! Their Mission was a secretive and dangerous one; Den could understand that they'd been most precise in concocting a plan to get in and out with the golden Elvish Weapon. He'd been meaning to ask anyway; for his role. "Yes, Sir," he said. "Do tell."
"Jaskell, switch with Den for a moment," said Phemelius, and the two humans made a swap, so Den was in the back with the Elves and Getta. "Alright, now as I've told you, Sorman: the noblemen of Newandrale have been most secretive about their possession of this device. Suffice to say that, were I to reveal myself as Phemelius of Orevictorum and demand an audience, they would make no mention at all of the weapon, and if I mentioned it, well, who knows how things might go. Flat lies, hostility—I can foresee only negative outcomes. I must not be found, indeed it is that the presence of any unexpected Elf should remain quite unknown, for as long as we can hide ourselves."
Den looked at both the Elves; Fia wouldn't be easy to hide. Phemelius continued: "That's the simplest hard rule behind our Plan, but there are others." He held up the parchment he'd been scouring, and now Den could see it was a sort of map diagram: a floor plan of a building, seen from above. "This is the Keep of Signestad. And here—" He pointed to a rectangular room. "—is the Cache, the storeroom where they'll be keeping the weapon ahead of the oncoming battle. This room is locked and guarded." Den nodded attentively.
"Your task and Captain Dregal's is the lock. It is… well it is quite a very good lock, such that we cannot get inside without the actual Key. In truth the city is something of a frontier Fortress, and this room was made so as to resist infiltration from even the cleverest of Night-Elven incursions. This would be a problem, had we not collected the information as to where that Key was held. Knowledge, you see, is the greatest weapon of all." Fia grinned at Phemelius, nearly giggling. The Prince noticed this and blushed.
"…uh-Ahem—anyway, the Key is held here—" He pointed to an outbuilding. "—in the Barracks. Specifically, in the cellar, in this room here." The map of the Barracks split its view into several floors, and Den noted the location of the little storeroom Phem pointed to. "And this building is, naturally, very well guarded—it's where they sleep, and so on. Not quite so well guarded as the Cache—that would defeat the purpose—but there is wisdom in the Key's location, as it is both hidden distant and independently difficult to obtain. That is, for an intruder. A guard, or a pair of guards, correctly clad, could walk in and have the Key with a minimum of sneaking; even if sighted: 'Whoops, I thought my Sergeant said the South storeroom, not the North,' and minimal friction would be drawn."
Den understood, of course: who better than a gruff little soldier-type and a young, unassuming soldier-nobody to play as guards? "What of the uniforms, though?" he asked. "They're all slightly different, between Inemestrel, and Joriantum, and Signestad and so on. Your own old uniforms certainly won't work."
"They will from a distance," said Phemelius. "And while you're cloaked. But yes, within the Barracks you'd be most conspicuous indeed, to those discerning eyes which would be present. But if there's one part of them that isn't so well-guarded—and I've confirmed this, don't you worry—it's the laundry. That's where I come in: there is a high window here…" He pointed to one side of the Barrack's ground floor. "The three of us will sneak in from beside the road through this northern yard here, and I'll help you gentlemen in, once I've confirmed an opening where no one will see us from within or without."
Den looked closer at the yard where Phemelius had traced a path. The buildings, rooms and areas were all labeled, mostly in just the way you'd suspect: 'Cache,' 'Barracks,' 'Laundry-Room,' and so on. But the yard—"Why is it labeled 'Cageyards'?" Den asked, squinting. It does say 'cage,' right?
The two Elves shared a glance. "Ah yes," said Phem. "There are cages out there indeed, good question, Den. This city is quite young, and perhaps they've underestimated the size of their Dungeons. Some prisoners are kept outside, it would seem." Weird. Well, it wasn't like criminals needed comfortable lodgings, or safety from The Enemy. Hopefully it was only the worst criminals that got put out there.
"After you've gotten dressed and obtained the Key, you will of course need to hurry—while acting nonchalant—for the Cache. With any luck, nobody will question two soldiers walking around about their duties. Maybe Dreg can fill you in on patrol routes so you don't seem out-of-place, or maybe you can find your way into a patrol in that part of the Keep. Time is of the essence."
"Yes," said Den. "But what about everyone else?"
"You will meet us all at this western door of the Cache," said Phem. "And don't you waste your thoughts on our tasks. There will be plenty of distracting to do, to ensure you reach the door, and that we all get inside unmolested. Focus on your part in the action. Now, there's the matter of our egress. Jaskell here will remain with the cart and bring it around to the South, but there's a high chance that we're found out before we reach him. This is The Plan's true genius: the soldiers have been told that the weapon will be brought out for the battle: brought out, to the Front. As you can see, there is an Eastern door to the Cache, and that's doubtless where it will be brought from. Carried out by soldiers—today, and this everyone expects."
Den gasped. "So we'll pretend to bring it out for them… but Sir! How will we then get it from the Front down to Jaskell and our getaway?" He winced; deep in his heart, he already knew the answer.
Phemelius smiled. "Why, by skirting the edge, of course. Yes, the very bleeding edge of the Front. We will bring the weapon through that land where no man travels; and venture East or back West, to whatever land is thinner of soldiers, to and fro. Keep in mind, Sorman, the battle will not yet have started. In all likelihood, all the soldiers will be resting and preparing, and there will be only scouts out there to stop us, if there is anyone at all—on both sides."
"But really, Sir… it's madness! Why, even if we can avoid the human soldiers, chasing us when they do eventually realize our ploy; any number of Dar—Night Elves could be waiting for us. Our mission would be worse than failed if this weapon falls into their lands!" And that was just The Mission; to enter the Dark Lands, even briefly, filled Den with dread for his own safety. Bravery, Den, he told himself. You have to be strong.
"Have faith, Sorman," said the Prince. "The work did not begin this day. We have prepared in every way possible, and if you serve The Mission true, your fight will not end in Signestad. On that you have my word."
"Alright, sir. I understand. It will be done." He shivered and saluted, meeting the Prince's steady gaze.
Phemelius took a bit of charcoal out of the folds of his clothes and started marking the map. He handed it to Den, and it now contained a line: from the North Road through the Cageyards, into the Barracks Laundry-Room and its cellar Storeroom, then out along the Keep's outer walls, through a small door, and twisting through the halls to the West entrance of the Cache. From there the trail went due East to the front, and then along the border—the very Easternmost Border of Newandrale, beyond which only Evil lay—South until more southern than the city's southernmost gates. Even with all this planning (and Den realized that the night he met them in Inemestrel was part of this; that nobleman knew something of Signestad) their plan of Exit was uncertain; maybe Jaskell would have to meet them in the Dark Lands, or they him by the road.
"Memorize your path, Sorman, and as much of this map as you can," said Phem. "I will burn it before we reach Signestad, so that it won't be found if our cart is searched." Fia nudged him. "Oh, and one more thing: there are two loyal men, Gule and Tandric, who await us in the Keep. They once served in my own company, same as Dreg and Jaskell. They'll help us with the escape as best they can. Just so you know; two soldiers who hang around and seem to know us, they're part of The Mission, and to be trusted, once you've heard those names: Gule Deross, and Tandric Ellaberg."
Den nodded at this and then focused on the map. It's happening, he thought. The Mission, the theft, this is all about to be. The lies, the danger… oh, Lord Emol help us! He switched positions with Jaskell again, and from the front, continued to memorize the map.
Getta tapped him on the shoulder again. "Ey Denbas! Y'think there'll be other trezhas in the Cash?"
"Not now, Getta," he said, not looking up, and irked. "And don't even think about endangering The Mission by wasting time on trinkets!"
"Dangery with Bigs about. I gettit," Getta said grumpily, and he continued muttering to himself. Den didn't pay much heed to the scrawny little man or his words.
Minutes later, from the corner of his eye, something did catch Den's attention: Dregal took his hands off the reins and performed a certain gesture. The man pointed the four straight fingers of both hands upwards at his armpits, pinkies to chest, and then slid his hands down and together at the center of his chest, forming a V-shape. His head was low.
Den gawked. "Captain," he said. "You pray to the Lost God?"
"The Lord of the Lost," corrected Dregal. "And yes. Vishezadhu watches all of us, and protects us, and would give his life again to ensure our people continue."
Den shook his head. The pagan traditions of humankind were still somewhat common, but debunked: in this land, gods were real, and their descendants, the High Elves, walked the land and rightly ruled it. What good was there in old false gods, when Lord Emolelei the First Light was the Truth? Such beliefs were considered treachery, by some; Den wasn't sure what to make of the blasphemy in Dregal, who appeared to be a kind and loyal man. Maybe he was simply crazy?
"But Dreg… The Prince! Commander, whatever… he's a descendant of the One True God. How can you… and how can he—does he know this about you?" Den glanced back at the cart-bed; the Elves were focused on other things.
"Bah, Phemelius has always welcomed peoples of any faith into his ranks," said Dreg, and he leaned in to whisper: "Less the case recently, I think, but that's another thing. He knows, and doesn't think the less of me for it. Not good ol' Dreg."
"But… but," Den stammered. "What do you make of all of this!? I mean, how do you reconcile your… beliefs, with the facts you see before you? With Phemelius, with our world? With Truth… with Goodness itself?"
"As for 'facts,' way I see it…" Dreg rubbed his bearded chin. "Well, my Lord God wouldn't frown upon a humble, self-sacrificin' type like Phem. He'd probably be a 'martyr,' somethin' like that. But I dunno… not sure there can be much overlap between Facts and Faith. One's a way of believin', and the other just kind of is, no matter what you believe. Wouldn't be faith if I could see Him, and wouldn't be 'facts' if I couldn't, so it ain't."
"That's not—" Den clutched his head. "That makes even less sense! You're saying your Lost God isn't a fact? That he isn't real?"
Dreg shook his head. "Not real? No, it's like… look, I wanna live. And it's a fact that if I do wanna live, I gotta eat. But is it a fact that I gotta eat? No, 'cuz could I could just as well choose not to, or run outta food, or whatever. One's a fact (people die if they starve long enough) and one's a belief (I gotta eat 'cuz I wanna live). And the belief might not be a fact, but, I don't know, I still need it in order to live, so I've got it. Same as faith, and hope, and love. That's what Lord Zadhu's all about. He's Love Incarnate, that's Scripture there, so anything I do for Love, for lovin' other people or what have you, I'm doing for Him, and same back-ways. Like I said, facts just Are, whether you like 'em or not, but beliefs—Truth, you might say, that's up to you, and what's useful."
Den's head swam. Dreg believed his god wasn't real, so he was? Or… no, that you could just choose which god to believe in, and that was right? No, no… his god wasn't a real being, a fact, he was… a magic that you somehow created, by being romantic or something? Ew. No wonder the Elves looked down upon this nonsense. But still, this was Dreg. The way he spoke about it, the way he smiled; Den couldn't help but smile back, though sheepishly. Maybe there was some 'truth' to what he said about believing; however they worked, these weird beliefs maybe helped to make Dreg an exceptionally kind man. And not a bad cook. Could it be that Emolelei still smiled upon a heretic like this, who fumbled his way to Goodness accidentally? Maybe Phem would know; he seemed to know just about everything, and Den was rusty on The Dawn-Book.
Today, there wouldn't be time; Phemelius and Jaskell were flaring out the tent-cloth, so to cover the back of the cart, and the Elves they had to keep secret. Such foul times, Den thought. That we must hide away their brightness. As the cloth went, Fia blurted: "Oh!" and took another parchment from the floor. "Den," she said, and handed it to him. "This is what The Key looks like. Dreg already knows, but he could be… delayed, and this Key must reach the Cache at any cost. Take this picture and memorize it; we're to burn this parchment also. Oh, and The Key will be under a barrel along the northwest corner of the room."
"Thanks, Fia. I, um, it feels good to help The Mission… to, um, be a real part of this. Thanks for trusting me." Den forced a smile.
Fia side-eyed him. "Okay." She dove now under the cloth, and Jaskell wrapped the Elves, and much of their supplies, such that they together looked like an unassuming cargo bundle. Or would have; the Elves continued to fuss about underneath, and whisper at each other in hushed tones. Hopefully those pointy ears stayed open, and they'd hear warnings to stay still and silent.
Den looked at the drawing of The Key; it was a strange sort of tool indeed. 'Tool' would seem to be the correct word, for it had what looked like moving parts—mechanisms, one might say. By the way it had been colored in, it appeared to be made of cast iron; all save for one tooth, left un-filled, an outline. "What's this?" he said, holding the diagram up to Dregal, and pointing at the off-color tooth.
"Huh? Oh, Sungold," said Dreg. "We figure it's a magic key, for a magic lock, and fancy that. Otherwise, our Ax-boy coulda just chopped the whole thing open." He chuckled to himself.
Huh. The Night Elves had their own magic blades—pale mockeries of a Holy Weapon like Ket-Blaskar, but powerful nonetheless. So there was cause for a magic lock, but still... Den felt his worries grow. Accident or otherwise, it was suspicious that the human lords would design a storehouse which could deny access to a High Elf. How far we've fallen, that I suspect my own kinof treachery against The King. This Mission would bring all truths to light.