"In which Den nearly ruins everything" – Fia
Just as Phemelius had said, Signestad was a young city—in fact, it was built after Den's birth. Its walls remained wooden stockades as might a frontier fortress have. The roads leading in were fresh-paved, the houses along them neatly organized. And it seemed that not enough time had passed to let the city settle in; to break in, as an old and cherished pair of boots might. This is a difficult feeling to describe; consider perpendicular pathways, where the surrounding grass corners are not yet cut by little well-trod diagonal dirt paths made from years of short-cutting foot-traffic. Or many young trees fresh-planted lining streets, buildings all in uniform repair, an Inn with alleyways not eroded by the vomit of drunkards, nor lined with litter. In short, the place was spartan, of precisely planned design, and clean. A city isn't meant to be clean.
The party's cart rolled very smoothly down these recently-paved streets, and found them rather empty. Not for lack of citizens; the houses did not look so un-lived in, they were merely large, and gated, and those gates closed. But then, perhaps the people had evacuated into the Keep, or were locked up in their homes, anticipating the battle ahead. Den counted the people of Signestad luckier than he.
He beheld The Keep's spiked palisade, and at the sight his stomach dropped. The Mission was becoming very present, and Den wasn't sure he was happy with that speed of events. Cruelly, the city was quiet enough to allow his thoughts freedom to run wild. Oh Lord, oh goodness, and all that is Holy. We're doing it, we're actually doing it! Today, the danger is at hand; we venture into the War, set against both the Humans who should be loyal to our cause, and the Dark Ones who'd gladly see us ended. The cart turned down a side-street, which quickly bumped down from neat cobble to dirt. There was a little copse of trees, perhaps a tended orchard, and here they parked.
Phemelius popped his hooded head out from beneath the tent-cloth. "Alright you three," he said. "I'm going to go bring Fia and Getta into position. Den, Dreg: wait here until my return." Dregal hopped into the back of the cart and made himself comfortable among the cloth-wrapped bundles of supplies. Den followed, and found no comfort.
Getta and the Elves crept out and behind the trees; they were soon gone from sight. On the bright side, Den would have a few extra minutes out of danger, to settle himself and plan how he might best perform his task. However, those were also long minutes for dread to grow like a strangling weed within his heart. The latter began to choke out his resolve.
"Hey there, Denny," Jaskell said from behind him. "What d'you think you'll do with your time over the border, your trip to the Eastern Lands? Little sight-seeing? I hear the Old Wood is especially dark this time of year…"
Den scowled to himself. Of course that—carrot-head had to crack wise now, of all times, and in the perfect way to make things worse! Not a serious bone in the man's whole body…
***
To Den's relief and horror, Phemelius returned. The wait might have been twenty seconds or five hours—but, in fact, it had been little more than seven minutes. The cloaked Prince darted back out of the nearby copse and leapt into the cart, right in the middle of the three men. "Hop to it, gentlemen!" he said, a bit too happily. "Jaskell, once we're off, you'd better be ready to make your perimeter. And remember—"
"I know, I know," said Jaskell. "Plod along like a dullard. Don't have to tell me twice." Den dropped the sword that Dregal tried to hand to him. Jaskell chuckled. "Don't have to tell him once!" Den shot him a frazzled glare.
Phemelius wrapped a long bundle of cloth and leather strapping. He took this bundle into one hand and stood it straight up by his side, so that he was tall and commanding, and planted one end of the object into the floor with a muffled thud. Den realized that this must be the Ax Ket-Blaskar, now concealed and more than a little silly-looking. But it was a Holy Weapon in the hand of its rightful heir; The Mission was begun. Reverently, Den found the calm to strap his sword to his belt, and wrapped a muddy tabard from Inemestrel around his body. With any luck, the grime would camouflage his non-standard uniform. Phemelius jumped down and his soldiers followed: a stocky little pugilist, and a pudgy, lanky drunkard who'd not fought a real battle once in his life. Jaskell whipped the reins and was off, quick as a 'plodding dullard' might dare travel.
Phemelius led them around the grove of trees and towards the Keep's timber walls. "The Cageyards are this way," he said quietly. "And typically well-guarded. However, the coming battle has drawn most soldiers to the front; there will be lookouts in the towers, but they will let us pass." Den caught sight of another wolf-crested uniform worn beneath Phemelius' black cloak. They were all loyal soldiers of Signestad, then… 'humans'. Den prayed for the failure of the lookout's eyesight.
They came to a mid-sized gate in the Keep's outer walls, one at the end of a wide dirt road. There was one tower overlooking it from the East side, and its man called out to them: "Oi, you lot! What are you doing out here?"
"Commander sent us on patrol in uptown!" shouted Dregal. "Now the outpost says they're good up North, and that we're needed in the camps!"
The gate-guard stared off into the southeast. "Aw'right then!" he said. "Best you get a move on! Barracks'll be wantin' ya first!"
"Right'as!" Dreg shouted, as the gates cranked slowly open. Den didn't understand how Phemelius could tolerate hunching so drastically. They were in, and seen as regular soldiers. For the time being.
Den gawked. The Cageyards were, as the name implied, full of cages. And the cages… the cages were full to bursting withDark Elves. Living ones, and they were unmistakable: pale green skin, wide eyes, scraggly spikes of white hair drooping off their heads like feather-crests; high, wide cheekbones framing chunky, roundish faces, and pointy green ears curving lower than a High Elf's up off their heads, so that they—based below the height of each Dark Elf's upper lip—were pointing nearly level outwards by their eye-height tips. Each one was clad in filthy rags. The only substantial difference from the pictures was in their expressions: instead of terrifying battle-rage, the faces of these creatures were all dull and listless. Their bloodlust must be blunted by capture, he thought. And of course, they had no weapons with which to carry out that bloodlust. Den found that he was following the Prince unconsciously, and now sped up to grab the big Elf by the arm. "Sir," he said. "This is madness. This is wrong!"
Phemelius made no sound, and did not turn back. He just kept moving.
"…Sir! How can they keep them here? How can they allow the monsters to live, and so close to civilization!?"
Phemelius kept moving. Den turned back and found Dregal lagging behind, looking around at the cages with eyes wide, clearly as upset as Den. And of course he'd be; at any moment these cages could be opened, and they'd be surrounded by hundreds—easily hundreds, if not thousands of enemies. Den gulped, and ahead of him the call came clear and high: "Come on, you two. Eyes on the prize."
Dreg rubbed his hands together and swallowed his own saliva, and he too hastened forwards. Yes, The Mission! They had a job to do, and these cages looked strong enough; the Dark Ones did not appear to be trying to escape (appear—they were masters of trickery). If all three of them just Kept Moving, they'd be safe enough from danger. Plus, Phemelius was here. If there was anyone who could defend them from such an onslaught, he was that Elf. Den lowered his voice to address the Prince again: "I just don't understand, Sir. Why has Signestad done this? Why go through the trouble of caging them? If freed, they'd be a grave danger to all."
"It may be," Phem said in a steady tone, head still facing forwards and away from Den. "That the Lord of Joriantum, and all his… servants here, have priorities you do not see. And that even a Night Elf may, at sword-point, choose to do as a human Lord commands, rather than be struck down. As for danger to their… captors, that's what the chains are for."
Den saw, now. All the caged Dark Elves were shackled together at the ankle, so that even an unlocked cage would not free them. That was a relief to Den, but what, the humans here were trying to tame the beasts? Could such a creature learn to obey and be civilized? It seemed an unlikely prospect. Den squinted at a few of the captured beasts. "Sir," he said. "What about those shrunken ones? Night Elves have dwarves also?"
Phem's voice was even flatter now. "They are un-grown offspring. Children."
Oh... huh. He knew the original Dark Ones had once been High Elves, before their profane god Habbapoz twisted them to ugliness and cruelty. Den had assumed that they all were birthed this way, but the War had lasted many centuries. There had to be some way for new ones to be spawned, he supposed, for their race to persist despite constant casualties. And of course they, barbarous and monstrous, brought their demon-spawn to battle, to be killed and captured. Den eyed these juvenile Darks again, and wondered at just how dangerous they could be. All the Night Elves stared just as emptily; if any looked at him, they did so without apparent interest. Den looked a bit closer. No, these Darks did not quite match the pictures so perfectly. They pupils were exceedingly large, and their bodies not so wide-set about the limbs. And their teeth; none of their characteristic fangs were visible… all their mouths were closed. But no, the pictures showed the fangs still protruding from their inhumanly thick lips, even with them firmly shut. Maybe these were smaller, weaker ones, for which capture was a more reasonable prospect. Females? If they could create offspring, they had to have females, didn't they?
The three thieves reached the Barracks, at the North wall where the windows to the Laundry-Room were found. Dreg snapped out of his distant expression and glanced left, then right, surveying for onlookers. Phemelius stood up on the tips of his toes to peer into the high row of windows, and he whispered: "Alright, we're clear. Who's up first?"
Den turned out to be 'up first': Dregal knelt down to provide a foothold, Den climbed up and reached for the sill above, then Phemelius heaved him upwards. Pushing through the window with his head, Den grabbed the sill and pulled himself up and over, and he stammered out a: "Okay, now wait—" just as Phem shoved him by the backside. Den flipped feet over head and back again, and tumbling flopped into a pile of dirty clothes, startled but unharmed. He heard the other two whispering outside, but what about he could not say. He settled for looking around the room, and through the crack in the nearby door, hoping not to find anybody.
Dreg's head and fingers poked up over the sill, and he hoisted himself (with likely help from the Prince) and somersaulted in; Den barely jumped away in time to avoid being squashed. They heard Phem's sharp whisper from outside: "Uniforms, Key, Cache. On the double!" and then the scuffle of his footsteps trailing off. The two human men were alone.
Dreg got up, dusted himself off, and began to leaf through piles of folded uniforms. "What are you doing!?" Den hissed. "They're all the same! Let's just grab two and go."
"Well there's size, for one thing," Dreg replied calmly, and he grabbed at a new pile. "Gotta look proper… but I have a—oh, there we are!" He glanced back at Den, sizing him up, and then muttered: "close that door, Den. We don't want company while we're in the skinny."
Den crept over to the door and peered out into the hall. There wasn't anyone in sight, hey, maybe they're all busy in the war-camps, and this'll be easy. He drew the door shut slowly and latched the bolt. Best to work quickly and quietly, in any case.
Dregal held up a pair of uniforms, smiling proudly. "These are for Benail's special detachment," he said. "W'these on we'll be able to move freely, and without so much as a second glance from the regs." The Special Uniforms had a gold and sky-blue braid-rope around the neckline. Dreg was already shedding his own clothing. "Right, Den, let's be quickenin'. No prize for propriety here in the Barracks."
Den grunted and began to strip down. There were proper boots and trousers here; Den had just thrown an old mail shirt and Inemestrel tabard over the peasant-stock he'd been wearing, and hoped his black cloak would sufficiently complete the illusion. Now the outfits would match perfectly. In no time at all, the two were freshly clad.
"Perfect," said Dreg. "And—oh, Sorman, is that the wrong size? There are others, let me see here…"
"It's fine." said Den. The uniform was evidently tailored for someone with a bit more weight around the shoulders; the height, at least, was correct. He strapped his sword back to his belt. "Let's go."
"Oh alright, just tighten your belt up, little lower, and, oh, maybe we'll find some shoulder-guards t'bulk it up a bit there… alright, to the Cellar!" Dreg stomped over to the door and creaked it open, peering through. "We're good," he whispered. "Now remember: act natural. We're a proud sort, us Special Detachment boys. Follow my lead. And when in doubt, say nothin'. You'll get further with an annoyed look'a 'Who's this moron talkin' to me?'than you will nervously babblin' tryin' to justify yerself."
"Al-right," Den said, practicing that annoyance. "Let's go." Dreg collected their dirty old uniforms and stuffed them behind some shelves.
The Captain crept out into the hall, and once there, he began to march, head held high, swollen with self-importance. Den followed along, copying the chest-out strut and distant gaze of pride. They reached an old door, and on Dreg's opening it the musty cellar-smell washed over them. Easy enough, Den thought. They hastened down the dark stone stairwell.
This cellar was cluttered with boxes, chests, shelves of sacks and jars, and every manner of trinkets. There was a thin layer of dust on much of what was stored here, and the floor was exposed, hard-packed dirt. There was nothing remarkable about this place, and so, it could easily be overlooked. Dregal found a wide barrel in the northwest corner and tried to pull it with both hands. The thing was evidently very heavy; it wouldn't budge, and Dreg circled to the wall behind it, telling Den: "Come help me with this, Sorman. Must be where Signeys keep their favorite rocks!" and he pushed from a lower point. The barrel scuffed along the floor about a centimeter.
Den walked up to the barrel and popped the lid off; the container was full to the top with seeds of grain. "Pah," said Dregal. "They're molderin'. Vish knows how long they've been sittin' down here in the dank." He shoved the barrel again, to little avail.
Den looked around the room and found a stack of clay bowls. He took one and began scooping grain out of the barrel, depositing it in an empty, lidless crate nearby. "Just a few more, kid," Dreg said. "I can handle this." He put his full might into another shove and made a bit more headway.
Den stared off into space for a moment. "What if a Special Detachment Officer finds us?" he asked. "We can't just pretend we're above that, right?"
"Oh," said Dreg. "Well… I 'spose you'd best heed his orders, as he gives them, or at least look like you're heedin' til we can slip away." He took a hand off the barrel to scratch his nose. "Stick with me, kid. I know how to handle an officer."
After a scoop by Den, Dregal looked angrily at the barrel and reeled back, tensing his arms. He put all his strength and weight into an especially hardy shove, and the thing slid a foot or two into the center of the room and tipped over, spilling its contents onto the earthen floor. "Shit!" cried Den. "Why do you think I was pouring it into this crate? Someone's bound to notice a bunch of grain on the floor!"
"Fuck it," said Dreg. He reached down and, with his bare, thick-calloused fingers, peeled a plank up from where the barrel had been sitting. He unwrapped a little cloth bundle and brandished The Key. "We've got what we came for."
Den shook his head and crouched to grab the rim of the fallen barrel. "Help me with this," he said. "We could at least put it back… it's lighter now, thanks to your spillage." Dreg stuffed The Key under his belt and tabard, and with one hand hoisted the barrel back up. Then he returned the plank to its position, and the two slid the barrel quickly back into the corner. Dreg slammed the lid back on. Den searched the room and, finding a folded tarpaulin, whipped it open and draped it over the scattered grain.
"Good enough, let's go!" said Captain Dregal. They tromped back up the stairs; Den cracked the door and peeking saw a pair of guardsmen walking away from them. He waited until the men rounded a corner, and then he ventured out. Once both were in the hall, they continued the same proud march as before. "That's it," Dreg muttered to Den, from behind. "Just like we own the place. And remember, we stay close to the walls out there as possible, without lookin' like we're tryin' to hide." Yes, Den remembered. The path was clear in his head. He found his way to the southern entrance, the main one. Each guardsman they passed nodded dutifully to them. Den shivered with manic glee.
Den and Dregal passed from the open great doors of the Barracks and into the Training Yard, which now was rather empty: a wide field of flattened grass and gravel glowing in the midday sun. Only a few other guards hurried across it, mostly heading eastward, and there were a few crates of supplies and archery targets lying around at the edges. Ahead of them, higher than Den had expected, loomed the mighty walls of Signestad Keep's main building, its fortress. This, at least, was made of stone: mighty blocks of granite cleanly masoned. They hastened towards the cold wall.
In the shadow of the fortress, the two turned West and carried on along this northern edge of the edifice. The path in the grass was well-trodden, such that Den could see the way to the entrance they were aiming for. The Cache was on the ground floor, but its location was 'off the beaten path' inside, so that one would only reach it if they knew what they were looking for (or especially nosy). Den saw the Map in his mind's eye: the corridor doubled over itself, snaking past many kitchens, stairwells, and lesser storerooms before it reached the Cache's great locked doors in the fortress' approximate center. This little side-door put them close as they could be, but Den guessed that it would still take several minutes at their current quick-march pace. They reached the door, a thick wooden one with an iron-barred open window, and Dreg knocked it.
"Oi!" came a voice from within. "What're you two doin' here?"
"We're White Wolves," Dreg shouted back, with convincing agitation. "Open this door at once!"
The door swung open, and the guard within said sheepishly: "Sorry, sir…" as Dregal shoved the door wider open and marched past him. Den forced himself not to look back. It was kind of funny to see the Captain with such a dismissive demeanor. Just keep moving, Den reminded himself. And forget smiling. Anything but Blunt Asshole will blow our cover. They were in.
Back and forth through the snaking hallways they traveled, past servants and soldiers who all changed their courses to stay meekly out of Den and Dregal's way. Den had to admit the genius of the man's choice of disguise. Nobody looked at them too closely, because to look at all might draw their Special Detachment ire. They were free to move as they pleased.
They passed a thin spiral stairwell, and a meter or so after a voice shouted down from it: "What do you two think you're doing!?" Den all but jumped, and both thieves screeched to a halt. Dregal stood perfectly still and facing forward for a moment, then turned to face the clop of boot-shod footsteps, expression blank.
From the stairs emerged a tall, severe young man, and yes, his uniform had a characteristic blue-gold braid at the neckline. He also wore a short blue cloak, which rolled-up was wrapped neatly into the back of his belt. His hair was brown and short, combed smartly back. His face bore a scowl that looked chronic. He stopped a foot or two in front of them, glared for a few terrible seconds, then shouted: "You think just cause you're off the Front you can take a lovely stroll around the castle!? With me, Guardsmen! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!"
The officer turned tromped back towards the stairs. Dreg followed, and so Den did the same, rushing to catch up. Up they went, away from their objective. Den whispered anxiously to Dreg: "What do we do? When can we—"
"He's a young petty-officer," Dreg whispered back. "Best to play along. We'll have to—"
"What are you two milkmaids gossipin' about!?" The officer came back down the stairs to face them. "Well?" He glared at Den, face red with frothing anger. "What do you have to say for yourself, Private!?"
Den's face went white. "Well… I… um…" The officer continued to glare. Say something! "Uhh… we were just wondering where you'd be bringing us… Sir!"
"Wonderin' ain't your job, Private!" the man shouted back. Den could feel flecks of spit pepper his face. The officer eyed Dregal suspiciously. "Move out, and keep those slop-holes SHUT!" He carried on upwards, and they followed.
Just as the two thieves passed the doorway to the second story, Den saw Dregal put a silent hand on the hilt of his sword. Oh, shit! Den wasn't sure what to do. Could the Captain handle this, or should he join the fray? Might as well give back-up if I can, Den thought. After last night, he had at least one sure strike in his arsenal. He fumbled for his own sword hilt, and heard the faintest sound of steel scraping out of Dreg's leather scabbard.
Above, the bootsteps stopped. "Oi, you! State your business Private!" The officer was near the top of the stairs now, and was addressing someone else. Quietly, Dreg's sword slid back down into its scabbard.
A new voice answered: "Lord Benail sent me to the Barracks, Sergeant, Sir! Fresh orders for Commander Pelabruck!"
"Carry on, Guardsman, and be quick about it!" replied the Sergeant. "There's a War on!"
The Private hurried past them down the stairwell. Following the officer, they left the stairs for the third-floor corridor, where there were a good number of White Wolf guardsmen waiting around. Each one stood quickly to attention as the Sergeant and his two unfortunate followers passed them by. One snickered at Den; their plight was obvious, or at least the lesser trouble a real White Wolf would be in, here. Den glanced at Dregal, whose eyes were dutifully forwards, proud and silent. Best to copy that. Den tried his best.
"Normally I'd put you two Adventurers up for a Special Assignment," said the Sergeant, and he grinned. "Maybe Captain Jestrom needs hands for cage-cleanin' duty. Plenty of time for that, though; today it's all hands on keeping our Lord comfortable in this little mud hut. That means eyes up, swords ready, and mouths SHUT. You got that!?"
"Yes Sir!" they both replied together. Apparently, the way to meet the rhythms of officer-speak had not left Den entirely.
They rounded a corner, where there was a door, and two guardsman lined up along the wall just beside it. "You know the drill," said the Sergeant in a noticeably quieter voice. "One in, one out. Line up!"
Walking in square lines, Dreg marched over to the row of guardsmen and joined them, back to the wall, furthest from the door. Den followed his comrade in the same manner.
"Your Captain's in there, as you should well know," said the Sergeant, and he grinned evilly. "Don't you worry, he'll have a full report of your activities once the meeting's through. A shame how low the standards of Second Company have fallen." He winked at Dreg, then tromped away down the hall.
Den glanced down the line. Dregal and the two real guards stared into the distance with the same blank soldierly expression. Den could only take the same stance. What now? he thought. Well, Dreg would give a signal when they could slip away. The sooner the better; the others had to be at the Cache by now, waiting for The Key, each second bringing an extra chance they'd be found out. A bead of sweat ran down Den's forehead and dripped from his brow. From around the corner, a fifth man came and joined them to Den's right.
The door swung open and three guardsmen hurried out of it. Dreg and the two to his left pivoted and tromped into the open door; Den tried to follow, but Dreg turned and stopped him with a hand to his comrade's chest. "One in for each out," he whispered to Den. "Wait for another, and once we're both ordered away, we'll rejoin." Then he said louder: "Not yet, moron."
The other guards in the hall around them snickered at Den, whose face went red. He took the place closest to the door and returned to his soldierly pose. Every minute or so, another guard or two joined the line; including Den there were four, then five, then six men waiting to be replace the next set of leaving guards.
The door opened once more and a pair of guards hurried out and away to the nearest stairwell. Den and the man behind him went in. Just inside, against a wall whose shadows were only broken by the flickering of candles at the room's center, he found Dreg in a line of guardsmen. Den took position here, the same blank attentive stance, and viewed what they were guarding.
There were more guards along the opposite wall, including one with pauldrons who was evidently the Captain; Den averted his eyes. This man is meant to be our Captain, but seeing as he doesn't know us… If there was one skill Denbas Sorman had mastered, it was staying out of the way.
In the center of the room were three noblemen around a desk. Two of them, sitting on stark wooden chairs in front of the desk, listened and looked around and muttered, fiddling with gold chains along their stuffy robes. One of those, a young man, had straight brown hair and pointy ears. Another Elf-human! The second was a gray old human man with bright, pensive eyes. The third and final nobleman sat on a more comfortable chair behind the desk, so that his back was to Den and his line. This man had straight gray hair combed-over and a fur-lined robe, and he was speaking to the others in between bites on a mutton-leg. He certainly seemed like the highest authority, sitting in a high-backed cushioned chair and speaking down to all around him. This must be Lord Benail.
Lord Nesyavosh Benail, high noble of Newandrale, spoke with an implicative and haughty hush, as one paranoid. His words, that Den caught, were: "...—ke rats from a sinking ship. And that's the problem with these pests, these Vishezadh-damn roaches you've got in your zoo here, Lord Temrain. They aren't the surrendering type! They'd put poison in their demon-bellies, if they could hurl themselves into our wells and pass that poison to our babies!" He tore off another bite off meat and gnawed it, pointing up with one finger, and washed the food down with a sip from a tall mug of ale.
"True enough, but there's a profit to be made, once we cull the harshest aspects, my Lord," replied this old gray man he addressed, Temrain. "I've had favorable results using them for mine-work."
"Bah, I'll believe it when I see it," Benail said, with a dismissive wave of his knobby hand. "And that's another thing, the 'culling.' For decades we've had help, but now our friends in the West leave us to complete the extermination. Such generosity, that we might have a full share of the glory of War!" He laughed and waved up with both hands, so that the other two laughed nervously along with him. "No luck to it; we're greater than they guess, and that is why we can put the rat-holes to The Torch. Now there's a mean little bargaining chip." Benail scratched his forehead. "Burn the pests out, and show the Brighties we can handle things ourselves. Makes a Lord consider peacetime, and the omen this treatment foretells. The pulling-back! Hmm, how surprised might the Brights be, should their 'tithes' slow? Should the treasures stop traveling West, same as the eastward flow of Elven soldiers petered out? Not very surprised, methinks…" He took another bite, and spoke through a mouthful: "A good bargaining chip indeed, and all of you'd best listen…" He swallowed and gestured around at his guardsmen. "As our Signey-boys use it, remember well the power of men." He turned fully around, so that he was facing the guards behind him, Den and Dregal included. "And where your—"
The room went dead quiet. Den glanced down to see the worst: Lord Benail looking directly at him, wide-eyed. Fuck. Benail smoothed over his shock with a warm smile. He had a handsome nose, a broad face, and beady little eyes, which looked fully black with the candlelight behind him. "Ah, my loyal bodyguards," he said, still focused on Den. "A shame I do not have the chance to meet you each in turn, and learn your names." One of the other Lords cleared his throat, and Den saw the Captain reach down and grip the man's shoulder, silencing him. This Captain of the White Wolves was staring intently at Dregal.
Benail continued: "But you are loyal, there can be no question. Oh, just as example… you two. You, and you." He was, of course, pointing and Dreg and Den. "Your loyalty calms my heart. Your swords serve me, do they not?"
Dreg moved swiftly, some of the guards flinched; he unlatched his sword from his belt and, kneeling, held it flat up before Benail. "Fayn Chindral, at your service, m'Lord."
Den stumbled to follow, kneeling, showing off his sheathed weapon. "...uh, Denbas Sorman, Sir—m'Lord, at your command."
"Indeed," said Benail. He took both swords and quietly handed them beneath the desk to other guards around him. "So loyal are you, that you will carry out my orders exactly. Sergeant Helagas, take your favorite guardsman and this little man." He pointed to Dreg. "And ensure the safety of our Dungeons. You loyal three will be rewarded handsomely for your efforts."
That Sergeant, a guardsman of his choice, and Dreg departed together. Dreg glanced quickly at Den, and Den saw the panic in his eyes. Fuck! Then the Sergeant glanced harshly at Dreg, and back at Den, and both pretending thieves averted their eyes. Maybe this was just a routine order? He knew it wasn't. The door shut, and three more guards entered to Den's left. He fell into position.
"Now," said Benail, turning back to the other noblemen. "I'll be needing some time to converse with my men regarding our upcoming plans, as I'm sure you both do. Lord Temrain, Count Urblass, you are dismissed from my company with the warmest appreciation." Temrain and Urblass bowed and, the Captain and his men parting to make way, left the room through a door on the opposite side.
Benail turned to Den. "Now, my friend," he said. "Please… have a seat." He gestured amicably to one of the now-empty chairs before his desk.
Guards closed in around him, and between him and the exit. Proudly as he could muster, Den walked wide around the table and sat down.
Benail swirled his tankard in one hand, and watched the liquid slosh. "Denbas Sorman, eh? Poor fool, that's your real name, isn't it."
"Yes Sir! Um, I mean.. yes, yes it is, m'Lord." Den couldn't convincingly lie about that. Maybe Benail thought he was just a regular guardsman, who'd stolen a White Wolf uniform to seem important? A fool, which, indeed he was—there was hope in such a false idea.
"It's a fine name," Benail said. "A good, human name of ancient stock." Behind him, the Captain cleared his throat, but Lord Benail waved to him dismissively and continued: "Sorman, you strike me as a loyal sort. And that's no crime! But… a believer is only as good as what he believes in." He looked up at Den and frowned, like a disappointed father. "You like looking up at the Sun, kid? Get yourself burned that way, and for what? 'Glory,' like that'll do—"
There was a clatter in the hallway, and the sound of meat being cut. The kitchens are downstairs. Benail bolted to his feet, and his guards closed in around him.
The Lord of Newandrale brushed his hair back and laughed to himself, such that his whole body shuddered. "…That'll be your officer come to rescue you," he said to Den, from behind his men's drawn swords. "Now there's a man I admire enough to treat harshly. But then, why does he return, when he has that which he's come for?" Benail put two fingers in an L-shape around his chin, rubbing. "…May be that he's more loyal to you than to the sharp-ears. Such a sentimental sort… an uncle, perhaps?"
The clatter in the hallway behind Den grew louder. "Farewell, Sorman," said Benail, and guards behind him opened the door to leave. "It may be that you survive this. I don't tend to visit the Dungeons myself, so I won't have the pleasure of your company, and you'll have to earn your own way, as do all men. Still…" The Lord's eyes twinkled. "I believe there's hope for you yet. In all your slavering to Sun-Gods, and glory, and the nobility of Elves, do not forget yourself. Remember well the needs of your own kind."
Dregal burst into the room behind Den, a bloody sword in each hand. "COME ON!" he shouted, and a punch from one of the guards rocked Den backwards off his chair. Benail, his Captain and several of his guards slipped out the backdoor. Den scrabbled to his feet as swords clanged over his back. A guardsman fell bloodied before him, and Den wrenched the man's blade from cold corpse fingers. Without a second thought he pushed his way out the room's front door.
There were at least five dead men in the corridor; Den recognized the Sergeant from Benail's room. Once more the door crashed open; Dreg came out, battle-raged and bloodied, his back to Den. Before the door slammed shut Den saw the White Wolves, watching intently but giving no chase. Then he looked left and right down the hallway. "What do we do!?" he shouted. Dreg stopped and cocked his head in both directions, then took off running to the right, and Den followed.
"We're fucked," Dreg muttered. "Alarm's been raised." Den saw a stairwell, and heard the tromping of many feet from down within it. "We move; they think we're run-of-the-mill Western spies… or assassins, maybe. Could be that the Cache is unguarded yet."
"They're coming for us!" Den cried. "I can hear them coming up from below!" Both men sprinted as fast as their legs could carry.
"Down one, then cut back to another stairwell," Dreg said. "The snare ain't cinched up yet—we can shake 'em!"
Just as he'd said, Dreg darted down the stairs to the second floor, then back out into the hallway, Den following desperately. "They'll be guardin' Benail, who'll go down the West stairs," the Captain continued. "Just gotta get to the stairs northeast after some go up, so we'll have the least resistance." They carried along northwards through the halls, there were only servants there to startle.
The northeast stairwell seemed quiet enough; Dreg peered down and, finding nothing, snuck quickly and silently in. Back at the ground floor, he peeked left and right, and then they darted out. "Wait," Den hissed. "What about the basement? We could lose 'em!" They ran on anyway, through the wavering corridor.
Dreg looked back and shook his head. "Just as likely to have guards, and longer trip. No use—"
"Oh, it's you two." Round a corner, Dreg stopped short, and Den nearly crashed into him. Ahead there was a long block of guards, let by the same irritable young Sergeant as before. "Shoulda guessed that spies wouldn't know my name," he snarled, and then shouted up a nearby stairwell: "NORTH-EAST-CENTRAL HALL, BY THE STOREROOMS!"
Den looked back and found another large group of guards behind them. Oh well. They made a good attempt at it, got The Key and everything. Den had the privilege of meeting a Lord and a Prince firsthand, and whatever sort of person Fia was. It felt nice to have belonged to something for a moment.
Den would have dropped his sword in surrender, but first he looked to Dreg, who gripped his own swords tightly. "More'a these who fall," the stodgy little Captain muttered. "Better chance the others have of coming, gettin' IT off my corpse before the Wolves do. Do what you gotta, Sorman. You ain't Mission Critical."
Captain Dregal strode forwards, emanating rage. Some of the guardsmen shied from the sight of a stout little man, covered in the blood of their fellows, and clearly looking for more. The Sergeant sneered.
Den made up his mind. Dregal had saved him, and Den knew that this delay—he himself—had scuttled The Mission. The Key had to reach the Prince at the Cache. Denbas Sorman could be 'Mission Critical'. He raised his sword, point-out, and when Dreg roared, so did he. Together.
The two thieves charged and spearmen stepped forwards, the tips of their weapons extended past the Sergeant.
And then, like a row of trees in the path of an approaching boulder, the rows of guards ahead fell one by one, back-to-front, ending with the Sergeant. A long, hard bundle of cloth thwacked him on the back of his head and he toppled like a scarecrow freed of its stand. And there, amidst what few guards still stood ready, there was a tall Elf smiling.
"What took you guys?" asked Prince Phemelius.
***
Nesyavosh Benail hurried away with Captain Grenbam and the rest of his guards. "Pfft," the Lord said. "Some boy who can hardly carry a sword, and a seasoned little soldier with a fake name. What did he call himself? Chindel? The Brighties are hardly sending us their best."
The Captain clicked his tongue. "That was Shennistane, m'Lord," he said flatly.
"Shennistane?" Benail scratched at his clean-shaven chin, squinting. "Hmm…" His eyes popped open. "Dregal Shennistane!? Third Captain of the Raven Company, out of Gorlitenza!?"
Captain Grenbam nodded.
"Shit!" Benail yelped. "The Cache! Captain, grab as many men as you can drag—all of you! To the Cache, now!"
"But my Lord," the Captain pleaded. "You're still in—"
"They're not after me!" Benail shouted. Some of the men hurried off eastward, Benail grabbed his Captain by the tabard. "GO! And…" he yanking snapped a Key (one identical to The Key) off a twine at his neck, slapped it into Grenbam's hand, and lowered his voice, saying: "any Elves you find must be captured. Captured alive, you understand? Take no other prisoners. Now GO!" He struck the man on the back, and Grenbam rushed off, barking at others to follow.
Now alone, Benail scratched his chin with four fingers, smiling distantly. "So that's what he's been up to, all these years…" His smile dropped. "Today, of all days! Dammit!"
***
Phemelius, Den and Dregal plowed their way through the remaining guards and darted on along the corridor, with many more Wolf-crests in hot pursuit. The Prince had brought with him two more 'guardsmen,' who must have been those others he'd referred to: 'Gule' and 'Tandric'. One of these men, a tall one with long tresses of wavy yellow hair, called out to Den with a grin: "You must be the new one! Hey Sorman, whaddaya think of Ash? He must be thornin' you somethin' nasty, huh?"
"Ash?" Den asked. He squinted.
"Yeah," said the man. "Ash Jaskell? With the longbow? You did bring him along, right Phem?"
Den saw Phemelius roll his eyes as he rounded the corner ahead.
"His name's Ash?" asked Den. Why hadn't he asked the man's first name? Den knew the answer: the less he talked to Jaskell, the better.
"No," replied their new companion, grinning wider. "It's Ashrubar. He hates when people—"
"Tandric, Den! Focus!" Phemelius shouted from ahead. Tandric fell silent, but continued to grin wickedly at Den.
"Sir," Dreg shouted. "Are we still in business?" Den rounded another corner and could once more see the Prince.
"Nobody bothered us at the door when the alarm went up!" replied the Prince. "We left Getta there as lookout!" Oh, well that's just great. There were other storerooms nearby, likely holding coin, to distract such a man when left alone. How could Prince Phemelius trust him?
They reached the doors of the Cache; Gule, Tandric and Phemelius jumped to the back of the pack to face down the oncoming guards. Dreg stepped up and fumbled out The Key. Getta swung down from a high hidden place in the rafters, and cackling shouted: "He's gottit! Sour-Cap's made the grab!"
A great number of footsteps hurried down the hall towards them. Phemelius stood closest to the noise, watching, waiting, crouching ready. Tandric and Gule stood just behind the Elf, flanking him. The Prince adjusted his hands along his cloth-wrapped Greatax, and at his left Tandric pulled out thin little knives and started flinging them, with deadly precision, at the oncoming guardsmen. A few fell, and a few fled, but enough came through to challenge Phem. He towered to his full height and twirled his Ax like a baton, deflecting the attacks of shocked men shoulder-high to him, and clobbering each in turn. With a regular arming sword, Gule stabbed a few in between Phemelius' strikes; like one unit the three were, working together, blocking and bashing and stabbing and killing. Little cracks of light reflected off the gold of Ket-Blaskar, as the cloth around it tore by the sword-strikes this wrapping caught.
Dregal turned the Key into a large, impressive lock on the hefty iron-reinforced doors; once it clicked, he began to push. Getta and Den joined him, straining; slowly the Cache creaked open. The defending Signestad guards were thinned; Gule, broad-shouldered, jumped back to aid at the door. The four managed to open it just enough for a wide man to slip through, then Dreg did, and the others after. Phemelius was the last in, then Gule and Dreg immediately shut it back, pushing against a few men pushing back from the outside. The lock clicked close; they had The Key, and so the lock could not yet be opened from without.
Everyone but Getta doubled over to catch their breath and sigh relief. Phemelius was the first to stand back upright; he pointed to a very large crate (How heavy is this thing going to be? Den wondered), one chained to heavy iron bolts on the floor, and said to their wiliest Thief: "That's you, Getta. Quicker you get those chains off, longer you've got to snatch up everything else in here. Tandric, give him a hand."
Getta's eyes widened. "C'mere, chains!" he shouted. He flicked a little sliver of steel, a lock-pick, from his sleeve. "Gimme ya gold!" He set upon the chained crate like a mosquito to a sweating pig. Tandric chuckled and walked over to join him.
"Sir," said Den. "They'll get word out that we're in here. The East door is bound to be guarded, now."
"A Plan is only as good as its ability to adapt," said Phemelius. "We'll have our way out. Trust me."
"Could always try my idea," Gule said. "Dreg could get it workin', even if I can't." Phemelius shook his head, annoyed.
"Sir!" Dregal panted. "Their Captain's a man named Grenbam, and he recognized me, I'm sure of it. Benail has a Key, right?"
Phemelius raised one thin eyebrow at the West door. "Oh. Yeah, we've been figured out by now, no question. Quickly now, men!"
Gule, Den, Phemelius and Dregal hurried to the Door. There was no way of seeing through it, but Dreg put an ear to its face and listened intently. "Not here yet. But they will be," he said.
"Woop!" Getta shouted from behind. A final chain fell off The Crate. The little gremlin of a man scanned round the room, found a hefty wooden chest, and pounced upon it.
"Only what you can carry!" Phem shouted, smiling, to Getta. Then he turned to address men already hastening to fulfill his orders: "Gule, Tandric, wheels! The rest of us, we've gotta be ready to lift." Den, Dreg and Phemelius gathered around the crate. It had three different beams jutting out from it on either side: carrying-handles. There were six men (not that Getta would be of much help) for six handles, but Den didn't love their chances. Gule and Tandric came wheeling two low, flat-bedded little trolley carts, which would certainly help.
Den turned to Phemelius. "Sir, both entrances are compromised. But… your Ax, Commander… couldn't you make a third? It is said that such a weapon can cut through any substance."
Dreg shrugged at Phem. "Could melt the lock, too, least enough to keep it shut while we bust out."
Prince Phemelius looked down at the Ax in his hands, solemn. "There are few who deserve my violence, my rage," he said. And of course: he'd used the weapon on Dark Elves, and even then had never managed to get it burning. Compared to them, even the most treacherous of humans would have seemed a tiny evil, more pathetic than dangerous, like wayward children to a noble Elven Prince. Now would be a good time for him to fulfill his destiny—for The Mission—but there would soon be a greater opportunity to demonstrate the power of the royal blood coursing through his veins: when they returned, with the full might of Elves, to Win The War. Phemelius grinned meekly. "Would be helpful, truly, but… sorry, I cannot."
"C'mere a moment, Getta!" shouted Dreg. Getta sighed; already his pockets were stuffed, and around his neck lay a bejeweled golden necklace. He came. "You and Den are cart-men," the Captain said. "The rest of us will lift, and once it's up, you two slide the wheels underneath, and we'll lower onto 'em." From Gule, Den took the handles of one of the carts and pushed it into position beside the short end of The Box.
Den knew that it meant something, that he was on cart duty with spindly Getta instead of helping to lift. "How heavy is the Wall-Burner, exactly?" he asked. "Are you four sure that you can lift it?"
"One way to find out," Dregal said. He was twisting his back, stretching, and bent down to touch his toes.
"The Weapon is about as big as the Box," said Phem. "And Sungold, but it's not exactly solid through. More of a pipe, really… anyway, is everybody ready?" The box was around a meter wide and tall, and maybe more than two meters long. If there was a giant 'pipe' of Sungold in there… well, Den guessed that this thing had been lifted before, so it had to be possible. But then, six handles meant six was the ideal number of lifters… at minimum; those handles were wide enough for at least two men to hold on each side. Prince Phemelius was pretty strong, right? Oh, everyone else was nodding and saying "Ready." Den nodded too.
"Alright," said Phemelius. "Crouch!" The four lifters lowered themselves and grabbed the handles. Dregal and Gule were on one side, Tandric and Phemelius on the other. Den held his cart ready. "Three, then lift" the Prince shouted. "One! Two! Three! LIFT!"
There were a great many grunts and wretched popping noises; Den could see each man's legs quivering. But: The Box rose. Just as soon as it was above the top of his cart-platform, Den shot the thing underneath, so that its tall-jutting handles hit the Box's end. Getta did the same. "O-kay," Phem said through gritted teeth. "Three then lower. One, two, three, Lower!" The box went slowly down, and the two carts held, creaking. The four lifters let out a simultaneous groan and walked off; Dreg nursed an aching back with one rubbing arm.
"Okay," said Phem. "Ellaberg, get the powders set!" Tandric, still stiff from lifting, ran over to the eastern door and took three little parchment bags out from among the folds of his clothing.
Dregal joined him, and listened at the door. "Oh, they're out there," he said. "It's a wonder how—"
There was a clicking sound at the western door, and Phemelius shouted: "Merkas!" And bolted across the room towards it.
Gule joined him, and both men threw their bodies against the mighty slowly-swinging doors; they shuddered, and from beyond them muffled voices shouted: "Surrender! You're surrounded!"
Den looked around until his eyes caught the bolts that once held the Box chained down; he bent down and tugged at one, shouting to nobody in particular: "C'mere! Help!" Getta looked at him confused; Dreg looked back and, shrugging, lumbered over to Den, planted his feet, and tugged at the chain dangling off the bolt. Then Getta got the idea, scurried over, and between the three men they were able to tear the hefty bolt clean out of the ground. "Hammer!" shouted Den, and he ran over to the Prince. Phemelius was still bracing a big iron-reinforced door, struggling against whoever was trying to push them open, and Den slammed the bolt into a crack in the stone floor just at the Elf's feet, and tried to stamp it deeper. Dregal saw this and moved on to another bolt, and Getta came through with an iron sledgehammer he'd somehow found. He does know how to Get things, after all, Den thought with a grin. He took the tool and, gripping close to the mallet-head, tapped the end of the bolt once, twice until it was somewhat firmly placed in the floor-crack. He stepped back and delivered a two-handed swing with all his might; the blow glanced, but the bolt went deeper. One more hit, straight on, and it was firmly embedded, so that this door could open no further without freeing this stuck bolt.
There were, of course, two doors to worry about, and bracing like this was best done top and bottom. Dreg came with a second bolt and Den passed him the hammer before he went back for a third. Phem switched to bracing only one West door, the southerly un-bolted one, which was lucky, as from outside something heavy slammed both doors, and delivered them a mighty crack. Ket-Blaskar he'd propped between the floor and the horizontal door-brace where the lock was held; the Elf and his Ax formed an adequate doorstop, and the doors held firm for a moment longer.
***
On the South side of the city of Signestad, Gad Vorfrey had a problem. Yeah, Mom and Dad said that today was a Battle Day, so he 'had to stay inside'. But he and his best friend, Torry Aymdol, were so close to completing their tree fort! That wasn't the problem; they'd slipped away to the woodlands before, and never seen any monsters. They could escape the grounding, and no one had to notice them (at least not until after they'd had their fun and come back home)… except for the fact that his idiotic little sister Chella just had to tag along. She played the age-old card of little siblings: "Let me come, or I'm telling!" And yeah, she'd have screamed if Gad squeezed her arm to shut her up.
Gad and Torry were big, smart boys of seven, with longer legs and stronger muscles than some little girl. Chella could say she was 'almost five' all she wanted, but she was still a baby. A crybaby.Sure, she could come… if she could keep up. "Gaddy!" she kept calling out, each time they left her in the dust. "Gaddy, wait up!" Gad had a rare thought for a seven-year-old, a wise one: She might be in danger. Harrumphing, he doubled back to grab her arm and pull her along. Torry frowned at him, and Gad rolled his eyes derisively at Chella, as if to say "welp, we're stuck with her!" but in his seven-year-old brain the worries wouldn't stop.The woodlands weren't actually in the Dark Lands. Gad had been out here a hundred times! He knew to stay away from the Trench. They'd finish the walls of their tree fort, play a little bit of Knights and Monsters (Chella could be The Monster—who better?), and be back in time for dinner. If there really was any danger out here, they'd see it coming, or hear the shouting from up in the Castle. 'Battle Day'! The Darks he'd seen didn't do anything but sit around in cages moping. Gad smiled. They'd make terrible Monsters!
***
"East door's ready!" shouted Tandric. Den returned with a third bolt, passed it to Phemelius, and pointed at the top of the door-frame. Behind the Prince, the Door cracked again; it would take some time to truly break, but the bolts couldn't hold forever, nor the floor. Phemelius snorted and dropped the bolt. He pointed at the opposite door. "When it goes, we go," he said to Den and Getta. "Ready yourselves. All hands on The Box!"
Tandric leaned against the eastern door and shouted at it: "Clear out, you sorry lot! Prince Phemelius is going to fire the Wall-Burner!" Den was too far away to hear if any response came from outside, or if the men out there obeyed the order. Tandric's parchment parcels were fastened to the door, and he'd tied long strings to them, which trailed a good distance away—to what end, Den didn't see. Den rushed over to help cart the Wall-Burner, still in its Box. The weapon worked by Elven magic… maybe Phemelius could operate it from a distance? "Ten!" shouted Tandric. "Nine! Eight…" He continued counting down and backed away from the door; at around "Five," he took a match out of a pouch on his belt, struck it, and lit a knot which joined the trailing ends of all three strings. The knot burst into flames, and from it a spark traveled down each string towards the door. Den and Tandric hurried towards the Box. "Two… ONE!" Tandric crouched and covered his eyes.
The rest followed—Den last of all, and not a moment too soon—when a powerful ball of fire burst from the eastern door, shattering it to ash and splinters; Den could feel hot wind rushing past his face. "GO!" shouted Phemelius, and the three men on the cart-bound Box—Tandric at the front, Getta and Den behind—pushed with all their strength. Phem charged ahead through smoke and soot and the doors' charred remains, and the rolling Box followed, with Gule and Dregal close behind. "Wait!" Den shouted. "What about Fia!?"
"She's makin' distractions for us," Dreg growled back. "Focus! MOVE!"
Ashen shrapnel skittered away at their feet and crackled under the wheels of their cumbersome cargo. Coughing, Den and the others emerged from the smoke to find a hallway full of shocked and injured guardsmen. Ahead of them, Phemelius was engaged with those still able to stand. Tandric sent a few knives past the Prince's sides. These stunned guards seemed to be retreating anyway; one caught a blade to the back and fell, but the rest cleared out in terror. If he's somehow used the Wall-Burner, Den reasoned. Hecould certainly do so a second time. "Door's ahead!" Dreg shouted. "Almost out!"
The box-thieves reached a wide hall, and an even larger pair of doors at the fortress' eastern wall. Phemelius hoisted a timber bar up off the doors and threw them open, then jumped back from the sunlight: the East yard out ahead was full of soldiers, lined up in endless rows. A high-ranking officer of Signestad sat on horseback at their head, and called out towards the thieves: "Surrender, Heir of Orevictorum! Lord Benail will allow your men—" A mounted messenger charged up to the officer, and whispered something to him. The officer looked left (that is, North) and went pale.
Phemelius turned back to his men. "Get on the Box," he muttered. "We're moving." Den noticed that a long wooden ramp, like a drawbridge without a moat, spanned the distance from these doors, which began two or three meters off the ground, down to the earth of the eastern yard. All six humans climbed up onto the Box (those carts must have been sturdy indeed) and Phemelius ran around it, gave it a mighty running shove, and hopped on. He stood upright atop the rolling cargo, a man two meters high and crane-like, light as a feather on his feet. They barreled down into the yard.
Den would have expected the soldiers below to try to stop them, whether by spears or simply grabbing the Box, but the defenders of Signestad appeared to be scattering. Many of them were departing for the North, and now Den looked that way and saw his own fears realized: an army's worth of Dark Elves, scantily clad and some still wearing shackles, battling the Wolves and generally causing chaos. The enemies looked plenty bloodlusted now. "Emol's Light… they escaped!" Den shouted, and then he saw Dreg's smirk. The soldiers of Signestad were more interested in the Darks than the thieves. "What… that's the distraction!?"
"Off the Box!" Phemelius shouted, and indeed their roll was slowing. Den rolled off and stumbled to his feet; he watched Gule leap more nimbly forward, grab a confused soldier's spear, and push the accompanying man aground with his elbow.
"Are… are we going to the Front, Sir?" Den asked. He eyed the skirmish of soldiers and Dark Elves once again.
Phemelius took the front handle of the cart. "No. There are real soldiers between us and the Front, we've gotta swing wide South to get around them." Getta, Den and Phemelius got the Box rolling again along the yard's flattened grass, and the two followed the Prince's lead as he turned right. "There's a two-meter-deep Trench along the border, so we'll need to switch to carrying if we decide to cross over."
What the Prince hadn't said was: 'Therefore we will not cross into the Dark Lands,' and so Den's terror returned. If things came to that, it would be 'out of the cauldron and into the fire,' worse, now that he knew they'd be lugging a giant crate of gold while they ventured into the Evil Forests. Please, in the name of all that is Holy, he prayed to himself. Please keep us in Signestad, that we might meet up with that cruel swindler Jaskell and flee this whole mess alive. Dreg and Gule were batting soldiers aside to clear their way; the hearts of the men of Signestad didn't seem to be in stopping the thieves who, after all, were at least human and High Elf, and so neither side used lethal force.
"Wait," Den said. "How will Jaskell know where to find us?" What had seemed like a reasonable pair of possibilities back this morning: 'Jaskell might meet us South on the road, or southeast by the Dark Lands,' now seemed the most troublesome of uncertainties. Not just because going into the Dark Lands was one of the possibilities; how would he know where to meet them, or they he?
"He knows," said Tandric at his left. "He'll figure out a way."
Phemelius seemed as unconvinced as Den was; he looked out towards the southeast. "Rolling's slow work," he said. "And the soldiers aren't bothering us much anymore. Few of us could fan out, find our cart, and lead Jaskell to the best point to load and exit."
"But sir!" Dreg shouted from ahead. "If some of us split away from the Box, that hurts our chances of getting it out! Who knows what more Benail has in store for us?" Or the Dark Elves, for that matter, Den worried.
"Hmm," the Prince said. They were all still rolling towards a gate at the southern corner of the East wall; as Den remembered the map, the Dark Lands were at least a few hundred meters further East from there. Phemelius raised his still-wrapped Ax aloft, pointing and commanding: "Dreg, Getta, Tandric, you're on the Box. Once you clear the Gate, cut a diagonal towards the road; Jaskell will head or be there, South of the Keep. We three will find him, wherever he's gotten off to. Gule, you go straight to the road, and follow it South until you reach downtown. With any luck, Jaskell's still waiting there. Sorman, you're with me." Gule split off and headed southwest.
Den gulped. He knew what 'fan out' meant: if Jaskell was somewhere between the South Road and the Dark Lands, and Gule was bound for the South Road, that meant he and the Prince were headed East. Phemelius tugged him along, and they rushed ahead of the others towards the gate.
"Sir," he said weakly, between hard breaths. "Do we really need to 'fan out'? Couldn't we see Jaskell, no matter how far he's gone?"
Phem shook his head. "It's woodier south of the Keep. And Jaskell would stay out of view of the lookouts if he could help it. That's a wise choice, but it gives us problems in finding him. And then there's the soldiers…"
"What," Den said. "But the humans left us alone! Don't they have bigger problems to deal with?" They were nearly at the gate.
"Remember the premise of our Mission, Den. Plenty of them might think we're bringing the Box to them—or at least trust that we're headed East to use against it the Night Elves." Phemelius narrowed his eyes up at the gate's watchtower. "Benail doesn't." He waved to get the guard's attention.
Den remembered what he'd overheard from Lord Benail. Everything young Sorman worried about was confirmed true: the Lord of Joriantum was turned against his Elven Allies, and in his arrogance sought to keep the Wall-Burner for himself. He guessed correctly that the nobleman wouldn't let the Weapon go so easily, nor allow an Elvish Prince to lay claim. And Phemelius did have a claim, for the weapon had once belonged to his father the Duke. Common soldiers might have cause to leave such a weapon in the hands of a High Elf, and focus their own swords on deadly Dark Elves. But if The Mission was unbothered, it was only due to a temporary confusion. The 'Real Soldiers' at the Front might feel differently.
The gate-guard actually allowed them to pass. He must not be a 'Real Soldier'. Phemelius picked a stone up off the ground, and as they passed through the gate's doors, he crammed it into the hinges on one side. The door would now be unable to shut, no matter what orders this gate received. The two headed due-East together for a moment. "They'll come South from the Front to find us," said the Prince. "So I will delay them—that's no small obstacle—and then I'll cross the Trench, and meet you in the South. You follow the Trench southwards along this, the western side." He grabbed the fraying cloth around his Ax and tugging, tore it all away. Ket-Blaskar, the heirloom Golden Ax in all its glory, gleamed brightly in the sunlight. Den stared in a moment of awe.
He shook himself and restored a previous line of thought. "Commander," he asked. "What if Jaskell isn't this far East? I mean, what if he's stayed on the road the whole time?"
"Yes," Phem said. "Thank you for reminding me. You'll pass two westerly trails as you travel South along Signestad's edge: a thin one closer to us, lined with encroaching underbrush, and a thicker one further down, which connects to a proper road in town, one more often used. A trail wide enough even for a horse-cart, you see. If Jaskell isn't on that second trail, follow it back West and to the town. They'll wait for all of us as best they can." Phemelius patted Den on the shoulder. "Eyes up, and leave all fear behind you. No enemy will reach you whom I, your Commander, will not catch first." Phemelius peeled away to the North. Beyond him, Den could see the specks of approaching soldiers. His gaze followed their line East, past fields and clear-cut woodland, where for the first time since his service in Gorlitenza four years past, he beheld the edge of the ancient forest. The Dark Lands.
Den tore his gaze away towards the woodlands South of the Keep; he hurried in that direction. The trees were thick, and shrub-choked and shadowy, almost as dark as the Dark Lands themselves; unhappily he decided that he'd have to go around them, to the line of the Trench where surely there was made a space to travel. He glanced West and far-off saw Gule making his way South, out from the Keep along the road; Den waved, but Gule didn't notice. Den was a child of the forest now. And like Jaskell, hidden he should stay: he hurried East in the shadow of trees, trying not to think about what lay in that direction.
He reached the Trench, and on this side of it there was in fact a wide southerly trail cleared out, so men could move along it—at least wide enough to accommodate eight of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder. The Trench itself was deep and twice as wide; on the opposite embankment, the old trees pressed shadows deep into it, even now with the Sun West and past its apex. Den looked away; focus South, and for trails on your right. He hurried southward.
After a minute or two of sprinting he found the first trail, the little one. Phem was right; with all the underbrush around it, the shadows were thick, and the path was so obscured that he could only see a meter or so down it. This wasn't to be his trail, but he was reassured that it was in fact here. Couldn't be too much longer now to The Trail. He ran on.
And stopped seconds later, for he heard a rustling noise behind. I should just keep going, he thought.Why are you stopping Den? If someone's after you, chancing a look won't get you any further from them. The little trail to his left shook (Den winced) and from it emerged: a little human girl, a toddler. She crossed her eyes at Den. "Who are you?" she asked.
Den exhaled heavily, chuckled, and crouched down in front of her. For all his faults, Denbas Sorman could be exceptionally good with kids—it turned out that many of those who hired mercenary bodyguards also appreciated when they doubled as babysitters. "I'm Den," he said, in a friendly, higher-pitched singsong. "And who are you, little Miss? What are you doing out here in the scary woods?"
"Not scary!" she cried. "You shou-be scared! I'm The Monster!"
Den chuckled again. "Oh-kay Little Monster. Let's get you home, huh?"
"No!" The girl pouted and stamped her foot. Den's ears perked up; the trail behind her rustled again, and more children, a pair of not-as-little boys, came out just as surprised.
Nothing made a little kid more Adult than having to be Responsible for another, littler kid. One of the boys shouted to the girl: "Chella, c'mere!" and then up to Den, suspiciously: "Who the hell're you?"
"Hey guys," he replied. "I'm a soldier from up in the Keep. I'm… scouting, but you three and anyone else in there has to get back to town. There's a battle started not so far from here, and—"
Den froze; he had been pointing back across the Trench to his right; only to make the point that Dark Elves had been freed from Signestad's cages, and so there was more danger today than normal—too much danger for brave children to face. But when he looked at the ancient forest, he'd seen something. Today he was the regrettable kind of curious. There was no clear sign of anything in particular, it was nearly just a flickering feeling; no, a warping of the light by the trees, like the one that might occur above a paved road during a scorching Summer day. But it was wrong somehow… the color? Sunlight would be white or yellow, and through leaves, a green light might show. But this wrinkle of light, it was a stranger green, a paler…
Den drew his sword and held it steady towards the Dark Lands. "Who goes there?" he shouted at the dark wall of trees.
All these thoughts had rushed through him in an instant; the children, who hadn't seen what he had, were confused as to why this strange soldier stopped mid-sentence to draw his sword at nothing. "What?" the same boy whined, arms crossed. "What the heck're you lookin' at?"
Den narrowed his eyes at the Dark Lands. With swiftness that surprised even himself, he seized his old dagger from under his belt and whipped it at where the warping had come from. The knife flew through the air and just… stopped, bounced off of nothing. The same greenish warping rippled outward, larger. And then, from nothingness, as though formed head-down from thin air, three Dark Elves appeared.
The brave boy shouted: "WHA—" and then all three children froze. These Dark Ones were clad from neck to elbow to ankle in proper armor of black leather and steel, and armed with knives and wicked-curving swords.
Den blinked, and set his jaw. "GET BACK!" he shouted to the trio of Darks. He pointed his sword at one of them, nodded once back at the kids, who still were paralyzed by fear, and then crept towards his enemies. "BACK! KILLERS, MONSTERS! BACK INTO YOUR SHADOWS!"
The Dark Ones stayed to their side of the Trench, for the moment. The one on Den's right, whose white hair was longest, shared a look with the one in the middle. Together, all three began to chant in their own language, and the white-green shimmering of their sorcery filled the air before them. "BACK!" Den shouted again, and kneeling he took a rock off the ground and hurled it. The magicks of the Dark Elves deflected this projectile, and their chanting seemed only to strengthen this foul barrier. The three did not retreat into the Dark Lands; in fact, they spread out along the opposite edge of the Trench. Watching Den, always watching with a terrifying calm.
It was at this moment that an Elf with a Sungold weapon crept out of the woods behind the human children and, frozen also, beheld this deadly scene. She gaped at Den, and then the Elven warriors; they three regarded her curiously. "Den!" Fia shouted, "Den, let's go!" She ran to join him.
This startled Den, but the sight of Fia, her familiar bright clothing and sparkling cheek-paint, reassured Den in two directions: he would not be alone in this fight, and it was a fight he had to win. Phemelius trusted Fia (and Den suspected that there was more to the matter), so Den had to protect her. She could take care of herself, he knew, but she was trying to flee. He could not do the same. Not while the danger persisted.
She reached Den and grabbed his shoulder, trying gently to pull him back into the western wood; he held his footing firm and, to her surprise, pulled her Sungold saber out from its scabbard. She jumped back, shocked, and all present witnessed a most remarkable sight: Den held the Sungold sword aloft, and no sooner had he returned his attention to the enemy, did the very edge of the weapon in his hand begin to sparkle with dancing flame. The eyes of the three Dark Elves widened, as did Fia's; she stepped back behind Den. His resolve renewed, excited, Den Sorman shouted at the Dark Ones once again: "Get back! LEAVE, or I shall slay you where you stand!"
The two outer members of the Dark trio crept slowly forwards; such it was that they did not step down into the Trench, but across the thin air over it, their magic forming a nigh-invisible bridge for their passing over. These two began to flank Den; seeing this, he stepped back and pointed his flaming blade at each of the three in turn. The one on his left nodded subtly, and both were nearly past his side, all three still chanting low. One drew a little knife, with a blade of a metal darker than steel, which began to glow white-green. Den's heart hammered out from his chest.
Fia looked to the Night Elves, then at Den before her, and lastly at the human children behind her to the left. The three little ones were still frozen in fear. "MONSTERS! I WILL NOT LET YOU TAKE THEM!" Den screamed—they were nearly upon him. Grunting, Fia reached down and collected all three children into her arms, and once more shouted: "Den, let's GO!" and bolted back down the trail.
The furthest Dark Elf, ahead of Den and still standing in the air above the Trench, stopped. It narrowed its eyes at Den, then smiled cruelly. The two flanking Darks stopped also, and then disappeared from sight; the flame on the Sungold blade's edge extinguished. Den didn't know what to think now. The last of the Dark Ones nodded up past Den and towards the little trail behind, as if to say: "Go." Den looked back at it, puzzled. This one's hair was quite short; an inch-long crop of white on top of its head, and only stubble on the sides. A thin scar ran down across its thick lips, lips through which no teeth were visible until it smiled. In a flash, the creature drew its sword and dashed forward; Den jumped back startled, and this third also disappeared in the blink of an eye on its way towards him. Surprised and yet still ready to do battle, Den waved both swords around himself, but neither found purchase. He watched the trees of the Dark Lands rustle, then all was still. Confused and slightly relieved, Den turned and fled down the trail. Either he'd scared them off, or without children to steal they had lost interest. Something wasn't right with The Mission for Fia to have come this way, and he didn't want to get left behind.
Through the woods he bounded, past a little tree fort he didn't notice, and further still until he reached split-rail fences at the edge of Signestad's south-town. Here in a trodden clearing he found Fia, the children, and four adult humans, two women and two men. The little girl was in her mother's arms, face red and wet with tears. The boys sat grimly on a log closer to the fences of a nearby house, with eyes downcast. The parents were all speaking to Fia, praising and awestruck and more than a little anxious.
"Thank all the gods, and bless you m'Lady!" one woman said. "We're all safer with High-Elf warriors around."
"No problem Miss," Fia replied gruffly, hands on hips. "All in a day's work for us Elves."
One of them men noticed Den, and pointed. "That your assistant there?"
Den waved, and the same woman called out to him: "Oh, thank you also, brave soldier!"
The other woman, the girl's mother, spoke to Den more bleakly: "Is it true, sir? Did you see Dark Elves out there in the woodlands?"
"Today is perilous," he replied. "The cages in Signestad are opened, and there are many Dark Ones out and about. But don't you worry," he laid the Sungold saber on his shoulder. "It's nothing we can't handle."
"Oh, shit!" said the other man, and the girl's mother shot him a glare he didn't see. "You've got a Sungold sword!"
Fia smiled and snatched the saber from Den. "It's mine, actually. But you know us Elves; nothing says more than what we allow shared with our human allies. Come now Den, let's leave these folks to their affairs." She smiled again at the humans. "Much to do back at the Castle."
Den followed her lead. They still had to get out of here. "Yes, and do stay safe," he said. "Remainhere in your homes, until word from the Keep says otherwise. This battle will be over soon, no doubt." Den and Fia carried on towards the road.
"Safe travels, heroes!" shouted the one human woman with no child in her arms. "Emolae's blessing be upon you!"
***
Fia led Den southwest, towards the point where the southern road met that wide trail he never saw. She was quiet.
"Hey," asked Den. "What about those Dark Elves? Do you think… do you think they followed us?"
She shook her head. "Just… let's get back to the cart. Anyone could hear what we say." She sounded dejected.
Oh, right. She's never actually set her own sword aflame! Fia was much like the Prince in that way; maybe that was why they got along so well. She had a certain pride to her. Maybe it wasn't jealousy, but she probably didn't like how Den had to protect her from the monsters. And… there was wisdom to her idea. The Mission was still a secret; anyone could be down here in the south side of Signestad. Den looked around. Now this was a proper dirty city. The houses were more thickly packed and ramshackle. Stumps jutted out of the streets in odd places, pimpling the cobble with their cores and trailing roots. And there were a few people milling about, who regarded them (especially Fia) with surprise.
Ahead of him, Fia looked up, left and right, and set to running. "What?" Den shouted as he ran to catch up. She pointed to her right, and then her left. They were in view of the main southern road, and down it came charging cavalry, lances forward, sabers raised. That was bad enough to quicken Den's pace. To the left, along a smaller road and heading westward, Den caught sight of a familiar figure with an even more familiar Ax: Phemelius raced towards the same point as everyone else: to where both roads would meet. From the corner of his eye Den watched an arrow impale the front-most human horseman through his eye, and he toppled; some of his fellow cavalrymen jumped the fallen horse, and others tripped upon it. A sorry sight, but it did buy the three thieves time.
Ahead, he at last caught sight of the Cart, and the Box was in it. How the other five had managed to escape with it, lift it a meter up and in, Den could only imagine, but The Mission was still 'in business,' to borrow Dregal's phrase. And there he was with all the others: Jaskell drawing his longbow, the other soldiers ready with spears and swords and knives, and Getta, wild and gleeful, hurling rocks.
Fia turned right at the next alleyway and, slipping ahead of the soldiers, cut a charging horse's leg at the knee, then spinning jumped back to face the rest; the one horse tripped and slid. Phemelius sprung from his legs and—because of an unfortunate bit of timing—was forced to leap entirely over Den, arcing a flip so he landed hands-first, and somersaulted around the handle of his Ax back to his feet.
Den reached the cart and, with a hand from Dregal, climbed up into it. From there all six humans beheld the war-dance of the Elves. They were both nimble beyond measure, and their golden blades shined brightly, but they did not create fire, as with the saber Den had done. The horses halted or got 'round them, their humans stabbed and slashed and short-bowed, but the Elves dodged, each strike blocking; Jaskell's arrows served their ends. Fia took the lives of two men, before—vaulting spinning Ax-head—she turned back and, hurling three knives, ducked her head to cartwards run. Phem began to back up slowly, and the horsemen watched him, dumbstruck. In a moment he was flying, back to Box, The Mission, friends.
Gule whipped the reins of the cart and their own horse struggled to lurch forwards. "Maybe we oughtta get one'a theirs?" Tandric quipped. The hardy old beast scraped along the road, and their cart eventually got moving and up to speed. Its wheels and axles were thick, but Den was none too pleased; he could hear them all creaking. Fia dashed up around the box and sat. Two more men and one giant hunk of Sungold now weighed them down. Maybe stopping would be the worst part.
Phemelius leapt into the cart, and coughing caught his breath. "Another… wouldn't hurt…" he said, and pointed to the old horse.
Jaskell was still standing and launching arrows back. After many tense seconds, the cart gained enough speed that the cavalrymen gained on them no longer, and so, fearing the longbow, the mounted soldiers of Signestad peeled away.
The eight were free, and not so badly harmed. The Wall-Burner was theirs. The first stage of The Mission was complete. Den looked back up the road as the outermost walls of the city disappeared over the horizon, and then the road put them into the cover of a southern forest. He sighed with a relief of such a weight as few men ever feel. The worst is behind us. "WHEW!" yelped Dregal, sweating and smiling down the road. He raised a stout fist skyward.
In and East of Signestad, the Sun set and the War raged on. What began as escaped prisoners skirmishing with surprised guards had grown into a true Battle, with fighters of the Night Elves fully armed incurring into the lands outside the city, and the deadliest of human soldiers set against them. From the South, weary cavalrymen returned to the Keep, and set the Lord Benail to cursing. "After them!" he cried, spittle flying. "They must not reach the Elven Lands!"