"In which pain is shared" – Den
Commander Phemelius was bolder, in those younger days. He did not see the ambush coming: Night Elves in dark garb, cloaked from sight by their magic, who surrounded his loyal company as they pushed deeper into enemy territory. Men around him died, and before he could strike at any Night Elves Phem fell unconscious; the chanting of their sorcerers fading as his mind went black.
He awoke in a strange hall. The walls were old: of stone and silver, delicately carved and dark-painted, rising many feet above into concave-sloping eaves. Some ancient, secret stronghold of the Night Elves. And the Prince was bound with fine Moonsilver chains, with shackles and a brace around his neck to keep his head from turning. Footsteps approached, and he strained his eyes to see to his right, from whence that someone came.
He heard a voice, speaking eloquently and unaccented, the common Human tongue: "You are strange, Sunling."
The Night Elf entered his view: a woman with spiky white hair, the same large eyes as all Night Elves, and tight black body-wrapping around her hips and chest, so that the pale green of her arms, rigid stomach, and most of her legs was exposed to the cool night air. Around her shoulders there was a sort of shawl of thicker black cloth, adorned with a crescent-shaped pin of silver. And in ten pale-green fingers she turned a deadly-looking Moonsilver dagger. He knew enough of Elf-lore, and especially the weapon, to guess correctly her identity: this was an Ahkt-Elskein, the new Knife-Sister. An assassin, spy, and cruel tormentress with no equal among Night-Elves—if indeed she had any equal in all the world. He struggled at his bonds; this only seemed to make them grow tighter.
Phem could only stare at his captor. He spoke with as much courage as he could muster: "W—what are you going to do?"
She followed his eyes to her dagger, and then sheathed it in some belt behind her waist. "Oh-h-h, fear not, brave Sunling. My knife does not thirst for you."
She drew closer to his face, smiling cruelly; he tried to meet her gaze, eyes wide. "Not all torment is physical," she said. "The worst comes from within. The imagination provides its own misery, if given the proper push."
The Prince was sweating now, and couldn't stop himself from shaking. "No, wait I—"
"Your mind will sing its own undoing."
***
Prince Phemelius returned to Gorlitenza with one of his Captains (a man named Dregal, an old friend) and several soldiers more, his Gold Ax Ket-Blaskar back in his hands. He tried to keep a brave face, but he felt exhausted. And yet, there was a strange sense of calm beneath the tension in his stomach. He was returning with new insights. His loyal men he'd commanded to stay absolutely silent, and this they all obeyed, eyes downcast. The order proved unnecessary, for as they reached the lines and camps of the Alliance, the soldier-men beheld them with quiet shock. Nobody expected the Prince to survive, much less walk back of his own free accord.
As they broached the outer walls of the fortress, a clever human Commander by the name of Jalvos Bilyudan ordered that the Prince and his men be captured, for he suspected a Night-Elf trick. And for some time in the fortress dungeons, Elven Sunmages and officers closely examined the freed captives: for evil magics and disguised enemies. Through all of it, none of Phem's soldiers spoke a word. But yes, they determined with certainty at last: this was Prince Phemelius, himself and in the flesh, and there was no Dark Magic about him or his soldiers—whom the mages could see were naught but human men. Surprised (but not unpleasantly so), the loyal soldiers of the Alliance released the returned men, apologizing profusely to Phemelius, and then the Prince went to see his Father the General. He kept his Captain close at hand until he reached Duke Moliesvar's quarters. He went in alone, and to Dregal, quietly insisted that alone the Elven Royalty must stay.
The Lord General Moliesvar was, naturally, overjoyed to see his returned son. "Phemi!" he said, and he wrapped the younger man in his arms. "I thought they'd killed you! There was no trace, I…"
"Father," said the Prince. "It is I."
Moliesvar detected a strange sadness about his offspring. "Phemi," he said. "What did they do to you? What did they say?"
The Prince was walking to the window now. He stood with hands propped on its sill, and stared out at the encamped soldiers. He took a heavy breath. "Father," said the Prince. "This new weapon we have… will it work? Will it win the War for us?"
"Wha— …the Wall-Burner? Why, yes, I mean, you know our plans. I will say, your getting captured put a dent in things, but the plan still moves. Why, I'll put you out there with it, you can watch the buggers burn, for what they've— …my son, what did they do to you?"
The Prince, still somber, turned to meet his father's eyes. "Nothing. I mean, one of their leaders spoke to me, and then they let me go."
"Some Dark-Elf trick, they—they've muddled with your mind! Made you forget the torture, cut at you, drank your vigorous Royal blood to steal your strength! Oh, my son…" Duke Moliesvar reached out and held the Prince's shoulder tenderly, desperately.
The Prince sighed slowly, his face hung vacant. "Father," he said. "You know more of the old Lore than I. How did The War begin?"
***
The Sun was nearly risen when Den awoke in the southern human nation Friedlund, and it was another cloudy morning. "Come, Den," said Prince Phemelius, who'd shaken him. "We're to scout the road, and see if we've brought any enemies along." He had his Ax in one hand. With the other, he pressed an apple into Den's own clammy palms. "Let's go."
Den wiped his eyes and stood. He bit the fruit; crisp upon his teeth it was, juicy and sweet. Everything looked fairer in the dewy dawn-light; a few of the others were already awake and packing up. Den looked around at grim people and sleeping bodies, counting, and hurried to the Prince. "Sir," he said. "Where's Gule and Tandric?"
"Those men have served their need, and we must travel lighter," replied the Prince. "Dreg volunteered to go as well, and he is weighty…" He smiled. "But we need him yet."
They followed a faint trail through the forest together. Phemelius seemed to be of brighter spirits now. Maybe last night's arguments were but an effect of battle stress, thought Den. And all is back to normal now, in calmer times. They reached the road: an old dirt one with strips of grass on either side. All was overgrown. Where are we? Den thought, and nearly asked.
"So," Phem asked. "What do you think? Do you wish to stay along with us, or depart to serve your own mission?" He looked sidelong at the young human, smiling casually.
Den shook his head. "I think… I spent a lot of time thinking last night. I couldn't make sense of what you said. And I especially couldn't make sense of what Dreg said. Why would he be so angry that I protected people? And the sword, he…" Phemelius looked away. "But it was… well, I thought a little harder, and I believe I've found the problem: it's me, my own foolishness..." Den frowned. "I thought the Dark Elves were attacking me, and so I tried to fight them off. But now I think I might've actually drawn their aggression, when we'd have better simply fled to safety with the children. I mean, it's good to protect innocents, no question, but I think those Dark Elves were just, like, spying on us, and wouldn't have attacked had I not given them cause."
"Night Elves," Phemelius said, and he stared intently. "Den… has someone been talking to you? Did Dreg say anything else last night?"
"Oh no, just Getta," said Den. "Now there's a wicked little pick-pocket. But… I think I understand why you keep him around. Even a dirty blade might dislodge things you otherwise might've missed. My own stupid arrogance, it's like… I got so stuck on one idea, I missed the full picture…"
Den had turned away from Phem to mutter, essentially, to himself. When the younger man wasn't looking, Phemelius beat a fist against his forehead, grimaced, and muttered to himself.
Den turned back around and the Prince was staring neutrally once more. Den continued: "…So I would like to stay with The Mission. If… um, if that's alright with everyone."
Phem bit his lip. "…I guess it is," he said. He darted quickly towards Den, so that the young human flinched. The Elf gripped Den's shoulder more tightly than he would've preferred, and stared daggers down into his eyes. "Night Elves," he said. "And, Den… you can manage. I know you can. It's not just about your words, your actions, nor even your thoughts. See differently." He released Den and stormed off up the road.
Mystifying. Phemelius wasn't over his previous anger, he'd just been… pushing it away, and now it flared once more, from behind a callous grin. But… Den sensed a sincerity in those words, a grave sincerity. 'See differently'. Den wasn't sure how to do that; he only had the two eyes. Well, Phemelius was clearly insistent about the 'Night Elves' thing, for whatever reason. If something so small as the word 'Dark Elf' could bother him, maybe there were other things Den did by accident which had built up to this whole terrifying ordeal. The Elf did know of many things, there could be no doubt of that. Den resolved to call them 'Night Elves' from now on, and hope that was the full problem, that and the foolishness he'd realized he had done.
He decided to venture down the road in the opposite direction, to cover more ground and leave the Prince alone to cool. And also, to give himself time to think. The terrors were now well and truly over; he'd be allowed to stay with The Mission, and they were moving West… West! To the sacred lands of Phemelius' High Elven kin!
Maybe not everything was perfect yet. He'd have to apologize to Dreg and Fia for how he'd endangered The Mission (maybe then Dreg would apologize for screaming at him), and perhaps the rest as well. The Prince had mentioned Jaskell as someone especially incensed by his own failures, and the man did have a nasty streak. But then… Fia and Jaskell were the two Phemelius most trusted. Den still found that odd. What about me, he thought to himself. What do I think about these people whose Mission I've been drawn into? He reached a bend in the road and decided to turn back there. As far as he could see beyond the turn, there was no one, not a living thing but birds around him. He lobbed his apple core away into the brush, and that sent some small creatures skittering.
Phemelius had been acting especially strange lately. But he'd always had a whiff of strangeness about him. Thus is the fey nature of Elves, Den thought. But trust him? Certainly; that was the whole thing. Even the business with Dreg and the saber, Phem's wanton lies; it all felt like he was just trying to show Den his foolishness, and not really do him harm. Actually, Den hadn't seen the lofty Elf kill any humans, and, well, everyone else had without much hesitation. He hadn't seen Getta kill anyone yet, but he wouldn't put it past the man.
As for the Thief, Den was shocked at just how much he found himself liking the man, despite everything. Maybe it's just because he's always happy to speak with me, Den thought, and there was a rare wise insight. But it was more than that; for a criminal, Getta was surprisingly open, amused, and frankly at ease around him, and Den felt the same ease in Getta's presence. He could be annoying, and even treasonous. But it all felt light, like a blemish of caked dirt on a smooth stone. Why do I like Getta, of all people? Maybe this thief proved that wickedness—criminality, treachery, or even corruption by the Eastern Darkness—that all this could be reformed. The Prince and Fia both seemed to like Getta; in this, there was a refreshing hope for the saving of all humankind.
Jaskell was annoying too, but in a different way. Ironically, he—a trusted soldier—felt more dangerous than an actual criminal; there was a malice, a substantial nastiness behind his grins. And then there was that way he stared; he was like Phemelius, in a way, there was always something behind the glint in his eyes. Like he felt that he was better than you. But he wasn't an Elven Prince; such pride wasn't the least bit warranted. Trusting him seemed a difficult prospect. Den wasn't feeling it.
What about Fia, whom by all accounts Phemelius trusted most? She hadn't helped Den with the Night Elves, but she'd been paralyzed by fear, and that couldn't really be a mark against her. Den had feared them too, and by Phemelius' reaction, Den figured he'd guessed correctly: his terror had led him to make a bad move. She'd told him to run away rather than fight, hadn't she? Recent events revealed that it had beenthe right idea. And she seemed to have many right ideas, by how the others saw her. She'd also shown him the picture of the Key, which certainly made him feel more 'Mission Critical'. And there could be no argument: she made wonderful music. But did he trust her? No, and Den couldn't understand why.
And Dreg? There was a difficult matter. Even more than with Getta, Den felt at ease around their stalwart Captain. Except for last night, where Dregal seemed about ready to kill him. But he didn't, did he, and not because Phemelius stopped him. How Den interpreted events was this: Dregal was infuriated by Den's stupidity to near the point of murder (the man was capable, that was clear), and then, when faced with the prospect, felt immediate shame at even thinking such a thing. To Den, that meant that Dregal was at least somewhat worthy of his trust. He thought… what was it that Phemelius had said? 'Affection affects'? Dregal was certainly an affectionate sort. Lord Benail had been surprised that Dreg returned to save Den; and Den realized that the ignoble man was unintentionally correct: Dreg had The Key. He truly didn't have to come back for any reason other than saving me from capture! 'Endangering The Mission'… now that was a bad move! Den smiled.Dreg prayed to a weird god and had a terrifying temper. Still, Den could probably trust him. Maybe.
Those other two, Gule and Tandric, seemed fine. Gule was quiet but dutiful, and Tandric had given him ammunition to use against Jaskell. That gave the man points in Den's book. If Phemelius could vouch for them, that was enough for Den to say, 'okay,' and trust those other two now also. And it was good he'd made up his mind, for he stepped back into the clearing, and the group's cart was nearly full. Three-fifths wasn't so bad, right? It wasn't as though they all trusted him so deeply; after last night, Den definitely felt as one walking on thin ice. Don't mess up again, he thought. He'd have to ask lots of questions, listen more. See better. The stakes were higher than he knew.
Phemelius was back already, and he glanced at Den for but a moment. "Alright everyone, let's go! Long way to travel." The six climbed up into the heavily-laden cart one by one. The poor horse. Before he could climb in, Phemelius asked him: "How's the East road looking?"
"Oh," said Den. So that was East. "Nothing I could see. Where in the world are we, anyway?"
"Northern Friedlund," Phemelius replied. "And not for long. We're stuck cutting the corner North of Frundeberg to keep the fastest route which avoids The Road." The matter settled, he walked around to the driver's seat.
Oh yeah, The Road. The King's Road, Veamunae, spanned the entire civilized world, from Libremburk in south Friedlund, weaving up and around through each human state, crossing into Elven Lands at Pretipaxae, and through the West to Ætsolai on the Far Shore. The Road would be the fastest way to cross into the West, but also the place where they'd most likely be seen. While they'd been planning, Prince Phemelius had mentioned that they'd be pursued, and that the human Lords were 'all in league'. If others were anything like Lord Benail, it was likely that their little band of thieves would have trouble once discovered. Den climbed up and into the cart.
Jaskell and Phemelius were in the front, Phem driving. There was less space for sitting, with The Wall-Burner's Box down the center of the bed; Den and all the others in the back had to sit with knees bent high. Slowly, hooves scraping hard dirt, their slightly-less-exhausted steed got the cart rolling once more. Den turned left to Dreg (Getta wasbarely visible over The Box across from Den, and Fia was diagonally across, to Getta's right), and to the man said: "Dreg—Captain! I must apologize for my, uh, mistake, in The Mission yesterday. I should not have endangered us by engaging the Night Elves, as they stood watching in the Dark Lands with no clear intent to attack. I'm sorry… to everyone!" He looked to Fia in particular; her eyes remained downcast.
Dreg looked up at Den slowly. "You… y'think y'did wrong, kid?"
"Well, yes… that's the whole thing! I noticed how everyone ignored me last night, not to mention the way you shouted at me!" Den was further incensed to see the others looking away, or sharing glances with each other. "What? I'm trying to make things right! How am I supposed to do that if nobody—"
"Alright, alright," said Dreg. "I'd at least call it an honest mistake… though, even they can cost ya. Oh, hell, I'm sorry too, for yellin' atcha like that, Sorman. I, uh… well, figure I don't really wanna hurt'cha. Just got a little over-upset, is all. Lot at stake in this here Mission, lot to worry about…"
"Thanks," said Den sincerely, and he drew closer to Dreg, to whisper: "It still feels wrong, though. Like… like I'm 'on the outs,' at least with the others. I just want to do what I can for The Mission, but it's like… like I don't even know what's going on!"
"Well it's a hell of thing, keepin' a merry band like this together," Dreg murmured back. "That Ash Jaskell up there can be a real ash-hole, and that's not to mention me." He grinned. "Phem talked t'you, out on the road just now, eh? What'd he say?"
Den furrowed his brow. "Something about 'Seeing Differently'. He seemed pretty serious about it—" It was kind of scary, actually. "—but I'm not sure I understand what he means. What is it I'm supposed to be seeing?"
"Ah yes, he loves himself a New Perspective, our Commander there. Collectin' em. He's more'f a scholar than a soldier, 's'my view a things," said Dregal. "For one'a them, hah, you'd need a new set of eyes."
"A—" Den raised his voice excitedly. "That's what I was thinking! But there's no way for me to, uh, change my eyes…" Den gulped. What sorts of magicks are Elves capable of?
"Pfff," Dreg replied. "There's plenty out there. Not like you can put em in your own head—least not that I'm aware of—but, y'know, I've got a different set than you, and so does Getta, and everyone else. A unique perspective on things, that's somethin' anyone can offer."
Oh, well yeah. "But there's no way I can, uh, see through your eyes, Dreg. Not that I know of… we're different people."
"Way I see it, kid, all you gotta do is ask." Dregal spread his hands, a welcoming gesture.
"I don't—" Den looked around furtively, and whispered even more quietly: "I don't know that you're right. There are, um, secrets around, and I get the impression that nobody wants to tell me everything."
"Huh." Dreg looked around also. "Well, it's a difficult thing, isn't it? We were talkin' about trustin' before, 'bout who Phem trusts, but his is not the only, uh, perspective that matters—he'd insist it so. We've all got our secrets, right?"
Den was taken aback. Dreg was staring at him knowingly, a little bit slyly. "I—I have been nothing but straightforward with everyone! I've done everything I can to earn his trust… everyone's… yours!"
"Way I see it," Dreg said. "everyone's got a little knot a'misery hidden away somewhere. Their own personal battle. And I wouldn't call it evil to keep that secret; it's frightenin'—who knows what the wrong guy might do with yer soft underbelly?But after day's done, y'gotta trust someone with all that rot. Otherwise, uh, what's the point?" Dreg hung his head. "I was young too, once. Thought I could weather anythin', didn't have to tell people what it did to me. 'Keep things truckin',' I'd say t'meself. 'And don't go botherin' anyone when it hurts.' Vishezadhu would hear about it; that helped, no question. Still, I think I'm better off for every person I share it with. Makes me braver," he said, with wet, twinkling eyes.
"I…" Somewhere in all that Dregal said, Den had lost the thread of conversation and disappeared into his own thoughts. He stayed there for a few moments.
"S'alright, kid, can't rush things," Dregal said gently. He clapped Den on the left shoulder. "Can't very well make you trust us, neither."
But he did trust Dreg. Such a thing was inexplicable. "My father," Den said quietly. "He was a soldier also. In Dunshime, when…" Tears stung him; he shied away.
"Yeah," Dreg said. "And yer mum?"
"The grief, she—" Den broke down sobbing. Dregal pulled him closer; Den cried and snot-nosed into the man's right shoulder. The others tried not to watch.
Dreg nodded distantly, mumbling: "Mmm, let it out, Den. It's alright…"
Den carried on this way for a while longer, perhaps a minute or two, until all his tears were loosed. And in that moment, he felt… better, as though relieved for having spent them. He looked up, refreshed; the world was brighter.
"It is Hope," Dreg said to the sky. "The Mission. That all of us broken soldiers, and the parents and the spouses, and all the wayward children, might be better after The War is ended. That we might see a better way."
Den felt the weight of these words, as did all the silent others. Many sinking sorrows found a footing on resolve. Their wagon hurried on.
***
For hours they drove, wordlessly, through the southern reaches of Newandrale, skirting towns. A lunch they shared in the moving vehicle: hardening bread and softening vegetables passed around, and always the same tough chunks of salted leather-meat. "We must not stop," Phemelius said. "Not as long as we can help it." The trees and meadow-grasses blended together across Den's eyes, and he stopped seeing them. He was preoccupied in memory, as were the others, save a few mutterings about this or the other. The hours became days; Sun rising, Moon falling, with only short breaks so that their horse might draught from nearby streams or be fed with haste—where all the six might go for a stretch, or behind a hidden tree for time alone. Mostly they ate, and slept, and sat dazed in the same little wooden walls.
As they passed Frundeberg, miles to its South, from the North there approached swift horsemen; startled by this, Den was awoke to the present. There were two soldiers on four horses—or, in truth they only rode two horses, and led the others from ahead: Gule Deross and Tandric Ellaberg, hurrying to catch the cart. Den found their faces and set himself at ease. "Ho!" shouted Jaskell, as Phem pulled their own horse to slow along the roadside. "What news from the city?"
Dreg, Phem and Gule jumped down to make a swap: two horses for a very tired one. Tandric held Gule's horse steady from his own, and he replied with a shout: "Word's out, for better or worse." He glanced at Den for a moment. "Think some of us round-ears are rooting for Phem, big noble Prince that he is."
"Figures," was all Jaskell said to this. He smirked sourly as he jumped down from the front of the cart and walked over to Tandric, and the two shared whispered words.
The rest saw the opportunity to disembark and stand stretching for a little while. "If horsies need a brook, I'm makin' one!" Getta shouted back as he ran off towards the treeline.
Phem unhitched their own horse from the front, and came around to rub its muzzle. "Whoa, Lippufaeus," he said. "You've done well, my friend. Rest, now. Gule will take you slowly, and unburdened, to a better place. Your war is over." He pressed his forehead against the horse's. "Ceiskas." The beast snorted and shut its eyes.
"We'll be fine, Lip, you old scoundrel," Gule said, and he patted the horse heartily on its haunch. "Far from danger and from cart-pullin' these lazies. Come on, ya lout!" He took the lead from Phem's hand and walked back over to Tandric, Jaskell, and his own mount.
Den was firmly in the present now, with mid-day sunlight warming his brow. He trod over to Fia (who was sitting on a rock and looking down the length of her saber's edge), and began to ask her: "Hey, did you hear what we—"
But she turned her attention towards the cart, and so did Den, for Phemelius was raising a shout: "No time to waste! Dregal, go find Getta and make sure he hurries with his 'brook'. We ride!" Den watched he and Dreg finish lashing the fresh horses to their cart-bed, and then the Captain strode off towards the woods. When he turned back around, Fia was already passing him on her way back to their cart. Den followed.
Getta and Dreg returned, and so the cart was fully re-passengered. Tandric and Gule brought their three horses to a trot, and as they carried off towards the South, Gule waved back and shouted: "Fare well, warriors of our Mission! There is hope while you move westward!"
And Tandric shouted also: "May we meet again in better days!" Den caught a glint in the man's eyes, and that they glanced directly at him for a spell.
"Vishezadh's blessing on us all!" Dreg shouted back, and then the two men and three horses disappeared beyond the trees. The cart got rolling, more quickly this time, with two fresh horses at its head. They were moving once more, at a pace no less break-neck.
Den crept up between the two men at the front, and to Phemelius whispered: "Why such haste? These roads we travel are empty, even of innocent passerby. Surely we can spare a day, or even a midnight hour, in some hidden place, where we might have a proper sup and sleep."
"No," Phem replied, with eyes set forwards. "In War, silence can be worse than constant noise. It means… those against us are planning something, though I cannot be certain what. The arm of Newandrale's Lord reaches long; it may be that we are still within his snare. We cannot justify a true stop until Pretipax, or at least such time as something happens…"
Something did. A few more days were past, so that the party and their wheels beneath had reached the southern parts of Nuvikolona, the northwestern-most land of human rule. Here they had a problem, for a part of The Road stood between their target Pretipaxae and their path. There were also two large cities, the largest ones of their respective nations: to the North: Noviciddia of Nuvikolona, and to the South: Chastandre, in Andraeliphos. Phem and the others had weighed all options and found threading a path between the two cities to be the best option; though traveling wide South around Chastandre would be more safely free of sentinel eyes, it would be too long a delay, and they might be caught in all that added time they spent berthing. So they would travel nearly straight to the Elven city, and would be forced to cross The Road at a single point. Den saw Phem, Jaskell, and Fia whispering sharply to each other, and shortly after such a point was decided on: one in southern Nuvikolona, some few miles South of its capital city.
As they approached the side of The Great Road, inevitably the roads beneath their hooves and cartwheels improved. Along these lesser tributaries, they began to pass a larger number of passerby: traveling merchants and artisans, impoverished farmers traveling East in search of better prospects, or even the rare Elvish venturer, clad in a style of fine dress similar to Fia's. Curiously, there were no movements of soldiers, as would be normal to see on any populated road. All these travelers, whether they approached and then passed the cart, or were traveling the same way, and left in its dust, appeared only to go about their own business. From some, Den could feel curious or suspicious eyes; he shied from them. Phemelius' hood was up, and his head was down. Late in the afternoon the cart passed over The Road itself, and wove through traffic to cross it. Veamunae was at least five meters across, and paved expertly with uniform blocks of basalt, which formed an interlocking pattern. The laden wain bumped down into and over a shallow gutter at The Road's edge, and then they were back upon a lesser one, moving northwest, or nearly West exactly. As they traveled further from The Road behind, the coming and going of strangers thinned.
One might have been lulled to drowsy boredom after so many frightening strangers turned out to be but common people, on their own unrelated missions, but not the occupants of this cart: soon after the coming of nightfall and suddenly did Phem whistle and raise his head. Dreg was at the front with him, and his hand went to his sword belt with rapidity. Den looked into the dark fields around them and saw nothing, but grappled for his sword also. He heard an arrow nocking behind. The Snare of the Human Lords found its quarry.
"DOWN!" shouted Phem; he and Dreg dove back into the cart's bed, and all the others crouched their heads below its walls. Then there were a great many more whistling noises, followed by a cacophony of thunks along the wooden walls of the cart. The vehicle shuddered; their horses were neighing loudly, and one stumbled. A volley of arrows! Den heard the thunderous clatter of approaching horses all around them; he looked up, and quickly Jaskell stood, longbow drawn, and sent a keen arrow out into the dark. Den heard a corpse fall and then he saw them: horsemen with bows or spears closing on their flanks, save one horse now riderless. The cart skidded on, but with horses no longer working in unison, it rocked to and fro, as though it were soon to stop or tip over.
Like a bolt of lightning did Phemelius jump from the cart, Ax shining in his hand, and set upon one of the horse archers. As he did, he shouted: "AHEAD!" and then he was tussling with the human soldier, and that horse fell away behind them, rearing frightened. Den peered ahead, where there was, some twenty meters away, a thick line of pikemen, and behind, archers with bows already drawn. He and Jaskell ducked just in time. An arcing volley of arrows impacted the front wall of the cart and into the back of the bed; one caught the edge of Den's black cloak, and another impaled itself into Getta's thin calf muscle. The wiry little man screamed in agony.
Jaskell shot up again and loosed another arrow at the men ahead. Dreg roared and, with a sword in one hand and an empty sack in the other, met an approaching cavalry soldier. He caught the man's spear in the woven sack, twisted it out of the man's hand, and—barely reaching far enough—impaled his sword-tip into the off-balance soldier's face; blood spurted, and the soldier fell away. Dreg took the spear, unwrapped the sack from it, and hurled the weapon off to the left. Another mounted soldier went down.
Fia hopped up lightly onto the front of the cart, Sungold saber pointing out, crouching, watching. She took one very deep breath, leapt onto the back of one of the horses, and—the beast stumbling (it was stuck with several arrows)—she slashed it free from the cart and kicked it into charging faster ahead. Jaskell sent another arrow past her pointy right ear. To the left of the cart, Phem had requisitioned one of the enemy horses and was chopping at the other men, leading them away. Den held his sword out as a spear-man approached from the right, but then he heard more bows stretching, and dove into the cart-bed once more. His breathing was frantic. Fuck! What the fuck!?
Ahead of them, Fia turned her injured horse abruptly broadside; it skidded to a slow and she leapt out of its saddle, so that she was standing, horizontally and half-crouched, off the creature's side. A fresh host of arrows impaled this horse in many places, and it screamed and bled and seized with shock. Fia kicked off from it, and the horse carried on, falling on the pikes, and died in pain and bleeding terribly. With the soldiers' eyes still on the creature, she leapt around and in, dancing so to somehow get past the points of all the pikes, and began slicing at the men behind.
Back in the careening cart, Dreg took a glancing spearpoint to his breastplate and was thrown backwards over the Box, one gasping breath forced from his lips. Jaskell cut a spear with a sword of his own, and when its wielder tried to board the cart or ram it, he ran the man through beneath his arm, and sent the body flying to the ground. Den watched terrified as a spear, which he had dodged as it passed over his head, now was swung towards him, carried by a man on horseback. He raised his sword and tried to ready himself, when Getta—still injured—jumped onto the man's horse, swung around him, and stabbed that soldier in the back of the neck. The man slumped, and Getta took the reins. Wildly, he yelped: "Ya owe me, Sour-man!" and sped off, without any apparent skill for horsemanship.
He charged after the Prince, who had killed or gotten ahead of the other chasing horsemen, and was accelerating his own newly acquired steed past the cart to meet the line of pikemen. Some pikes were thrown over the slumped corpse of the horse Fia had ridden, and clattered against the cart or ground around it, useless except in the way their long hafts stumbled their remaining cart-horse. From behind the dead beast ahead, there were terrible sounds of slicing, screaming death.
Phem leapt his horse over the pikemen, and here also was this beast impaled and breathed its last. The tall Elf flipped over its flailing snout and slammed the golden handle of his weapon into several shocked bowmen at the back of the line. All but the top of his head disappeared into the rage of battle, and from behind this line (which now was no more than ten meters ahead of the approaching cart) came the voice of Fia, clear and raging: "LEFT! TURN THE CART!"
Den stood up (and from behind and to the cart's right, one last enemy arrow whizzed just past his ear, and found a tree as victim), looked over the line of human soldiers, and beyond it found another, and another: a whole battalion of ready infantry and mounted, armored men with lances. FUCK! Jaskell slung another arrow with his longbow, and by it slayed the last of the flanking horse-archers. Den scrabbled over the Box to the front of the cart, took the reins of their last horse, terrified and stuck with arrows, and yanked left as hard as he could muster. Left they went, and Den leaned left as the vehicle nearly tipped over; sliding, creaking, wheels locking against the sides. In the middle of all of this, Dreg sat up and looked around in a daze; Jaskell grabbed him and dragged them both over the Box into the cart's left side. By all this counterweight did the cart just barely right itself, and they went on, mere meters from pikes and flesh of fallen horses.
The land sloped downwards from the road, and the trees were just sparse enough for their horse and cart to clip through. Den fought to keep them dodging obstacles as best he could. With one very brief glance back he beheld Getta, still on horseback, following after, trounced and terrified, leg oozing. Den winced. "W-what about t-t-the Elves!?" he shouted, teeth chattering.
"The Mission!" Dreg shouted back. "They'd want us to Pretipax, alone if need be—ASH!"
Den glanced back again and saw it: Jaskell's longbow slid up his arm and resting on his shoulder, as he fastened a quiver of wicked-looking arrows to his hip. He said: "Phem's Mission Critical," and leapt from the back of the cart.
"Jaskell, NO!" Dreg shouted, but the red-haired man hit the ground, rolled and disappeared from view, in the shadows up the slope behind.
"What do we do?" Den screamed. "I don't think I can turn us around here!" He glanced back again and there was no sign of Jaskell… or Getta. FUCK!
Captain Dregal gave no answer. They burst out into a field, a rocky one; no less jostled were they as their horse charged wildly on downhill. Then a front wheel hit a larger rock (or perhaps an especially bad rut) and the cart was launched airborne.
Den felt himself flying, too. The cart flew over his head and was first to hit the ground; it rolled a ways, then settled upside-down into a ditch. The horse, torn free by the force of the flying cart, ran off, still wild with terror. The Box impacted also, heavily, but did not roll: instead it slid some distance, tearing up a line of sod as it went. Then came Den, Dreg, and a whole host of weapons and supplies, all landing hard and rolling, sliding, clattering and impaling the grass. The tent-cloth floated down last, and settled onto Dreg's splayed supine body. Both men lay groaning: bruised, and maybe broken, but alive.
Den's vision readjusted; many identical grassy slopes came back together, and straining, he raised his head. He saw two horses break from the trees above, and grabbed at an empty scabbard at his hip. Then he made out the fuzzy, night-darkened faces of the riders, and couldn't help but smile dizzily: Getta drove one horse, and Fia the other. And there was clearly an extra passenger on each.
Den lifted his aching body up, so he was on his hands and knees. Nothing felt exactly broken, but his joints had long felt better, and his back was especially sore; faintly he remembered hitting a rock there during his roll. He got a better look at the horses: Phem rode sitting behind Getta, Ax on his back and nursing an injured arm, but clearly lucid. On the other, Jaskell was draped behind Fia, stomach folded along the horse's back, head and arms and legs all hanging limp down off the sides. Den tried and failed to stand quickly, cried out, and sunk to his knees.
From beneath the big tan cloth, Dreg rolled, sat up, and flipped the soft thing off himself. He saw the same riders Den did, with the same reaction: first elation at the four approaching, and then grim surprise when he beheld Jaskell's unconscious form. One knee wobbling, he managed to stand.
They both heard Phem in the distance, croaking weakly: "Come. We have to get the cart up, and be off." Dreg set himself kneeling over Den and extended a hand. Together, they got Den up carefully. He slouched to one side to keep weight off his back.
The horses reached the scattered cart. Phem stepped down and helped Getta do the same; Fia came down also, and both Elves held a horse's lead. Jaskell's body stayed where it was.
"Is he… a-alive—" Dreg started, and Fia nodded grimly. Not the most reassuring 'yes'.
"We can get everyone patched up, and use the horses to flip the cart back over," Phemelius said. "Who's well enough to lift?" Fia raised a hand. Dreg did also, and Phemelius looked to him with pity, but did not—perhaps could not—refuse the offer.
Lift? Den thought. But the horses can just—oh. The Box. "Can't we just, uh, leave it behind?" he said, and he struggled to limp closer to the Prince. "Maybe we could cover it with dirt, and retrieve it late—"
"No," Phem said firmly. Just 'no,' and that was that.
Two close corners of the cart were lashed, and the horses led away to flip it back over onto its wheels. Jaskell had been set on the ground, cushioned as it were by their big flap of tentcloth. A bandage at his stomach was thick with drying blood. Dreg, Getta and Den stood regarding the Wall-Burner's crate, until Den noticed the Elves inspecting the rolling of the hills down into the West, and joined them.
"…—nto that fold and beneath the ridge downwards," Fia was saying, and she pointed to a ripple in the hill-slope, one tall enough to obscure a close-passing cart below it. From each Elf, Den felt the corner of an eye stretch back to watch him, then both returned their attention to the distant darkness.
"Nay," Phem replied. "That's where they'll expect us to go, to that town in the basin there. There is another town, along The Road to the South." He pointed into the wooded distance below them. "One little-known, and in dense woodlands. Once around it, we could afford an hour—maybe two, yes, two assuredly—to let injured men rest, and have a cold bite. What soldiers remain, should they wish to pursue us… we may slip them yet." He looked South, still pondering.
"Alright," Fia said to him. "The Box, then." She started back to join the others. Phem lingered; Den joined him kneeling, facing the distance.
"Sir," Den asked the remaining Elf. "Your arm needs time to heal. Why do you still carry Ket-Blaskar?"
Phemelius, who'd been gripping the Ax tightly, now looked down at it in his hands. "I… on the road above, the man who got Jaskell… I took his head." His eyes looked at his Ax still, glassy. His hands fidgeted about its golden haft. "He was the first human I've killed directly."
"It's no small task we face, the—wait, what do you mean 'directly'?"
"Ask Dregal," Phem said. "An officer inevitably spends the lives of most of his soldiers." He stood and walked wordlessly away to follow Fia.
Here's that humility again, Den thought. And it's… he feels guilty, that he's survived a War which kills so many. This was a common terror; Den felt it also, after that night in Gorlitenza. "Commander!" he shouted after Phem. "You cannot blame yourself! Those deaths—murders… they are not yours to claim."
"I inspired them." This was not the first time Phemelius spoke to Den from the back of his head. "To fight My War."
Den hurried after him. The others were already at the Box's handles; Phem's Ax was in the Cart, he'd just convinced Getta to stay seated (the little man still had an arrowhead and broken bit of shaft stuck in his bandaged leg), and the other three were in position around it. "Can you lift, Den?" Dreg asked, quite gently.
"I'm good," Den said. (He wasn't). Fia and Den were on the two handles on the Box's left, and Dreg and Phemelius on its right. "How about you, Fia? I mean, um… it's not that… I just mean, do you lift heavy things often?"
"No," said Fia. She grinned at him, with eyes glinting out from beneath the shadows of her brow.
"...okay, um, what about you, Commander?" Den looked at Phemelius' arm, and though he could see no signs of bruise or breakage beneath the sleeves, the Prince had been holding it tenderly the whole time. "And Dreg—are you both well enough to try this?"
"No," Dregal answered. "But we have to do it anyway." He shook out his leg, the one that he'd been trying not to put weight on.
"We lift to hip-height on a Dregal," Phemelius said in a commanding way. "Carry to the cart, and then we go up high enough to get on it, and push on as best we can. Are you ready, Den?"
"As much as I can be," Den said, resigned. This thing looked heavy when four healthy soldiers had to heave it, what of us? "But what about Fia, uhh, is she serious that—"
"She's messing with you," Phem said flatly. "Alright: on three." Den braced himself, knees bent, and crouched to grab the handle at his feet.
"One," said the Prince. "Two… THREE!" Den strained and shuddered; he felt the blood rushing to his head, the fuzz of consciousness waning. The Box somehow lurched up off the ground. He heard a joint pop out, and not one of his, for good or ill.
There was an extra edge of searing anguish in Phemelius' voice, as he forced out the words: "THE CART." They all hurried over to it. Den put as much of himself into supporting the weight as he might dare; more, really, though he felt his forehead throbbing.
Stumbling and half lucid, Den found they'd bumped into the back of the cart. "HIGHER," Phem shrieked through gritted teeth, and hoisted the thing an extra few centimeters skyward. Den felt Getta coming up behind; the wounded little man took no small portion of the weight, and helped them thrust the thing, sliding with a splintering clunk, back into the cart-bed. All four lifters tore away then, to double over and to cough, and Den fully fainted from the exertion.
He awoke to a cold splash of water on his face. "Sour-man!" came the excited cry of Getta, looming large as a thin man could in his vision. Jolting his neck up, Den felt a warmth of friendship he might never have expected upon the sight of the wiry thief, his gaunt and scabby face, and rotting teeth. They were in a moving cart, and that too came as great relief to Den Sorman.
"Getta!" he cried, and grabbed at Getta's shoulders and hugged him. He peered over the Crate and there found Dregal smiling also. Den sat up on his knees and peered further. Jaskell was there as well, still out of consciousness, wrapped and sleeping, looking rather pale. But they were all here. Alive! Elation came to Den like a delightful surge of mania. "WHEW!" he cried.
Jaskell's eyes cracked open, and he strained to croak at Den: "...we made it?"
He looked then to the Elves at the front; their faces were unseen, as they both focused on the land ahead. Whatever their target was, they headed towards it, and there were no signs of soldiers. "Phemelius! Fia!" Den said, still manically elated to be alive and on the move once more. Fia (Phem was driving) looked back at him warily, and though she fought against it, smiled also. "Rest, Jaskell… all of you," she said. "We are alive, but not safe yet."
"...better days… after the War…" Jaskell muttered. He was seizing, but as his wet eyes closed once more, he did seem calm despite it all. "...peace for… all… us orphans…" He sunk back out of consciousness.
Den smiled at Getta again, and then laid back. This is a perfect night! he thought. They were past the danger. Tomorrow, there was Pretipaxae; Denbas Sorman would live to see the Elven Lands. Joy comes easily, bubbling up like the foam on a fresh-poured draught, to those who face death and yet live.
***
He awoke again of his own accord, and all was still: night dark and quiet save for wind and crickets, the cart sat motionless beneath him, the people gone or sleeping. He saw Jaskell, pale and feverish, was still lying on his back. Getta was also in the cart, sleeping in a healthier way, his leg freshly bandaged and arrow-free. Den stood and looked around; they were in a little leafy clearing in the forest, and there at its edge stood Fia, hands on hips, saber at her side, staring out into the darkness. Den stumbled to his aching feet and crunched out onto the leaves towards her. Her clothes were stained with dry blood up to and including her scarf, but there was no blood on her face or hair. Must've washed up somewhere, Den thought.
He asked: "Where—" and then Fia was already responding.
"Getting the lay of things," she said. Her face was placid, and then anxious as she glanced back. "Think they're hoping to get into town, to sneak out some healing shit for Jaskell."
"Oh," Den said. His previous adrenal glee was gone, and now he thought: Jaskell has to make it. I was just warming up to the man. There was something in what he said; how he said it: 'Phem is Mission Critical.' A kindness deep within the grinning soldier. He certainly cared for their Elven commander, as did they all.
"Fia," he asked slowly. "Phemelius… is it true what he said? He's never killed a human before?"
She nodded. "Far as I know. Well, except for all his soldiers, but he probably—"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. He feels guilty for losing people. I guess that's good too," Den said, and he scratched his head. "I mean, everyone else has killed a bunch of people, but we're all just humans… oh, and, um, you're at least half human, so it's fine, too." Fia eyed him. Sometimes it's hard to remember she's an Elf-human, he thought. Besides the curl of her hair and a slight tint to her skin, she looked more Elf than human. "But Phem, he's an Elven Hero. His mercy does him credit."
The Elf-Bard scoffed at this, chuckling, and then, in the settling silence, she frowned. "Phemelius is as kindhearted a man as you suppose," she said. "And there's a stopped clock. I don't fault him for—"
"What?" Den blurted. "Oh, I'm sorry, um… a stopped what?"
Fia brushed this question aside with a flick of her pink-gloved fingers. "Never mind that. What I'm saying is: he's… look, this pity of his… it's good that he has it! And he understands—he gets it—but sometimes it can be so annoying, how he—" She glanced at Den, and looked frightened, almost. Words continued to spill out of her. "It's not that he's foolish about how he… not anymore—in truth he's always known—I just… oh, never mind at all. Fuck it!" She threw up her hands and started to walk away. "… Just try to keep up with these boys, Den, just talk to him and find your own way. Watch the trees!"
Den stood flummoxed; halted by her words as much as by the two fingers she stabbed back towards him. What was that all about? He took up her watch of the darkness. Everyone's still on edge after the ambush, he thought. And Jaskell… there was plenty reason to be upset in this moment. Den felt little but exhaustion; his eyes drooped, staring at the dull blackness.
There came the tramp of boots; Den jolted awake, and saw two familiar shapes in the shadows: one tall and lean, the other short and stout, in the same cloaks they'd worn when he first met them. Dregal carried many bags and parcels, and Phemelius had some bags of his own, and in one hand, now fresh-wrapped in cloth and strapping, still held Ket-Blaskar his weapon. They were muttering to one another, and nodded solemnly at Den.
A few paces closer, and the Captain spoke: "How ya feelin', kid?"
"Fine," said Den. "Much better. Um, Prince Phemelius, Sir, may I speak with you for a moment?"
Phem and his Captain shared a look, then the Prince pressed his bag into Dreg's already full hands, and the shorter man hurried off towards the cart without a word. "What's the matter, Sorman?" Phemelius asked.
"Maybe everything," Den said. "But no, it's Fia. I don't understand her, not at all. She seemed to be upset at you, after everything we've all been through tonight. Does she ever seem, I don't know, a little hysterical? Over-reactive, in odd ways? I mean, what sort of a person is she?"
"Huh," Phem said, and he looked out towards the center of their clearing. "Oh, no. She faces a great many challenges, far more than I could dream of. I'd say she's in just the right shape."
"Oh yeah, she is kind of strong, huh? Muscly?"
"Den, that's not what I…"
"You see it though, right? I mean, she lifted the Wall-Burner at least as well as I did, and—"
Phem smiled. "At least," he muttered.
"…yeah, and she's not bad at all with that sword of hers, fire-edge or no. I figure she's got some serious strength beneath all those frilly clothes of hers, huh?"
"...you're asking me… what she's like, under her clothes?"
Den went very red in the face. "Well, Sir, I didn't mean—"
"Nah," Phem smiled, "I'm just messing with you. And yeah, fighting's part of it, but what I mean by 'shape' is that she's taken just the right shape she needs to: she's honed, to a fine point. For The Mission."
And that's another thing. "Uh, Sir," said Den. "I have… a smidge of healing knowledge. Maybe I could help Dreg with patching up Jaskell—I'm not saying I should be in charge, but any way I could help, I'd, uhh…"
Phemelius was looking him up and down. "You're exhausted, Den, and still hurting," he said. "Never mind helping or… whatever. Get back to sleep, I'll take your watch. We'll be moving soon, and the Sun will rise soon after."
Den protested a little, then limped away to the cart. There, Dreg was kneeling over Jaskell's unconscious body, and already finished with the fresh bandaging; he had wet blood on his hands, and on many rags around him. Jaskell didn't look much better. Getta was still asleep on the other side of the Box, and Fia was nowhere to be seen. Den stepped up, crouched down beside Dreg, and asked: "Is… is he going to be alright?"
"I've done all I can. There's a chance, and not a bad one, but that's no certainty. Lord protect him." Dregal made the same religious gesture as before: fingers to his shoulders, then down until the backs of his hands met at the bottom of his chest.
"Dregal," Den said, hushing. "He said something strange, before he jumped from the cart to help the Elves." Elf and Elf-human, bah! "…About Phemelius being 'Mission Critical'."
"He is," Dreg said, and he looked up, stared at Den intensely. "Maybe I shoulda gone back too." He was shaking. "He is Mission Critical."
"Sure, of course! But, umm… he didn't say anything about Fia."
Dregal blinked. "Well, heh. No, suppose he didn't. Well, don't take that as Jaskell not bein' concerned for her safety—quite the opposite, actually, she's the one he's most concerned for—but, well she can take care a' herself, of course." Den nodded; this was true, but so could Phem. "...but it's, well… when them two're together, it's not usually Fia y'have t'worry for. Hmm, no that sounds bad, see… Phem cares about her an awful lot, is all. Like he'd do just about anything t'make sure she gets out alright. And, well, if someone did care 'bout her safety, takin' care'a Phem would be about the best way to take care'a her. So Jaskell was helpin' both of 'em, way's I see it."
That made sense, in that it confirmed another of Den's suspicions, but didn't really answer his original concern. "Sure, yeah, but… is Fia not Mission Critical?"
"Oh, uh," Dreg scratched his beard. He isn't even sure??? "How do I… The Mission is better off with her in it. Much better off. I think we could do it without 'er, maybe, but none's more committed than her—that's for certain. And she wouldn't be too pleased to be left out!" Dreg burst out laughing at this, but when Den didn't join him, the laughter faded. "...Seriously, she's about the closest thing to 'Mission Critical' a person could be, without quite bein' it."
"Oh, okay." Den was still confused, but tried not to show it. He greatly admired Phemelius, and could hardly imagine anyone else leading this daring Mission—but someone else could, couldn't they? Another noble High Elf, another Hero? The Cache Key in Signestad had been 'Mission Critical' for whoever carried it, as was the Wall-Burner itself; but those were weapons needed for The Mission, for Phemelius, and for the end of the War, of course.How was he Mission Critical? The more Den turned the idea over, the more solidly he arrived at the notion that 'Mission Critical' referred to things: irreplaceable tools, like Keys, which formed the only possible path forward.
"Get some rest, Sorman," said Dreg. He patted Den on the shoulder. "Them bruises and sprains of yours need time to stitch 'emselves up. Take what shuteye ya can, that's the first rule a' soldierin'."
Den curled up into a comfortable worn spot in the wood of the cart-bed, shifting and groaning as he went. "Dreg?" he asked.
"Yeah Den?"
"Are Phemelius and Fia, uhh, together?"
Dregal laughed once more, and heartily. "Hah! Well, they are certainly aligned, in each way I can see…" Den turned over to look up at the stout, good-natured Captain, whose eyes were twinkling. "...far as what I don't see, well, that's none'a my business…" Dreg looked off into the distance, wistful, grinning.
Den turned back over, shut his eyes, and smiled. There was something pleasant to the notion (he could see very clearly what Dreg was implying): romance between two Elves as they together won The War. He had long wondered what sort of person Fia was—what sort of Elf, what secrets her history held—and now he saw a history take shape. She could be an Elven Princess, noble as the Prince, and just as unjustly brought low by a cruel twist of fate. She'd be a bastard, as there were no human nobles in the West, but that only added to the story: they were star-crossed lovers, united by The Mission and a pain only they two could understand. He could see it in his mind's eye: back in Orevictorum (or even Ætsolai itself), the War finished, discarding their common clothes—disguises—for the fine raiment of High Elven nobility. In peace and victory they'd be wed, attended by a few loyal humans soldiers similarly shined up for the ceremony—their steel polished to a sheen, but sparkling nowhere near as brightly as the Jewels of the West. Maybe it would seem slightly odd; Fia, her hair grown out as proper for a maiden Elf, and yet so humanly curly in its royal diadem. But perhaps that little twist of strangeness also made the story sweeter. With these dreams to comfort him, Den smiled and drifted off to sleep.