AFTER THE LONGEST TIME, the warrior Dragoness made an expressive sound like a soft, throaty purr and replied, “Yaarah-al-Allegorix Mazzurkar Tarime, I declare that you are my soul’s own fires.”
They nuzzled briefly until Harzune reluctantly suggested they ought to focus on staying in character.
Act more snakelike, essentially. Think slinking, slithery thoughts.
All talk ceased as the group snuck right between two great brown Dragons hulking upon their plinths, one sharpening his talons with baleful purpose and one apparently napping, until the slight crack of his eye became apparent. Sneaky brute. He watched their little procession pass by without twitching a muscle, however. Not the cleverest leaf on the bough? Or was their illusion that good?
When they had reached a safe distance beyond the Dragon sentinels, Yaarah added, “Now, I propose we go show those Marakusians a little love, too. All creatures deserve love, mrrr-hrrrm, and none more than they.”
Someone was bent on scoring serious nectar points with the Sabrefang today. Ashueli began to flex her shoulders but subsided when Sabline shushed her. “Act natural, Elf.”
“No stress,” Ash breathed lightly. “Everyone, act more relaxed than me.”
“Easier said than done,” Varzune breathed back.
“Act slipperier and sneakier,” Harzune urged in a low voice. “Don’t hurry. Project more malevolence.”
“Sabline’s right over there,” Ash gurgled.
For once, the two warriors agreed on something.
Light grey flotillas of clouds drifted periodically over Middlesun as they made the short but terrifying march over the smooth plain toward the tent encampment. They had almost reached the outskirts when a pair of carts departed from the far side, bearing perhaps seven or eight square cages each sequestered beneath heavy brown tarpaulins. It appeared that the Faroon and Marakusian merchants had resolved their differences, leaving the green men several less in number and the carts free to leave.
Allory was not the only one to make a strangled croak of dismay.
“Patience, o beauteous Scintillant,” Harzune counselled in hushed yet authoritative tones. “We cannot move faster without severe risk of being found out. Stick with the plan. We shall deliver to these Ormic Low Faerie a frank accounting of their crimes against Faedom. Then, having borrowed a few items of equipment, I propose we give chase of those Marakusian Slavers and ambush them at a time and place of our choosing.”
“Good plan!” Sabline and Ashueli approved in the same breath.
Not just the pretty antennae, as Fae would say. This hero had an active, agile mind that was constantly at work.
Allory tried to calm herself as they approached the camp and smelled the first whiff characteristic of Human habitation. Yum. Just as she remembered, full-bodied and foetid and unmistakable.
“Breathe.”
Something minty seared up her nostrils.
“Harzune!” She muffled a sneeze and had to wipe her streaming eyes.
“Shh. Sorry. A bit impetuous.”
“Impetuous?” Ashueli snapped. The Elf stepped on Yaarah’s tail as she came around to their side. He threatened evisceration in a furious, muted growl. “Sorry. Listen here, Herotoes,” the Elf hissed. “You need to simmer down a few degrees. Too deep in the flame and you’ll burn the dish every time, but a perfect simmer produces the tastiest results.”
“I fear I have lost the thread of your meaning,” he apologised.
“Ash, Faerie don’t cook as a rule,” Allory explained. “Even I don’t follow your metaphor.”
The Princess said, “Different tack, then. Take it from a girl, Harzune you are a lot to take in at once. So –”
“Mmm, I know I am – ouch. Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” said Varzune.
“So, here’s the trick,” Ash said, clearly trying for patience in the face of a heroic level of obduracy. “Don’t fly in intent on overwhelming her with all your heroic qualities at once. Most girls prefer not to be walloped over the head with the hammer of romance and dragged off into captivity by some braggadocious, swaggering oaf.”
The hero developed an instant itch upon his scalp at this description. “I … see.”
Allory had to stifle a giggle.
“If you must wallop her, at least do it with subtlety and style. Don’t whip out a prophesied marriage and slap her silly with it in the first sentence. Give her a chance to get used to the idea. You have many fine qualities and they are not, contrary to popular opinion, all related to the girth of your biceps.”
“Hmm,” he mused. “It is challenging to hide my masculinity, however.”
“I’ll help you,” offered his brofae. “I know all about subtlety.”
“Ahem.” Allory cleared her throat politely.
Varzune chuckled, “By my sap, I fear I have been found out. You also are a lot to take in, Allory Fae, o she who dances in the light of Middlesun. You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you? In fact, your innocence is one of your most charming qualities.”
“Outstanding subtlety in action,” the Elf snorted.
Enough to silence Varzune, it appeared. Her rejoinder saved a girlfae from the worst of her blushes. Did Varzune really think that? Just the sweetest sap behind that flippant exterior.
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Reaching out, Allory touched Varzune’s shoulder. “Thanks.”
“Mrrr-grrr, and a great deal more subtlety needed right now,” said Sabline, stilling their nervous joking. “As we enter the camp, nobody act suspicious. We know what we’re doing and where we’re going. Just visiting with friends.”
“Shortest friendship in history,” Ashueli put in.
The Sabrefang touched her muzzle. “Remind me to sharpen these.”
“All of this subtlety’s catching,” Yaarah put in, and the supposed Faroon family shared a laugh as they glided up to the tent encampment.
Perhaps camaraderie was the best disguise of all.
So strange to feel like the odd Fae out but to have everyone around them act as if nothing was amiss. Most of the traders carried durable wares such as foodstuffs, clothing, weapons and jewels. Allory kept expecting an outcry, some hullaballoo related to over fifty strangers sneaking into their camp, but none arose. The communal Chameleon illusion remained perfect.
Allory spied a cart piled high with heavy, strong-smelling leather boots, and another stacked with sacks of spices, judging by the rather more enticing scents. Everywhere in and among the dirty, well-worn tents, anchored by strong ropes attached to metal pegs driven deep into plain rock, people and creatures of Spheris engaged in a busy trade. Some would not be able to travel on into Marakusia, she understood, so they stopped here to sell their goods on to middlemen. Much of the conversation she overheard had to do with the war, but Allory caught mention of an unspecified awful thing eating many leagues of the Elven forests and another woman who claimed that the sun-anti-spinward roads out of Marakusia were impassable due to unseasonal storms.
Strange. Could this have something to do with the phenomenon she and Yaarah had been trying to track? Surely it was nothing as simple as a storm? Or, could those attacks on Middlesun have spawned some weather phenomenon dreadful beyond imagination?
A cluster of taller cream tents toward the centre of the camp belonged to a substantial group of Faroon. The companions avoided these as they snuck around to the edge, aiming for the tents occupied by the Ormic Low Faerie. All the nervous anticipation drained out of Allory’s body in one gasp when they discovered the tents to be completely abandoned. Not a Faerie in sight – but enough scent was left in the air to convince the Felidragons that the Ormic or perhaps other Fae had definitely been present, and that for some time.
Had the Ormic slavers travelled on with the Marakusians? Tracks they discovered in the dust out back suggested so, although the evidence was unclear.
Allory bit her lip to stifle a sob. Her family … they had never felt farther away. If they had fallen into the hands of cannibal slavers, she feared the very worst, unless somehow the value of Scintillants worked in their favour. All she had been through since leaving the Russet Jungles, and now this? While she felt utterly deflated, Allory knew that she would just have to pull up her sparkles and press on. That was what heroines did in the stories, anyways, and it was how she had faced countless nights knowing that the debilitating nightmares would surely come. Just one more. One more step in the sundown direction.
Nothing would stop her.
Her companions discussed the matter in low voices. Sabline and Ashueli were in favour of snooping around the well-secured, taller Faroon tents, but Harzune was hesitant and for good reason. No Fae liked the snake people. Galzune, however, whose wifae’s arm Allory had healed, argued the opposite. That was precisely the reason to investigate those tents, he said, because if any Fae were still being held here, everyone knew who the prime culprits would be.
There was also an excellent chance they might identify any imposters at first glance.
How to approach? The group discussed slipping in at night, pretending to be Faroon or even having Princess Ashueli offer to sell them a few Faerie. Maybe hint at a Scintillant, the frosting on the nectar. Harzune promised the tiny Scintillant would be irresistible. Allory promised to sparkle-slap Herotoes past Middlesun. Violent allergies to cages and all that.
In the end the Princess, disguised as a singularly unattractive green-skinned Marakusian – no shortage of jokes there – sashayed several times through the camp in various directions, mapping out the Faroon tents while also checking for any further sign of Fae. Not so much as a glimmer of a wing.
Hunkering down in the tent they had borrowed from the cannibals, she sketched quickly on the ground, explaining, “There are thirteen Faroon tents in all. There’s a very large one right in the centre of the formation. Four are arranged around that one with what appear to be meeting or socialising spaces between each pair. The third ring is eight tents. Multiple sentries move around and between the tents in randomised patterns – they’re very well organised. At least two of the tents in that second ring of four have magical protections on them, while that central one is the best protected of all. I don’t think I’d have the skills to penetrate it without being detected. That means we’d have to take our chances with a physical attack.”
“How many Faroon?” Sabline asked.
“Forty, minimum.”
Yaarah said, “Not the most enticing odds.”
“No,” the Elf agreed. “However, Sabline and I could take out a fair number on our own, not to mention our cunning Chameleon friends. A pinpoint raid followed by a clever escape would be best – if only we could sneak a look inside those tents first, to understand what we’re up against. A smidgen of intelligence could make all the difference.”
They batted this idea about for a few minutes before Allory blurted out, “Easy as sipping nectar!”
Not the smallest grumble from her friends.
She said, “We’ve wings. You Chameleons can just disguise yourselves as something you’d find here in the camp – like flies –” grumble storm “– and then you just fly up and take a look through the top of each tent. See? There are aeration gaps.”
“Flies, eh?” Varzune folded his arms unhappily. “Last time I compliment you, Sparkles.”
“Alright, Jokerbro.”
He gave a miffed snort, “Jokerbro?”
Harzune hooted, clapping his brofae upon the shoulder, “Herotoes and Jokerbro? Perfect team.”
“She’s sharp on the nicknames,” Ash commented, eyeing up what had to be an imaginary blemish on one of her blades. “Isn’t that right, Sabline?”
“Gnarr.”
Ten minutes passed before motley collection of frightfully unsightly flies took a tour of the campsite. Reports poured in. Ash updated her diagram at high speed. “Social, storage, all these on the outer rim are Faroon sleeping quarters. Middle ring, this one’s a command post of some kind. No Fae present. In this one we have a confirmed report of trapped Fae but that’s auditory only due to interior screening. This one had a Faroon meeting in progress and this one –” she glanced up at Allory before clarifying quietly “– this one appears to be an experimental chamber.”
She gulped hard. “Spelled, t-t … uh?”
“Torture, aye, but currently unused,” said one of the Chameleons, called Lonzune, who had brought this report. “The central tent is the one I’m most worried about.”
“Aye,” said the Princess, circling the central tent. “You couldn’t even approach it?”
“A Fae-repellent magical field is my guess,” said Yarinzil, Lonsune’s pupa-sisfae. “You’ve more expertise in the esoteric magical arts than we do, but my sense is that it might be more attuned to keeping Fae in than out. The outward repulsion is probably just a side-effect.”
“I’d go with that,” the Elf agreed.
“Is there such a thing as an Elf-repellent field?” Sabline snickered. “I need one.”
“With you, it’s built into the original design,” Ashueli sniped right back. “Right. Let’s work out a rough plan. I say it involves setting this Sabrefang I know loose to set a few of their tents alight, then we come in with an aerial attack on these two tents, aiming to free the captives. If fortune smiles upon us, we go for the centre.” She drew a definite arrow, going over it twice for emphasis. “No prisoners. Not of the Faroon, anyway. Then, we just need to figure out how to escape.”
“Just that little detail?” Allory grinned. “You do happen to be the best-looking Marakusian I’ve ever seen.”
“Ouch. Horribly sparkly.”
Sabline said, “If all else fails, we could disguise Allory as a toad.”
“Murrr-hurrr-harrr, that would scare those Dragons off their perches,” Yaarah guffawed. “Oh no, not the sulky sparkly toad! Anything but the sulky sparkly toad!”