Joseph Wilder was ripped from sleep by a man clearing his throat.
“Not again,” he muttered.
Count Bennet stood in the doorway. Next to the first officer lay the man’s wife, the shape of the countess’ slender body visible beneath the thin sheets. Joseph Wilder jumped out of bed and lunged for his gun, which lay on top of a pile of clothes near the door. The count drew his sword and held it out to stop him. Its tip trembled against the first officer’s throat where he stood, straight and naked, not showing the slightest trace of regret. The count did not appear angry the way he expected a husband of a cheating wife to behave. He looked broken, a man too weak to summon anger. A loser unworthy of his wife’s desire.
The countess rolled over and gave away a muffled morning sound. Her bed sheet slid down, and exposed her breasts as she stretched out her arms and yawned. The count saw how her body attracted Joseph Wilder’s eyes and pressed the sword harder against his skin.
“Outside, now,” he said.
Joseph Wilder put on his trousers and walked down the marble stairs out into the morning haze. The count’s garden so large his castle was a small cottage in comparison. He had known it was a terrible idea to spend the night at the estate, but the countess had her tricks to persuade him. And now he was on his way to another duel, unless the count played dirty and killed him in cold blood.
“Go left!” The count walked a few steps behind him and gave harsh orders, but Joseph Wilder sensed the fear hiding in every word.
They crossed lawns the size of farming fields and entered a vast apple orchard where two men waited. He recognized one as the count’s heir, his mistress’s brat of a stepson who thought he was a fighter just because his father had given him a shining sword for his birthday. The other man looked Joseph Wilder's age. Probably one of the count’s friends.
They handed him an old pistol. He squinted through the barrel to check that there was a bullet inside. His opponent was a man of honor, a man who found it noble to arm his enemies.
“No!” The countess came running towards them from the castle, barefoot and dressed in a thin dressing gown. Her voice was so full of despair that even the first officer felt a momentary shock of sympathy. The son went off to stop his stepmother. He put his arms around his stepmother and whispered something in her ear, then pulled her away from the scene.
Joseph Wilder took a deep breath of chill morning air and showed his white teeth in a devilish smile. The count looked like he was dueling with the grim reaper.
“Take your positions,” shouted the friend.
The duelers walked up to each other and placed themselves back to back with their pistols pointing at the sky.
“Whatever happens,” Joseph Wilder said in a hushed voice that only his opponent could hear, “you should know that your wife never enjoyed herself as much as last night. If you kill me, she’ll never experience such pleasure again.”
“You’re a scum, Wilder,” said the count. The first officer smiled to himself.
“Take a dozen steps, then turn around and wait for my countdown to finish,” said the friend and started counting.
Joseph Wilder took long strides. The farther away they came from each other, the better his odds. He was one of the finest marksmen in the country, while he doubted that the count had even taken part in a duel.
They stopped, turned around and took aim.
“Twelve, eleven, ten.” The friend’s countdown was coming to an end. “Four, three, two.”
He squeezed the trigger. The count collapsed without making a sound, his eyes empty and a red hole in his chest.
*
Joseph Wilder rode straight to the church for a quick confession and his sins were, as usual, forgiven with no repercussions. The old high priest said that he knew how weak even the strongest men could become when struck by human desire. He himself had an illegitimate daughter which Joseph Wilder had slept with on several occasions, but the first officer did not mention that to the holy man. After the confession, the high priest told him that the impurity taking place in the Dream Park upset him and that the people of Anland were losing their ideals. He begged him to do the right thing and destroy the creatures in the Park. Joseph Wilder promised to do his best.
From the church it was not far to Dream Park and he soon rode in through the gates, up the road past the Troll Pit. Most of his men waited for him outside the Watch House and broke into a cheer when he arrived. Some were proud on his behalf while others envied him, but admiration filled them all to the brim. They thumped him on the back and congratulated him on yet another successful duel. Sommerfort was small enough for rumors to spread faster than a man could ride, but large enough for him to kill a decent man without people missing the deceased.
A senior officer who had been on night duty pulled him aside and reported what had happened since the previous evening.
“It got rowdy in the Troll Pit,” he reported. “We fired several warning shots, with no effect. Some of us had to go into the pit and frighten them with torches before they became silent.”
The day before a rich boy from Frostport had thrown rocks at the creatures in the Troll Pit. It was forbidden to do so since it upset the trolls, but such incidents tended to pass unnoticed. The creatures knew what pain awaited them if they harmed a visitor. A round little troll cub which often tried to cuddle with humans, grabbed a stone and threw it back with the force of a meteor shard. Now the creature waited for his punishment in the cellar beneath the Watch House. The boy had suffered a concussion, but the doctor said he would recover with no lasting damage. The sluggish pup had believed the stone-throwing to be a game, but had to be executed nevertheless, it was a matter of principle.
“Visitors’ safety must be guaranteed and discipline maintained,” said Joseph Wilder.
“True,” agreed the senior officer. “We should be on our guard and keep an extra eye on the trolls for a few days.”
Joseph Wilder felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and saw his second-in-command, Jon. One could tell that he was a soldier. The young man stood with good posture, his expression blank, and faced his superiors with calm respect.
“The director wants you in his office at ten o’clock and Don Ademar requests your presence in the Zoo,” he said. “The southerner is upset.”
“Of course he is,” Joseph Wilder sighed and headed down the road.
The Zoo was a building complex between the park’s lower wall and the Troll Pit. It was a maze of passages, barred cages and tiny courtyards. In rooms with glass fronts they kept exotic creatures and animals which, unlike those native to Anland, could not survive in the cool outdoors climate. Arthur Greene had over the years purchased everything from micro bears, striped turtles and snow lions, to poisonous parrots and giant spiders. The Zoo was an easy section to patrol compared to the pens with more intelligent and mischievous creatures. On the downside, far too few visitors wanted to pay the additional fee to the Zoo. Thus the director now explored alternative methods to earn back the money he had invested in the rare animals.
In one of the inner courtyards stood Don Ademar, the last decade’s most renowned monster fighter, wrapped in a white fur to warm his Bengalian blood. The man’s small size surprised Joseph Wilder. How could such a weak and tiny man become famous enough to fill arenas throughout the south? Maybe the dangerous beasts the southerner fought were just battered creatures that had spent their lives in strict captivity.
Don Ademar stared through a high window at a humpbacked creature with skinny wings that were far too short to fly. It sat on a small stool tied to the ceiling with a thick rope. The monster fighter took his eyes off the creature and turned to Joseph Wilder as he entered the yard.
“Why?” he said, agitated, and gesticulated with large movements toward the creature. “So weak, so ugly!”
“Arthur Greene pays you to fight,” said Joseph Wilder and gave Don Ademar an impatient look. “Is that a problem? Are you afraid?”
The creature’s arms were thin as sticks, and from them hung knobby white skin. Its eyes were huge pink balls with even bigger eye bags under them, and it had a distorted head, oblique in a way that made the first officer’s stomach twist. When it caught sight of him, the creature extended its lizard tongue and hissed.
The first officer did not flinch.
“I want to fight trolls!” complained Don Ademar, his southern accent so thick that Joseph Wilder had trouble understanding. “No, even better, against an elf! Please, please, think of my reputation. I’m a fighter, not a clown! You might as well put small horns on gnomes, give them pitchforks and attack me.”
“Hundreds of people have bought tickets tonight just to see you fight. You signed a contract, and if you break it, I’ll feed you to the trolls. Do you understand?” he said, but Don Ademar grumbled on and it annoyed him.
He had killed one man that day and now his patience was coming to an end. What difference would another corpse make, especially if it belonged to a cocky little fighter from the south who nobody within hundreds of miles knew. As he explained this to Don Ademar, the little man stopped complaining. The southerner sounded enthusiastic to fight the creature behind the window instead of the first officer. Joseph Wilder turned around and left the monster fighter alone with his monster.
On his way up to Arthur Greene’s office he passed a large flat lawn where one of Anland’s biggest circuses had been staying for the last month. People were now busy dismantling the big tents and did not notice him as he walked past. The circus performed in the Dream Park every summer. This year they had purchased two pairs of elves to use for acrobatics and archery performances, in which accidents were too common for their regular staff to partake. Despite his protests, young elf males practiced the arts of weapons so that the circuses paid a higher price for them.
Soon he arrived at Arthur Greene’s office, a white villa with a unimpeded view of the valley. As he walked up the steep stairs to the entrance, he wondered why the director had summoned him. As long as the creatures behaved and money flowed into the park, he managed his duties with little involvement from his superior. He assumed a half-hearted scolding for the duel awaited him, just for the sake of it. The count had been no frequent visitor to the park and thus the director would not miss him.
He stepped over the doorstep without knocking. Arthur Greene sat in an armchair next to a childish-looking man and poured hot tea from a smoking kettle into bone-white cups. The young man was dressed in a blazer and carried a wry smile on his lips, like he was in the middle of performing a scam.
“Let me introduce our first officer, Joseph Wilder,” said the director.
The young man gave a nod without greeting him as an equal.
“Wilder, meet Marcus Burr. He’s Gabriel Shannon’s apprentice. Mister Burr, can you recount what you told me.”
Marcus Burr took a sip of tea before he spoke. “Shannon’s daughter, Liv, has gone missing. She probably helped one of your elves escape. Shannon told me she has no friends and that she won’t fit into society. He…”
“Get to the point,” interrupted Arthur Greene.
“The girl is a half-blood.”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Joseph Wilder lost his breath, then a grin spread across his face.
“The lawman who broke the law,” exclaimed the director. “We know him well, don’t we, Wilder?”
“Are you certain?” he asked, then recalled his encounter with Liv the day of the escape. It made perfect sense.
Marcus Burr snorted, “Shannon told me himself and, as far as I know, the man never lies.”
The first officer considered the apprentice’s words for a moment, feeling better than ever.
“This is the end of that stinking lawman,” he said.
“Shannon and Wilder grew up in Sommerfort together,” explained the director. “In their youth, Shannon convicted Mister Wilder for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“Why are you telling us this?” asked Joseph Wilder, changing the subject. “What does an apprentice gain by betraying his master?”
“Everything.” Marcus Burr looked slyer than normal. He produced a shiny pocket watch and raised an eyebrow when he saw the time.
Joseph Wilder disapproved of the young man. He reminded him of the worst type of visitors who stayed in the Pleasure House until the break of dawn.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I must return to the Town Hall,” said Marcus Burr and stood up from the armchair.
Arthur Greene shook the young apprentice’s hand, almost dislocating his shoulder.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “I’ll give you a proper reward. Remember that betrayal is not a sin, it’s a method of negotiation.”
“Wilder, you need to talk to your brother,” the director said once the door had closed behind Marcus Burr. “I’ve received a disturbing letter.”
*
It was still dark outside when Liv and Kaan woke by a heavy knock on the door.
“Wake up,” shouted Moriah. “We must leave now for the morning Mass and I won’t wait for you. Pastor Brock is there, and he does not approve of latecomers.”
With that off his mind, the innkeeper disappeared down the wailing stairs. Kaan opened his eyes and jumped up from the floor, as if he had been awake for hours and just laid waiting for the morning to arrive. He sat down at the end of the bed and watched Liv pull her clothes on before they scurried outdoors.
They crossed the green grazing ground above the village and arrived at the chapel without meeting a single person.
“Are chapels always this big?” asked Kaan as they stepped into the shadow of the enormous building.
“No,” said Liv.
“Why doesn’t Sommerfort have a chapel?”
“There are several chapels there, but they are much smaller, no larger than an ordinary cottage.”
She recalled from her history lessons that the chapel had once been an unassuming little house, a tiny detail in the greater context of the mountains. Over time it had expanded to the enormous cathedral it was today, that cast long shadows up the mountain slope. Since its last restoration, red bricks covered the facade. A dozen arched windows in rainbow-colored glass allowed a faint light to enter the chapel. The black towers split the air above, three sharp spears protecting them against unexpected attacks from the sky. It was not a building designed to be beautiful. It was a building that demanded respect. The bell in the highest tower called for Mass just as they arrived at the gate. They sneaked in through the door as a hymn broke out inside the chapel.
You fall
To your knees
Asking for grace
“Why are they singing?” asked Kaan.
“That’s what you do at Mass.”
Across the church, on a platform below the altar, stood a choir with people of all ages, everyone dressed in black. On the floor in front of them was a crowd of hundreds of villagers, the faithful members of Saint Rafael’s parish. They stared at their feet and rocked back and forth to the music. Some mumbled inaudible words and others were crying.
“They don’t seem thrilled,” said Kaan.
In the shadows behind the choir sat their dear innkeeper, whispering to a wrinkled old man in a crimson robe. Liv assumed it was Pastor Brock.
Put your life in god’s hand
You shall worship
The ground god makes
“These are dogmatists,” she said. “They worship sacrifice and seek to save the world by cleansing it of evil. When they succeed they will dress in white instead of black. The nuns of the night we saw in Southport is one of the worst dogmatic orders. Fortunately, most Believers in Anland are ecumenists and want to cleanse our country by converting evil into good.”
Kaan frowned. “What do they consider evil?” he asked.
“You and I,” Liv replied and smirked. “The ecumenists are wrong. They’ll never change what we are.”
The choir fell silent and disappeared behind the dim altar. Pastor Brock stepped forward and held out his long, thin arms. His black little eyes fixated on Liv and Kaan where they stood. She realized that they attracted unnecessary attention. The elf was the only one in the chapel wearing a hat, and she knew that Believers found that rude for some reason. To make things worse, a gray pigeon had flown in through a slit in the door and landed on top of the elf’s shoulder. She shooed it off and walked backwards. After half an eternity, the pastor spoke and turned to the crowd in front of him. Kaan and Liv sneaked out through the door and closed it.
“I believe it was a mistake to come here,” said the elf.
Liv did not want to admit that he was right and instead changed the conversation.
“Let’s go,” she said. “We should be near Skyberg.”
It was easy to find the way up to the Dream Park’s predecessor. They followed a rugged road toward a line of trees which looked much younger than the other forests around Saint Rafael. They crossed a field of yellow grass and came upon a weathered old wooden sign nailed to a tree trunk at the edge of the forest.
‘In Memory of Skyberg’
‘and the wonderful memories that occurred there’
They walked over to a wide glade where turf and brushwood grew. Liv fell into a slow run, as she often did when she was in nature, and paid little attention to where she put her feet. She tripped over a pile of rotten timber. In front of her lay rows of stones and plaster residue, which she assumed were the remains of Skyberg’s inn.
“So much effort just to entertain people, all of it forgotten,” she said and climbed to her feet.
They returned to the road and followed it further into the forest. Every few steps they passed gray tree trunks without leaves or needles, dead monuments dedicated to the fire. The sun had risen high in the sky, but was hiding above black clouds.
“Pointless weather for a pointless world,” she murmured.
They arrived at a meadow where a forgotten sign said that a race court had laid there. Snow lions and mountain leopards lived in a cage next to it and elves filled the forest behind the track.
“You were born here,” said Liv.
Kaan nodded. He was glad to visit the place of his birth, despite the unappealing detail that it resembled a burned-down prison.
“Do you recognize yourself?”
He shook his head. “My brothers might, but I’m sure this is where we come from. It must have been Lady Greene who taught Leon to read. He forgot most of it, then last year he started stealing books from visitors. My brother studied them whenever he had the chance until he knew every word of every page. He allowed no other elf to touch them. He said they were history books, and that he was more certain than ever that we had to fight back. Our foreman, an elf around Leon’s age who’s difficult to like, told the officers. The humans just ridiculed my brother for thinking he could learn to read. They gave him one of their typical beatings, which was nothing compared to what Leon did to the foreman.”
Liv did not ask for details. She had experienced her fair share of violence, though she feared that violence had not yet had its fair share of her.
*
The inn was locked when they returned. After a minute’s search, they found the latchkey in an unimaginative hiding spot under a rock beside the door. They stepped inside and went up to their room.
“We have to leave this place,” said Liv and threw herself on the bed. “It feels wrong to be here. You heard Moriah, they persecuted the Beings that escaped from Skyberg. No dogmatist will ever help an elf on the run. We should go to Eastport, it lies just north of Domedus. From there we can sail to Norma. I’ll figure out how to get money for the journey.”
Kaan put his bag on the bed and began filling it with their few belongings.
“We won’t leave until it’s dark.” She grabbed the neck of the elf’s woolen jumper, pulled him onto the bed, and rolled over on top of him. “I’ll tell you when it’s time to go.”
They slept tangled together when a noise from outside awoke them. Liv walked over to the window and stuck her head out. A biting wind veered past and ruffled her hair. On the path leading down from the crossroad walked a train of villagers with torches. Dogs howled and a few people sang dull hymns, but most of them were silent and close-bitten. Many carried whips, sticks, bludgeons or pitchforks.
“The weapons of poor people,” Liv noted and told Kaan to fetch the gun.
Moriah strode at the front of the crowd and guided the stream of angry villagers. Next to him walked a hooded figure in a black robe with a thick rope tied around his waist. They stopped below the window. The man beside the innkeeper pulled back his hood. Flickering flames cast shadows across Pastor Brock’s lined face, his eyes sparkling with demonic fire.
“We know what you are. We received warnings from Sommerfort to guard ourselves against elves. Come down and meet God’s judgment.” Pastor Brock’s voice carried firm determination and calm righteousness. He was preaching to the members of his parish, not directing his speech to Liv and Kaan.
Liv hissed and spat. Her gob landed on the pastor’s chest.
“Well,” said the holy man and raised his arms up high. “It is time to uphold the sacred inquisition!”
The people behind him shouted their wholehearted acclaim. Pastor Brock mumbled to the old innkeeper and patted him on the shoulder. Moriah, bursting with self-importance, walked around the corner of the house and stepped inside the inn. Two armed men, one with a crossbow and one with an ax, followed him.
A stone flew up from the crowd below, bounced against the wall next to Liv and brushed her forehead. She closed the window and turned to see Kaan sneak out into the corridor. She pressed her hand against her head. No blood, but a large swelling was taking form. This time, the danger was real and inevitable. She could not walk straight and swore to herself. Moriah and the two men clomped on the ground floor. Any moment they would reach the bottom stairs. A shot banged and a scream of agony cut through the house. She recognized the voice of the innkeeper. Kaan rushed into the room, bringing with him the smell of gunpowder, and slammed the door shut.
“I got him!” he exclaimed. “I fired the gun and hit Brother Moriah. The others dragged him outside.” With surprising strength, he hurled the bed across the room to block the door. Liv stumbled and had to lean against the wall to prevent herself from falling.
“Are you alright?” Kaan asked, and she shook her head.
“Listen to me!” Pastor Brock’s angry voice echoed through the night and silenced the crowd. “Elves, come back.”
They opened the window and peered at the villagers on the ground. Kaan still held the gun in one hand and Liv wished they had more bullets.
“You have shown that you cannot be tamed.” The pastor pondered for a moment before he continued. “Fire is what God wants for you.”
Once again, the crowd showed their approval. They roared as if they were heading into the most epic battle of the century, everyone trying to make more noise than the person next to them. Loudest of all was Moriah, who lay in the muddy grass and pressed his hand against the bleeding wound on his stomach. People brought firewood from a shed behind the inn and piled it up against the wall. Those who carried weapons spread out in a circle around the house to block any escape route. Three white-faced girls stepped forward and poured a jug of kerosene each onto the wood, then ran away and disappeared into the night. Liv watched in dismay as they lit her funeral pyre.
“Death by fire will be slow and painful,” she said. Hearing the words out loud made her feel calm and awkward. She turned to see what had happened to Kaan and found him deep asleep on the floor. Time suddenly rushed forward. Flames emerged beneath the window and licked the sun-bleached timber wall. Biting heat penetrated the room and smoke seeped through cracks in the floorboards as a forewarning of the approaching fire.
She gave the elf a kick. He jerked and opened his eyes, awake and alert.
Large beads of sweat dripped from Liv’s chin, her temples pounded and her skin itched.
“Do something,” she said with an undertone of desperation she could not suppress.
Kaan threw their bags over his shoulder and pushed the bed aside. He led them through the corridor past the stairs and kicked in the door to the room with the stuffed troll head. There he opened the window, stepped onto the sill and swung himself up on the turfed roof. She followed as fast as she could, but lacked the strength to make a jump as elegant as Kaan’s. Instead, she drilled her hands into the thin layer of soil and crawled onto the roof.
The people on the ground caught sight of them and started throwing stones. Most of them missed, but just as Liv put one knee onto the turf, something hard struck her temple. She lost control and felt how the hot void below drew her towards it. Kaan threw himself forward and stretched out his arm, Shannon’s old cap falling into the flames.
“No crossbows!” commanded Pastor Brock while the elf pulled her over the edge. “No stones! They shall burn.”
The fire grew fiercer, and they retreated to the top of the roof, where they were still out of reach from the flames.
Liv tried to make the world stop spinning. “We have to jump,” she said. Warm blood and sweat trickled down her chin as she opened her mouth.
“Wait,” said Kaan.
She glimpsed a quick shadow, then a loud scream cut through the night. The elf grinned as a woman’s lifeless body disappeared into the dark. Steps thudded on the grass, and a black beast threw itself at a man behind the house. The king of the forest roared and banged its jaws around the villager’s neck before passing on to the next man. Kaan whistled and gesticulated toward Pastor Brock. The bear released its prey and rushed straight at the robed figure with its drooling jaw wide open. A crossbow hummed, and an arrow drilled into its back. The animal staggered for a second, then charged forward like a mortal projectile. The helpless pastor did not even have time to raise his hands to heaven before he met his death.
Liv’s burning eyes obscured the world around her. She gasped for air and lost her balance. Kaan tried to help her to her feet, but when she could not stand by herself, he lifted her in his arms. The flames parted for a moment. He took three quick steps and lunged them out into the protection of darkness.