“Chief Elder? The other Elders are all gathered,” the youngster informed the Chief Elder. She was standing at a window, staring out over their town, a desolate look on her face. At the sound of the young one’s voice, she shook herself, clearing her expression of anything but serenity so fast that the messenger wondered whether he’d even seen what he thought he had.
“Thank you, Nivalir, I believe?”
“Yes, Chief Elder. I am the son of Lyrial and Isoldur.”
“Lyrial…ah, yes.” She paused for a moment and studied his form. “You cannot have been born before the time of the phoenix. You are involved in this conflict?” she asks, her tone saddened.
“I was born in the time of the dragon, Elder. And I know that I am too young to be allowed to fight, but I am trying to serve our people in the role of messenger. Hunter Melyan has taken me as an apprentice.” Nivalir sounded proud of the achievement. As well he should be – Melyan was known to be picky about who he chose to guide. Like the Chief Elder, he had seen far too many young ones cut down before him because of overconfidence. And this one was far, far too young, barely even half a century old.
“Well done for earning Melyan’s regard,” the Elder warmly congratulated him, forcing herself past her own feelings of despair that they had come to this: children not even at their maturity required to surrender their childhoods simply because they didn’t have enough adults to do everything. “Thank you for your message Nivalir. You may go now, but be careful if you must go close to the battle.”
“I will,” he promised before turning and scampering off.
The Chief Elder looked outside once more, then sighed and glided towards the door. Her pale green robes fell to her ankles, revealing her bare feet beneath them, her long, faintly pink hair long around her ears. With each step, her magic communed with the spirit of the tree that made up the main building.
It was here that all important matters took place. The council meetings, joinings of couples, registration and celebration of new children, trade – not that there had been much of that since the arrival of the System – and, more recently, war meetings. It was to the latter that she now went.
“Chief Elder,” she was greeted as she walked through the archway. As she passed the threshold, a shimmering wall appeared in the space of the archway behind her, filling it with light. Their discussion was now secure: none would be able to enter nor would any sound be able to leave.
Within the room were four other elves, the Elders of their community. Though appearing much as they had for the last few centuries, their age was apparent when one met their eyes.
The young Nivalir the Chief Elder had met earlier had a gaze as innocent as it was eager and inquisitive. These other four had gazes which were far more serene…and tired. The Elders had seen centuries pass by and had come to learn that all things had an end, and all ends had a new beginning, and that both would come in their own time with little help from mortals. Yet they feared that this particular end and new beginning threatened to see the end of everything they held dear.
“Apologies for my tardiness,” the Chief Elder said, taking her place.
“It is but a moment, Alwen. It matters little,” answered one of the others, she with the starlight hair.
“I fear that time is more of the essence than ever before, Lystar,” the Chief Elder, Alwen, responded tiredly. “From what I saw as I gazed out of the window, we are losing ground to the beasts.”
“That’s unfortunately accurate,” a third elf answered. He had pale white skin and hair the deep indigo of a flower which frequently covered the walls of their earthen huts if allowed to take root. “The reports I have had from the hunters are not good. Chief Hunter Yelian has confirmed that they cannot hold the front, not with the area they need to cover. We just simply don’t have the numbers.”
“It’s not surprising,” a fourth elf said, entering the conversation. His hair was a pale blue that almost perfectly matched his skin. “We are not warriors. We are craftspeople first, farmers second, hunters third, and warriors not at all. I’m sure, Ilastir, that the Hunters are doing everything they can, but their strategies for hunting beasts in the forest or on the plains are simply not enough to manage what we are facing here. The beasts are too strong and too numerous. Worse, their numbers seem to be increasing as time wears on, rather than the reverse. It doesn’t help that our settlement has been plucked from where it used to be and surrounded by completely unfamiliar terrain. Our Hunters can’t even use their knowledge of and relationship with the land to help: they don’t have it here.”
“Have the farmers been able to achieve anything, Melia?” asked Alwen. “At our last meeting, I believe they were going to see if their magic could be repurposed for making defences to lessen the burden on the Hunters.”
“They have tried,” answered Melia tiredly. She had dark green hair and faintly green skin, looking like she would be able to easily blend into a forest. “Though they did meet with success, like the hunters, the transplanting of our civilisation to a new land has severely limited what they are able to do. They simply haven’t had the decades to build a relationship with the land. Had we been here for half a century before the beasts decided to attack, our farmers could have swallowed them up in the earth before they even got close to our homes. As it is, the best they’ve been able to do is to create walls of plants which can help funnel the ground-bound beasts into tight spots where the hunters can hold against them more easily. It helps, but it does nothing to stop the flying beasts.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“And what of the crafters, Sylmar?” Alwen next asked the elf with the blue hair and skin. “Have they been able to develop anything which might turn the tide in our favour?”
The elf grimaced before he spoke, telling the rest that he didn’t have good news even before he opened his mouth.
“They have been trying, and the herbalists have been producing potions for the healers faster than ever. But our resources are limited. We have only lost seven of the hunters, but we’re already having to ask the healers to do as much with their direct magic as possible; only keeping the potions for the worst cases.”
“How many have we lost?” asked Ilastir, he with the indigo hair, his expression grim.
“Eleven in total,” Sylmar answered, his voice just as grim. “Seven hunters and four non-combatants caught in the wrong place at the wrong moment.”
Around him, the other Elders suddenly looked even more drawn and tired, Ilastir even cursing loudly. For a race who reproduced slowly and with difficulty, even eleven members killed was a loss that would take their community decades to recover from, even if the concern was purely for numbers and nothing else. Sylmar continued his report.
“The tailors have been working as hard as they can to make armour – the fabric brought from the dungeon has been invaluable for that as it is naturally strong and hard to penetrate. Equally, the smiths have been trying to develop both armour and weapons, but they have been affected badly from being cut off from their usual supplies of ore. The dungeon is their only source of new metal currently, though it is apparently a very good one for weapons even if it is a bit hard to work.” He now turned to the elf with starlight hair. “How are your mages coming along, Lystar?”
Like Sylmar before her, Lystar grimaced at the question.
“As well as can be expected given that none of them specialise in offensive magic. It is hard to turn their magic to destructive and even murderous purposes when their core inclinations are to build and heal. Mentally, we understand why we must kill, but it is our hearts which truly determine which magic we are capable of. We were never meant to be warriors, none of us were. Changing the habits and thought patterns of centuries is not easy.”
“Then there is no help coming to my hunters from the mages?” asked Ilastir with a hint of aggravation underscored by despair in his voice.
“I did not say that,” Lystar denies. “Perhaps, even if we cannot bring ourselves to use directly harmful magic, we can take actions similar to the farmers – find ways of channelling the beasts only down certain corridors. From what I understand, it is their numbers which are the biggest problem.”
“Their growing numbers and the fact that they seem to get stronger all the time while we have barely changed since the System appeared. My Hunters, that is,” answered Ilastir tiredly. “We were never meant to have to defend this settlement,” he mourned. “Never for long, anyway.”
“Until and unless the King succeeds in reactivating the teleportation network, we will see no aid coming from the true warriors of our land,” Alwen answered. “Mourning that fact helps us not at all. We are the elders of our community,” she said with that note of firmness and assuredness back in her voice. “Our people put their trust in us to lead them through good times and bad. What kind of Elders are we if we give up when life is suddenly difficult?”
“Alwen, this isn’t like what we’ve faced before,” Ilastir argued. “A plague Sylmar’s healers can deal with. A famine or drought, Melia’s farmers can manage. But here we’ve been ripped out of our land, our very bodies torn to fragments and rebuilt…differently. We have to operate under a new System with new rules, and we now have waves of beasts attacking us, not just because they are hungry, but because of a System challenge! This is nothing like what we have faced before.”
“So what do you want to do, Ilastir?” Alwen demanded. “Give up? Sit upon the ground and commune with Mother Earth in hopes that the beasts will not rip us to shreds as they rampage through our homes?”
“Well, that might be an option,” murmured Melia quietly. The two arguing took no notice of her.
“Of course not!” Ilastir answered angrily. “I just….” He sighed and all the anger left his body leaving only the tiredness and despair behind. “It has been a very long time since I had no idea what to do,” he confessed quietly. “All I can hope at this point is that the team of our strongest hunters that I sent to the dungeon will return and bring an answer with them. Resources, new magics, a weapon, anything.”
There was silence for a long moment, none seeming to know how to break the heaviness in the air.
Finally, Alwen sighed.
“Lystar, keep working with your mages. See if any of them feel capable of using directly harmful magic in defence of themselves and their community. In the meantime, get them working with the farmers to create better defences around us – we are still too open and every time a beast attack rips through our streets, it drains resources from us. Melia, work with Lystar on the same thing, please, as well as trying to find a way to prevent famine from being our next challenge. Sylmar, keep doing what you’re doing. Ilastir…I hope too that the dungeon team will come back with some answers. Yet even if they do not, I believe that your hunters, with support from the rest of the population, can do this. Remember, every beast that they kill means that they get stronger too.”
She looked around at each of the elders, doing her best to instil them with a confidence she herself didn’t feel.
“I know you have doubts. But make sure that when you step out of this room, none of the people we serve know that. We are their Elders, their leaders, their inspiration. If they see us falter, they will lose hope, and then we are all lost.”
With one more fierce look around the table, Alwen pushed herself to her feet and stepped gracefully out of the room. As she stepped through the enchantments securing the room, they broke with a delicate sound like bells. Walking quickly through the corridors, yet not so quickly she might alarm others, she found an empty room.
Checking carefully to make sure that it was truly empty, she closed the door and put up the strongest spells she could to ensure her privacy. Then, with the secrecy of her actions assured, she leant against the wall, sliding down it gracelessly to sit on the floor with her knees against her chest.
Burying her head between her knees and clutching at them desperately with her arms, she gave into the sobbing and gasping fear which gripped her heart. She did not care about death, not for herself. She had lived long enough that she recognised death was inevitable – and a welcome friend at times. But young ones like Nivalir…they had only just begun to live. To see their lives snuffed out like candles in the wind…. It was unbearable even to consider it.
“Great Ancestors, revered spirits of the earth and sky. Isn’t there someone, anyone who can help us?”