High-Crag Hold resembled more of a fortified keep, even somewhat of a tiny citadel, now that tall sturdy walls with archery slits, embankments sprawling around and giant empty artillery towers on the verge of completion accentuated its importance. Knowledge or fear of a terrible horde bringing the icy hands of death is a great incentive for productive labour.

The closer the still not-yet-finished towers of High-Crag Hold loomed, the more apparent, the notable discord became. At first, it was very subtle, like the crack spreading on a layer of hoarfrost, barely audible, unless one knows to seek it. With every step nearer, the faint disparity lingered like a hazy fog. While only wide smiles and respectful greetings were thrown in my direction, their ardent fervour did not hide, the shadowy beast of incongruity lurking behind their exterior.

Inside the walls of High-Crag Hold, the usual din and clamour of a mismatched mercenary army camp reigned supreme. That is a good sign. A very deep sigh of relief escaped my dry lips. Stretching my stiff back, I strode briskly, intending to reach Lyria at her forge. The war council can wait. Especially, in lieu of the recent ensemble of demons willing to make my acquaintance, Lyria needs to be consulted. For there are the ominous words of the one who called herself, Reverend Mother Zar’amaris regarding Adjuration.

Eventually, after multiple ruminations, one fact stood out: We are embroiled in events that mortals should not have stayed far away from.

As I crossed through the central square of the Hold, disgruntled voices slowly fell to a low whisper. A casual salute, followed by a snarky curl digging at end of lips. Unspoken sentiments, and not the good sort. Soldiers from both Asterlund and Westerleygates mingled with a third group. Occasional cheers, and words that were definitely not taught by their mothers, erupted from a bunch that huddled together over a game of dice or cards.

I passed through one such group, seated close by a temporary bonfire, and the reason for the silent uncomfortable feeling, like shadowy forms lurking under ice on a frozen lake, became apparent. Mismatched provisions! Goblins with polearms too huge for their tiny pudgy fingers, wrapped in cloaks, a size obviously meant for a family of four. Some even stumbled in boots too large for their feet -- literally.

The grumpy expression from the soldiers from Westerleygates and Asterlund was justified as I took the view of their issued small bowls, and their supply rations. Definitely, not a generously stipulated quantity for grown men in their prime. The more I peered, the more I felt disgusted -- at my own incompetence. They were not grumpy. Most were constipated. Courtesy of goblin food. The lucky ones only had to face nausea. Those who prided themselves in their iron constitution had to suffer the long-term effects of the grim meal.

Perhaps, age has caught up with me.

Perhaps, I am senile and should have quietly retired.

Perhaps, it was the result of having one too responsibility -- I got overwhelmed.

Perhaps, the scent of Lyria engulfed my otherwise keen senses.

Perhaps.......

The excuses can roll on. But it does not dispel the fact that I forgot to assign a quartermaster.

“Grand Mistress, Men came. Says friends. Join us to fight,” spoke Taltil, who suddenly hopped beside me with sheer unfiltered excitement.

One look at the goblin said that she had been keeping herself busy; by exploring the nooks and crannies of the Hold. Her knee-high suede leather boots were covered in multiple layers of dried mud. Each layer consolidated upon another; the result of days of unbroken exploration through sewers and tunnels. Cobwebs still hung to the back of her cloak, dangling aimlessly in the low wind.

“So how is my favourite goblin doing?” I engaged her in a jovial tone filled with contorted mirth.

At my words, a deep blush, turning her small face, a deep crimson, rolled over her. Curving her shoulders inwards, she traced curves with her feet, disturbing imaginary grains on the ground.

“Grand dark Mistress, lot of report. I no sleep. Always work. I find lot of work. All for Grand dark Mistress to know,” she replied over her own uncontrollable sense of achievement.

“So who are they? Mercenaries?” I enquired over the sound of rolling dice from a nearby assembled group.

My eyes quietly lingered for a bit longer on the new group of arrivals. Provisioned with heavy mountain boots, and thick cloaks with fur trims, they stood out from the ragged form of soldiers from Asterlund. Their thick cloaks were clean. Definitely, not slept in. So, they are provided with proper blankets and bedrolls.

The armour and weapon they carried, were neither fresh out-of-forge new, nor were there any telltale signs of having witnessed countless conflicts. But the most remarkable fact was that the heraldry sign was blackened with charcoal and soot. Not paint but, an easily washable charcoal mixture. I could only scoff at their naive confidence. One does not commit to this kind of campaign while harbouring hopes of getting back to their routine patrolling life.

Despite the elusive attempts, the picture was evident. Forces from some defiant Noble house, in a vague attempt to hoodwink the Duke of their involvement. That is all this farce and reticent is all about.

“Man wants only to talk with Grand Mistress,” said Taltil as she pointed towards a group of men seated on benches around a table, enjoying a game of cards. In fact, almost too close to Lyria’s forge. If one intends to ambush me for an unpleasant conversation, that was the ideal spot.

“Besides, no one tells me anything,” sulked Taltil under her breath, almost like an afterthought.

Where did she learn to do that? If we managed to come out of this ordeal and should High-Crag Hold evolve into a city, Taltil has already fulfilled the primary requirement and the right attitude to become a city civil official. After all, nobody-tells-me-anything is the stepping stone to the-plan-was-implemented-without-my-consultation.

“Dame Rylonvirah,” a feminine voice called out from the assembled group of gambling soldiers.

Closing the distance, I had to correlate with what Taltil said. On a bit closer, second examination, the owner of the voice was a man. No, Calling him a man would be a misnomer. A boy! A boy whose voice has not yet broken.

Extracting himself from the audacious company with a small wave of his hands and a radiant smile, he strutted towards me.

“Finnley Augustus Evenmist, at your service,” he introduced with a courtly grace that could have only been possible through training from birth. And with that, my well-crafted theory of a Noble house involving themselves covertly fell out of the window.

“Lord Evenmist, I suppose the good Duke did not put you up for a routine military inspection,” I said knowing full well that it could be anything but that.

“Please call me Finn. Lord Evenmist is an esteemed title for my older brother. My father is Marquis Evenmist. I am just Finn to friends.“ He gave a wry laugh which was soon overpowered by his infectious youthful charm.

Is the old Marquis openly defying and undermining the Duke’s authority? What other plausible explanation could elucidate his presence? Certainly, the Marquis will not be throwing his own son to the wolves, just to spite someone.

The boy before me stood with the full brimming vigour of innocence. His not-so-wide jawline and carefully sculpted nose ridge along with glacial icy blue eyes and long silky brunette hair; bore all the telltale signs of his family, for the Evenmists were one of rare human aristocrat family with traceable elven blood in their lineage.

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“I have come to volunteer my blade to your cause,” he said heaving his chest, high and proud.

“You are a child, barely out of the crib,” I scoffed at his comical attempt to play a man.

“I am actually twenty-one summers,” he disagreed and seeing the hard squint of cynicism in my eyes, corrected, “twenty summers.”

I still gave him the look. The famed shaming look that every mother magically develops as their child grows. The same look that made Delyn shiver when she went far out of line. Finn averted his gaze, refused to meet my gaze, and instead diverted his attention over his shoulders. His thumb twiddled with his fingers nervously, while his lips quivered a bit.

Finally drawing a deep breath, he said, “I am twenty summers..... will be twenty summers in a few months.”

“So why are you here?” A sibilant hiss involuntarily escaped my lips. Perhaps, it was the fact that he stood delaying my path to Lyria’s comfort. Or perhaps, his wide-eyed youthful countenance did belong in the midst of soon-to-be-slaughterfest.

“To serve. To earn honour and glory,” said the boy. His words gleamed with sincerity and something more troublesome -- naivety.

I was about to refuse his offer, to chase him, No. To shoo him away like a mongrel animal, when the one person I could not refuse joined the conversation. Lyria!

“Rils, invite young Finn inside. Bad manners to stall people at the doorsteps. There is some steaming peppermint tea on the table,” came her mellifluous voice from inside the forge.

Finn! She called him Finn. So he has already made her acquaintance. My irritation doubled. Now that he had Lyria by his side, it would be near impossible to refuse.

And he shattered my dream of spending private time with Lyria.

*****

A smile dug at the corners of his lips as he gently set the cup down. His vivid enthusiasm blinded him to the fact that I was glaring daggers at him. Basking in his own obliviousness, he turned towards Lyria.

“Lady Lyriendriath, the tea was refreshing,” he praised.

The corners of Lyria’s lips pulled a bit. A habit she developed whenever she tried to suppress a smile.

“Lyria is fine, Finn. I am no Lady but a humble blacksmith,” she uttered with the same vigour of a praying atheist.

“Pardon me, since Dame Rylonvirah is the commander, as her wife or would-be wife, Lady is the appropriate way to address you,” he insisted.

“We got a cheeky youngster in High-Crag Hold now,” saying that Lyria reached out with her callous hands and gently tousled his falling locks of deep brown hair before turning her gaze towards me. That was the cue. I am expected to utter something incredible to our unwanted guest now.

Sensing my silence, Lyria pressed on. “Don’t you think so, Rils?”

My gaze fluttered between the boy and Lyria. Like a cornered rodent, I sought ways to escape my predicament. Maybe it was his face -- not yet defined by the ruggedness of his gender, still retaining baby fat -- or his candid attitude or his noble aspiration, Finn has somehow triggered Lyria’s maternal instincts.

“There is a certain death stalking outside this pass, so again I demand, why are you here?” I asked.

“I figured since you are the shattering shield, the scarlet masquerade and wielder of dozen other monikers, you will pull through and joining your cause will bestow a war hero's glory,” he finished beaming another of his candid smiles. The smug look of a child who solved a tricky arithmetic problem danced on his face. He was convinced of the ingenuity of his own plan.

“If it is the recognition you seek, there are million other means to that end. Hunt a mortally wounded feral boar through the wilderness for days. Hang the trophy in your father’s estate. So tell me, why are you here?” I persisted. My voice carried the promise of a threat laced with vitriol.

Lyria grabbed my arm tightly, silently imploring me to reel in my surging anger. Despite her iron grip, she still held a very calming congenial expression on her face. Only her eyes silently challenged me to remain polite.

In the low light shining on his face, Finn’s features darkened, adding a maturity that betrayed his age. The shadows around grew heavy and sullen. Finn himself, for a very brief interminably uncertain moment, appeared to be wrestling with an inevitable conclusion. Finally, when he spoke, despite the rich soprano timbre of his voice, there was an oppressive hue of apprehension mingled in generous amounts.

“My older brother Bayle will inherit the lands and the title. Cassian, who was trained since birth to inherit should any misfortune happen to Bayle, went into imperial service. He now sits in a nice position at the chamber of weights and measures, rubbing shoulders with all important court officials, currying favours to step into the chamber of finance or commerce,” said Finn.

With every sentence, he spoke, his voice fell lower and lower, till only a barely audible whisper remained. Lyria filled his empty cup with more tea. Thanking her graciously, he continued.

“Elfriede is married to another aristocratic family. A political marriage but she seems content with her new life. Probably because she knew her fate since birth and prepared herself for the eventuality.”

“Damien, my immediate older brother, went into religious training. Only a handful of years separate him from becoming a prior. My family’s generous donation to charity, probably, had nothing to do with his quick ascension.” Finn gave another wry smile that did not sit well with his otherwise buoyant demeanour.

“Surely the house of a Marquis would have private investments and business ventures,” I countered not bothering to hide my scepticism.

“Our family’s investment and private holdings are intricately tied. It would have been my birthright, except my younger brother was born sick. A difficult birth. The attending physician and all the midwives agreed that my mother could bear no more children. So he always enjoyed an elevated status, a golden child, in our family.”

A deep sigh, draining him of his vitality, escaped his lips. His blue eyes looked beyond my shoulders, focussing on the emptiness behind me and when he eventually mustered the courage to speak, his voice was monotonous, devoid of life.

“I am a Noble in the name. My name earns me a place, albeit, at the far end of the Marquis’s dining table. When Bayle’s own family grows, the table will grow longer and my position will grow farther, until one day, I will be forced to dine with the domestic staff.”

Pain roamed behind his icy blues eyes as words that seemingly fell out from a terrible wound left him drained. Nevertheless, he summoned his lost vigour and declared,” Sooner or later, I would be given a heavy pouch of gold and sent to make my own fortune in the wide world. Rather than sit and wait for that day to come, I choose to meet it on my own terms.”

“So you decided to jump into the ravenous maw of a dragon?” Amusement and annoyance leapt out of my mouth in equal measure.

Why are children so impulsive?

Leaning closer to the boy who willingly thrust himself into a man’s shoes, Lyria softly rubbed his slumped shoulders. When she glared at me, her silver-grey eyes burned with infernal fury.

“Rils,” started Lyria. The calm in voice would make sailors shiver and abandon ships at the harbour. “You never had any siblings. You cannot comprehend how difficult it is to be a nobody in a family destined for greatness.”

There were a thousand retorts that I could have given back but none that would help me improve my stance before the eyes of Lyria. For Lyria who led the life of a drifter, collecting only strays for company, the sudden seething anger in her was farfetched to be just an echo of nurturing bond formed with Finn.

I desperately hope for any form of salvation and my relief came from the cause itself. Finn continued.

“Besides,” he started as if an inner latent dam of vigour broke refreshing him with lush vitality,” we are not alone. I am friends with Savvas.”

He broke for a single moment and then corrected himself as both our eyes hawked inquisitorially on him.

“I mean, not that kind of a friend but good friends. In exchange for helping his beloved aunt, he owes me favours.”

For once, I was grateful to my nephew. That child would walk through the abyss to hold his family together.

“Moreover, there is High Matriarch Dellynthelaara,” he pronounced her name with a very deliberate pause, like a swimmer testing icy waters before going for the deep dive,” If rumours are to be believed, she is almost the uncrowned Queen of the Drows and with Savvas being her only relative, I mean official relative, that would open the royal doors of the dark-elves. A powerful alliance.”

Seeing my feature darken, Lyria wrapped her arms around me. Ignoring the presence of Finn, she ran the back of her hand, gently stroking my cheeks.

“She is not alone Celerim is with her,” she whispered in a soothing tone. I was more thankful for the fact that her rage, a moment ago, subsided. At her gentle caress, I breathed a sigh of relief. Liberated with the knowledge that I do not have to face an angry Lyria.

Witnessing the tender moment and the candid display of affection, a blush danced on Finn’s smooth face, while he tried in desperate measures to avoid looking in our direction.

Eventually clearing his throat he added, “I was promised financial aid for my endeavours as well. For obvious reasons, Savvas wishing to remain anonymous routed gold through an elf from Sarenthill.”

Obviously, it was not Savvas, but rather Waerondil. Not that Savvas would not go to lengths to help me, but clever as he might be, outwitting the vigilant Delyn would be impossible for him.

“And finally,” he cleared his throat and utter in a clear voice, “there is your favour as well.”

“I am, but a poor mercenary leader. My support means nothing to someone from the Marquis’s own household,”

“I heard that Lady Jessbeth Wysteria holds your counsel in great regard. I only, and humbly, seek her hand.”