Seventh of Harvest

Svaleta’s view of the Aliri had long been coloured by their history of warfare. The assumption that the elves pursued only war and conflict gave the image of a kingdom devoted to formality and martial power, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. Beyond the forests that bordered Svaleta, they were a kingdom that loved art and beauty in all their forms. Free from the uncertainty that came with Svaleta’s function as a crossroads, the Aliri had developed a rich culture that celebrated life.

Even in such a kingdom, though, there were those born and bred for the darkness. Echtalon was one of them. He was tall even by elven standards, and still young at the age of seventy. As he stepped through the oak doors into the palace, he took a moment to adjust his green tunic, oblivious to the handmaidens who stopped to admire him. His clothes did little to cover his powerful muscles, honed by years of hard labour in the Aliri army. For his dedication, he had been richly awarded with command of the eastern regiments, dedicated to defending the kingdom against Svaletan aggression. All agreed that it was well earned, even for one his age. He had proven his prowess in battle, eradicating what semblance of rebel forces had once existed within the Aliri borders. All elves had finely tuned senses. Humans may have laughed at the sight of less self-conscious elves sniffing the air to follow scents, but the truth was that elves had vastly superior senses of sight, smell, and hearing compared to other races. Echtalon had refined those natural gifts until he had become a master of stealth and tracking.

As he walked through the palace halls, he forced himself to focus on the plans that he would present to the king. He had been to the palace enough that he took no note of the marble floors or the richly coloured murals that lined the walls. Those who saw him coming stepped out of the way, bowing politely to the Eastern Lord. Finally, he stopped in line with the two pikemen who stood guard outside the War Council’s court and took a deep breath.

“They are ready, my lord,” one of the guards said, and the other turned and pushed the doors open. Echtalon paid them no mind and stepped through the doors. The king was seated in a golden chair at the head of the engraved wooden table. The four generals seated at the table nodded their greetings, and Echtalon bowed his head.

“King Silari, generals,” he said softly. “I bid you greetings.”

“Take your seat, General,” the king said, waving at the chair at the foot of the table. Echtalon did so, and listened as the generals continued their discussion.

“Svaleta means nothing,” the lord of the western forces announced pompously. “They keep the central lands in check, and they have not pushed against us for centuries.”

“And still they hate us,” someone else snarled. “The ungrateful wretches do not know what lies to the west. They sit in their ignorance of the wildlands and itch for the chance to destroy us.”

“The wildlands spill over their borders as well,” the Western Lord pointed out. “Bands of orcs and trolls wander their lands as well, though only in small numbers. We bear the brunt of those creatures, and in return we gain their hate. But Svaleta is a mosquito biting a horse. It means nothing to us.”

“We have empty regions to the west, the minor kingdoms to the north before the coast, and Svaleta to the east. Only one of those is a threat,” Echtalon finally said, and all eyes turned to him.

“Explain,” King Silari ordered.

“All these lands were once governed by the Palian Empire, as we all know.” All present nodded. Silari was only two generations removed from the fall of that Empire. His grandfather had told him many stories of life in servitude. They were not positive stories. “When they disappeared, we managed to gain control of this land. I do not presume to understand why our fathers did not expand west, for there are allies to be found there, but that is the world that we have inherited. But Svaleta has always been a danger to our sovereignty. They want no elven presence in this land, that is clear. So they are a threat that must be dealt with.”

“Their military might is equal to ours,” Silari pointed out. “Any attempt to defeat them will be a stalemate at best. We are not savages, Echtalon. We will go to war only if it is necessary.”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“They have forgotten what a threat we are,” Echtalon replied. “Just this morning I watched a bandit raid on the borderlands. They have no fortifications, no fixed defences. They fear banditry, and they act accordingly.”

“Your faithful bandits are a risk to our security!” another general spat. “If the Svaletans discover that they are ours-”

“The time to strike is now!” Echtalon cut him off, managing to keep his voice civil. “They are weak, they do not expect an attack. We can end their threat once and for all.”

“Yet their forces are still a match for our own,” Silari said again. “Warfare is too slow to achieve the kind of decisiveness that would be required.”

“And if I could guarantee the allegiance of the Angmir?”

“The witches of Angmir?” Silari scoffed. “They are silent, reclusive-”

“We have awoken,” came a voice from the shadows. All but Echtalon spun in their seats as a cloaked figure stepped into view. He smiled at the shock on their faces as the figure flipped back her hood, revealing an old woman with white hair tied in a bun.

“The truth is,” the witch said, “Echtalon follows a vision I have received. Long ago, my Lord, your grandfather swore an oath to us that your kingdom would go no further west. To your honour, your father honoured that same oath. And we stayed in our land and avoided interference in the ways of men and elves.”

“Though I had no knowledge of such an oath, I will honour it for my fathers’ sake,” Silari said with a nod. “But what has brought you into our land?”

“Our lord has summoned us to your aid,” the witch said, a grim smile appearing on her rugged face. “If you march on Svaleta, you shall have it. And you will have victory. Svaleta scorns magic, they allow only healers. They have no way of stopping a union of elves and witches.”

Echtalon spoke next, smiling grimly.

“My King, my fellow lords, it is with this union that I propose to end the Svaletan threat within the month.”

* * *

Belkai hadn’t travelled far since killing Milton. She spent that night in a small hollow watching out for pursuers. The dawn of the seventh brought a sense of caution. She would stay another day, until most reasonable people would stop looking out for strangers. Would news have travelled this quickly? She had learned much about Svaleta before her journey began, but she didn’t know about their messenger systems. Milton’s body had surely been found by now. Beyond that, all of her assumptions were just that – and therefore worth next to nothing. She took a deep breath and looked up at the clear blue sky. Her mind drifted to when the head of her Order, a northern elf named Brimur, had taken her aside to give her the task.

They had sat in his audience room on two velvet chairs, Belkai gratefully accepting the herbal tea Brimur offered.

“You have a task for me,” Belkai said, sipping at the steaming drink. She admired Brimur, but without prompting he tended to wax eloquent before arriving at any semblance of a point.

“I do.” He chuckled. “You never did appreciate the art of easing into a conversation, did you?”

Belkai didn’t answer, and eventually Brimur broke the silence with a sigh. “Tell me what you know of Narandir.”

To her credit, Belkai didn’t so much as blink when he spoke the word. She had some more tea as she thought about her answer. Eventually, she gave the barest outline of her knowledge, trying desperately to remember what she had learned through authorised means. She concluded by saying,

“Whatever Narandir is, it has been dormant for centuries.”

“What if I told you something had changed?” Brimur had a twinkle in his eye as Belkai frowned.

“What kind of change?”

“That I don’t know.” Brimur set his tea down and sat back in his chair. “And that is why we are having this conversation. Something has stirred in that Forest, some dark part of Svaleta’s history is going to re-emerge. We need to know what that is.”

“You want me to go?” Belkai raised an eyebrow. “Why me?”

“I like your instincts,” Brimur said, and Belkai could tell that he was being honest. “You learn fast, and Arak says that you’re one of our best fighters. He gave you Aliri ceremonial blades, as you might recall. He has never done that before.

“Oh, and I will send Saxon with you.”

Belkai nodded. It made sense. Saxon was a year older than her, and a native Svaletan. “So we will be travelling in secret.”

“Correct. The Svaletans fear Narandir, though they have forgotten their own history. Should they know that Narandir may be awakening, it would cause a panic. The Watchers were the first to alert me of the change, so they will be monitoring the situation. But no others can know who you are or what your purpose is.”

“It will be done.” Despite her confidence, she had heard the Tormentor’s voice in her head, cackling and warning of what lay ahead. She’d had no choice but to follow Brimur’s orders. What if I had told him the truth, she now wondered as she sat in the hollow. She decided that the question was worthless. There was no room for doubt, not with the bodies in her wake.

She checked that her daggers were in place, then stood. She needed to find food for the day. Tomorrow, she would keep moving.