The two of them were whisked into the camp, to a large tent in the center. There, an older man sat, broad back to them, facing a map. The two soldiers bowed to him, then retreated, leaving them alone.
Twain glanced around the room. Maps laid sprawled in the center, layered over an upended chest. A couple mismatched chairs sat around it, all empty save the one the man sat in now. Overhead, a lantern glowed, lighting the tent a merry yellow. Without the blight pouring down, it was almost pleasant inside, though the shadowy streaks on the tent’s sides reminded Twain that what fell was not rain, but blight. Transformed, Spar stood near the tent’s flap, arms crossed in a way that brooked no nonsense.
“So you’re the one they’re all looking for?” the man muttered at last, his voice gruff.
“Yes,” Twain replied, straightening his spine.
The man turned. Twain stared, startled.
Black bruises covered half his face. Deep in the shadow of the darkest bruise, a third eye twitched. It darted at random around the room, not under the man’s conscious control.
“Your face—”
“I know. It’s this damned blight.” The man rubbed his cheek and shook his head. “I’ve lost too many men to that dragon. Even if we made a full-on charge at that cave, right now—and we’ve tried, the damn dragon could knock us all back down the hill with a sweep of her tail. Never mind her fiery breath, or her scales that neither sword nor arrow can pierce. We’ve tried a full volley, a charge, everything. She’s just about impervious to physical harm, and she isn’t about to poke her weak points out of that cave.”
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“Sounds like a problem,” Twain said.
“Hm. That’s where you come in. I’ve heard you’re on good terms with the Mage-Emperor. If you can get to him past that dragon, you are more than welcome to try. We won’t interfere at all.”
Twain frowned. “Why would you help me? Once I get the Mage-Emperor—”
The man waved his hand. “Our Queen wants the Mage-Emperor back, by any means necessary, and my head is the next one on the block. If you can make this not my problem and save my sorry hide, I’ll take it. I don’t care what happens next, as long as it’s not my fault.”
Twain nodded. Is this what the human army is like?
As though sensing his thoughts, the man sighed. “It wasn’t always like this. I remember being proud of what I did, of my country. Now… we’re waging war on everyone left and right, blight is pouring from the skies, and all the Queen can do is blame it on some elf?” He shook his head. “Look, I’m no friend of yours. I don’t know whose fault it is, but I don’t know that you had our best interests at heart. I’d give you to her in a heartbeat and let the two of you fight it out, but that wouldn’t keep me or my men alive for another day, not if we couldn’t capture the Mage-Emperor in the same fell swoop. We stay out here in the blight much longer, and we’ll all die, Queen, Mage-Emperor, doesn’t matter.”
He passed a hand over his head, pushing his hair back. Under his breath, he muttered, “Hell, it might already be too late.”
“I understand. I’ll do my best,” Twain promised.
The man laughed. “When I was preparing to do this, I expected to see some villain, black armor, red eyes, tall and looming, the whole kit and caboodle. But you, damn. You’re a kid. That shirt doesn’t even fit you. It’s not your fault, is it?”
“I am a hundred and ninety years old,” Twain said, affronted.
“Fucking elves.” The man shook his head and waved him out. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”
Twain bowed once, then turned and left, Spar on his heels.
Behind him, the man sighed. “May the gods watch over you, wherever they’ve gone.”