XLIII. THE GIFT OF GUILT
The forest was alive with a cacophony of alien sounds, sounds betraying a wealth of life Aichlan had yet to lay eyes on, and likely did not want to. As he made the meandering journey through the darkened camp, he wondered how much of the life heard in the shadows came through the Black Gate, and how much predated man entirely. The thick canopy occluded the light of the moons as they made their silent journey across the heavens, and he desperately wished to see them again, on what may be his last night alive. As a boy, he had always found them so fascinating, his mind spun with adventures on the forests of Virides Occuli; and he found himself wondering if those ancient, virgin forests looked anything like this primeval wood.
Around him, men huddled silently around cooking fires, polishing weapons and armor with the enthusiasm of one condemned. Tents were pitched between the roots of massive trees, soldiers attempted to catch a fitful night’s sleep on the backs of supply wagons, the wheels of which had been busted beyond repair and would have to be abandoned. It would be a hard march back for those that made it, assuming anyone would make it.
By pre-Osric standards, Aichlan had a sizable army of over ten-thousand men of a diverse composition. General Swyddog brought with him a Cavalry unit in addition to two battalions of infantry and archers; among them were mage killers, men educated partially in Asketill with the knowledge to counter those who practiced magic. The elves would be impressive shock troops, and Alice’s fellow classmen could prove useful in a pinch, much how Tiffany had cast a spell allowing them to take down a dragon. Ostensibly, it was not a hopeless battle, but he had seen the devastation that man caused first hand on three separate occasions. His faith was shaken not only in himself and the men he commanded, but in the gods and the very nature of existence itself. Nothing seemed to have a reason anymore, not if it were all simply pre-ordained or at the whim of uncaring children.
“…Take her with you.”
Maleah stood in the midst of an argument with a dark-skinned, violet haired woman beside a gaudily painted wagon.
The other woman shook her head, her gold bangled arms folded before her chest. “No, you need to give me a better reason than that.”
“What better reason is there? You want me to take a child to a battle?”
“You brought her this far with no problem, why the sudden change?”
Maleah punched the side of the wagon “Damn it Leila! You know it’s the right thing to do, you and Zuri are leaving anyway!”
Leila approached Maleah and held her in her arms. “Do you love her?”
Maleah shook as she began to sob, raising one hand to return the embrace. “Of course I do.”
Leila stroked Maleah’s hair and cooed softly. “I know you do, I know. Which is why I won’t let you leave that girl alone in the world.”
“Excuse me,” Aichlan cleared his throat as he stepped into the light of their small fire. “I don’t believe we have met.”
Maleah sprang away from Leila’s embrace and dried her eyes on her sleeve. “You didn’t die?”
Aichlan offered her placating smile. “I could say the same for you, Captain.”
Maleah gestured towards Leila, “This is Leila, she helped us out in Sorn. Before things went to shit, at least, before they went to more shit.”
Aichlan bowed slightly at the waist. “A pleasure, I am Aichlan, commanding General of this Army.”
“Aichlan?” Leila stepped closer to get a better look at him. “The one Rémann was looking for?”
“Uh…I suppose I am.” Aichlan looked to Maleah for some sort of explanation, but she merely shrugged. “I did not know the two of you were acquainted.”
“Our paths crossed in Sorn.”
The woman took another step forward, looking as if she had some burning question to ask. “Well, I was found. More or less…”
“Did you know a man by the name of Vance Jung?”
Aichlan was taken aback by the sudden question, and the nagging sense that he had heard that name before, though he couldn’t place where exactly. “I am afraid I don’t recall, who is he?”
Leila sighed, her whole demeanor seeming to deflate. “He was a Knight in The Order, one under your command.”
Aichlan scratched his cheek, somewhat ashamed he did not remember. Though to be fair to himself, his time as Grandmaster in The Order was a literal lifetime ago.
“Is he here?” He asked, though he already knew the answer.
“No, he died some time ago in Sorn. He was trying to reach you, to warn you of what happened in Therion.”
“I see…”
Leila balled her fist and shook her head, shedding hot tears. “And? Aren’t you going to ask? Or did his death truly mean nothing?”
Aichlan turned his gaze to the sky, wishing desperately to see the moons and the stars through the thick canopy of leaves. “Because you are here today, I do not believe his death was in vain. I don’t know the details of how he fell, but it sounds like he died in the service of his knightly vows and his fellow man, and that is how he shall be remembered.”
Leila stood, trembling with her rage and sorrow or several moments, before abruptly storming off towards her wagon. Aichlan sighed with a heavy heart and turned to Maleah, who said nothing. There were questions he had for her, important questions, but in the wake of that exchange, it seemed so trivial.
“Maleah, I need you to do something for me.”
“What?”
Aichlan paused, unsure of how to phrase his request and express a desire to relieve her of the burden of guilt she carried. “I need you to deliver a message to Marquez for me.”
Maleah’s usual indifferent expression warped into a mask of outrage and disgust. “Fuck you Aichlan.”
Before he could protest, she too stormed off, disappearing into the camp leaving him with the night song of hundreds of birds, insects and other beasts. He had not expected her to go along with his thinly veiled ploy, but he at least needed to try. He could not suffer another soldier under his command meeting an ignominious end, lost to history as merely one in a few thousand other war dead.
* * *
As the sun broke through the foliage and sprinkled down upon the camp, Aichlan drank in the sweet, mossy air and emptied his racing mind as best he could. He focused on the birdsong and steady chorus of men breaking camp, aware that it may very well be his last. As he turned to enter his tent, Rémann cleared his throat nearby. He was dressed in a silver cuirass emblazoned with the image of a Sylph on the chest, green brocade doublet with slashed sleeves, and breeches of the same color. Resting on his shoulder was the battle standard, the silver sylph on a field of green and white.
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“Since her lady wears no armor and thus has no need of a squire, she encouraged me to offer my service.”
Aichlan smirked and motioned for him to follow. “Come on then.”
Aichlan had arranged his gear on the bed as soon as he had woken up, resigned to put on his own kit as he had so often during the past year or so. Aichlan stripped from his cotton tunic and trousers, and stood in his skivvies as Rémann gathered his battle dress.
First, the cotton gambeson, thin fabric about the torso with padded sleeves. Then came the breeches and chausses, followed by the coat of plates Clarissa had purchased for him so long ago in Eefrit. While it now bore the scars of dragon flame and demon claws, the craftsmanship was fine, as was to be expected of the Colby-Nau. Over that came the hauberk made for him by the mother of his child. Even after countless battles, the metal still gleamed like silver in the light, with no sign of broken links or holes from wear and tear. The rig was also incredibly light as compared to traditional steel, affording him greater stamina and mobility on the battlefield.
Next, he slipped on the arguably most important piece, the surcoat. Half forest green and half white, with the iconic Sylph of his homeland emblazoned on his breast. It had brought him pride and wonderment as a child, watching his Father slip on the thick, sleeveless garment. He had always wanted to follow the old man into service, despite their differences and often contentious clashes. He wished he could have seen him one last time, and not just some cruel facsimile. He wanted from him to see his son geared up for righteous combat, whilst holding his grandson in his bearlike arms.
Rémann handed Aichlan his ring belt and sword, which he affixed with practiced ease. The sword had been with him from the beginning, the one piece of equipment he refused to swap out, the one piece he never needed to replace. It was made from a titanium alloy, a holdover from when the fey were still poisoned by iron. Light, dense, resistant to rust and able to hold an edge better than any steel blade; it was his treasure. One that, Gods willing, would find its way into the hands of his son, and his son's son, and so on through the ages.
He lifted his foot one at a time as Rémann pulled on his boots. “The Lady Alice has secured a horse for you, my lord.”
“Very well.”
As Rémann affixed the spurs, Aichlan pulled on his gauntlets. Finally, Rémann affixed the coif and chainmail hood, completing the arming pseudo-ceremony.
As Rémann handed Aichlan his targe, he paused. “My lord, would you not prefer a full shield?”
“I don’t plan on staying on horseback for long Master Rémann,” Aichlan smirked and took the small shield in his hand, “besides, it was sort of a wedding present from my beloved’s childhood friend.”
Rémann bowed stiffly at the waist. “Of course, my lord, my apologies.”
Aichlan looked to the small shield, fine elven steel with copper inlay in geometric patterns reminiscent of Rhode, it bore the colors of Aes Sidhe in precious stone and metals: silver, emerald and pearl. If he had not already done so, he would not have thought it suitable for fighting with, merely a ceremonial piece. Yet not a single gemstone had been lost or cracked in the skirmishes thus far, and he did not imagine it would change in the battles to come.
“Come then, Master Rémann,” Aichlan held out his hand, “Let us go inspect the troops.”
* * *
The Remnant Armies of Rhode and Aes Sidhe marched to the slow cadence of a company of drums and melancholic pipes. The solemn faces snaked in unison over the rough track and undulating path, littered with gnarled roots and fallen behemoths of the ancient elven wood. Aichlan led the procession from horseback, his anxiety ebbing and waning with each rise; his desire to finally put an end to the conflict ultimately trumping his fears. Eventually, as the sun marched across the sky, the narrow track widened out into something resembling a road. The hobbling roots and moss-slick stone under foot gave way to ancient, crumbling tarmac and later brick. For the first time in what felt like ages, they could see the uninterrupted sky overhead as they trudged along that winding lane, flanked by trees that likely predated the collapse.
Swyddog rode at his right, with Eth riding poorly beside Clarissa. Swyddog wore an ostentatious suit of armor as was customary for a man of his rank and social standing. Commonly called “half-plating”, he wore a gorget, breastplate and plackart, faulds and tassets all in gleaming silver inlayed with gold. His pauldrons were large and gaudy, with gauntlets and gambeson sans upper-arm rerebraces. The ensemble was topped off with a billowing embroidered cape and decorative greaves. Many of the Aes Sidhean knights wore similarly ineffective armor, leaving large gaps in their defenses for the sake of perceived heroic flair under the mistaken belief this battle would be like any other.
Several times Alice pulled up beside Aichlan, followed closely by Rémann, only to silently look at him and slowly drop back. This continued for miles as they wove their way through overgrowth and imperceptible trails. As the clop of horseshoe against paving stones became more consistent, Rémann removed a hurdy gurdy from his saddle back. Aichlan shook his head and smiled as Rémann began to tune the instrument with a dopey grin on his face.
“How long have you had that?” Aichlan asked.
Rémann shrugged. “Since the beginning, my lord.”
“Master Rémann has a divine singing voice.” Alice squealed.
She wore the simple black pinafore dress of her rank and class at Asketill, with addition of a black riding clock lined with green satin and emblazoned with the emblem of her house.
“I could go fer a song.” Eth wobbled in his saddle, having been fighting the beast the entire journey. “Maybe something tae calm this bastard down.”
He was as shirtless as when they first met, wearing only a overlapping steel-plate manica on his sword arm for protection.
Clarissa covered her laugh behind her hand as he nearly fell over for the hundredth time. “You just don’t know ‘ow to ride ‘er, Eth”
Clarissa was dressed in the red and gold embroidered phelonion over the white and red silk cassock of her office. Given the dearth of Order Knights, two Aes Sidhean knights led her and her retinue of nuns. Her bright pink hair was styled into twin ringlets, adorned with a golden circlet with diamonds and rubies dangling from short gold chains.
“Oh, do say you’ll sing for us.” Alice pleaded.
Rémann went red faced and scratched his cheek. “What would the lady like for me to sing?”
“How about…” Aichlan tapped the horn of his saddle with gauntlets. “Lost Children of Lihn?”
Alice scrunched her face in disgust. “Eww, no. It’s so morbid.”
Aichlan shrugged. “It’s a battle song, and an appropriate one.”
“Ooh!” Alice said excitedly, “Play It Calls for Beautiful Acts!”
Rémann blushed, very familiar with the old love song, and uncomfortable with the prospect of singing it to a bunch of men marching to war. “I am afraid that may be a bit too sappy for present company, my lady.”
“Do you know Suis La Lune?” Clarissa asked hopefully.
Rémann shook his head. “I am afraid not, your excellency.”
“Just play the damn children of Lihn.” Aichlan said, dismissing the other suggestions with a wave of his hand. “Pay them no heed.”
Rémann bowed in deference and offered Alice an apologetic shrug before winding up his instrument.
Swept away by the ocean grey waves
Oh, the places I might go!
On Sorrow for plunder, the fey child braves
Oh, the races I might know!
From mothers embrace to auld battlegrounds,
Oh, the burdens that I’ll know!
From the bottom off the ocean
The nowhere I’ve gone,
From sorrowful farewells
And long goodbye’s gone unsaid
Oh, the stories I’ll ne’er tell!
Dear friends where have thou gone?
tell me how weary I’ve grown,
Oh, the memories ne’er shown.
Deep in the ocean, I’ll lose who I am,
On distant shores, I’ll die on the sand
Oh, green goddess, take me home!
But deep in my heart, the mother still stands
From verdant hills, the green goddess didst sow,
Oh, in the breast of fey, still she doth roam!
No one knew when the song was crafted, or what spurred the author to pen such a bleak hymn, but it had been with the knights of Aes Sidhe since before humans settled the land. The song traveled through the ranks, and when the last verse had been sung, they took it up again from the top until the whole army knew its words and meanings. The did not stop until the great trunk of Yggdrasil filled the horizon, and her bows blotted out the sun.