Fifteenth of Harbinger

Arak was, as usual, one of the first to wake. He had spent most of his life as a warrior, both in service of his clan and as a mercenary. It was entirely instinct that made him rise before dawn every morning and wander the compound to check for danger. The Children of the Wind had many enemies, though none of them had ever dared to attack their home. The compound had no official name, though over the years students had come to call it the Citadel. It was both a home for the Order and a fortress within which they could learn and experiment without interference. There was no palace so secure as the Citadel, Arak was sure of that. They were deep in Ikari territory, which served as a defence in depth against any serious assault. The Order’s reputation was enough to scare off most enemies, and anyone who overcame both fear and the Ikari still had to face the mages themselves. Arak was paid well to teach them combat skills to rival that of orcs and he did it well, crafting generations of the most lethal fighters on the continent. When that was combined with their ability to control life forces, they were a formidable force to reckon with. Individual Brilhardem may have been killed throughout the years, but no one had dared attack the Order as a whole. Nonetheless, every day Arak made his circuit of the Citadel to check for breaches. He hadn’t lived this long by becoming complacent.

He made his way towards Brimur’s home, finding that the elf was already readying his horse.

“Has Sashai woken?” Brimur asked when he saw the orc. Arak gave an amused grunt.

“I think she was exhausted by her trials,” he replied with a smirk. “No movement yet.”

“We have five days of riding ahead of us,” Brimur mused. “Let her have another hour.”

“I still think it is a mistake leaving this soon,” Arak cautioned. “Belkai is secure in Narandir. We have time.”

“I’m not so sure,” Brimur told him. “Things are moving far quicker than we had expected. We can assume nothing.”

Arak didn’t argue. He knew there was no changing Brimur’s mind, so with his protest made, he let the matter go and helped his friend gather supplies for the journey. He glanced up at a window and saw Brimur’s wife, a tall, grey-eyed wood elf named Salatia, standing there with a pained look in her eye. She felt it too, Arak realised. Something was coming, and Brimur was headed in the wrong direction.

***

While the northern regions of Lustria were riddled with mines, the south lived off the riches that they brought to the nation. The capital of Torleight was a few miles from the border with the Tios Principality, and was a shining example of the wealth produced by the miners’ labours. It was a stunning contrast to the small farming town where Shontelle had lived most of her life. Solstia, it had been named, a local trading centre in southern Svaleta and the only home she had ever known until it had been destroyed by the Sons of Retribution in their attempt to kill Belkai Androva. Shontelle stood before a bronze statue that dominated Torleight’ central square, her dark hair blowing gently in the breeze. The statue was of a great horse racing, its rider standing in his stirrups with one hand raising a sword in the air. His mouth was open in an eternal war cry, his eyes wide with fervour. Shontelle shivered as she studied the sculpture. She had never seen anything like it.

“His name was Fernaldi.”

She almost leapt at the sudden voice, and turned to see a Lustrian soldier standing there, a warm smile on his face. He was surprisingly scrawny, the black and red uniform doing little to make his frame seem more powerful. He spoke in the common tongue, and if Shontelle had lived in Lustria long enough she would have recognised a northern accent.

“Who was he?” Shontelle asked, crossing her arms across her chest. “A general?”

The soldier gave a sweet laugh, revealing a subtle set of dimples. His green eyes sparkled. “You could say that. High General Fernaldi was one of the founders of Lustria. He led the final push to drive the goblins and wood elves out of the land. All human presence would have been destroyed without him.”

“Who was here first?” Shontelle asked with a raised eyebrow.

His smile widened. “Who knows? But all agree the goblins struck first.”

As was their nature, she thought. She finally returned his smile. “I’m Shontelle.”

He gave a small bow. “Lieutenant Jacque Mieur. Of the Third Guard Corps.”

“It is a pleasure, Lieutenant.”

Jacque shook his head. “The pleasure is mine, Shontelle. This is your first visit from Svaleta?”

“I’m a recent arrival,” she admitted. “I’m not used to all of...this.”

She waved her hand around the cobblestone plaza. People of all races milled about, bards fought for attention and payment, and children splashed in a nearby fountain despite their parents’ protests.

“Svaleta does not have anything like this?” Jacque asked in surprise.

Shontelle smiled shyly, surprised by the blush she felt. She had never been ashamed of her home before. “I come from a family of farmers. We never left our town.”

“Of course.” Jacque nodded. “My family are miners. I’m afraid of tight spaces.”

They both laughed at that, and the lieutenant shrugged. “That’s cosmic humour for you.”

“So your...guard...troop...is based here?”

Jacque smiled patiently. “My Guard Corps is stationed about a day’s march east of Torleight. But I have a three-day pass. A chance to enjoy the sights.”

“And you decided to scare a foreigner.”

Another laugh. He had a nice laugh, she decided.

“You seemed curious,” he said. “I enjoy history.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He glanced around the plaza, then turned back to her with a gleam in his eye. “Have you seen the riverfront?”

“I spent most of my morning working up the courage to come here,” Shontelle admitted.

“Then it is a sight that you must see, if I may.” Jacque held out a hand and despite herself, Shontelle took hold. Though his hands were rough from years of soldiering, his grip was gentle. Well, no one had ever accused Lustrians of being brutes. She was surprised by her own acquiescence, but he was the first person to try to make her feel welcome. She had met many soldiers looking for a woman to warm their bed, but there was something different about Jacque. She let him lead her down streets lined with market vendors and store fronts until they came to a bright green lawn full of flower displays. Through the centre was a path of crushed white stones, soft on the feet.

“The queen has a love for nature that is rare,” Jacque said, watching as Shontelle knelt to run her hands across a bed of roses. “She tends these herself during the night, they say. These are the Queen’s Gardens. The river is just down the path.”

She followed him along, marvelling at the beauty of the gardens. She was shocked that such beauty existed in a land known only for its mines. Were we wrong about everyone? Her father had been so sure about the surpassing glory of Svaleta. He had been completely wrong, she now realised.

She didn’t realise that Jacque had stopped until she bumped into his shoulder and went still. Before then, the garden fell away in a steep embankment to the crystal-clear waters below. They were almost perfectly still, the afternoon sun sparkling on the water. A brightly coloured pleasure boat floated past, the pilot radiating peace as he guided it with a pole twice his size. His passengers were nowhere to be seen. White birds squawked and dove at the water, springing back into the air clutching orange fish.

“It’s beautiful,” Shontelle whispered, not realising at first that she had spoken. She turned to see that Jacque was staring at her with a smile.

“Yes, it is,” he answered, but his eyes didn’t leave her own. She knew that she was blushing, but she held his gaze until he looked back to the river.

“What’s its name?” she asked.

“We call it the Liliatha,” Jacque told her. “It means ‘dreams of peace’. They say that as long as it flows there will never be war here.”

“And yet I stand beside a soldier,” Shontelle pointed out. Jacque didn’t answer at first. He knelt down and picked up a smooth pebble. With a flick of the wrist, he sent it skipping across the river. He stared after it for a few moments, and when he turned back there was a sadness in his eyes.

“Our hope for peace always runs deeper than our ability to keep it,” he said softly. “So long as there is evil in this world, there will be those who must fight it.”

“I have seen evil,” she murmured. Jacque glanced her way but sensed it was time to stay silent. And so they did for an hour, watching the river flow by as they both hid from the tales of their lives.

***

It had been an uneventful return journey from the Aliri Empire. Belkai, Davos, and Loranna had been disguised as traders as they travelled through Svaleta and had been met at the Aliri border by a small detachment of border guards. The process was reversed on the return, though Loranna was grateful to have seen a small group of Narandir elves near the border shadowing them through Svaleta. She hadn’t expected any enemies to recognise them, but she hadn’t lived this long without being cautious. Belkai may have had the ability to sense life forces, and Davos’ hearing and smell were enhanced by his elven blood, but Loranna had learned that some things could avoid detection even by them if they so wished. She had no fear of bandits. Supernatural beasts, on the other hand, were enough to make her nervous. It had given her no small amount of relief when they had finally crossed the tree line into Narandir and the safety that it gave. She waited until Belkai and Davos had settled into their cabin for the night, then finally let out a sigh of relief and began to slowly make her way towards the small elven home made from a firm, marble-like fungus that had been granted to her. The tension of the journey had left her exhausted, and her axe and shield began to feel like weights hanging off her strong frame. To her surprise, she soon spotted a small fire burning near her home. A hand instinctively dropped towards her axe before she recognised the stance of the figure seated by the flames. A smile parted her lips as Lithmae, the chieftain of the Narandir elves, stood and waved her over.

“A safe journey, I trust,” he said as she made her way to him. He passed over a mug filled with what turned out to be a particularly fine ale. She raised a questioning eyebrow as she took a swig. The elf grinned and told her,

“The first lot of traders passed by while you were away. I thought you might enjoy the taste.”

Lithmae stood a foot taller than Loranna. He wore a leather shirt and loose trousers, and the glow of the fire highlighted the curves of his muscles. He took Loranna into his arms and they shared a deep kiss before he waved her towards a tree stump. He sat on the next one over and watched as she dropped her weapon and shield onto the grass.

“How were our northern kin?” Lithmae asked when she was done. He had been born into a Narandir that was cut off entirely from the outside world under the reign of Mishtar, the former Lord of Narandir whom Belkai had overthrown. Despite his knowledge of the existence of other clans, Lithmae had never had the opportunity to meet any of them. Perhaps that could now change.

“They were different from what I expected,” Loranna admitted as she stared into the fire and soaked in its healing warmth. “They are artists, Lithmae. We were raised to see them as war mongers, but they have a cultural beauty that I hadn’t expected.”

“We elves like to surprise,” Lithmae noted with a sly grin. Loranna turned to him and threw the empty mug. He caught it deftly, then dropped it onto a bed of leaves beside him.

“I would not want to fight them,” Loranna continued. “You can see it in their eyes. Their soldiers look formidable. I don’t think Svaleta would have won this war, not without Belkai’s intervention.”

“Did she secure the peace?”

Loranna smiled. “Of course. They’ll send a delegation to Svaleta to make it formal, but for now we have peace. The first in many centuries.”

“We’re building a new world, Loranna,” Lithmae said. “Not many people get to say that.”

“Maybe.” Loranna couldn’t stop the shift in her mind. We’re building a new world. But they weren’t the only ones with that aim, were they? How many of the Arcane had found themselves thinking the same thought when Belkai had made her move against Mishtar and Ashelath? They had failed to stop her. The Sons of Retribution had failed in their attempt to draw her out and destroy her. The Arcane wouldn’t be finished yet. There had to be other forces at work.

“What are you thinking, Loranna?” Lithmae asked quietly.

“What if they attack Narandir itself?” she asked in response. “They tried everything else. What if they come for the Forest next?”

“Then Narandir will go to war,” Lithmae said without hesitation – as a clan leader should, he thought. “They will learn the foolishness of such an act of war.”

“How much will we lose in the process?” Loranna asked. “They will come with everything that they’ve got.”

Lithmae dropped to his knees before her and took her hands in his own. When she looked down to him, he smiled sadly.

“I do not know what the future will bring, Loranna,” he whispered. “But I know that we will face it together. Narandir has never fallen. I believe that this Forest will stand for all time. Whatever the Arcane bring against us, we will endure. All of this will not be in vain.”

Loranna leant down and pushed her lips against his, softly at first, then harder until he broke off for air.

“You always know what to say,” she murmured, and he kissed her on the forehead.

“I try.” He gave a weak smile and knew that she could see through his façade. Yet she loved him for trying. “We will face the storm together, Loranna. Whatever it may hold.”

Loranna ran a hand along his cheek and asked,

“Will you come inside tonight?”

He laughed. “I thought that you would never ask.”