Eleventh of Nirakos

Year 1182 of Emancipation

Rangir could remember the first time that he had faced combat. It had only been a matter of weeks ago, but it felt like a different century. It had been a pitch-black night on the outskirts of Narandir. The company had received word of a homestead that had apparently been attacked by some sort of monster. Rangir hadn’t believed the stories, so he had expected bandits or feral orcs to be waiting for them in the darkness. He’d made his first kill that night, some sort of massive insect that had killed some of his closest friends. It had been a night of terror, even if it had ended in victory.

Rangir was feeling that same sort of tension as he led his company to form ranks along the river north of Arborshire. It was irrational, he knew. He had faced much more terrifying threats at Narandir, but knowing that somewhere to the north was an army of elves bent on killing Rangir and all of his comrades was unnerving at best. Still, he maintained his composure as he walked his company’s line and checked his soldiers’ gear. They were mostly unblooded, just as he had been only too recently. It was easy to look down on them, but he forced himself to remember what he had seen and endured. They would hold, he decided as he studied their faces. They were frightened, but steadfast. This was their nation being invaded, their homes at risk. They would fight.

The plan was deceptively simple. There was only one bridge that gave a practical approach to Arborshire, which made the defensive positions easy to organise. A series of trenches had been dug and filled with oil, ready to be lit if the Aliri broke the initial positions, made up of Ertas’ regiment. Rangir’s company was on the right flank of that frontline, ready to meet the brunt of any Aliri attack. Two companies were assembled behind the fire trenches, with the final force dug in at the bridge. Should the defences fail, the bridge was to be burned. The only flaw in the plan, so far as Rangir could see, was that they were all out in the open. This wasn’t the northern border where they could set up under the cover of a forest. With their keen sight, the Aliri could see everything that he and his comrades were doing. They could offer no surprises. The elves, however, had every opportunity to find ways to counter their plans.

Rangir’s thoughts were broken as he spotted movement in the distance. The first ranks of Aliri came into view, at least a hundred marching southwards. There was no escape now.

“Archers at the ready,” Rangir called out. The twenty bowmen were already at the front of the line, and each put an arrow to their bows, ready for the command to fire. The Aliri kept coming, and a second company appeared to the west. A pincer movement, Rangir thought. Put both sides of the defences under pressure, then hit with a third attack – but where?

There was no time to continue the thought. There was a shout from the Aliri lines, and the familiar sound of bowstrings sounded. They had longer-range weapons than the Svaletans, Rangir realised, and yelled for his company to raise shields. There was a scream as someone responded too late and caught an arrow in the chest. Rangir ignored the sound. There’d be plenty more of that to come.

“Archers, fire!”

He couldn’t see the full impact of the first volley, but the elves began to charge as they roared a war cry. Another volley rained down on the company even as his archers fired again. Rangir braced as the elven line drew closer. Another dozen metres and he’d break cover and push forward, meet them head on. More screams sounded along the line and he forced himself to tune them out.

“Hold steady!”

He could now see the impact of individual arrows as they knocked elves to the ground, but it was too little. They kept coming, an unhesitating force bent on his nation’s destruction. He could feel his heart race as he shouted,

“Break and forward!”

He lowered his shield and led the charge, sword at the ready. He could hear his men following and focused on the elves ahead of him. He would no longer be in control of this fight, he knew. Once the two forces met, a hundred individual battles would begin, and he could no more control them than he could the rising of the sun. Then it all depended on their instincts and the quality of the training that they had received. You could never predict someone’s response to combat until they saw the first blood being shed.

Rangir reached the elves first. He slammed his shield into his first target’s face, knocking him straight to the ground in a spray of crimson. The next caught Rangir’s sword in his neck before he turned again. A spearman came at him but was knocked to the ground as an arrow smacked through his throat. The archers were searching out individual targets now, dealing death on a near-personal level. Rangir kept pushing, soon joined by two more of his men who stuck by him as they broke their way through the first rank of Aliri.

The battle was remarkably one-sided. The two Aliri companies had been forged in the fires of Echtalon’s uncompromising training. Their deployment, however, seemed to be guaranteed to fail. Rangir’s company immediately went on the offensive, ending the elves’ initiative and forcing them to reform their ranks and pull back into a defensive posture. That left Rangir free to manoeuvre his company to strike from two sides and slowly break down their defences.

The second Svaletan company that was attacked took the opposite approach. Their commander stood his ground, refusing to withdraw an inch but not advancing either. The Aliri broke upon them like a wave on the rocks, searching for a weakness in the shield wall.

***

To Echtalon’s surprise, both Svaletan flanks held. The eastern company had completely pushed the first wave back, while the western had only fought them to a standstill. A spoiling attack, Faelin had called it. Enough to bleed the Svaletans and give them a false sense of security, but not committing enough force to break the enemy lines. She’d been right the other day, Echtalon thought. Faelin was far more patient than he. With the forces at hand he would have smashed the Svaletans while bringing in the company via boat to take the bridge. It would have been over in a day. But what if you lost, an unwelcome thought pushed back. He forced it aside. His doubts had been growing since the failure at Larton, but he couldn’t afford to entertain them. Faelin had a solid plan, he had to admit. She’d always been one for subtlety, and it almost always paid off.

A horn sounded and the two companies began to disengage and pull back towards the Aliri camp. Faelin made her way to her commander and looked at him questioningly.

“You still don’t agree with the plan, General?” Before he could answer, she continued, “I now have twenty men hiding amongst the bodies. During the night they will sneak into the Svaletan camp and strike them as they sleep. We will keep them off balance and in three days we will crush them.”

“What if they gather the bodies?”

Faelin shrugged. “Then they will fight, and in future even the sight of our dead will make them wary.”

She laid a hand on his arm, and her touch was surprisingly warm. “You can trust me, General. This battle has already been won.”

“Overconfidence cost me Larton,” Echtalon warned. Faelin held up her hand.

“Listen,” she said. “What do you hear?”

He understood immediately. “Celebrations.”

“That’s right. Those fools are celebrating a win against two companies attacking with no real tactics. Overconfidence works both ways, General. We have the advantage in that we decide the time of our final blow.”

Had anyone else given the lecture, Echtalon would have executed them on the spot. But he had raised Faelin to her position, taken her under his wing. It was a gentle rebuke from a substitute daughter, and he accepted it quietly.

“Two days and Arborshire will be ours,” Faelin told him. “The end is here, even if they don’t see it yet.”

***

It wasn’t a steep walk up to the Temple gates, but Davos nevertheless felt heavy as he made his way along a path lined with flowers of every colour imaginable. He was alone but felt as if a thousand eyes watched his every move. Above him the five spires rose far into the sky as if trying to pierce the heavens. When he reached the oaken door, it swung open before he could touch the brass knocker. He was met by a young man, at least twenty years old, wearing a white cloak. His dark hair was shaved almost to the scalp. He bowed and announced,

“Toldir at your service, Master Davos.”

“You know who I am?” Davos knew that he shouldn’t have been surprised, but he hadn’t expected such a welcome. Regardless of his newfound station in life, he saw himself as a scout of Larton first and foremost.

Toldir smiled knowingly. “The Prophetess sees much from her spire, Master. More than eyes alone can see. Come, she is waiting for you.”

The door clicked shut as Davos followed the boy – he counted youth in more ways than one’s years – down a white corridor ordained by golden statues of robed men and women.

“The Prophetess’ predecessors,” Toldir said, noticing Davos’ gaze. “Over a thousand years of those sent of the Sun.”

They passed by a dining hall, and Davos caught a glimpse of Sashai. She looked up from the boy she was talking to and gave him a smile. He nodded back, but Toldir seemed to ignore the interaction as he led the way to a spiralling staircase.

“No faster way up, I suppose?” Davos asked as he looked up at what lay ahead.

Toldir smiled. “I’m afraid not.”

It took several long minutes to make their way up the stairs. Davos hadn’t realised how tall the central spire truly was, though perhaps everything felt higher when stairs were involved. They emerged in another corridor with multiple rooms splitting off. Toldir led him to an intricately carved set of double doors and made sure he was close by before knocking gently. A woman’s voice greeted him, and he gently pushed the doors open.

“Milady, Davos of Narandir.”

He waved for Davos to enter, then closed the doors behind him.

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“Welcome, Davos. It is good to finally meet you in person.”

The Prophetess stepped away from a window and waved for him to sit on a red leather chair. He waited until she had sat on a matching chair across from him, then took his place. She straightened out her dress and gave him a welcoming smile.

“You have had a hard road, haven’t you, Lowborn?”

The half-elf hid his anger and nodded. “I have, Milady.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “You are wedded to the woman who killed Ashelath and is apparently one of the most powerful mages of our time. You have gained the right to call me Siara. Few do.”

“Thank you...Siara.” It was strange to speak to her in such a familiar way, but she was not one to be denied. “Thank you for your guidance on my path.”

“Who would have thought that so much would have depended on your love?” Siara sighed. “But it does seem that you chose correctly.”

Davos didn’t answer as Toldir came back in and handed him some tea. When the priest had left, Davos took a deep breath.

“We have received troubling news,” he said, and Siara nodded.

“You wouldn’t have come otherwise,” she pointed out. “I don’t receive many social calls. So what has happened?”

“A woman came to Narandir several days ago. She claimed that Solstia was destroyed by vatriloi.” Davos hesitated before he continued. “I led a detachment of elves to the town. Her story appeared to be true. But there was something else – two people seemed to have been watching the attack. I didn’t recognise their scent but there was something strange about it, almost bestial.”

Siara frowned. “Vatriloi? It has been many years since there was a confirmed encounter.”

“There is more. The survivor was given a message by the creatures’ leader. Ertas and Rangir, the leaders of the Svaletans who helped us against Mishtar, are in danger. We sent two elves to warn them.”

Siara nodded thoughtfully. “This is not entirely surprising to me. Let me tell you of a vision I had recently, Davos. Then tell me your understanding of it.”

“I’m not a dreamer.”

“But I am, and your Prophetess requires of you your opinion.”

Davos bowed his head slightly. “As you wish.”

Siara repeated the vision that she had given to Farhad. “An elf and a man fought on a mountain. There was a storm, the sky was utterly black. In the distance a voice laughed and mocked them as they fought. The mountain became a pile of bones. It was impossible to tell apart what was human, elven, or orcish. The elf and man sank into the bones, and it was all consumed by fire.”

Davos thought for a moment before he gave his cautious answer. “If it was a recent vision, then I would assume that the elf and man represented Svaleta and the Aliri.”

“And the mockery?”

“Ashelath began this war,” Davos said, more confident now. “It was his mockery of us all.”

“It is more than that,” Siara said quietly. “The Arcane are never so simple, and the consequences of their actions are never so limited. Think about it, Davos. Why did Ashelath start the war?”

He shrugged; the answer was obvious. “He wanted Belkai to seize the power of Narandir for him. Then he could overthrow the Arcane and take the power that he had always craved.”

“And the result?”

“Belkai took the power and used it to destroy him.” Davos frowned. “Ashelath failed, and he paid for it.”

“Your view is too limited.” Siara drained the last of her tea and brushed a stray hair off her face. Davos noted that there had been no criticism in her voice. “Ashelath’s death left a power vacuum. And the Arcane will not leave it unfilled. There is a power play right now among them. In the meantime, the war that Ashelath began is still going. It seems minor from a human perspective, but what matters is what it represents – an invitation for the Arcane to rearrange the current order. And meanwhile, there exists in Narandir a human who has killed someone that the Arcane themselves were forbidden to destroy. So there are two converging events: Ashelath must be avenged, despite his exile, and in doing so Narandir will be left unguarded.”

“What does all this mean?”

Siara thought for a moment. She knew the answer, but she hesitated to speak it. Was it best presented to Belkai herself? She knew that she could trust Davos, but would the impact be lessened by his being the messenger?

“Prophetess?” Davos prompted. “What does all of this mean? Why the vatriloi?”

Siara made her decision. She stood, and when Davos had done the same, she said, “You must be tired, my friend. Go downstairs and eat, rest. When night comes Sashai will return with you to Narandir with my response.”

“You can trust me with your message,” Davos told her, anger creeping into his voice. “If it can be said to Belkai, then it is for my ears.”

“You are loyal to your bride, Davos. I commend that,” Siara said. “But some things are best spoken in the one place that we know the Arcane have no power. Sashai is someone that Belkai trusts. She will go with you. I will say no more.”

She called for Toldir and Davos walked slowly to the door. Before he followed the priest he turned and said,

“For all our sakes, Siara, I hope that the delay does not have unintended consequences. Belkai’s life is my oath.”

***

Rangir had the night watch. Four others watched their sectors, one hand on their sheathed swords while the other held a flaming torch. Their commander stood apart, staring into the darkness while trying to avoid allowing the flames to ruin his night vision. Something didn’t feel right. While the others had celebrated their victory over the Aliri, he knew that it wasn’t a typical attack. It had seemed too desperate for a force that they had suspected to be far larger than their own. He couldn’t understand why they had attacked with only two companies, nor why they had moved in such an amateur fashion. Only a fool would have used their forces in such a way, and Rangir knew that the Aliri had never been fools.

Somewhere in the distance he heard a rustling, and he froze. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness, and a quick glance told him that his fellow sentries had heard nothing. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was moving out there.

There. A bush shook not far from him. He quietly drew his sword and slowly made his way forward, careful to look beyond the bush to appear unaware of whatever was attempting to hide. It didn’t take long. A shape slid across the ground before rising up, but Rangir was waiting. He thrust his sword straight through the elf’s face, and it stayed standing until he pulled it back out. A nearby scream made him jerk his head around in time to see one of his sentries collapse. He ran for him, only to be intercepted by a second Aliri who came at him with two daggers. Rangir parried his first blow, then slashed his throat. By now the alarm had been sounded and the camp came to life. More torches were ignited, and Rangir chased down a third elf who tried to run for the generals’ tents further into the encampment. It was becoming a brawl as more Aliri revealed themselves throughout the camp. They must have been hiding amongst the bodies, Rangir realised, and cursed himself for agreeing to the order to leave the elven dead where they had fallen.

The sounds of battle died away, and Rangir directed his men to gather the bodies – and make sure that they were dead. They found twenty Aliri. They had lost ten of their own. The trade didn’t seem worth it to Rangir.

***

There was a decades-old tradition that Brimur and Arak would share their evening meal together once the day’s lessons were complete. It was a means both to share the students’ progress and to let out the stress of the day’s labours. Brimur had missed it over the past month while Arak travelled to Narandir, and he made sure that a suitable feast was prepared once the orc returned. As always, their wives joined them for the meal – Brimur’s wife Salatia wearing an elegant green dress, and Arak’s wives Shalah and Glish in matching leather armour. The wine was kept flowing by the day’s least favoured students, who were denied sleep until their superiors had finished their meal. Brimur had ensured a steady supply of lamb and vegetables, more than enough meat to satisfy three orcs.

“It has been an interesting journey,” Arak told them as he tore into a leg of lamb. “It would appear that this war is isolated to the Aliri and Svaletans but Lustria is on an unusually high level of alert. Their soldiers are out in force.”

“To defend or attack?” Brimur asked. Arak shrugged.

“That wasn’t so clear,” he reported. “These are stranger days than we’d expected.”

“Hmm.” Brimur studied the vegetables on his plate before he asked quietly, “What of Belkai?”

Arak had spent the past week’s journey thinking over that very question, and he still wasn’t certain. Honesty was always the best approach to Brimur, so he said, “She, too, is in a strange situation.”

He recounted his conversation with Belkai, then added, “I am no Brilhardem, Brimur. I do not have your gifts. But I do know that she was telling the truth. Ashelath is gone, as incredible as that would seem to be. She is the first known mortal to kill an Arcane.”

“That’s not possible,” Glish growled, pausing to lick sauce from her lips. “They cannot be harmed by physical means.”

“If they’re idiotic enough to take a physical form, then it’s only a matter of strength,” Arak said, quite typically for an orc in Brimur’s opinion.

“It’s never that simple,” the elf replied. “But essentially, correct. How was she, Arak? Truly?”

“As always, stronger than she thinks,” Arak replied. “She never wanted to rule a kingdom, that’s clear. She hates what she’s done, and she’s scared of what comes next.”

Brimur nodded thoughtfully. “You always said that she had the heart of an orc. But even though Ashelath is dead, his poison remains in her.”

“She will always be at war with her past,” Salatia spoke up, and all eyes turned to her. Brimur’s wife was not a mage by any means, but she was well respected for her wisdom and insights. Belkai had often sought her counsel. “She cannot wash away what she has done but she will always seek to atone for it.”

Arak nodded. “She said that she is having nightmares. ‘Survivor’s guilt ', I think the humans call it.”

“Perhaps,” Salatia said. “Or perhaps the Arcane torment her for what she has done. They will want retribution, Brimur. Regardless of what Belkai wants, she will not be allowed peace. The Arcane will believe that she has defiled them. Delorax will demand her head.”

There was silence around the table until Arak cleared his throat. “I, for one, would put my money on Belkai. She has a reason to live. The Arcane cannot breach Narandir, everyone knows that. More to the point, she is in love. Her husband is a fine man, and she would kill for him. She just might burn this world down for him. Never underestimate the lethality of love.”

“You think they would go after her husband?” Brimur asked.

“It’s what an orc would do,” Shalah said, hiding her pleasure at the elves’ surprise. “Find the weakness and exploit it. But I have met this Belkai. I would not cross her.”

“It may be too late for such counsel,” Arak warned them. “I heard whispers along my journey. People have seen vampires and werewolves. Caravans are going missing in the safest regions. Whole towns are disappearing. Something is happening, and it has nothing to do with this war with the Aliri.”

Shalah nodded in understanding. “Warnings before the strike.”

“Correct.” Arak curled a fist on the table. “For better or worse, one of our own is threatened by the Arcane. What are we going to do about it?”

“What do you suggest?” Salatia asked quietly, raising an eyebrow. Her grey eyes burned into Arak’s, and he looked away. “You would have the Children of the Wind go to war against the Arcane? Or perhaps simply one or two of them?”

Brimur gently placed a hand on Salatia’s arm, and she glanced at him before settling back in her seat. Brimur took a breath and said, “We will support Belkai. She is just a child who did what she had to in order to free herself from the Tormentor. I cannot damn her for that. But we cannot go to war. Arak, we will speak further on this. The Lord of Narandir will not stand alone. But we must find the right way of standing by her side.”

“Her father is respected by the clans,” Glish remarked. “That will count for much, should you require an army. An insult to our clan is an insult to the Dominion.”

Brimur looked at each of them in turn and nodded. “Pray to your gods. I will seek the Creator. The Brilhardemwill stand by Narandir.”

Of course, Brimur knew, making the vow was the easy part. When the time came to fulfil it, blood would flow.

“You always had a soft spot for her,” Salatia noted. Arak laughed.

“Any human who is raised in the Dominion gets my respect,” the orc told her. “More so one who walks through these gates voluntarily. More to the point, though, she has spirit.”

“She would have led this Order,” Brimur said, much to everyone’s surprise. “Had it not been for Ashelath’s interference, I would have chosen her as my successor.”

“A human?” Glish was surprised. She had nothing against Belkai as a human, but there was one glaring problem. “They lack the lifespan that you have brought.”

Brimur smiled at her uncharacteristic gentleness. “Nonetheless, she understands the craft more than most. She isn’t just a Brilhardem. Not in the sense of most. She made it her identity, a part of her very soul. Elkur has more for her than her humanity would suggest.”

Arak nodded his agreement. “She would have been our future.”

“She still is,” Brimur told him. “One way or another, the Order will depend on the choices that she makes.”