Chapter 18: Politics

Jace “Quickshot” Leál

Over the next five days, I spent time hunting for more information about the movements of elves over the last decade. Ayla spent much of this time at the public shooting range available near the Adventurer’s Guild, something she started to do to avoid Renn’s repeated attempts to take her out exploring town, but which was also a practical passtime.

The most useful information I learned during this time came from the bookseller next to Rare Delights—which had instantly become Ayla’s preferred eatery after Renn took us there.

The bookstore was longer than it was wide, with dusty shelves filled with tomes. There were histories, biographies, and records of cities now buried under the Waste or obliterated from existence. There were even some books on the politics between elves and humans. None of them showed signs of having been touched or perused in quite some time. Only one shelf seemed to show any signs of movement: the fantasy fiction section.

The bookseller himself dominated the store. His name was Jargyn, an odd elderly creature with clear signs of fey ancestry. His skin was the color of graying fall leaves and, despite being hunched from age, he stood over two meters tall. He had clipped ears suggesting they had once been pointed, and he exuded a strong scent of sweet gum.

When I asked him about his ancestry, he did not deny it, though the specifics were left to my imagination.

He told me about the enmity with the northern elves of the plains, which according to Jargyn, began when Mayor Prospero began extending his influence into their lands.

He also answered some of the questions I’d felt uncomfortable asking elsewhere.

“Jargyn, I noticed that Tempest represents few races other than humans. Not even elf slaves despite being so close to the remaining elf lands. Why is that?”

The old man scratched his wispy hair with a hand as big as my forearm. “It wasn’t always like this. It’s Mayor Prospero’s doing. I’m glad for not seeing much slavery—the practice is sickening—but it isn’t for a noble cause he outlawed the practice in the city.”

“What was the reason?”

“Paranoia. Prospero believes that everyone will betray him. He barely trusts anyone except his own kind and humans, and he harshly vets any non-humans entering the city. As far as he is concerned, the war never ended. On the subject of slavery, Prospero rightly predicted keeping them in the city runs the risk of rebellion, as well as even more elf aggression from the region. There’s enough of that as it is.

“The plains near Tempest are particularly valuable due to the wild cattle and riding stock, making them a contested resource between humans and elves. For the elves, these animals can be vital for agriculture, even if they do not consume them directly.”

It painted a very different picture than Prospero’s and made me even less inclined to trust him.

During a lull in our conversation, I browsed the books again and withdrew one on human and elf politics. I opened the dusty book and a cloud of dust erupted in my face, making me cough. Flipping through the pages, I realized the book was written just before the war would have started.

The book was a detailed assessment of the political climate, and made a case for peace. One chapter early in the book caught my eye, called: A Grim Future. With prescient alacrity, the passage read as follows:

Should the relations between the two prominent nations on Paxratha continue to decline, the only future the continent can look forward to is one of fire, blood, and ashes. At the current pace of escalating tensions, the arms race between the Western Dominion and Kingdom of De’danaan will soon reach a critical tipping point, inevitably inciting war and catastrophe. The only path to peace is forged through legislation on both sides to encourage the gradual end of prejudice and the senseless culture of animosity between races. Such may only be accomplished through cultural exchange, and even perhaps, through the intermarriage of the species.

Intermarriage of the species? Ayla suddenly came to mind and I instantly closed the book along with that line of thinking.

I turned the book on its side and read the name of the book title: Diplomacy and Discord: The Human-Elf Relations on Paxratha by Jargyn Ó Fionnsiúl.

Looking up at Jargyn, I found him studying me, eyes narrowed. When our eyes met, he smiled, then nodded.

“Indeed. I wrote that book.” He took it from me reverently, flipping through its pages with a deft gentleness that was hard to believe possible in his overlarge hands. “Not that it did much good. Can you believe the Western Dominion banned the book? As for the elves, their literature is distributed through spoken word and oral tradition, as well as their trees. Did you know that during the war, one of the first places the Dominion struck when entering a new domain was to target their God Trees?”

I shook my head. This was news to me. I was young when I was conscripted, and knew so little about the world outside the Sisters. Everything I learned about elves and their culture was filtered through the indoctrination of the Dominion. I’d never heard of the Godtrail or God Trees until Ayla mentioned she was looking for one.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Sighing, Jargyn put the book back in its spot on the shelf. “I always wonder if there was more I could have done. Alas, what influence can one man have in turning away a swelling tide.”

The old man’s thoughts stirred something in me. A revulsion for the blood on my hands. Anger at people in power who I’d never met who could have done something to prevent a war that in the end served no purpose. A sense of helplessness that I couldn’t do anything either.

I didn’t want to think of these things. Into the black box they went. I changed the subject. “Jargyn, you ever heard of something called the Godtrail?”

I thought it was an innocuous enough question, but Jargyn’s reaction was unexpected. One moment he looked sad, then suddenly he brightened. He stood a bit straighter, and looked many years younger. He even smiled.

“Son, I have not heard that word in many years. And never from the lips of a human. Where did you learn it?” There was a knowing look in his eyes, but no enmity, only unbridled curiosity. He reminded me of a professor whose student had just given him an opportunity to give a lecture on a subject he treasured.

I didn’t think Jargyn was the type to turn me in—he was sympathetic to elves. Even so, I couldn’t very well tell him my traveling companion was an elf, especially in a city where they were outlawed. When I hesitated to answer, however, the old man waved a hand in the air as if clearing smoke.

“Never mind, it matters not. If you will listen, I will tell you what I know.”

Jargyn explained that the Godtrail was a kind of trial or rite of passage performed by acolytes seeking to become priests and priestesses of Danu, whose powers and wisdom enabled them great weight in matters relating to their community.

The subject led Jargyn on tangents relating tales of his travels, and the many beautiful enclaves he had visited and the people he’d met. I let him talk as long as he wished. It was an opportunity to focus on a happier, greener time in the world.

Eventually, he came back to the subject. At the end of the trail, the acolyte would then have an encounter with the goddess herself. Unfortunately, the details of what the trial itself consisted of were a closely guarded secret. For me, one of the most fascinating details was this: While there was only one Godtrail, apparently, it could be accessed through any seedling of the Great God Tree, which were themselves called God Trees.

“If any of the God Trees remain,” Jargyn said, his sadness returning, “then they would have to be far beyond the Tempest basin and deep in the elflands.”

Even though I found Jargyn’s company pleasant overall, I left with a somewhat sour feeling in my stomach. Being reminded of how much the world had gone to shit hadn’t done me any good.

The training facility near the Adventurer's Guild was an extension of the building, though one didn’t need to be a member to use it. I’d already learned that it wasn't out of charity, but an opportunity for groups to recruit. Three days ago, when I used the range to test my revolver after I took it to a gunsmith for repairs—it needed a thorough clean, springs replaced and a new firing pin—I’d apparently cleared several courses in record time. The vultures wouldn’t stop circling.

I lost count of how many adventurers tracked me down and insisted I join their party, until I nearly lost my cool and knocked an especially unruly “dual-wielding” idiot upside the head with the butt of my gun.

Of all people, Bear had seen the exchange and intervened. When he learned what happened, he personally took care of it with the guild and, to my relief, I hadn’t been approached since.

“Adventurer” is a common enough word thrown around to describe anyone with a gun, the ability to fight, or even just an explorer. For this reason, it doesn’t matter to me if I am taken for one. Call me a gunslinger, adventurer, explorer… I don’t care. It won’t do to be confused for a mercenary.

That might make me a hypocrite. After all, wasn’t I a bounty hunter for so many years in Valenheim? Still, I don’t want anything to do with merchants of blood. Not anymore.

The “Adventurer” in Adventurer’s Guild is, in my estimation, a euphemism for soldiers of fortune, and their guild is nothing more than a place for mercenaries to pick up contracts, assemble parties, and participate in glorified pissing contests for who killed what and how much money they made off it. I’m sure there are decent fellows who are members; needless to say, I have no intention of ever joining.

When I reached the firing range, Ayla was still at it. She’d gotten pretty effective at shooting targets accurately and quickly at various ranges. Today, she’d even gathered a small crowd.

She was engaged in a friendly competition with a shooter on another lane: a black man with dreadlocks—Bear.

Bear wielded a long-ranged semi-automatic repeater. Ayla her bolt action rifle. The range operator called “The range is hot!” Then the buzzer rang and each began firing.

Down range, moving steel plates pinged on both lanes. Bear’s lane with more at a time, given that his weapon was capable of firing many more rounds before reloading. Ayla’s targets pinged at a slower rate, but steady, and louder.

The contest had three stages: five moving targets at one hundred meters, standing; five at three hundred meters, kneeling; and five at five hundred meters, prone.

They were each allowed only fifteen rounds.

The objective was to hit all the targets as quickly as possible. Despite both going through bullets at a drastically different rate—Ayla could only shoot every two or three seconds—their accuracy was worlds apart. Not so much at the close range, but at the longest distances, and in the contest in general, Ayla missed only one of the furthest targets. Bear hit none of the five hundreds and missed one three hundred.

In summary, their skills were night and day. The weapons they used had a lot to do with it—the rifle was optimized for accuracy, while repeaters optimized for speed—but that didn’t make Ayla’s accomplishment any less challenging. The final score was eleven to fourteen.

When it was over, the small crowd applauded, and Bear offered Ayla a hand, taking the loss in good spirits. He noticed me then barked loudly, “Your woman can shoot! You lucky bastard.”

“Heck yeah!” A cheerful voice called out from the back wall. Renn stood on a stack of crates so she could see over everyone else and watch the competition clearly. “And don’t you forget she’s mine and you can’t have her!”

That was another thing. Since agreeing to be part of Renn’s escort team, Renn had been possessive and vocal about having recruited “the best gunslingers in the east.” At first, I couldn’t figure why she would, until I got to know her better and realized there was no reason. There were many things she did purely for her own amusement.

Ayla,scowled as she made a beeline toward me. When she stood in front of me she stomped her foot like a petulant child . “I missed one.”

I grinned. “Aye. Looks like you need more practice.”