Bernhard Dorian sat in the passenger seat of his wagon, scanning the forest around them for threats while Cahn drove the horses. The man’s experience in the fae wilds was minimal, and unfamiliarity gave him a great sense of unease. He didn’t like not being in control.

“How much farther?” he asked Cahn, who had been doing his best to keep his focus on the road.

“I can’t say…” Cahn answered carefully, his eyes looking around.

“You don’t know?” Dorian scoffed. “I’ve been watching for dangers, the least you can do is keep track of our trip.”

The bespectacled driver turned to face his master. “I can’t say because it will jinx our journey. These forests are full of creatures that love to manipulate the surroundings, so travelers will get frustrated and make skewed deals with them to get free. If I said how much longer we have to go, the forest would undoubtedly get bigger…”

Dorian grunted in response, with a slow nod. He looked at Hjerim, who had been listening. The bald man glanced back at Dorian with his beady eyes, then shrugged.

“Can you at least go faster?” Dorian prodded Cahn, irritation lacing his voice.

“And make any potential threats think we are panicked and vulnerable?” Cahn replied almost instantly. “What you must realize, master, is that each of the fae realms has their own way of ‘dealing’ with outsiders…of which we definitely qualify. Summer will aggressively fight you, man to man. Autumn will poison you. Spring will manipulate you into doing their bidding, and Winter…they’ll just kill you. No mercy.”

Dorian balked. “And you have experience with them all?”

Cahn shook his head. “Just a few. As long as you’re peaceful, not in the way, or offering them gifts, most of the denizens of these realms will leave you alone. There are exceptions, which I’m trying to avoid in our current predicament…”

Suddenly, Bat started whispering in a harsh, low voice. Cahn pivoted his head slightly to hear him, before turning back to face the road ahead.

“What did he say?” Dorian demanded, his eyes flicking back to the elf in the back of the cart.

“That we’re being followed,” Cahn replied, taking a brief moment to clean his glasses before replacing them. “Don’t…” he barked quickly at Hjerim, who had already begun to draw his blade. “We don’t know what they want. If we’re harmless, there’s a good chance they’ll grow bored and stop.”

Hjerim’s sword withdrew, the hilt hitting the lip of the worn scabbard with a soft thud.

Dorian’s eyes darted, looking around for the threat without seeming to panic. Not seeing anything, he breathed out in relief, moments before an arrow sank in the wood of the seat, right between himself and Cahn. Cahn’s face blanched before he looked down, studying the arrow.

“Bandits…?” asked Dorian, pointing to the embedded projectile.

Cahn pulled at the reins, directing the horses to stop before holding his hands up into the air.

“No, but we’re going to wish they were.”

In an instant, a dozen elves on horseback emerged from the trees. Dorian had legitimately startled himself; he couldn’t remember the last time he had been taken by surprise so thoroughly. The wagon was completely surrounded, with ten of the elves aiming ornate longbows at the group. The last two assailants had directed their horses onto the road in front of the wagon, blocking the way forward.

One of the road-blocking threats shouted at the party in Elvish, to which Cahn responded. A quick back and forth between the two made Dorian nervous, who looked back at Hjerim. The man had his sword at the ready, instructions be damned.

“If you do not speak Elvish, I will speak to you in this…human speech, but we must talk plain,” the shouting elf admitted. “What are you to doing in these lands? You are not Elf-kind, except for one in wagon.”

Dorian raised both of his arms in the air, fanning his hands to show he wasn’t wielding a weapon. He used his Gift to conceal his blade, which hung at his side.

“We have a gift for the King and Queen of Spring,” Dorian lied. “The elf in the wagon is a skilled slave, and we wished to give him to the palace as an offering of our goodwill.”

The elf, who had since taken off his helmet to reveal close-cropped silver hair, looked at Bat before returning his gaze to Dorian once more.

“Slave is not bound?” he asked, his brows furrowed.

Dorian grimaced. He hated not being able to just Deceive consistently; although he liked coming up with ways to manipulate, he preferred his Gift to impromptu, unscripted lying. “The Queen insisted that this slave would not be received with rope marks or scars. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

The elf looked down his nose at Dorian. “Although you are respect as a slave trader, I only give name to…”

He stopped, then muttered a few words at the elf nearby. They responded, then he continued.

“I only give name to those who best me in combat, but you can call me ‘General of Frost Garrison’,” he spoke with pride.

“Ah, a general, you must be very skilled,” Dorian schmoozed. “Sadly I am just a slave trader and do not know how to fight. May we pass?”

The General squinted for a brief moment, as if wrestling with an unseen force on his mind. Dorian subtly pushed his Gift onto the man, hoping to manipulate him into going away.

“I must first inspect wagon,” the General replied as he motioned towards the archers. “I am looking for valuable artifact. Spies say that humans have bring many of them to Spring Court, so I have wait for a while with my men.”

Dorian scowled inwardly. He had told that petulant Queen to not say anything about him depositing Destined Objects there. Hopefully his Gift hold up for a little while longer.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Of course, search away!” the Deceiver said with a broad smile. “We have nothing to hide.”

The General muttered a few words to the elf on horseback beside him, before dismounting and walking to the wagon. His steps were purposeful, with his back straight and shoulders strong and with authority. Wearing only a chainmail shirt, pauldrons and gauntlets as armor, he still looked formidable as he kept one of his hands fastened to the pommel of his blade.

Cahn watched him carefully, his eyes then moving to the bow-wielding soldiers surrounding them. They’ve all minimized their armor; based on what the General had said, they must have been camped here for months, he thought. The normally polished and flawless armor of the Winter army is unforgiving, heavy plate…much too warm for the Spring Realm without some adjustments.

The unassuming man knew all too well the ruthlessness of Winter, he always made sure to visit uninhabited areas for safety with his family tagging along.

While Cahn’s mind wandered with the mannerisms and habits of the fae wilds, Dorian’s was much more focused.

Hemexion…keep my Gift sustained, Dorian begged in a pseudo-prayer, while keeping a neutral face. He drew massive amounts of Glory from his sword, attempting to fuel the spotty connection to his Gift and keep the Bell of Avara concealed. What should have been a large mass under the fabric had been concealed, showing just a flat blanket instead.

“Strange, this blue cloth,” the General commented, reaching the back of the wagon. He tugged at a corner of the fabric, its own weight coupled with being partially pinned down with the Bell, and puzzled.

“Never have I felt heavy blanket like this. Another gift for Spring Court?” he asked Dorian, who barely heard the words.

Beads of sweat began to coalesce on Dorian’s forehead, but he feared the quick action of wiping them away would startle one of the archers.

“Not really,” the Deceiver ad-libbed. “The queen required that we bring all of the slave’s belongings with him, to make him more comfortable. That’s just…how his blanket is.”

Dorian couldn’t afford to use his Gift with that lie, he fervently hoped it would pass the elf’s test.

The General gave a side-eye to Dorian, then faced Bat, looking him up and down. He began talking in Elvish, to which Bat responded, nervous but steady.

He may not like humans, Cahn thought. But Bat knows better than anything to not stand between Winter and what they want.

Suddenly, Dorian’s face began to feel strange. His nose, feeling a tingle that, even with Spring pollen everywhere in the air, he was hoping to avoid.

“ACHOOO!” Dorian sneezed loudly, causing the General’s hand to tense on his blade’s pommel and his whole body to spin around in muscle memory. In a split second, the elf assessed that he was not being attacked, and turned back around to the wagon…to find a large form under the blue cloth that had not been there moments before. His head spun to Dorian, Winter’s cold flame burning behind his eyes, before ripping off the cloth.

The Bell of Avandale shone brightly in the back of the wagon, reflecting specks of sunlight that had somehow pierced the forest canopy.

“THE TREAS…” the General began, anger turning to excitement before Hjerim’s kukri flashed down, cutting the elf’s left arm off at the elbow.

The lean, yet muscular elf, releasing his sword’s pommel to grab at his bloody stump, cried out in agony. His teeth bared, he looked indignantly at Hjerim, who was pulling his sword back for a decapitating blow. The General quickly regained his composure, bringing an exquisite rapier of folded Winter steel up to block it.

“KILL THEM ALL!” the elf screamed in his native tongue, trying to overtake Hjerim. The Knight flared his Strength Gift, and the leverage of being higher above the ground than the General let him overtake the elf, who was planting his feet in an attempt for one more good shove. The elf, off balance with the loss of his forearm, relinquished to Hjerim’s push just in time. He hopped back, barely out of the range of the burly man’s wicked blade as it sung through the air. The General fell to the ground, using his sword arm to scramble away from the wagon as Hjerim placed a foot on the wagon’s raised side.

Hjerim, with his attacker prone, glanced up at the archers taking aim at him from the treeline. He jumped down from the wagon, then tapped into his Destined Object, his belt buckle, to flare his Strength. With it, the man reached back into the wagon and pulled the heavy lead-woven cloth from around the Bell of Avara and whipped it out in front of himself, like a fisherman casting a net, while still holding onto it. The arrows collided with the fabric in the air with full thuds, peppering Hjerim’s side of the makeshift shield with tiny mounds for a split second before they fell to the ground.

In another fluid movement, Hjerim balled up the cloth and hurled it at the General, who had managed to get a few more feet away from the wagon during the arrow attack. Mid-flight, the projectile came loose and caught wind, causing it to miss the elf and slam into the grass inches from his head. The General didn’t waste time trying to throw the ball back; he knew how heavy it was. Instead, he hopped to his feet with a wince, having accidentally used his left arm’s stump as leverage to get off the ground. He stood on the gentle slope that led downhill towards the road, his sword brought up into a defensive position as Hjerim ran up to engage, crouched to avoid any more incoming arrows. The Knight brought his torso back up just as he reached the elf, bringing his kukri down in a diagonal chop. The General’s blade, which looked almost like ice with its delicate metalwork, refused to yield as he brought it up to stop the attack.

Hjerim continued his assault, pouring more and more Strength into each blow in an attempt to break through the elf’s defenses. The General’s sword arm ached, his left arm burned at the wound as he continued to block.

“WHY. WON’T. YOU. JUST. DIE!?” Hjerim growled between strikes. His anger turned to desperation as he felt his Strength wane.

Shit, almost out, he thought as his attacks slowed. He was normally much more disciplined with his Gift, but something about the Fae realm threw him off; his glory wasn’t flowing as well as it should. The General saw the Knight beginning to slow, and used it to push an offensive. He skirted to Hjerim’s right side, opening the man up to arrow fire, before Hjerim noticed and quickly pivoted, putting the elf between himself and the treeline. This mortal dance continued as Hjerim’s feet began to drag, as opposed to his normally purposeful and powerful steps.

The General had fought countless battles in his hundreds of years of life, and knew a tired enemy when he saw one. He whispered words in Elvish, which left his mouth as a frosty wisp, turning to coat his Winter blade in an icy fog. The elf feigned an attack to Hjerim’s right side near his waist, which the Knight tried to block, but he was too slow.

After he whipped his sword back outwards, the elf recalled the strike, before he flashed the frozen tip of his weapon diagonally upward, slashing Hjerim’s face. A sliver of red opened up from Hjerim’s chin, through his right eye and onward, before it scourged his forehead and came free into the air of the Spring woods. Hjerim’s head bucked back, stunned at the contact, his left eye widely zeroing in on his lithe attacker.

Hjerim sneered. “That’s all you’ve got, you little bitch?” he wheezed, before lugging his arm back for another strike.

Suddenly, his arm stopped, his muscles frozen in place.

“What…?” Hjerim asked the elf lazily, his brain starting to slow.

The General breathed in, then exhaled through his nose as he glared at Hjerim. This intruder is already dead, he just didn’t know it, he thought, his mind relishing in relief at finally vanquishing his foe.

“You have not fought Winter, have you?” the General asked, a slight grin tugging at the side of his mouth.

Hjerim’s upper lip twitched, his jaw giving a last effort to speak, while his remaining eye continued to stare at the elf with a skittering panic. The elf stepped to the side, and an instant later an arrow buried itself squarely into Hjerim’s chest. Five more followed, with Hjerim’s groaning cries diminishing with each hit. A sixth struck him in the neck, just below his Adam’s apple, which sent him falling over like a felled tree. Bat, who had witnessed the entire fight from the back of the wagon with his hands raised in surrender, met eyes with the General for a brief moment before the wounded warrior turned to face Dorian.