Between Dark and Light (2 page)

“Do you have any idea what that plantation was like?”

“Yes, I’ve felt much anguish from my kin who’ve lived and died in bondage.”

“
You’ve
felt anguish!” Crushaw shouted, clutching Kwarck’s tunic. “You have no idea!”

Kwarck went limp in his grasp, and his eyes dimmed with sorrow and shame. Crushaw released his hold and turned for the house. Rage overtook him, and he wanted his sword. But soon, he caught himself and inhaled deeply, feeling the air fill his lungs. He strode back towards the field, fighting his emotions. Kwarck was the most decent, compassionate person he knew and had given him the only happiness he had ever experienced. He shouldn’t be angry at his friend. After a few minutes of pacing and breathing, he calmed down and returned to where Kwarck sat, his countenance frail and diminished.

“Forgive me,” Crushaw said. “I didn’t mean to grab you.”

“You have every right to be angry.”

“No, I don’t. You saved my life. Twice it seems.”

Kwarck looked up, his eyes pooled with tears on the cusp of streaming down his cheeks.

“Please, forgive me,” Kwarck whispered.

“The only thing to forgive is that it took this long to tell me,” Crushaw said, extending his hand.

Kwarck rose and accepted the gesture of friendship. They stood still in the pale moonlight of early morning, and Crushaw held Kwarck’s smaller hand even after the wizard tried to withdraw. There were so many questions, so much he wanted to learn, but the words all piled together as mush. He shook Kwarck’s hand for several heartbeats.

“There’s something else,” Kwarck said, barely audible.

Crushaw released his grasp and settled on the bench, leaning against the barn.

“Actually, two things.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for more.”

“It’s important.”

Crushaw waited.

“The Great Empire is preparing to attack the Kiredurks on two fronts.”

“How do you know this?”

“That’s not important. Just know it’s true.”

“We have to warn Roskin.”

“He already knows. As we speak, he’s moving south towards the Ghaldeons to rouse an army.”

“I have to help him,” Crushaw said fidgeting in his seat.

“Yes, you must. But you must help to the east.”

Crushaw knitted his eyebrows, uncertain what the wizard meant.

“For many years, the elves have hidden in the Koorleine forest, rebuilding their strength and waiting for the moment to strike. That time is near.”

“You know I’m too old for battle.”

“No, you’re not. Most of these elves have never seen war, save the ones who already fought with you. They need a general.”

Crushaw pressed against the barn, the wood creaking with his weight. After the Battle for Hard Hope, he had accepted that age had caught up with him. When the young orc caught him off guard by the stream, he had also accepted that his fighting days were over. His senses had grown too dull to survive long on a battlefield. Riding against the soldiers of the Great Empire with a mob of unseasoned elves was suicide.

“Trust me,” Kwarck said, interrupting his thoughts. “You can outwit their generals. You trained most of them.”

“How soon?”

“Their army is gathering in Rugraknere. I figure in the spring, they will attack the ogres’ western flank and then turn on the Kiredurks by summer.”

“You are full of surprises,” Crushaw said, leaning forward. “That’s not enough time to train them.”

“Look what you did with a few hundred slaves.”

“That? That was against undisciplined orcs who had never been tested. This? No, this is the most well-trained army in the world. Most of those soldiers have been at war for as long as they’ve been shaving. They won’t break ranks at the first sign of danger.”

“So what are you saying?”

Crushaw gazed at the horizon, the line of earth and sky visible only as faint hues of black. There wasn’t much choice. He could hide on this farm, waiting for frailty and weakness to take him, or he could die with his sword in his hand and the taste of blood on his lips. He turned to Kwarck:

“Get them here. The sooner the better.” His voice left no room for argument.

Kwarck smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “They’re already on their way,” he said.

“Vishghu needs to warn her people,” Crushaw added.

“Agreed. One last thing.”

Crushaw groaned.

“We have visitors coming. Two elves and an orc, seeking sanctuary. I need to know you will welcome them. All of them.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“There will be no bloodshed on my land.” Now, Kwarck’s voice gave no room for debate.

Crushaw nodded slightly. He had already befriended an ogre, an occurrence he once believed laughable, so keeping the peace with an orc might not be impossible. Kwarck excused himself to begin breakfast and headed for the house. Crushaw watched him walk away, but his thoughts drifted to his parents. He imagined them, young and in love, sneaking around the palace to steal quiet moments together. He wondered if his father would’ve been proud of his rise from foot soldier to First General of Black Rock Fortress, leader of the Northern Army. He smiled at the thought of his father, dressed in full regalia, watching him receive the post. And he wondered what his mother would think now, him agreeing to lead an elfin army against Vassa’s forces. He could see her face, the one he had always envisioned, twisted with worry and mixed feelings. He wiped a tear from his eye and tamped down his emotions. There was no time for such foolishness, not with so many plans to make.

***

Stahloor, Alysea, and Suvene broke camp before dawn. They still had several miles of marching to reach Kwarck’s farm and wanted to cover it before the heat became unbearable. They had pushed themselves hard over the mountains and across the plains, avoiding all settlements and every road. The untamed path had been taxing, and though game was plentiful, their pace had left little time for their sore muscles to recover. All were ready for a comfortable seat and a soft bed.

Nearing the farm, Suvene had grown uneasy. Despite Stahloor’s reassurances, the reality of having abandoned his homeland burdened him. There was no certainty this hermit would accept him, and there was also the probability he would be tracked. Orcs were not known for forgiveness, and the masters would be enraged over what he had done to the guards. At some point, they would find him, and then, he would have to face the consequences of his desertion. That final thought haunted him most, for he had always defined himself as loyal and obedient, yet here he was, a fugitive.

Alysea did her best to keep his spirits lifted, telling stories of her time on the mountain and sharing elven history. Suvene knew nothing of their past. To him, the wood-brains were uncivilized barbarians, hardly more than wild animals gathering berries for sustenance while his people cultivated fields. He marveled at her tales of elfish craftsmanship passed down for centuries and wondered at their validity. He didn’t doubt her belief. Her innocence and sincerity were pure, but given his understanding of elves, the stories seemed preposterous.

Stahloor had barely spoken on the trip, other than when directly asked a question. He hadn’t been rude. On the contrary, since that night in the tree, he had treated the orc with respect bordering on admiration, but the elf carried a sadness that weighed his words like an anchor. From all he had seen in the last year, Suvene understood the desire for silence. His memories from the Slithsythe Plantation, pools of blood and dismembered bodies, were thoughts he never wanted to discuss. Watching Toulesche, his closest childhood friend, die a slow, painful death was a vision he wished he could erase. While he had told Stahloor he no longer sought revenge against Crushaw, in his heart, Suvene still hated the old man.

They trekked across the open fields, the sun peeking over the horizon. All around, fields awakened from night as wildflowers opened to catch the early rays and insects emerged from their nests, seeking nourishment. A calm breeze rippled the tall grasses, and hares poked their heads from holes to sniff for predators. With its sparse trees and long rolling expanses, the prairie was much different from the savannah, and while he missed home, Suvene found comfort in the broad sky and rolling terrain. There was a familiar feeling about the landscape, as if something deep within him had traveled this land before.

By noon, their bodies were drenched with sweat, but as they crested a small rise, the edge of the outermost field came into view. The rows of corn stood tall and majestic, swaying in the breeze, and all of Suvene’s worries melted away at the sight. Calmness and serenity took their place, and he looked at Alysea and smiled.

“So this is Kwarck’s land,” Stahloor said, stopping and uncorking his waterskin. “Ever since I escaped bondage, I’ve hoped to see this place.”

“That field is beautiful,” Suvene said. “I can’t explain it, but the fields on the plantation don’t compare.”

“Yes,” Stahloor said. “I feel it, too. There’s something special about this land.”

“Freedom,” Alysea said.

“How’s that?” Suvene asked.

“These fields are free,” she answered. “They are grown with love, not greed.”

“Daughter, you are very wise,” Stahloor said, smiling.

“Freedom,” Suvene whispered.

“Breathe it in,” Stahloor said, touching the orc’s shoulder. “It’s yours, now.”

Suvene stared into the distance. Beyond the field, the roof of the barn was just visible. For the first time since the alarm bell had sounded that morning on the plantation, he felt safe, and the weight of endless anxiety lifted. With it, a wave of emotions coursed through him. Tears flowed down his face, and his legs weakened. The two elves steadied him, and he struggled to compose himself. Then, as if appearing from the air itself, Kwarck was beside him.

“Welcome to my home,” the hermit said in orcish, his voice as soothing as a mother’s.

Kwarck was smaller than Suvene had imagined. Not only was he much shorter than any elf Suvene had seen before, his frame was also thin and wiry. His hair was streaked with silver, gray, and black and mostly covered his pointed ears. His face was aged but full of life, as if drawing strength from the land, and his dark eyes glimmered with kindness. Without thinking, Suvene kneeled and bowed his head.

“I am Suvene,” he said. “Thank you for welcoming me.”

“My friend, please rise,” Kwarck said, extending his hand. “I am no lord or master.”

Suvene grasped the hand and marveled at the strength in the old half-elf’s grip. Kwarck helped him to his feet and handed him a waterskin. Suvene thanked him and took a long drink. The liquid was cool and fresh on the orc’s parched throat. Once finished, he handed the waterskin to Alysea, who also drank heartily before returning it to Kwarck.

“Lunch is waiting for us,” the hermit said, turning for the house. “I’ll introduce you to the others before we eat.”

“Others?” Stahloor asked, walking alongside.

“A human and an ogre. They live here and help me tend these fields. There were other ogres camped in the orchard, but they’ve returned home now that the Kiredurk war is over.”

“I’ve never seen an ogre,” Alysea said, her voice rising with excitement.

“They’re impressive,” Suvene said. “Massive creatures.”

“You’ve seen them?” she asked.

“One.”

Alysea pressed him for details, and he described the one from the Slithsythe Plantation as well as he could remember. As he talked, she bounded along, barely containing her exhilaration. Suvene smiled at the sight. Training and fighting for most of his youth, he had lost his childlike wonder long ago, but seeing hers made him feel younger. Ahead of them, Kwarck and Stahloor spoke quietly in elfish as they traversed the path to the gate. For a moment, Suvene wondered what they were discussing, but the peace of the fields pushed all worry from his mind.

After they passed through the gate, the front of the house came into view, and Suvene froze, for sitting on the porch steps was the last person he had expected to see. Crushaw’s eyes met his, and the old man stood. Suvene unshouldered his halberd and set his feet. In an instant, Kwarck was before him, ordering him to lower his weapon, but the orc could barely hear the hermit. All his senses were focused on his enemy.

“You,” Crushaw said, holding his gaze.

Kwarck called out to the old man in the barbaric tongue, and Crushaw held his ground, not moving.

“This is not allowed on my land,” Kwarck said to Suvene, his voice belying the serenity of the farm.

“Suvene, please,” Stahloor added.

Alysea stepped in front of him and touched his arm. At the contact, Suvene relaxed and looked at her. She smiled and asked him to lower his weapon. The orc glanced back at Crushaw, who still hadn’t moved, and then stepped back.

“He’s a murderer,” Suvene said to her, his voice trembling.

“Yes, I am,” Crushaw called in orcish. “But I will not fight you here.”

“Why is he here?” Suvene asked Kwarck, who had moved beside him, holding up his palms.

“Same as you,” Kwarck responded.