Days Of Light And Shadow (10 page)

Chapter Twelve.

Castle Storm was a magnificent structure. Even in the midst of a city of towers and tall buildings it stood resplendent.

Nine towers of perfectly white marble marked its corners, and each of them seemed to reach for the very sky. While nestled between them the seven story high castle with its vast domed roof, lay like a sleeping baby curled up in the cradle of its mother’s arms. But what a baby! It was huge, and circular and every edge that should have been sharp and straight was gracefully curved instead. Seven levels of arched balcony windows dotted it, adding a sculpted texture to the smooth off white marble. Often when he approached the castle, Herodan imagined it as an egg nestled between the upturned fingers of its mother’s hands.

To reach the castle, you had to cross a sea of verdant grass and navigate your way between a seemingly endless garden of towering columns and archways, laid out as if by a giant child playing with building blocks. And all of them were surrounded by extensive flower gardens.

Herodan didn’t truly understand much of the stone sculptures. They stood in their gigantic beauty in solitude, most of them serving no purpose that he could see. But he understood art and he guessed so too had those who had designed and built these towering marvels of stone over the centuries. They served no function save to capture one’s eye and make you wonder anew at the splendour of the human realm. But perhaps that was enough.

When he had first arrived in Tendarin to take up his post Herodan had spent days and weeks simply wandering through the city, marvelling at the human’s gigantic craftsmanship. And at the fact that as impossible as it seemed, these structures contained no magic within them, and none had been used in their construction. They had been built entirely from straight lines and precise angles, from complicated mathematical formulae. He still did wonder at that some days.

But not of late.

Now the huge city was no longer a place of wonder. It was a land of shame and humiliation. A house of lies that he had to speak. It was a place he did not want to be. And the throne room, the vast indoor space of towering rose quartz and polished marble columns, arched ceilings, and sparkling crystal lights, was the heart of his shame. Inside it, surrounded by many thousands of the city’s elite, he felt almost as if the entire castle was slowly coming crashing down on top of him. Suffocating him. It was hard to stand in that chamber and not show it, and occasionally a small bead of nervous sweat ran down his forehead.

Did the other’s notice? He hoped not, but he suspected some did. Despite Finell’s belief that humans were little more than savages, he had found them a surprisingly clever and observant people over the years. They understood art and culture, and most especially among the nobles, the diplomatic arts. They noticed.

Still, despite his nerves, Herodan stood tall in the throne room as the envoy for High Lord Finell. He wished that he was somewhere else. Anywhere else in sooth. But it was his place and he had to be there, and so he stood. And with him his second, Luree, stood tall too. She stood beside him, taking notes of all that was said, and keeping her silence, but it was obvious to everyone that she did not want to be there any more than he did. Not when her normally tanned skin was so pale, and when she couldn’t look anyone in the eye but instead spent much of her time staring at the polished marble tiles at their feet. He couldn’t blame her for that even though it was a poor look.

At least she was lucky in that her hair was red and not blue, as was that of all House Vora. As was the high lord’s. The fact that the high lord was his cousin simply made things more difficult, and the entire Court knew of his family connection. And if by some strange chance some hadn’t heard, it was written for all to see in the colour of his hair, in the blue of his eyes, and the way his ears pointed straight to the distant horizons. If they had ever seen an image of Finell then they surely knew from just looking at him that they were kin.

It had been an advantage five years before when he had first been appointed as envoy to Tendarin. It had been a mark of status to be of House Vora, and to be related to first Gerwyn and then Finell. Their trading concerns throughout the realms all played on it as they made their deals. No longer. Now the blue hair and eyes was a mark of shame. There were days when he considered wearing a hat to the Court. But not only would it have been unelven, everyone would have known why he wore it, and that would have been an obvious hint that he didn’t agree with his cousin. An envoy did not have the luxury of disagreeing with his ruler. Not even in appearance.

King Herrick the Third sat on his throne, a simple wooden chair covered with a few furs, a surprisingly modest seat in this vast chamber of splendours, and listened to the people as they came before him. As he did every day. He was a good man and a concerned ruler, and he heard everyone that he could. Rich and poor he listened to them. He took their words seriously. But not of late. Not Herodan’s words.

It was wrong. He was an old man sitting in a small wooden chair, but he frightened Herodan more than the most vicious troll. And even if the king couldn’t have risen from his chair and torn him in half with a battleaxe, there were enough soldiers in their bronzed armour standing all around, that would have done it for him. Cheerfully. And if they failed, the rest of the court, hundreds of nobles in their finery, and of course the audience, would have succeeded. But still it was the king that would have to give the order.

And he just might.

Herrick’s face was like thunder, a storm brewing behind his eyes. It had been the same for weeks, and each day that the Court met and the petitioners came forwards, it just grew darker. But then when almost all the petitioners were refugees seeking safety within the endless walls of Tendarin after their towns and villages had been burnt and their loved ones murdered, it was only to be expected. The same pleas were being heard in all the major cities of the human realm. And they were being heard every day in Tendarin.

The woman standing before Herrick was no different to any of the others. Her tale of woe exactly the same. The elves in their blackened armour had come to the town, they had killed the men, the women and even the children, and burnt it to the ground. Only a few had got away, hiding in cellars, laying low in fields, or far enough away that they were not noticed by the army.

It was simply so wrong, so evil. It was so very unelven. And he knew it was true. He could not witness petitioner after petitioner, hear their stories, and see the pain in their tear stained faces, and doubt them. Which made it harder and harder to understand the pigeons he received daily from Leafshade and the high lord’s endless denials. His endless lies.

“Envoy!” The king shouted at him, making him jump. He shouldn’t have, it was something that happened every day. It was a part of the ritual. And it showed him as something an envoy should never be, unready. He walked forwards at a calm and measured pace to the throne, ignoring the angry glares from all those around him, and then with Luree at his side, he bowed respectfully to the king.

“Your Highness.”

“What say you envoy? Another day, another outrage. And again one committed by sharp ears.” It was hard not to squirm as the king levelled the charges at him, and only years of training in the diplomatic arts let him keep his eyes level as he somehow choked the correct response out.

“Again your Highness, I do not know what is happening. My sympathies and prayers are with this poor woman and her friends and family. But High Lord Finell sent me a pigeon again this morning, denying all these evil acts. He says it must be brigands. Perhaps the same brigands who murdered his sister.” Even as he said it Herodan wanted to sink into the marble floor and never be seen again. Luree surely knew the same need as she stood beside him, holding her tongue and trying to look calm. At least she didn’t have to speak Finell’s terrible words.

The woman shrieked, a sound that tore at his heart, and then leapt for him, her fury letting her forget for a time that she was old and frail. Quicker than he could have imagined possible, she was on him, her fists swinging wildly as she tried to pummel him into the floor, screaming at the top of her lungs about his demon people. And Herodan could not strike back.

He blocked her blows as best he could and endured the ones he couldn’t, while the palace guards ran for her and eventually lifted her off him. But even they couldn’t stop her screaming, and in sooth they had no reason to. Every word she spoke was true. He knew that. Everyone did. He just couldn’t explain it. None of it. And he couldn’t admit it.

“Take her to the cells.” The king gave the order and his guards immediately started dragging the old woman away. But that was something that Herodan couldn’t have on his conscience. Not with all the rest.

“Please Highness.” He stepped forward again and bowed low. “I beg of you. Do not punish her for this. She is an old woman and has already suffered too greatly. Her actions are without blame.” But of course his weren’t and he had already said too much. If his words got back to the high lord he would be disciplined. His cousin did not tolerate disloyalty. Not in any form.

“So you admit her charges envoy?” The king leant forwards in his chair, fixing him with a judge’s stare, and the entire Court fell silent. Even the woman stopped screaming as she sensed something important was happening.

“No Highness, I cannot. I must repeat what I have already said. High Lord Finell says that it must be the work of brigands.” But no one believed him. Even he didn’t believe what he was saying.

“Then so be it.” The king sat back in his chair, an expression of utter disgust on his face. He was done with him. “Send to your high lord this when you return to the mission.”

“Tell him that today is the day his brigands die. My soldiers have been spying on them as they advance through the southern lands. They have seen his forces gathering for their next big push as they try to take West Hold. And they have readied a trap.”

“Today, twenty three thousand pointy eared brigands will meet their deaths in front of my cannon. And when they are dead, we will track them home. We will kill all who have sheltered them or supported them in any way. We will level the brigands’ towns and cities. We will show them exactly the same mercy that they have shown us.”

“And tell him this also. The pointy eared leader of the brigands will swing from my battlements within a month or three.”

“Now go!” He raised his voice so that all could hear him even in the next room and beyond, and clapped his hands. It was the signal for the guards to act and they instantly stepped forward to escort him and Luree out of the throne room, just as they had done many times before.

The court erupted into applause as they were escorted down the central aisle between the rows of attendees. People were clapping and cheering, dancing and shouting wildly, some were openly jeering at them, all while the two of them had to make the walk of shame through their midst. It was a walk such as Herodan had never imagined making, and yet one he had now made many times. And one that he knew that he would have to make again.

In the morning, when the Court met again, he would have to be there. Sometimes the cost of duty was higher than a man could stand.

But still he had to stand.

Chapter Thirteen.

The column of watchmen advanced towards the human city of West Hold feeling more than a little pleased with themselves. But then the war was going well, the utra were falling back before them, and the lands were slowly being cleansed of their evil. The Mother herself could not have written a better plan. But then the Mother was not Lord Y’aris.

Soon they knew, everyone of them knew it in his or her soul, Tendarin itself would be in their sight, and after they had destroyed the great city of stone, the rest of the humans would be helpless. They would run in panic, chickens before the foxes, and never even know that they were being hunted until it was too late. In time they would be dead and the last of the plague of defilers would be cleansed from the world.

Of course before then they would need more soldiers, and a larger army. They knew through their leaders that Lord Y’aris was already working on that, explaining to the fool Finell that they were at war. Soon, instead of just thirty thousand elves cutting a glorious swathe through the human border lands, it would be three hundred thousand, and the humans would be cut down in their millions.

That was merely the beginning though, as they returned the world  to its path of righteousness. The other outsiders, they had to go too. After the utra maybe it would be the trolls. The urdan. They were savage and simple. Too simple to have proper cities, as they lived in their tents and followed the deer around through their mountainous homelands. Perhaps it would be the gnomes. Annoying and pathetic little vesans. They would fall easily and quickly be forgotten. Or maybe the sprites would follow, the silver elves as many called them. Though they weren’t really elves. Not in their hearts. They had turned their back on Elaris after the war with the last king, forming a new realm of their own. For that betrayal of their lord’s illustrious ancestor, they had to die.

And then finally, when all the others were gone, it would be the turn of their most ancient of enemies, the dwarves. The stone monkeys thought they were so safe in the mountains. Buried under unimaginable masses of rock. But they weren’t. Not when they were alone. And Lord Y’aris would have a plan for dealing with them.

Every member of the watch was living with the same thoughts, the same dreams as they marched through the valleys heading north. And every one of them dreamed of the day when there were only elves left. The true people. And the entire world was theirs. For too long they had allowed the outsiders to grow in number, believing them to be worthy of their regard. It had been a mistake. But now thanks to Lord Y’aris, the could see their error. The only thing they couldn’t understand was how they’d been so wrong for so long. But all that mattered was that the mistake would be corrected.

Then the forests would grow again, They would reach from the beaches on the east coast, all the way across to the west. A thousand leagues or more of unending green. And they would grow in the furthest most northern lands in the freezing cold, all the way to the most southern lands where the sand ruled.

The Mother would be so pleased with them. She would bathe them in her love. And their Lord Y’aris as well. He was such a brilliant commander. So clever and always generous with his praise. They could almost celebrate the benediction that they knew would be coming after they had levelled the city.

It was with dreams like those running through their heads that they marched down the long rift valleys, scarcely even bothering with a scout. After all even on foot they were too fleet for the humans, and in any case, the humans had proven themselves to be pathetic foes. Three of the five southern cities had held them back, but at a terrible cost to their people.

Greenlands had burned, and with their crops gone, the survivors would starve over the following winter. Their survival was only to be short lived. Maybe if their walls had been complete they would have held out longer, but like everything else the utra did, it was half a job. Half finished. And the smaller towns and villages south of the city were gone.

Preston had held up better, the natural cliffs protecting the city proving an effective shield. But their fields too had burned and their bridges had been torn up so that supplies could not get to them. They were trapped in their fortress city, just waiting to be killed when the rest were dead.

Copper Hills had fought them back with cannon and cavalry. But again they had only so much black powder and so many soldiers. Much less of both now. When next they attacked in full force, the city would crumble.

And Torrington when they reached it in the east, was an open city. It would fall quickly.

But first, West Hold. And this city they knew, was less well defended than the others. No walls, few cannon, not even many soldiers. It was a trading city, and they didn’t see the need for such things. Stupid utra. It would be an easy battle. They might lose hundreds, but the humans would loose at least ten for every one of them who fell. And then their civilians would fall and the city would burn. There would be nothing left of West Hold when they were finished. Not a building, not a soul.

This would be the first of their truly great victories. Was it any wonder that they couldn’t keep from smiling as they marched? Every so often they broke into song, unable to hold back their joy as they strode to victory.

Then the world changed for the watchmen, and at first they didn’t know that anything had happened. Only that a few figures on horseback had appeared at the head of the valley. But it was enough for the commanders at the head of the column to give the signal and let the army come to a well ordered halt.

Were they surrendering? Were they already that frightened? In a way it made sense that they should be. Though they really should have understood that there would be no advantage to surrender. They would be killed regardless. But humans weren’t known for their wisdom, and if it made the victory easier, why complain.

So they sat on the grass waiting for their commanders up ahead to tell them what to do, perfectly content with life. And then someone in the hills above them yelled fire, and they swiftly realised that all was not as it had seemed. The treacherous utra had set a trap for them.

Huge wheels of burning hay appeared from the tops of the hills on both sides of them, and started rolling down the slopes towards them. It was a strange weapon to use, not so much deadly as disconcerting, and few were harmed. All they had to do was dodge the burning fire balls, then draw their weapons and start charging the enemy.

They did just that in their thousands. In their tens of thousands, a wave of Elaris’ finest ascended the hills far faster than the pathetic humans could ever have expected, to crush them. But it wasn’t a completely one sided battle, and many elves fell to crossbow bolts from the filthy utra who were waiting for them. But that would not stop them, and those who fell would be honoured as heroes, while those who made it to the top would avenge them with blood.

Then the cannon opened up, and all their dreams of glory turned to dust as bodies were turned to sprays of blood and body parts.

Hundreds of cannon cresting the hills, hidden behind tall grasses, suddenly spat fire, catching the watchmen completely by surprise. And worse, they were somehow able to fire down the  gently sloping hill at them. That was not supposed to be. The cannon were supposed to be in the cities, protecting them. How could they be out there in the field? How could they be firing down hills? The charge would fall out of the barrels. But the how was unimportant when each blast of the cannon tore holes in their lines, huge holes as dozens were cut down at once with every blast.

Suddenly victory was not assured. But still the watchmen pressed on. Hundreds and thousands falling with every step, they were still determined to make the crest of the hill and bury their swords in the enemy’s chests. To make them pay for their treachery, even if they lost.

Even that wasn’t to be. The humans had found another strategy to turn the battle that way, and barrels of oil had been poured over the grass. With a shout from someone up ahead, the oil was set alight, and the valley turned into an inferno of flame. In heartbeats the elves couldn’t see the enemy. The flames and the black smoke shielded them from view, and at the same time they also couldn’t run through the fire. They wouldn’t make it.

“Longbows!” The cry came from along their entire column, and of course it was the only thing they could do. So they sheathed their swords and drew their bows, sending volley after volley of arrows into the inferno ahead. But they had no idea if they hit anyone. They couldn’t see the enemy. They couldn’t even see the hill’s crest. And meanwhile the humans kept blasting away with their cannon. They had already been aimed before the fire was lit, and they were firing shot which spread out over an area.

Blast after blast rained down upon the watchmen, and thousands were felled with every volley, shredded and dismembered, their remains turning the long grass red. And all the time they could do nothing save fire their arrows blindly into the fire, hope that they hit some, and wait for each new blast of the cannon to take their lives.

It was a terrible day, and every elf there knew it. But there was still one blessing in their dying. None of them would have to tell their lord that they had failed him. None of them would have to see his face fall at their news.

The utra believed that there were nine hells;, to have to tell such a great leader of their dismal failure, that would have been to be cast down in to all of them.

Better to die.