No One's Chosen (12 page)

The lights were out and Aile couldn't say whether the
owners of the house were out or not. The door had no lock and the
window no glass. She decided the door would be more sporting. Let
them wake up if they would.

She opened the door and it made the slightest of
creaks but the snoring of whomever the house belonged to more than
covered the sound. Aile drew her dagger as she stole toward the
bed. Sleeping victims made for easy coin. The old elf was fat and
naked. She rolled as Aile neared and her pendulous breasts shifted
across her round stomach. A smell hit Aile, she hadn't noticed it
before. Goddess, how could she miss it? Pigs. The Drow gagged. It
was louder than she'd hoped and the elf snorted, opening her eyes.
Aile was quick to cover her mouth to stifle a scream.

"Tell me, elf, are you Aras or does the sign belong
to another?"

The fat woman's eyes welled with tears. They ran down
her face, mixing with the sweat. She stared at the strange dark
woman, terrified. She nodded.

"I see." Aile kept her hand firm on the old woman's
mouth as she ran a dagger across her throat and unleashed a torrent
of red upon the hay filled sack that passed for a bed. "Then I
suppose it will be a while before I can sleep." She rose, walked
across the room, and sat in a chair in the kitchen, waiting. The
fat elf was lying and she knew it. There was work still to be
done.

The walk back to the front of the column seemed as
though it took forever. If there had been stares, she hadn't
noticed. She was a Bearer. The thought did all it could to
monopolize her thoughts, but there was a ringing in her ears that
meant to offer it competition. What had they marched for? Had the
information been too late?

As if a wave were catching up to her in the sand, the
formation behind broke ranks as word spread that the company was to
make camp here. Her own vanguard… well, what had been her vanguard
comprised forty-two of the two-hundred fifty odd elves in the First
company. The First company was unique among the elven military. It
was almost a parade unit, made up of showy fighters and nearly any
elf who had made a name in the war. It seemed almost a given that
such a unit would avoid battle but it had been much the opposite.
The First company was at the forefront of movement against the
hippocamps and their exploits were written about across the
entirety of the province.

Socair was nearing the front of the column, where her
van would be waiting. She put on her sternest face, unsure if her
queer mix of emotions would show or not. They watched as she passed
but remained silent and motionless. Socair stood at the front of
the van and gave the order.

"We are to make camp. Do so. Dismissed!" She snapped
the four fingered salute across her chest, the van did the same,
and they departed. The last order she would ever give them. The
feeling had turned from ambivalent to a near panic in Socair's
mind. She was no clandestine operative. At least, she didn't figure
herself for one. Doiléir and Silín approached. When they made it to
her, Socair was just looking down, deep in thought.

"Socair?" Silín said, a tinge of worry in her
voice.

She looked up, putting her hands beside her as though
that would somehow stop them having noticed what she was doing.
"Ah! Yes. I am here. Apologies."

"Is something the matter?"

"No, no. Nothing worth minding. Both of you, meet me
in my tent after supper."

"But—"

Doiléir grabbed Silín by the arm and drug her away.
"Understood, Vanguard." She could see the pair squabbling as they
headed off to help oversee camp preparations. Socair just watched
the flurry of activity. Socair rubbed her hands together, hoping at
the very least that could avoid them shaking. A Bearer. It was an
important role. Several had even gone on to become Treorai in their
own right. They had been heroes, every one of them.

She needed to move. Socair took a walk toward the
camp area. Already preparations were underway for a cook pit and
the ground was being made suitable for tents. Certainly her
Vanguard were beyond the stares and whispers of the bulk of the
other units, but still, when she walked around camp she could feel
eyes upon her.

In truth, Socair had become somewhat bitter about the
reputation she had earned at Glassruth. It was a river town to the
south-west of Abhainnbaile that had fallen around the time she was
promoted to head of the vanguard. While her command had seen a fair
small skirmishes, it was nothing compared to the plans the
hippocamps had that day.

The Company marched to what had been the city walls
of the meager fishing village and prepared the van. Armored and
armed, they headed in on foot. Mounts would have been awkward and
less maneuverable if satyrs or, Sisters forfend, a pair of the
minotaur brutes fell upon them. The vanguard pushed into the city
and met with only light resistance in general. Most of the centaur
squads they encountered were fairly light in number and retreated
more easily than she had seen in the past. She was told time and
again by commanding officers and old elves still in the battle that
the hippocamps were no great tacticians. They were brute force
monsters, nigh unthinking as it related to warfare. Her father,
however, had insisted that she and her brothers trust their
instincts. He went to great pains to insure they knew what it was
to recognize that creeping feeling of things being out of place and
react accordingly. And so she did.

The vanguard had made it nearly halfway through the
city when she made the call. The flanks were to regroup on her
position and push to the forest side of the city. The hippocamps
were awful swimmers and half were terrified of running water for
superstitious reasons. It had been nothing more than an educated
guess, a feeling. She knew it would be the end of her, if not
entirely, at least in the military. There would be songs, she could
imagine.

They stormed the western side of the city in force.
She had been right. A satyr wedge was there, waiting for its time
to split their forces. Dividing them would have been ruinous for
the vanguard at the very least, and if there was a centaur platoon
making to box them in, the entire company could be in danger of
casualties. The satyrs had not been expecting to be discovered and
fell into disarray quickly. Any who tried to muster order were cut
down at once and before long the small battle was a full route even
with the satyrs possessing near twice Socair's numbers. At the
outset of the battle, Socair had sent her fastest runner to the
other units to warn them. She found later that she had been
successful, greatly limiting casualties and striking down a crucial
hippocamp counter attack against elven advancement out from
Abhainnbaile.

She would spend the next full season hearing about
her magnificent foresight and how she was truly a savior sent by
the Sisters. Her kindness and modesty seemed only to endear her
more deeply to people. None of them had ever considered what may
have happened if she had made that same call and been wrong. What
would she be a savior of then? Crosta had been quick to chastise
her actions until word came that the Treorai herself was both
impressed and thankful for Socair's actions. At the time she had
been thankful for his candor, but she came to understand that was
the way of a crotchety old elf as much as the word of a vaunted
military leader.

There had been many battles since Glassruth, but you
would not know it from the talk she met with at nearly every
meeting of a new face. Battles better fought and more easily won.
With fewer casualties and of greater strategic value. It seemed as
though there were a drastic few who valued that sort of thing.
Socair surmised that heroism was more about averted loss than
actual gain. Another facet of morale management, perhaps. It did
not sit well with her.

Socair had walked the full length of the camp and
returned by the time her tent was prepared. Twilight had begun to
fall over the tents when she saw that her canvas-walled home had
been set up. She entered it, hoping that Doiléir and Silín would be
waiting. They were not. Socair fell into a pillow on her bed face
first. The first bed they had prepared for her when she took over
the vanguard was not long enough by nearly half a foot. The old man
had been so apologetic that Socair couldn't help feeling bad for
complaining. She tried to insist that he not worry about it but he
would have none of it. He actually scolded her.

The curtain parted. Silín entered first and Socair
sat up to meet her.

"Doiléir?" He had not come in with Silín and that
made her curious.

"Ought to be right behind me." Silín made for a chair
not too far from the door. Next to it was a table with an
arrangement of fruits, grapes and the like.

She had not been wrong and Doiléir followed her in
within the minute. "Apologies. I'd have been here sooner but Silín
drew a shorter list than myself." He dragged a chair to the middle
of the room, making a sloppy triangle between the three. "So what
is it that troubles our vanguard so?"

"Oh? Have they chosen my replacement so soon?" Socair
huffed with a sideways smile.

Silín covered her mouth and whispered. "No."

Doiléir was less apt to take it at face value. "No is
right. Come along, Socair, you know how impressionable poor Silín
is. Her fragile heart is apt to burst from such a jest."

Socair said nothing and merely shrugged.

Doiléir narrowed his eyes. "I won't believe it until
I hear the words from your mouth. There must be something beyond
that."

Could she tell them? She'd wanted to so badly since
the moment she knew. She'd wanted to run and leap on them both,
kiss them, and tell them the news. Now was the moment right? The
words came slow and quiet. "I… I have been named Bearer."

Her friends stood in unison, eyes wide. Silín spoke
first, but not to Socair. "Doiléir!" He looked at her and she
nodded toward the tent's exit with a mischievous smile.

"Right! Already done." He ran from the tent.

Silín jumped on Socair on the bed and kissed her full
on the mouth. "Socair! You should have told us! Told us all! How
could you not?"

"How could I? What would they have said? I am being
forced to abandon them."

Silín pulled Socair up off the bed and grabbed her
shoulders. "You are being chosen for greatness, Socair! You are
going to save Abhainnbaile." She squealed in her excitement,
spinning a giddy circle with her eyes closed.

Socair protested the hyperbole. "That is a bit much,
I think. A single elf can do only so much, you must admit."

Doiléir came back in holding a dusty old bottle. "It
should be three elves at the very least, if I remember my
histories."

"And what is that for?"

"It's wine, darling. There is only one thing it is
for unless one of us has recently become a chef."

Socair held her hand out toward the bottle. "Oh no.
Oh no, no, no. There is to be a missive from the Treorai tonight
detailing our first expedition. I will not—"

"Our?" The smile on Silín's face was enormous. She
turned to Doiléir. "She said our, yes? You heard it."

"I did!" Doiléir smiled as well and pulled the cork
from the wine. Silín bounced over to a trunk to retrieve glasses.
"Though I believe it must be made official in some way."

Socair laughed. "Fine. Fine!" She walked to
Doiléir.

Silín distributed the glasses and Doiléir poured
Socair's first. He planted a gentle kiss on her cheek. "You will do
fine." He finished pouring rounds for the three.

"Very well… I… I am not sure how this is meant to be
done." Socair began awkwardly. She flushed red and took a sip of
the wine to bolster her courage.

"Socair!" Silín protested. "No drinking until it is
done!"

"On my honor as Bearer of the Will of Treorai of
Abhainnbaile, I hereby declare that, should they accept, Doiléir of
Fásachbaile and Silín of Abhainnbaile shall duly be recognized as
my Attendants from this day forth until their deaths."

"I accept!" chimed Silín, raising her glass.

"As do I!" Doiléir raised his as well.

Socair raised her glass to the other three and they
drank them dry.

Socair huffed when the wine was quaffed. "Sisters,
that was the most embarrassing thing. If being Bearer means having
to do that sort of thing, I may inquire about foregoing the
honor."

Doiléir laughed. "Certainly the highborn would accept
it back with all the smiles of a mouthful of lemon."

"At the very least, they'll have to stop frowning at
us while they are in eyeshot," Silín opined. She retreated to her
seat. "I've heard the tales of Mosach and Faire and the others, but
what does it even mean to be a Bearer?"

Socair retook her seat on the bed. Doiléir returned
to his and spoke. "Bearers are the servants of the Treorai for acts
not relating directly to the governance of the people. Or they
were. Long ago." Doiléir took another sip of his wine. "For as long
as elves bother to remember, they have been a sort of…"

Silín spoke, offering a guess. "Binseman of
Stabbing?"

Socair and Doiléir both laughed at that. Doiléir
continued. "It isn't far off, I'd say. Still, they do not offer
counsel or partake in the harem."

"I am more an attack dog than one made for the lap."
Socair took a big gulp of the wine, it was an old vintage, she
could tell. Tangy and sweet.

Doiléir smiled. "And such a vicious mutt you're like
to be as well."

Socair finished her drink and lobbed the cup lazily
at Doiléir's head. "Ha! A vicious mutt and her two pups."