 |
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
The sun was setting, as she finally climbed above the ridge. Her hands bled, and her clothes were in shreds. But she kept climbing, half scrambling up the loose shale rocks and harder purple rocks below. She was well above the tree line, up amongst the bare, craggy crowns of the hills. The light from the sun painted the sky behind her red. The world beyond, to the east was already clouded with darkness. The stars would be out soon. She tried to stand up, to look out across the vast country before her, but she couldn’t. Strength failed her then, and she fell against the cold granite of the hillside. She rested her head on the rough stone, closed her eyes, exhausted beyond all endurance.
Don’t cry, she told herself, don’t cry.
Behind her, down in the valley, beyond the trees, her village burned. The smoke was almost gone now, whipped away by the late summer wind. She refused to look back, refused to look down on her home. Everyone was dead. Everything was gone. She had nowhere to go. Beyond those western hills, the woods opened up endless before her. She’d never been in those woods. She’d never gone more than a half dozen leagues beyond her town, up or down the north south old road that ran through her town. The lands to the west were hard and arid, the lands to the east wild and green and seemingly endless. But there, nestled in the valley was a small last finger of human towns before the land gave way to the sea, and the northern ocean.
She roused herself, scrambled on over the blunt spine of the ridge. The ridge line, old, weatherworn granite, had been tall and sharp once. Now it was flat, wide, denuded of everything. Down below, in the deepening night, she could see the shadows of the trees. East and west of the hills demarking the valley, forests stretched as far as the eye could see, and beyond.
The old people had warned her of the forest beyond the hills, of the wicked magical folk who lived there, who stole children.
Her feet led her downwards, her shoes crunching on the loose stones. The sky above was fading to deep indigo; the first stars flared into life in the sky. She thought of her grandfather, pointing out the stars and the constellations: the Navigator’s star, the Moon’s Daughter, and the distant lights of the Gods in the sky.
He was dead too. The soldiers had killed him. Like they killed everyone else.
Down, down, down, she went; slow and gingerly, hands out in front of her in case of falling. The way was hard; she could barely see and the footing was treacherous.
“I wish this was a dream,” she said. “I wish.” But the chill night air was cold and real against her face, and made the burns and scratches on her arms sting. Blinking away tears, she walked on down into the shadow of the land beyond.
Then, she fell.
The stones gave way beneath her feet. She stumbled, lost purchase and her legs gave out, throwing her to the ground; now tumbling the stones cutting her, jarring impacts of pain, the sickening hopelessness of the fall. And then stillness.
She was lying on the hard ground looking up at the Navigator Star above. Then the pain came. The numbing fright and shock left her, and her body simply gave up. Darkness claimed her.
In the middle of the night, warm, gentle hands took her and lifted her up; bore her away, whispering quiet lullabies. She woke, a little, feeling the pain ease away.
“I’m hungry,” she muttered.
Someone laughed, gentle and low.
“We shall attend to that, child,” he said, and chuckled again.
The girl’s name was Elena and she was eleven years old. Everything she knew; the school house, the small temple, the scattering of huts and houses and the grain and pasture fields beyond, all those who lived there, lay dead and burnt. Everyone was dead. Everyone except Elena.
In the cool light of the morning, she heard a voice whisper.
“You’ve a little of our people in you child. Just a little.”
*
“In the valley,” the bard was saying to a rapt audience of unpaying children, “the Order of the Kingdom’s Knights confronted the Goblin hordes, as the Goblins made a last, desperate attempt to take the Great Road and these lands and the lands to the south.
“Great heroes, they were, in their shining armour and golden helms. And they drove the Goblins hard, pushed them north, and slew thousands of their number.
“The Goblins outnumbered them! Nigh on a hundred thousand of the vicious creatures had crawled from their horrid kingdoms in the utter north, coming south to kill and slaughter and EAT…” The children gasped. “HUMAN CHILDREN,” the bard said, proud of the effect he had on them. These children were scared, he thought, watching them, but they wanted to know more. Perfect, he thought. If the children were so rapt, his longer, bloodier and indeed, bawdier version of the same tale would be well received by the paying adults later.
“But though the knights were outnumbered, they were brave and steadfast and loyal to the crown and to all mankind, Their white horsed cavalry swept down on the mass of the enemy, spears and lances held high…”
The bard never noticed that he had another audience, three figures dressed in the grey, gauzy cloaks of the people from the forest beyond the hills. One of the figures shook its head, and walked on.
The town was bustling, vibrant and new. Destroyed by the goblin armies during the war, the kingdom had paid to have the town rebuilt building cottages and shops in good, Dwarven stone. A small keep squatted on the edge of the town, where a small garrison of soldiers manned a beacon and looked to the defense of the citizenry.
It was high summer’s day and the market was full. There was bunting flags hung across the streets, and music playing and the inns were open early. By royal decree the kingdom was celebrating the tenth anniversary of the conclusion of the goblin wars.
Signs around the main street, built on either side of the North Road, proclaimed the presence in the town of General Casterlan, the commander of the knightly force who had liberated the town. He was to receive an award, and be the focus of the day’s festivities.
The main street and the small alleys between the shops and the cottages and the big market square east of the road were thronged with people, young and old. Bards sand, men drank, boys played and girls danced. The sun was shining bright and hot from an azure sky and a cool northwest wind whispered over the hills.
The three figures in the gauze grey robes met with others on the outskirts of the town. The others, similarly dressed, stood around a small team of wagons.
“How is it?” one asked.
“Thronged,” another replied. “Full of people.”
The others said nothing, mounted their horses, and got them moving.
At noon, General Casterlan strode through the square. He wore plain merchant’s clothes: he was no longer a soldier, but a tradesman. He had been cashiered from the army with as generous a severance as times had allowed, and he had set himself up as a tradesman. He was in the region only on business, but they mayor of this town had insisted that he participate in the celebration. They even had produced an old set of armour that had belonged to him when he was in the Order. Casterlan doubted he would fit into it anymore. He nodded at the alderman displaying the suit, and walked on. He walked amongst the stalls, eye open for a bargain.
On the outskirts of the crowd, he found something interesting. On three sturdy Dwarven wagons, the people of the forest were selling their wares.
“Well met,” he said in the language of the people of the forest.
“May the light grant you a fine day,” came the polite response. Casterlan looked over the wares on display. There were woodcarvings of exquisite craftsmanship, musical instruments, ceremonial swords (blunt but beautifully made), bottles of perfumes and clothes. Casterlan smiled. Elvish craft was incredible, but what these Elves – or to use the correct term, People of the Forest – sold was the work of apprentice children. The work of masters would never be on sale to outsiders. The work of Elvish apprentices matched or bettered the work of human masters.
By old fiat, Elves only sold these wares – cast-offs, really - on the High Days; otherwise they’d put many an honest man out of business.
There were about a dozen of the People of the Forest in the town, at the market. They were young ones, youths and maidens of their people. Elves were long lived, some said undying. Casterlan has learned a long time ago that it would take the elves decades, even centuries, to reach their prime. While still incredibly beautiful by human standards, these children had yet to achieve that otherworldly dignity, that fey grace of their elders. These Elvish children were selling their own work, Casterlan realised. He smiled at them.
“This is fine work,” he said to one, a tall man with a shock of coppery hair. The elf youth smiled.
“You are most kind, sir,” the elf replied, politely. “May I interest you in something?”
Casterlan looked at one of the stalls, where silk and lace and cotton garments were laid out. Like all Elvish craft, they were inspired, artful and very practical. Elvish clothes were attractive, but they also had to withstand the rigours of day-to-day use. Many of the ladies of the city of his birth purchased these garments and kept wardrobes full of them; collected the clothes as treasures. But, and here was the rub, the elves were wiry, slender and artists considered perfection itself. Few of the ladies of the noble salons could fit into them. Many kept their wardrobes for daughters or a reminder of their youth, or imagined freedom, or dalliances they never had. Casterlan held up a gown, noticed something different. The dresses were Elvish craft, but made in bigger sizes. He looked up at the Elf woman tending the stall. She was slight and slender like the others, her skin sun bronzed and scrubbed, her hair worn long and luxuriant. Her eyes were large and…round. This was no elf. Casterlan grinned, suddenly at a loss.
“My name is Elena,” she said, in response to his questioning gaze. “I was adopted by the people of the forest. Few ever notice my humanity.” She nodded at him, acknowledging his attention, and resenting him noticing.
“I can presume that by dwelling amongst the people of the forest, one becomes rather like them,” he said, formally. He didn’t know what else to say. “Listen,” he said, at last. “Fashion is not my thing. I trade in foods and other goods. But some of my partners would be most interested in buying your stock. Elvish clothes for human women…its an impressive idea.”
She smiled at him, and thanked him. He waited for a response. This could earn him a lot of money. “Would you join me later, at the feast?” He realised that he was perhaps being too forward. But this was a girl raised by elves. She had no father calculating her marital worth in alliances or status; elves had no equivalent to the dowry prices of the human villagers. There were no strictures on their doings. However, Elvish women did not dally lightly either. For all their reserve, the People of the Forest were a sensual, passionate people. Their affairs were the stuff of songs and poetry and tragedy. But Elena nodded and accepted Casterlan’s invitation.
They arranged to meet, later, at the feast.
But when he left, and was lost amongst the crowd in the market square, her face clouded and she furiously brushed away tears.
“Who was that?” the tall elf said. His name was Yanain, and he was her best friend.
“That, Yan,” she said, trying to force back emotion, “was the man who destroyed this village and killed my family. That was the great general, Casterlan.”
It was sunset. The Bard was talking, this time to a paying, slightly inebriated crowd. He’d been practicing all day. His booming voice carried across the rapt throng of people. The fair continued around the gathered audience, but it was quieter now. Business was easing off as the sun went down. Dwarves and outlanders were packing up; they all avoided the inns. Wise merchants knew better than to drink the day’s profits away. As the day had ended, the market had slowed; traders and shoppers and apprentices released from the day’s work all gathered to hear the bard speak, and look at this celebrity, Casterlan.
“Ten years ago,” the bard began. “There was another village here. A small village made of wood and wattle and straw. The community was small, and virtuous and hardworking. It was ravaged by the goblin armies and ALL were put to the sword….” His voice rose and fell as he spoke, and those listening could almost see the endless tide of the goblins charge down the valley, feel the fear of the villagers. Casterlan sat and listened politely; he’d heard versions of this tale before. It always changed, always got a little bigger, a little more mythical. Details made little difference. Of all the battles he had fought in, all he remembered, or even bothered caring about anymore was the faces of those who had died. They were under his command, and they had died to carry out his orders. Kings and bards and bankers worried about outcomes; a soldier worries about survival. Would this decision save more than it would kill? How many losses are “acceptable?” But he sat, politely, and drank his warm ale and ate the fresh baked bread. Sometimes, he looked over at Elena, sitting a few feet away, silent, and unsmiling. He looked up at the hills that shouldered up on either side of the township. A bare dozen miles of flat, fertile land divided the two ranks of hills. The sun was westering, beyond the hills. Shadows gathered. He looked into the northern sky. He remembered this place. It was not the worst battle. It was not the most glorious. It was just one of many. He remembered it as an abstract, a tactical situation, a strategic challenge. He remembered the casualty figures. He drained his ale.
*
The early morning dark was alive with the howls and curses of Goblins. Elena’s mother woke her, urgently shook the girl from sleep, her eyes wide with panic. “WAKE UP! WAKE UP!” he mother shouted. Elena woke, frightened, and started to cry. The howls grew louder. Elena, sleepy, shocked, terrified, confused stumbled through the door. Away about three miles to the north, they could see the torches, endless numbers of them, carried by the squat goblins. The wind came from the north. It stank of goblin sweat.
“By the gods,” Elena heard her father say. He kissed his daughter on the forehead and then ran inside their small cottage to find his bow and his knife. Elena looked back at her mother. Her mother waved at her, urging her to run. Her mother, tall and pale and gaunt, stood, clutching an old pike, watching Elena go. Elena ran, out into the night. Other children were running from their homes, running south. Go to the next village, their parents cried. Elena ran west. After a little way, she stood, looked back, towards her village, towards the small crowd of people desperately erecting defences from haycarts, and then south. There were people moving there, in the south. Humans. Thousands. The king’s army had come to save them, Elena thought. In the half-light, she could see the glint of armour, and then, hear the pounding of the marching drums. She stood, in mute horror, at the sight. The army seemed implacable, endless, and merciless. She was scared of the soldiers. The other village children stopped, stared and ran panicked hither and thither, afraid to run home, afraid to run away. Elena looked towards the hills, thinking: they’ll never find me up there. She ran. She ran towards the hills, ran into the field, through the burned scrub, into the untamed “wilds” beyond the township. In the marshy thicket she stumbled, fell, and ran again. Beyond the wasteland of small shrubs, weeds and streams, she stopped again. The sun was peeking over the eastern horizon.
She looked behind her again, down into the valley. Angry boulders of burning oily flame shot from the south, to the north. Goblins screamed as the fire exploded into their ranks. Rains of black arrows arced across the sky in response. The armies were just formless masses, in the morning light. Endless, uncountable, howling in anger and rage, they surged towards each other. Fire and arrow rained above. Somewhere in the centre of the chaos, lay her village. It burned, small fires erupting where arrows and pitch landed, scorching away the tiny huts, crude hay barns and igniting the thatch of the cottage roofs. A small, dark, knot of people stood, cowering in the middle, their homes behind them burning, armies bearing down on them. Arrows fell amongst them. The figures crumpled and fell to the ground, and did not move again. More arrows fell. The fire spread.
Then the goblins charged. The wave broke towards the village. Then the earth rumbled, a deep bass roar that she could feel inside her, even here, in the bushes, miles from the township. Elena cowered. Covered her eyes. Heavy cavalry raced from the south, and poured across the village. She ran away, then, sprinting further into the bushes, running ever upwards, ever further into the hills.
When she looked again, the village was gone. The figures were gone. No one stood anymore. The armies met each other on either side of the small huddle of burning huts and buildings. In the centre, she could see black shapes lying, like discarded sacks of grain. She knew what they were: the corpses of her parents, her neighbours…
*
“And the heavy thundering horses of the Guardian Cavalry swept down on the massed ranks of the goblins,” the Bard was saying. “But the vile things did not yield. They had burned the fields and the villages of the vale. The heroic knights of the kingdom found the people of the vale towns, dead and plundered, or carried off into slavery and torment. In their wrath, the knights gave great slaughter…”
The mayor of the town lifted his tankard in Casterlan’s honour. The people cheered. People threw coins at the bard. The Bard bowed, proud and excited. He had done well, today. Casterlan bowed, and took his leave, and moved through the crowd, toward Elena. She had gotten up and paced to the far side of the square during the bard’s performance, her expression dark. She stood out amongst the others. She was prettier than any of the village girls, taller, more slender, with a presence that could not be defined. But no boys approached her. She stood apart from them all, looking away, vacant, into the falling night. A few villagers cheered Casterlan as he passed, but most ignored him. He was a stranger here, after all, nothing to do with their lives.
“Elena,” he said. She looked up at him, her dark brown eyes cold and distant.
“Hello, Casterlan,” she said.
“Milady,” he said, with a slight bow.
“Go away.”
He stepped back. He had merely followed her to offer her a letter of introduction. He was feeling generous, grandfatherly. He wanted to show how impressed he was with her work. His smile froze in place.
“Pardon me?”
“Go away. Go far away!”
“Milady?”
“General Casterlan? You killed my family. You murdered this village. Now you come here, to bask in some remembered glory.”
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
Casterlan stepped closer, drew himself up to his full height, automatically fixing his most imperious parade ground gaze on her, loomed over her. He was only a little taller than her, but his shoulders were broad, and his arms thick. He could break her in two with his hands. His brow furrowed. His pale blue eyes were almost burning.
“Two hundred people,” she spat.
“Here?” said Casterlan after a moment’s thought. “Those peasants were dead. We couldn’t reach them fast enough. We avenged them.”
“My mother. My FATHER. They were alive. They took bows and spears they would use to chase off wolves from the flocks, and they took hoes and pitchforks and they fought.” There were tears in her eyes now, her Elvish reserve dropping.
“Listen to me, girl! We lost six THOUSAND men on the field, in that battle. Six thousand brothers and fathers…so that…the southern lands could live. Two HUNDRED peasants…terrible, yes…”
She reached into the folds of her skirt, her fingers closing on the long Elvish knife she kept hidden there. In a single stroke she could slash his throat. Her parents could rest easy, then. Her hands were sweating. The knife hilt felt ugly and profane in her hands.
“There’s always a cost, general. There’s always a cost… you destroyed my world. Why should I care about the south lands?”
“Why the hell should I care about a few dead farmers in some northern village? I am a soldier! I swore an oath…”
She swung the knife then, almost too fast for the eye to see. She swung at his throat. Casterlan saw the glint of steel, saw the movement. Old reflexes raised his arm, shifted his stance, and moved his head backwards. His fist should have hit her wrist, and made her drop the knife. But she was young and fast and wild, and she was thought knife play by the elves. The blade glanced across his forearm, deep into flesh, almost to the bone. He jerked his hand back, the pain numbing and overwhelming. She changed her stance, twisted to slash again.
He wanted to be gentle, wanted to disarm her softly. But the pain blared in his ears, blurred his sight. He lashed out, his meaty fist slamming into her jaw. She cried out, reeled backwards. His second blow jabbed against her wrist and knocked the long knife from her hand. She fell to the ground, dazed, head hanging limply. Casterlan raised his fist for another blow, then relaxed, looked around. They had an audience. A small crowd had gathered around them, silent, staring.
Her tears fell hot and freely; she stared at him, uncomprehendingly, stunned, her face numb, puffy and swollen.
“You killed us all,” she muttered through bloodied lips. Casterlan, silent, his face still red with rage, turned away. The people stared at him, stared at her.
“Some pickpocket,” he wanted to say, and dismiss her, dismiss her accusations. The mayor muscled his way through the small crowd of onlookers.
“Casterlan?” the mayor said, confused and irritated. “Who is this?” Casterlan grasped his bleeding arm, winced at the sudden pain.
“She used to live here,” he said softly, and walked away.
“Casterlan,” Elena said, her voice small and shaken. “I…” she realised she didn’t know what to say. He nodded to her, and turned his back on her, and walked back to the high table. He refilled his tankard. Someone came and bandaged his arm. The cut was bad, but it would clean and it would heal and probably wouldn’t need stitching. This was a good life, he thought. Trading, giving employment, making money, travelling the king’s roads. He looked around, at the village square, and the thinning ranks of the people. The midsummer night was pale and warm, and the summer stars shone above small and distant and familiar. The crowd dispersed as he sat, and drank. He meant nothing to them, just some minor celebrity. Young people danced in the emptying square. Old people sat around the perimeter and joked and quarrelled. They were from all over. Survivors from the northlands, displaced southerners, some cashiered soldiers. They and thousands like them had been given small plots of land and small exemptions from the tax collectors to resettle these lands, and the lands to the south and the emptier lands to the north. They’d been here a good decade. They’d made this village, made it home. Casterlan closed his eyes, feeling slightly drunk and sleepy. He heard a sound, the gentlest scratch of a boot on the pavement. Casterlan looked up and saw that tall Elf standing beside him, looking down at him with those cold pale, almond eyes.
“Had you tried to hurt her again,” the elf whispered. “You would have died, instantly.” The elf was not boasting. He was not threatening. His tone was cool, matter of fact.
“You love her,” Casterlan said, not looking at the elf.
“Yes,” the elf replied.
“Have you told her?” Casterlan said, looking up at the elf now. Casterlan felt a pang of jealousy. This elf would remain young and vital and beautiful for centuries. Elena would too, he knew, he was sure of it. There was something of the People of the Forest in her blood, he decided, and that combined with living amongst those ageless elves… they would be young and beautiful when Casterlan’s grand children aged and died.
“Have you told her?” he asked.
“No,” the elf replied, softly.
“Do,” Casterlan said. His voice was firm. He was giving an order. “She has lost everything. She has lost even her ghosts. She needs someone now.”
The elf – Yanain – faded away into the darkness and the dancing youths. Casterlan closed his eyes, remembered the battle. He remembered the road of defiance, anger and bloodlust from his ranks, and the louder one from the enemy’s. In his mind, he saw the massed ranks of his men break and scatter, the discipline of the battle turning into a riot. The graceful line of marchers and phalanxes was shattered. Men turned to face individual foes, or swung wildly at any goblin in reach. Men killed goblins, goblins overwhelmed men. Dwarf fire catapulted across the sky, landing with a horrible stench of burning oil and flesh. Goblin skin smelt just like human flesh, when it burned. When the knights rode north in the aftermath, they overran villages where goblin women tended cattle, and nursed tiny goblin bairns. These fields ran wet with blood. The soil was actually marshy for weeks afterwards from the wet fluids of the dead draining into the soil. Engineers laid planks on the roads so that horses and carts would not sink into the blood, urine and bile drenched earth.
Casterlan remember the triage, when the priests used misericords to end the suffering of the grievously wounded. Men cried and bled, and died screaming. Knights died in the same filthy tents as the footmen. Lordship died in the same muck as the peasants.
Died. War was little else but death. The infliction of death. Industrial, efficient. Forget the tales of the bards with their talk of glorious charges and sweeping charging knights; these things meant nothing. Just death: knights beaten to death with the flat of an enemy’s blunt sword, footmen crushed into the ground by charging infantry. It was a filthy business, war, and he was well quit of it. He felt light-headed, overcome. He shook his head, looked down. His arm was still bleeding a little, the blood staining the bandage, seeping outwards. He felt drunk, distant, and alone.
So this was heroism, he thought; old men trading on sanitised, exaggerated memories. He motioned to someone, and more ale was brought. He would not cry. He refused to cry.
Yanain took Elena by the hand, kissed her swollen jaw, bandaged her bruised write and led her gently, gently away from the village. She offered no resistance, made no sound. Her eyes were wide and empty. Down the road, off to the south, the other elves waited for them.
The night was warm and a gentle breeze came down out of the north, scented of the distant sea. It stirred the pines and danced through the grass. The blue of the night sky above was alive with stars. The constellations wheeled above, endless and bejewelled and eternal.
“Where do you want go?” they asked her. She said nothing, turned to look once more at the village, now but a distant haze of twinkling lights, and then turned to look at the elves’ luminous faces. They regarded her with their indigo eyes, and waited.
“Take me home,” she said, “take me home.”
Yanain took her hand, and helped her onto her horse. Then slowly, they led her away, into the hills into the forests beyond.
Shop
ICE