Chapter 18
Their new acquaintance led the party through the cemetery with aplomb, pointing to the famous graves of elves long since passed. Mara numbly admired his grasp of history as he pointed to the inventor of the Sanlater standing near his esteemed father’s grave. Small luminescent motes of magic gave the night an ethereal feel as their light danced and flickered over the snowy grounds. Ahead, the pavilion yawned its entrance wide and cast a warm welcoming orange glow into the night where, just visible, the statue of Zareth Van Farden stood.
“I was asked to keep you safe when it came to my Army.” The man suddenly seemed to recall, his boyish enthusiasm dampening with the memory. “Though it seems you did a very good job of that on your own. I had my doubts when Albrecht told me he’d be going to the temple with you. The Tuils have always been a headstrong family.” He commented with an ingratiating smile, before looking over the party with a worryingly perceptive eye. To Mara’s reckoning, this man was at once both insightful and magnetic enough to explain the Army’s recent rise.
“You are not what I expected when Mara said we’d be meeting the leader.” Julie observed with a friendly expression. The blonde elf gave a good-natured shrug and a pall of false modesty so saccharine that Fred had to disguise a scoff as a sneeze.
“Ah yes. Many people expect an old dour elf with a grim expression.” The elf lamented mockingly before the bright smile returned. “Much like the previous Herald, in fact. I found that people are far more willing to listen to me.” He continued, leaving a note of respect in the air for the previous leader. He paused to breathe into his hands, a small flame flickering there against the cold. He looked to see Mara not so much as shivering before offering his thick shawl to Julie, who wrapped it about herself with the most simpering smile she could muster. “I found that all it takes is a little anger, a little desperation. But that isn’t what they wish to hear. They want hope. We offer them that in a sea of dour old people.” The Herald expounded to Julie’s flattering crowing. Fred made his best attempt to appear enraptured while Solvi looked every bit unconcerned.
“Hope can be a dangerous thing. By and by, failure in the presence of hope would make monsters of us all.” Arthur observed solemnly, scratching his chin as if in thought. Mara knew better than that.
“Too true. Too true.” The Herald agreed, his face darkening as he considered Arthur’s words. He seemed far from the shrieking hateful lunatic the cleric had believed their leader to be. “Our people suffered greatly from the false hope the last century has offered us.” His face then took on a conspiratorial glee, the mischievous smile of a child pilfering sweets etched onto his features. “But I have far more to offer than false hope.” The Herald winked before tapping his nose. As they arrived at the entrance flaps of the pavilion, their chaperone looked about to see Thora Van Cairn’s massive frame milling about. He called to her before shaking Mara’s hand earnestly and bidding them collectively to enjoy themselves.
The party searched for a quiet part of the pavilion. A circular stage had been erected around the dais of Zareth’s statue, ranks upon ranks of seating arranged to surround it. Lanterns slowly floated through the air, casting ruddy light in every direction. Elves excitedly chatted to each other, using this opportunity as a social gathering more than a rally it seemed. Every so often, Fred would nudge and point to Army personnel searching under the seats and the stage in preparation for the night’s main events. Mara doubted they would hide the abductees in the tent itself. The group eventually came to rest on the benches beside what appeared to be premium box for the most important guests.
“Right, you lot. Arthur an’ I are gonna go peep the scrumped. Better he stays outta Army earshot.” Fred conveyed with a low voice, clapping his comrade on the shoulder. “Once the chattin’s done, we’ll meet you by the food.” Fred indicated with his head towards one of the rear exits of the pavilion, through which several more steaming tents could be seen. Many of the rally’s attendants were already availing themselves of the various intoxicants on sale. Julie sounded her agreement and rested Mara’s head on her shoulder with a firm hand around her. Solvi took the Guillotine in hand and began to tend to it, listening for the spirits. The necromancer amongst them would have warned her against such folly, but Mara seemed distracted. Every so often, her head would flick to some gaggle of elves or a darkened corner.
“What’s wrong?” Solvi asked in a flat tone, eyes narrowing as she attempted to see what Mara evidently was.
“Nothing.”
“I thought we agreed no more lies.”
Mara paused for an elongated silence before her attention was once again grabbed by the invisible. A noise of annoyance escaped the mask, her gloved hands beginning to fiddle with the sickle absently. Armin, for all his wisdom, seemed to offer no explanation because shortly after Mara had to relent.
“I can see them. Visions of those I’ve lost. But they’re not ghosts. You’d be able to see them too.” Mara snarled, jamming the tip of the sickle into the bench beside her with an irritated slam. “They’re not very kind to me.” Mara sighed, abandoning her attempts to pull the sickle free. Julie reached across and flexed but a little, dropping the sickle into Mara’s lap.
“They seldom are.” Solvi replied darkly, eyes appearing to go distant for a moment before she seemed to regain control. “Focus on the mission. Our puppet master can answer for what she has done to you later.” Solvi counselled as a pair of figures appeared to approach them from across the pavilion. One was a prim, richly dressed woman in a shawl and jewels aplenty while the other appeared to be a human man in a sharp suit. The human man appeared older, with short hair and an immaculately managed moustache. Every inch of him from his diligently plucked eyebrows to his reflectively shined shoes spoke of a man very aware of first impressions.
“Good evening! You are Mara, yes? We were wondering if you knew where your dashing cousin was!” The woman inquired in a thick Idharan accent; a voice quite familiar to Mara though she couldn’t place it. The man seemed taken aback before taking Mara’s hand in an awkward handshake.
“Give the woman time to breathe, Isabelle.” The man quieted his companion. So that was who this was. Renaud’s closest ally in the radio world, a familiar voice to thousands of listeners across Gard and other countries. Which made her companion Aldrich Haytham, one of the biggest proprietors of newsreels across the continent. Renaud would often say that the vampire queen didn’t so much as sneeze without someone whispering it in his ear.
“Nice to meet you in the flesh.” Mara demurred with an awkward glance at her companions. “Adara, this is Aldrich and Isabelle. They’re very big names in radio.” Mara introduced using Julie’s cover name. Solvi already knew them by reputation, given the Guard’s continual need to protect them from the general public. Though not here, it seemed.
“Radio? You do us a disservice! Isabelle writes for a few of my rags.” Aldrich winked, elbowing his companion in the ribs. She did not seem to appreciate the gesture, staring daggers at the back of Aldrich’s head. “Glad she got me in here. Your boy up there bends so many ears I should be paying him commission.” The businessman gushed with a thumb pointed over his shoulder at the podium where the Herald would soon be speaking.
“I don’t know where Albrecht is, unfortunately. I imagine he’s still recovering his pride from the kicking Ranva‘s bandits gave him.” Mara observed dryly, rather enjoying the role of disaffected cousin. There wasn’t far to travel for the role, the mage conceded. Solvi snorted something about charging uphill with derision while Julie did her best to retain the cover of doting date.
“Ah, Ranva. Shame about her, really.” Isabelle observed. “She could have been such an asset, had she not jumped off the ledge of her reason.”
“Too right. But those Orsana gave her part of Renora what for. Speaking of Orsana, what’s with the fancy axe? Run out of elf weapons?” Aldrich sniped, a congenial smile on his lips. Isabelle’s eyes slid to the weapon with growing suspicion, lips pursed. Solvi did not seem to react immediately, continuing to tend to the weapon with care. Mara thought about leaping to her aid, stalled by Julie’s firm prod under the cover of their robes.
“War trophy. I’m a veteran.” Solvi grunted, looking up with a studied casual gaze.
“What battle did you fetch such a fine piece from?” Isabelle asked with surface politeness. The icy bite to her tone prickled Mara’s ears. The temptation to send up a red flare began to form in the mage’s mind. Could she even do that without her staff? Why hadn’t she made another?!
“Karkun. I was there when the vampires were bombarding the walls. Took it from some shaman. Grey hair, angry, pretty good at magic too. But she couldn’t survive our numbers.” Solvi explained with the kind of terse, stern storytelling a battle like Karkun earned. Mara smiled behind her mask, impressed with her companion’s glibness. Every good lie held a kernel of truth and that lie had more than a kernel.
“Well, I’ll be. Thank you mightily for your service. Would that I could have been there, but I have terrible legs you understand. Can’t walk to my own damn house in Yanhelm!” Aldrich laughed, looking about shortly after before rubbing his stomach contemplatively. “Speaking of walking, I need to grab some snacks before the speech. Come on Isabelle, you can tell me all about these fancy elf foods of yours.” Aldrich bade his chaperone, to which she ruefully complied with a narrow gaze at Solvi. Mara’s anxiety briefly offered the unsettling thought that Renaud may have mentioned Solvi in his many interviews with her. It was only natural, after all, to share what your sana was up to whilst you sat waiting for the show to begin. Mara shook her head, reminding herself that she wasn’t that important, even to Renaud.
“What did the Orsana do in Renora that would create something like Ranva?” Mara asked Solvi, more to distract herself from her racing thoughts than out of genuine curiosity. Solvi’s care for her weapon froze eyes searching for a moment before Julie placed a calming hand on hers. The orsan woman nodded, as if affirming something to herself before answering.
“A lot of operations were routine. But to create Ranva, I can think of only one commander.” Solvi began, her eyes fixed upon the podium with dreadful intensity. “Rhian Ser Shoti was in charge of the occupation of Lyndal. She was cruel, even by our standards of wartime cruelty. When resistance fighters started hiding in the local villages, she started destroying them. I have no evidence for this, but the injuries on Ranva were unmistakable. No idea how she’d survive the devastation though.” The orsan sighed, eyes closed before she steadied herself with Julie’s soothing words. “She believed that Orsana were supreme. All others were livestock. They could be slaughtered like livestock.”
The trio were thankfully interrupted by the lowering of the lanterns and a reverberating introduction to the Herald. People raced eagerly to their seats, some carrying various traditional elvish food. Mara momentarily regretted not buying knot bread while she had the chance. Perhaps she could buy some after the Herald’s speech. The benches nearby filled with onlookers, cutting off any potential for non-nationalist conversations. With some trepidation, Mara noted that several families had come together. Briefly, she was reminded of her own parents. While many Enclave elves chose not to keep contact with their parents as was tradition, many more chose to sustain the relationship. Her stomach roiled with guilt as the memories of her time in Ruran impinged on the applause that roared to life as the Herald made his grand entrance, sporting an expensive white staff.
The Herald knew his audience well it seemed and allowed them to shower him in applause, whooping and various nationalist chants. Just as the energy of the room began to die down, the Herald raised his hand for quiet. Mara snapped back to the present to see Thora Van Cairn and a second unknown elf stand behind their leader, adopting militaristic poses and stern expressions. The room was quiet yet charged with an energy Mara had only ever wished to incite in her classroom.
“My friends! We have never spoken before but know that I am the Herald of the Sunburst Army. I come not just with libations aplenty and an opportunity to meet the finest of your fellows! I come with a message.” The Herald began, his voice powerful yet still as charming as it had been in person. Mara felt Julie stiffen against her, eyes transfixed upon the orator. “Since the very beginning of our people, when we rejected superstition and primitive categorization, when we were chosen by the goddess Sirona herself to shepherd the mortal races, we have seen naught but struggle! This divine providence was not lauded and adhered to by our fellow creature! Rather, it was spurned, cast out and reviled! We were pariahs, as if we had brought about the great cataclysm four millennia ago!” The Herald spoke vigorously, a hand gesticulating as he spoke. “Our grand ancestors sought to rebuild what we lost; the world without want, of technological marvels, of cities upon the very surface of the moon! Yet countless times, we were invaded, slaughtered and callously destroyed for our greatness and the meagre jealousies of the other races!” The Herald allowed anger to colour his voice, yet not the shrieking Arthur had feared. The shrieking and booing came from the crowd as they heard this version of their history, hisses adding sibilant accompaniment to his words. He then seemed to calm himself, ingratiating the crowd with a big smile. “Now then, do not spurn them! They are doing just as they were meant to do. Serve their betters.” The Herald explained with a sinister tinge to his voice similar to the one that had corrupted it earlier. “The coblini, the skitti and all the other peoples of this world do naught but what they are told. If you would look for your enemy, kind friends, look upon those who were the first to reject our ethos of enlightenment. Look upon the people who first set fire to our homes, butchered our families, cast down every attempt at rebuilding what we lost! I speak of humanity! Those callous primitive fools who stymy us at every turn! Those who once bowed and served in their true purpose!” The Herald’s voice rose in a mixture of righteous anger and pride as he spoke of the past. Mara found herself almost recoiling in her seat and tried to make it seem as if she were adjusting position. To say he was being selective was a dramatic understatement. Regardless, his words hit their target audience like a tidal wave, ripples of anger and discontent flowing through the crowd like lightning through tree bark. But the Herald had merely laid the groundwork. As he stalked up and down the stage, seeming to pace with fury, he thumbed a tear from his eye to a smattering of empathetic sighs.
“Do not pity me, friends. Pity those we have lost and hold them in your hearts. Those conscripted to serve in a pointless human war. Those whose grandparents perished in the purges of Yan. Oh yes, it was long ago for them. But for us, the pain burns in our breast just as harshly.” The Herald returned to the podium, appearing to calm himself as he took a steadying breath. Mara knew that he was gearing himself towards the apotheosis of his speech. “It is for the memory of my family that I fight now for our people. And I invite you to do the same. If we lose this battle, humanity will force itself into power. Such a corruption will see you flung from your livelihoods! It will see you forced to give your children over to theirs! Their misguided notions that we are the same but for our lifespan will be the death of our people! To those of you who linger in indecision I would ask, how much more are you willing to bear for their sake? Elves have been forced to endure the weakness, the callousness and the indolence of humanity for centuries! No more I say! No more! We will fight them and their underlings wherever they hide! If you should ever feel pause in whatever actions you see fit to take, remember this!” The Herald then paused, allowing his words to percolate throughout the pavilion while those before him stared in something close to awe. “They started this war! And they will not replace us!” The Herald bellowed with fists crossed atop his chest in a Miran salute.
The room erupted into cheers, Julie and Solvi emulating those around them for fear of discovery. Mara could only sit in her seat in abject disbelief, the world around her seeming to pause as she took in exactly what she had witnessed. She gripped the sickle that contained Armin’s soul and held it to her chest, hand shaking. And as the cheers died down to be replaced with a raucous round of applause, Mara found herself standing to leave. Julie gripped her elbow, steering her to sit still for a moment longer.
“What’s wrong with you? He’s not saying anything new.” Julie hissed in her ear, sending a ripple of consternation through Mara’s body. The mask dumbly turned to face her human companion, a shaking breath raking its way through her lungs. The pavilion began to empty, the audience gleefully recounting their thoughts on the speech. As a balm to Mara’s frayed nerves, some seemed to dislike his passion. It was cold comfort as the three of them began to move to their meeting place. Solvi placed a reassuring hand on the mage’s shoulder, buying her the knot bread she enjoyed so much. Mara automatically took it and held it with an empty air about her. The pot of spices that normally came with it sat unused in her other hand.
“Ah, I was wondering where you’d gotten to!” The voice of the Herald called from behind them. Through a throng of enthusiastic followers, he approached with Thora Van Cairn at his side. She was even more intimidating up close, being just shy of Solvi’s natural height. Her muscular frame was made all the more fearsome by the lengthy blade she held scabbarded over her shoulder.
The three of them turned in time to see the Herald’s ear being bent by one of the functionaries in the dress uniforms from earlier. He made an apologetic gesture towards the three of them before turning to the throng about him. Thora wrapped an arm about his waist and hoisted him upwards for better vision.
“It seems I’ve been designated too dangerous to speak! Moments ago, a bomb was found in my tent!” The Herald called to his followers. Mara and Solvi stiffened, fearing the worst. Had Fred and Arthur taken matters into their own hands? Mara wasn’t even sure one could whip up a bomb that quickly yet if anyone could, it would be Fred. “Please make your way to your homes as quickly and as orderly as you can! The Chevaliers have been called to attend to this threat!” The Herald instructed. Several of the congregation immediately turned about while others grew pale and shivered in fear. Still others pulled their weapons and threatened to find the ones responsible.
“Put your fury to better use. We have the perpetrators.” Thora snarled to one particular rabid elf wielding a mace. Before the Herald could rescind the order, the crowd looked to each other and came to a quiet consensus. They turned and began to file out of the graveyard with vicious intent, several testing the heft of their weapons. The group seemed torn between waiting for confirmation on Fred’s whereabouts and escaping this rapidly escalating situation.
“What a pity. I’m quite inconsolable at the moment because of the bomb threat.” The Herald spoke in a deadpan voice, steepling his fingers against his stomach as he spoke. He then turned to Thora with a wry grin, attracting a smug nod in return. “How did you like the speech?” He asked the trio conversationally, closing the distance between them.
“I’m surprised you didn’t mention the Orsana.” Mara replied with automatic politeness, the facsimile of Renaud collapsing into genuine curiosity. Solvi sighed, looking about for any sign of their party members.
“I have no ill will towards the Orsana. In fact, I admire them, to an extent.” The Herald commented with a shrug. “We share many truths about the world in our cultures. The Elysian project to educate them seems to have been a success.” He mused aloud before looking over towards where presumably his tent was situated. Mara resisted the urge to ask whether he referred to the slavery or the many wars Elys waged against the Isles. The Herald then seemed to have an idea, nudging Thora’s hip with his elbow. “I say, you used to deal with ordinance didn’t you Mara? Would you care to take a look at the device while we wait for the Chevaliers? I’d hate for it to be on a timer and us not know.” He asked with such ingratiating gestures that Mara’s anxiety-addled mind immediately suspected something. But cover had to be maintained and she would do right by Fred and Arthur.
“There is a chasm of difference between ordinance, and something slapped together in a kitchen.” Mara replied coolly. Solvi sounded her agreement, that waiting for the Chevaliers would probably be their best bet.
“Of course! But I daresay you can probably locate a timer better than we can.” The Herald laughed with some discomfort. Julie cleared her throat and drew an arrow on Mara’s back with the hand hidden behind the mage. Mara needed no telling and clucked her tongue beneath the mask, as if being dreadfully inconvenienced. After an exaggerated sigh, she bade he led the way. With a boyish grin, the Herald led them directly through the gravestones rather than along the paths. He casually flicked aside the springy branches of a willow-like tree on his way to the oldest parts of the cemetery.
The Army’s main encampment was a thoroughly temporary affair with tents hastily cobbled together into what approached a military installation. They had set their camp in a low rise where new graves were soon to be dug and filled in the traditional elvish manner. The only exception to this haphazard encampment’s standards was a large command tent with two large stakes holding it aloft. Several of the well-dressed guards stood outside, arms folded with dour expressions. As the Herald approached, he saluted them smartly before holding out a hand to introduce the three of them.
As they entered the tent, Mara’s frantic thoughts took in every detail she could. The interior of the tent had been hung with warm blankets to keep the cold from the low cot that served as the Herald’s bed. A stool held a bottle of some unknown substance. To the rear of the tent, a row of tables was arrayed holding maps and notes as well as a few books Mara had seen before in Yanhelm’s library. The rich red carpets kept any foot from stepping on the thick woollen mats that kept the interior of the tent dry. Mara’s eyes finally came to rest on a pair of struggling figures tied to one of the stakes of the tent. A very human Arthur and very skitti Fred were bound tightly, complaining to each other about the tightness and getting in each other’s way.
“That’s not a bomb. What’s the meaning of this?” Mara demanded in her most imperious noble voice. Thora entered the tent with an incredulous look while the Herald’s normally unshakable smile had now vanished. The unflappable polite youth had been erased, replaced with a grim-faced soldier. A part of Mara’s mind demanded she keep up the charade, that by dint of pure persistence she would convince them that she did not know Fred and Arthur. That she would have time to think. But as the Herald approached, a hand idly toying with a streak of flame, that notion evaporated. Only silent panic remained behind the mask.
“There is no bomb. And there is no chevalier coming to save you. Or your companions.” The Herald seethed, his rage festering beneath a mask of indifference. “The sole reason you draw breath is because you are a Tuil. And because you may yet be of use to us.” The Herald amended his sentence once he saw the soldier’s steel enter Fred’s eye. Mara used her mask to her advantage, face turning to the Herald whilst her eyes searched the room for her comrade’s weapons. The Herald was busy toying with one of the bangles given to them, explaining how he’d known the second he saw it. Mara very much doubted that. Finally, she spotted Fred’s rifle barrel poking out from the papers on the tables. Arthur’s mace had been haphazardly hidden under the blankets of the cot.
“Stop stroking your ego and tell us what you want.” Solvi snarled, taking the Guillotine in hand. The Herald regarded her with a condescending credulity, as if her very attempt to challenge him were absurd.
“Simply put I would know who’s been spying on us. It seems every time we hold a gathering, spies crowd into our midst. You’re just the first group stupid enough to appear twice.” The Herald drawled, the grip on his staff tightening as Solvi hefted her halberd with vicious intent. Mara held her hands up to both parties, her heart racing as she realised how close violence was at hand.
“You’re really surprised you are spied upon? Your lack of basic security measures is why you’re spied upon.” Julie snorted with her arms folded. She contemptuously glowered at Thora. The large elf woman returned the hostile glare with a deliberate unsheathing of the sword at her shoulder. The Herald shifted his stance to a more combative one. Julie chuckled, drawing a pair of daggers from beneath her dress. “I’ve killed bigger enemies of the empire.” She sneered at Thora, sinking low as she prepared to dive under the larger woman’s guard.
“Do we really have to get violent over this?” Mara begged. She looked imploringly at the Herald with hands held open beseechingly. “We are here against our will, Herald. Surely you can understand humans paying a desperate woman to do their dirty work?” Mara lied with such ease that Julie found herself surprised by the glib mage. Solvi wondered why it had taken her this long to come up with something half convincing.
“Sorry, Ver Fatuil. No mercy for trai- where’s the sickle?” The Herald began to condemn her with pride, yet his face fell the second he glanced at the other elf’s hip. With the sound of snapping rope, Fred and Arthur surged free of their bonds and raced to grab their weapons, Fred tossing ammunition into the air only to catch it with the chamber of his new rifle. Where they had moments ago been bound, the spirit of Armin grinned wickedly whilst holding the sickle.
“Oh right. I learned a few tricks. Like overloading the lanterns.” Mara taunted the Herald before surging magic into the air about them. The motes which had been so beautiful earlier conducted the power of the spell. The crystals within the lanterns grew to blinding luminance for a second before exploding in their cloth shells, plunging them into darkness. “Run!” Mara called to the party, bursting through the tent flaps before throwing the powder for her spicy knot bread in the eyes of the guards. She dimly heard the sound of Arthur’s armour clanking behind her. “We have to get to Twitcher!” Mara called over her shoulder, hurtling into the small, wooded area back towards the pavilion’s light.
“Thora, take some Serenites and bring me their heads!” The Herald shouted somewhat further behind them all, the thudding armoured feet of his guardian perilously close. “I want to see what this Tuil is made of!” He laughed with all the vigour of a hunter closing in on his prey. Mara and her group only saw the briefest flash of orange light before the tombstone directly in front of them exploded, showering them with gravel. The second blast hit closer to home, flinging Mara to the side while her companions continued on. Mara rolled to her feet and pelted away from Solvi, a red light forming in her hand as their eyes met.
“Get to Twitcher! I’ll handle him!” Mara yelled, casting the light skywards. It soared, growing in intensity until a red pall fell upon the graveyard. Even the motes changed colour in sympathy, sensing the danger upon the air. The rest of the party reluctantly continued their escape while Mara flung herself towards the oldest graves. The darkness and overgrowth would make ideal cover from the Herald’s attacks.
The denial of that assumption came in the form of a gravestone crashing into her side, sending her spiralling against a mausoleum wall with a grunt of pain. As she groggily raised her head, she saw him approaching. Shorn of his traditional long robes, the Herald wore a hauberk with leather overcoat, his spell book floating freely next to him. As Mara recovered from the blow, she looked up to see murder manifest in his eyes and fire form in his outstretched hand.
Chapter 18
Their new acquaintance led the party through the cemetery with aplomb, pointing to the famous graves of elves long since passed. Mara numbly admired his grasp of history as he pointed to the inventor of the Sanlater standing near his esteemed father’s grave. Small luminescent motes of magic gave the night an ethereal feel as their light danced and flickered over the snowy grounds. Ahead, the pavilion yawned its entrance wide and cast a warm welcoming orange glow into the night where, just visible, the statue of Zareth Van Farden stood.
“I was asked to keep you safe when it came to my Army.” The man suddenly seemed to recall, his boyish enthusiasm dampening with the memory. “Though it seems you did a very good job of that on your own. I had my doubts when Albrecht told me he’d be going to the temple with you. The Tuils have always been a headstrong family.” He commented with an ingratiating smile, before looking over the party with a worryingly perceptive eye. To Mara’s reckoning, this man was at once both insightful and magnetic enough to explain the Army’s recent rise.
“You are not what I expected when Mara said we’d be meeting the leader.” Julie observed with a friendly expression. The blonde elf gave a good-natured shrug and a pall of false modesty so saccharine that Fred had to disguise a scoff as a sneeze.
“Ah yes. Many people expect an old dour elf with a grim expression.” The elf lamented mockingly before the bright smile returned. “Much like the previous Herald, in fact. I found that people are far more willing to listen to me.” He continued, leaving a note of respect in the air for the previous leader. He paused to breathe into his hands, a small flame flickering there against the cold. He looked to see Mara not so much as shivering before offering his thick shawl to Julie, who wrapped it about herself with the most simpering smile she could muster. “I found that all it takes is a little anger, a little desperation. But that isn’t what they wish to hear. They want hope. We offer them that in a sea of dour old people.” The Herald expounded to Julie’s flattering crowing. Fred made his best attempt to appear enraptured while Solvi looked every bit unconcerned.
“Hope can be a dangerous thing. By and by, failure in the presence of hope would make monsters of us all.” Arthur observed solemnly, scratching his chin as if in thought. Mara knew better than that.
“Too true. Too true.” The Herald agreed, his face darkening as he considered Arthur’s words. He seemed far from the shrieking hateful lunatic the cleric had believed their leader to be. “Our people suffered greatly from the false hope the last century has offered us.” His face then took on a conspiratorial glee, the mischievous smile of a child pilfering sweets etched onto his features. “But I have far more to offer than false hope.” The Herald winked before tapping his nose. As they arrived at the entrance flaps of the pavilion, their chaperone looked about to see Thora Van Cairn’s massive frame milling about. He called to her before shaking Mara’s hand earnestly and bidding them collectively to enjoy themselves.
The party searched for a quiet part of the pavilion. A circular stage had been erected around the dais of Zareth’s statue, ranks upon ranks of seating arranged to surround it. Lanterns slowly floated through the air, casting ruddy light in every direction. Elves excitedly chatted to each other, using this opportunity as a social gathering more than a rally it seemed. Every so often, Fred would nudge and point to Army personnel searching under the seats and the stage in preparation for the night’s main events. Mara doubted they would hide the abductees in the tent itself. The group eventually came to rest on the benches beside what appeared to be premium box for the most important guests.
“Right, you lot. Arthur an’ I are gonna go peep the scrumped. Better he stays outta Army earshot.” Fred conveyed with a low voice, clapping his comrade on the shoulder. “Once the chattin’s done, we’ll meet you by the food.” Fred indicated with his head towards one of the rear exits of the pavilion, through which several more steaming tents could be seen. Many of the rally’s attendants were already availing themselves of the various intoxicants on sale. Julie sounded her agreement and rested Mara’s head on her shoulder with a firm hand around her. Solvi took the Guillotine in hand and began to tend to it, listening for the spirits. The necromancer amongst them would have warned her against such folly, but Mara seemed distracted. Every so often, her head would flick to some gaggle of elves or a darkened corner.
“What’s wrong?” Solvi asked in a flat tone, eyes narrowing as she attempted to see what Mara evidently was.
“Nothing.”
“I thought we agreed no more lies.”
Mara paused for an elongated silence before her attention was once again grabbed by the invisible. A noise of annoyance escaped the mask, her gloved hands beginning to fiddle with the sickle absently. Armin, for all his wisdom, seemed to offer no explanation because shortly after Mara had to relent.
“I can see them. Visions of those I’ve lost. But they’re not ghosts. You’d be able to see them too.” Mara snarled, jamming the tip of the sickle into the bench beside her with an irritated slam. “They’re not very kind to me.” Mara sighed, abandoning her attempts to pull the sickle free. Julie reached across and flexed but a little, dropping the sickle into Mara’s lap.
“They seldom are.” Solvi replied darkly, eyes appearing to go distant for a moment before she seemed to regain control. “Focus on the mission. Our puppet master can answer for what she has done to you later.” Solvi counselled as a pair of figures appeared to approach them from across the pavilion. One was a prim, richly dressed woman in a shawl and jewels aplenty while the other appeared to be a human man in a sharp suit. The human man appeared older, with short hair and an immaculately managed moustache. Every inch of him from his diligently plucked eyebrows to his reflectively shined shoes spoke of a man very aware of first impressions.
“Good evening! You are Mara, yes? We were wondering if you knew where your dashing cousin was!” The woman inquired in a thick Idharan accent; a voice quite familiar to Mara though she couldn’t place it. The man seemed taken aback before taking Mara’s hand in an awkward handshake.
“Give the woman time to breathe, Isabelle.” The man quieted his companion. So that was who this was. Renaud’s closest ally in the radio world, a familiar voice to thousands of listeners across Gard and other countries. Which made her companion Aldrich Haytham, one of the biggest proprietors of newsreels across the continent. Renaud would often say that the vampire queen didn’t so much as sneeze without someone whispering it in his ear.
“Nice to meet you in the flesh.” Mara demurred with an awkward glance at her companions. “Adara, this is Aldrich and Isabelle. They’re very big names in radio.” Mara introduced using Julie’s cover name. Solvi already knew them by reputation, given the Guard’s continual need to protect them from the general public. Though not here, it seemed.
“Radio? You do us a disservice! Isabelle writes for a few of my rags.” Aldrich winked, elbowing his companion in the ribs. She did not seem to appreciate the gesture, staring daggers at the back of Aldrich’s head. “Glad she got me in here. Your boy up there bends so many ears I should be paying him commission.” The businessman gushed with a thumb pointed over his shoulder at the podium where the Herald would soon be speaking.
“I don’t know where Albrecht is, unfortunately. I imagine he’s still recovering his pride from the kicking Ranva‘s bandits gave him.” Mara observed dryly, rather enjoying the role of disaffected cousin. There wasn’t far to travel for the role, the mage conceded. Solvi snorted something about charging uphill with derision while Julie did her best to retain the cover of doting date.
“Ah, Ranva. Shame about her, really.” Isabelle observed. “She could have been such an asset, had she not jumped off the ledge of her reason.”
“Too right. But those Orsana gave her part of Renora what for. Speaking of Orsana, what’s with the fancy axe? Run out of elf weapons?” Aldrich sniped, a congenial smile on his lips. Isabelle’s eyes slid to the weapon with growing suspicion, lips pursed. Solvi did not seem to react immediately, continuing to tend to the weapon with care. Mara thought about leaping to her aid, stalled by Julie’s firm prod under the cover of their robes.
“War trophy. I’m a veteran.” Solvi grunted, looking up with a studied casual gaze.
“What battle did you fetch such a fine piece from?” Isabelle asked with surface politeness. The icy bite to her tone prickled Mara’s ears. The temptation to send up a red flare began to form in the mage’s mind. Could she even do that without her staff? Why hadn’t she made another?!
“Karkun. I was there when the vampires were bombarding the walls. Took it from some shaman. Grey hair, angry, pretty good at magic too. But she couldn’t survive our numbers.” Solvi explained with the kind of terse, stern storytelling a battle like Karkun earned. Mara smiled behind her mask, impressed with her companion’s glibness. Every good lie held a kernel of truth and that lie had more than a kernel.
“Well, I’ll be. Thank you mightily for your service. Would that I could have been there, but I have terrible legs you understand. Can’t walk to my own damn house in Yanhelm!” Aldrich laughed, looking about shortly after before rubbing his stomach contemplatively. “Speaking of walking, I need to grab some snacks before the speech. Come on Isabelle, you can tell me all about these fancy elf foods of yours.” Aldrich bade his chaperone, to which she ruefully complied with a narrow gaze at Solvi. Mara’s anxiety briefly offered the unsettling thought that Renaud may have mentioned Solvi in his many interviews with her. It was only natural, after all, to share what your sana was up to whilst you sat waiting for the show to begin. Mara shook her head, reminding herself that she wasn’t that important, even to Renaud.
“What did the Orsana do in Renora that would create something like Ranva?” Mara asked Solvi, more to distract herself from her racing thoughts than out of genuine curiosity. Solvi’s care for her weapon froze eyes searching for a moment before Julie placed a calming hand on hers. The orsan woman nodded, as if affirming something to herself before answering.
“A lot of operations were routine. But to create Ranva, I can think of only one commander.” Solvi began, her eyes fixed upon the podium with dreadful intensity. “Rhian Ser Shoti was in charge of the occupation of Lyndal. She was cruel, even by our standards of wartime cruelty. When resistance fighters started hiding in the local villages, she started destroying them. I have no evidence for this, but the injuries on Ranva were unmistakable. No idea how she’d survive the devastation though.” The orsan sighed, eyes closed before she steadied herself with Julie’s soothing words. “She believed that Orsana were supreme. All others were livestock. They could be slaughtered like livestock.”
The trio were thankfully interrupted by the lowering of the lanterns and a reverberating introduction to the Herald. People raced eagerly to their seats, some carrying various traditional elvish food. Mara momentarily regretted not buying knot bread while she had the chance. Perhaps she could buy some after the Herald’s speech. The benches nearby filled with onlookers, cutting off any potential for non-nationalist conversations. With some trepidation, Mara noted that several families had come together. Briefly, she was reminded of her own parents. While many Enclave elves chose not to keep contact with their parents as was tradition, many more chose to sustain the relationship. Her stomach roiled with guilt as the memories of her time in Ruran impinged on the applause that roared to life as the Herald made his grand entrance, sporting an expensive white staff.
The Herald knew his audience well it seemed and allowed them to shower him in applause, whooping and various nationalist chants. Just as the energy of the room began to die down, the Herald raised his hand for quiet. Mara snapped back to the present to see Thora Van Cairn and a second unknown elf stand behind their leader, adopting militaristic poses and stern expressions. The room was quiet yet charged with an energy Mara had only ever wished to incite in her classroom.
“My friends! We have never spoken before but know that I am the Herald of the Sunburst Army. I come not just with libations aplenty and an opportunity to meet the finest of your fellows! I come with a message.” The Herald began, his voice powerful yet still as charming as it had been in person. Mara felt Julie stiffen against her, eyes transfixed upon the orator. “Since the very beginning of our people, when we rejected superstition and primitive categorization, when we were chosen by the goddess Sirona herself to shepherd the mortal races, we have seen naught but struggle! This divine providence was not lauded and adhered to by our fellow creature! Rather, it was spurned, cast out and reviled! We were pariahs, as if we had brought about the great cataclysm four millennia ago!” The Herald spoke vigorously, a hand gesticulating as he spoke. “Our grand ancestors sought to rebuild what we lost; the world without want, of technological marvels, of cities upon the very surface of the moon! Yet countless times, we were invaded, slaughtered and callously destroyed for our greatness and the meagre jealousies of the other races!” The Herald allowed anger to colour his voice, yet not the shrieking Arthur had feared. The shrieking and booing came from the crowd as they heard this version of their history, hisses adding sibilant accompaniment to his words. He then seemed to calm himself, ingratiating the crowd with a big smile. “Now then, do not spurn them! They are doing just as they were meant to do. Serve their betters.” The Herald explained with a sinister tinge to his voice similar to the one that had corrupted it earlier. “The coblini, the skitti and all the other peoples of this world do naught but what they are told. If you would look for your enemy, kind friends, look upon those who were the first to reject our ethos of enlightenment. Look upon the people who first set fire to our homes, butchered our families, cast down every attempt at rebuilding what we lost! I speak of humanity! Those callous primitive fools who stymy us at every turn! Those who once bowed and served in their true purpose!” The Herald’s voice rose in a mixture of righteous anger and pride as he spoke of the past. Mara found herself almost recoiling in her seat and tried to make it seem as if she were adjusting position. To say he was being selective was a dramatic understatement. Regardless, his words hit their target audience like a tidal wave, ripples of anger and discontent flowing through the crowd like lightning through tree bark. But the Herald had merely laid the groundwork. As he stalked up and down the stage, seeming to pace with fury, he thumbed a tear from his eye to a smattering of empathetic sighs.
“Do not pity me, friends. Pity those we have lost and hold them in your hearts. Those conscripted to serve in a pointless human war. Those whose grandparents perished in the purges of Yan. Oh yes, it was long ago for them. But for us, the pain burns in our breast just as harshly.” The Herald returned to the podium, appearing to calm himself as he took a steadying breath. Mara knew that he was gearing himself towards the apotheosis of his speech. “It is for the memory of my family that I fight now for our people. And I invite you to do the same. If we lose this battle, humanity will force itself into power. Such a corruption will see you flung from your livelihoods! It will see you forced to give your children over to theirs! Their misguided notions that we are the same but for our lifespan will be the death of our people! To those of you who linger in indecision I would ask, how much more are you willing to bear for their sake? Elves have been forced to endure the weakness, the callousness and the indolence of humanity for centuries! No more I say! No more! We will fight them and their underlings wherever they hide! If you should ever feel pause in whatever actions you see fit to take, remember this!” The Herald then paused, allowing his words to percolate throughout the pavilion while those before him stared in something close to awe. “They started this war! And they will not replace us!” The Herald bellowed with fists crossed atop his chest in a Miran salute.
The room erupted into cheers, Julie and Solvi emulating those around them for fear of discovery. Mara could only sit in her seat in abject disbelief, the world around her seeming to pause as she took in exactly what she had witnessed. She gripped the sickle that contained Armin’s soul and held it to her chest, hand shaking. And as the cheers died down to be replaced with a raucous round of applause, Mara found herself standing to leave. Julie gripped her elbow, steering her to sit still for a moment longer.
“What’s wrong with you? He’s not saying anything new.” Julie hissed in her ear, sending a ripple of consternation through Mara’s body. The mask dumbly turned to face her human companion, a shaking breath raking its way through her lungs. The pavilion began to empty, the audience gleefully recounting their thoughts on the speech. As a balm to Mara’s frayed nerves, some seemed to dislike his passion. It was cold comfort as the three of them began to move to their meeting place. Solvi placed a reassuring hand on the mage’s shoulder, buying her the knot bread she enjoyed so much. Mara automatically took it and held it with an empty air about her. The pot of spices that normally came with it sat unused in her other hand.
“Ah, I was wondering where you’d gotten to!” The voice of the Herald called from behind them. Through a throng of enthusiastic followers, he approached with Thora Van Cairn at his side. She was even more intimidating up close, being just shy of Solvi’s natural height. Her muscular frame was made all the more fearsome by the lengthy blade she held scabbarded over her shoulder.
The three of them turned in time to see the Herald’s ear being bent by one of the functionaries in the dress uniforms from earlier. He made an apologetic gesture towards the three of them before turning to the throng about him. Thora wrapped an arm about his waist and hoisted him upwards for better vision.
“It seems I’ve been designated too dangerous to speak! Moments ago, a bomb was found in my tent!” The Herald called to his followers. Mara and Solvi stiffened, fearing the worst. Had Fred and Arthur taken matters into their own hands? Mara wasn’t even sure one could whip up a bomb that quickly yet if anyone could, it would be Fred. “Please make your way to your homes as quickly and as orderly as you can! The Chevaliers have been called to attend to this threat!” The Herald instructed. Several of the congregation immediately turned about while others grew pale and shivered in fear. Still others pulled their weapons and threatened to find the ones responsible.
“Put your fury to better use. We have the perpetrators.” Thora snarled to one particular rabid elf wielding a mace. Before the Herald could rescind the order, the crowd looked to each other and came to a quiet consensus. They turned and began to file out of the graveyard with vicious intent, several testing the heft of their weapons. The group seemed torn between waiting for confirmation on Fred’s whereabouts and escaping this rapidly escalating situation.
“What a pity. I’m quite inconsolable at the moment because of the bomb threat.” The Herald spoke in a deadpan voice, steepling his fingers against his stomach as he spoke. He then turned to Thora with a wry grin, attracting a smug nod in return. “How did you like the speech?” He asked the trio conversationally, closing the distance between them.
“I’m surprised you didn’t mention the Orsana.” Mara replied with automatic politeness, the facsimile of Renaud collapsing into genuine curiosity. Solvi sighed, looking about for any sign of their party members.
“I have no ill will towards the Orsana. In fact, I admire them, to an extent.” The Herald commented with a shrug. “We share many truths about the world in our cultures. The Elysian project to educate them seems to have been a success.” He mused aloud before looking over towards where presumably his tent was situated. Mara resisted the urge to ask whether he referred to the slavery or the many wars Elys waged against the Isles. The Herald then seemed to have an idea, nudging Thora’s hip with his elbow. “I say, you used to deal with ordinance didn’t you Mara? Would you care to take a look at the device while we wait for the Chevaliers? I’d hate for it to be on a timer and us not know.” He asked with such ingratiating gestures that Mara’s anxiety-addled mind immediately suspected something. But cover had to be maintained and she would do right by Fred and Arthur.
“There is a chasm of difference between ordinance, and something slapped together in a kitchen.” Mara replied coolly. Solvi sounded her agreement, that waiting for the Chevaliers would probably be their best bet.
“Of course! But I daresay you can probably locate a timer better than we can.” The Herald laughed with some discomfort. Julie cleared her throat and drew an arrow on Mara’s back with the hand hidden behind the mage. Mara needed no telling and clucked her tongue beneath the mask, as if being dreadfully inconvenienced. After an exaggerated sigh, she bade he led the way. With a boyish grin, the Herald led them directly through the gravestones rather than along the paths. He casually flicked aside the springy branches of a willow-like tree on his way to the oldest parts of the cemetery.
The Army’s main encampment was a thoroughly temporary affair with tents hastily cobbled together into what approached a military installation. They had set their camp in a low rise where new graves were soon to be dug and filled in the traditional elvish manner. The only exception to this haphazard encampment’s standards was a large command tent with two large stakes holding it aloft. Several of the well-dressed guards stood outside, arms folded with dour expressions. As the Herald approached, he saluted them smartly before holding out a hand to introduce the three of them.
As they entered the tent, Mara’s frantic thoughts took in every detail she could. The interior of the tent had been hung with warm blankets to keep the cold from the low cot that served as the Herald’s bed. A stool held a bottle of some unknown substance. To the rear of the tent, a row of tables was arrayed holding maps and notes as well as a few books Mara had seen before in Yanhelm’s library. The rich red carpets kept any foot from stepping on the thick woollen mats that kept the interior of the tent dry. Mara’s eyes finally came to rest on a pair of struggling figures tied to one of the stakes of the tent. A very human Arthur and very skitti Fred were bound tightly, complaining to each other about the tightness and getting in each other’s way.
“That’s not a bomb. What’s the meaning of this?” Mara demanded in her most imperious noble voice. Thora entered the tent with an incredulous look while the Herald’s normally unshakable smile had now vanished. The unflappable polite youth had been erased, replaced with a grim-faced soldier. A part of Mara’s mind demanded she keep up the charade, that by dint of pure persistence she would convince them that she did not know Fred and Arthur. That she would have time to think. But as the Herald approached, a hand idly toying with a streak of flame, that notion evaporated. Only silent panic remained behind the mask.
“There is no bomb. And there is no chevalier coming to save you. Or your companions.” The Herald seethed, his rage festering beneath a mask of indifference. “The sole reason you draw breath is because you are a Tuil. And because you may yet be of use to us.” The Herald amended his sentence once he saw the soldier’s steel enter Fred’s eye. Mara used her mask to her advantage, face turning to the Herald whilst her eyes searched the room for her comrade’s weapons. The Herald was busy toying with one of the bangles given to them, explaining how he’d known the second he saw it. Mara very much doubted that. Finally, she spotted Fred’s rifle barrel poking out from the papers on the tables. Arthur’s mace had been haphazardly hidden under the blankets of the cot.
“Stop stroking your ego and tell us what you want.” Solvi snarled, taking the Guillotine in hand. The Herald regarded her with a condescending credulity, as if her very attempt to challenge him were absurd.
“Simply put I would know who’s been spying on us. It seems every time we hold a gathering, spies crowd into our midst. You’re just the first group stupid enough to appear twice.” The Herald drawled, the grip on his staff tightening as Solvi hefted her halberd with vicious intent. Mara held her hands up to both parties, her heart racing as she realised how close violence was at hand.
“You’re really surprised you are spied upon? Your lack of basic security measures is why you’re spied upon.” Julie snorted with her arms folded. She contemptuously glowered at Thora. The large elf woman returned the hostile glare with a deliberate unsheathing of the sword at her shoulder. The Herald shifted his stance to a more combative one. Julie chuckled, drawing a pair of daggers from beneath her dress. “I’ve killed bigger enemies of the empire.” She sneered at Thora, sinking low as she prepared to dive under the larger woman’s guard.
“Do we really have to get violent over this?” Mara begged. She looked imploringly at the Herald with hands held open beseechingly. “We are here against our will, Herald. Surely you can understand humans paying a desperate woman to do their dirty work?” Mara lied with such ease that Julie found herself surprised by the glib mage. Solvi wondered why it had taken her this long to come up with something half convincing.
“Sorry, Ver Fatuil. No mercy for trai- where’s the sickle?” The Herald began to condemn her with pride, yet his face fell the second he glanced at the other elf’s hip. With the sound of snapping rope, Fred and Arthur surged free of their bonds and raced to grab their weapons, Fred tossing ammunition into the air only to catch it with the chamber of his new rifle. Where they had moments ago been bound, the spirit of Armin grinned wickedly whilst holding the sickle.
“Oh right. I learned a few tricks. Like overloading the lanterns.” Mara taunted the Herald before surging magic into the air about them. The motes which had been so beautiful earlier conducted the power of the spell. The crystals within the lanterns grew to blinding luminance for a second before exploding in their cloth shells, plunging them into darkness. “Run!” Mara called to the party, bursting through the tent flaps before throwing the powder for her spicy knot bread in the eyes of the guards. She dimly heard the sound of Arthur’s armour clanking behind her. “We have to get to Twitcher!” Mara called over her shoulder, hurtling into the small, wooded area back towards the pavilion’s light.
“Thora, take some Serenites and bring me their heads!” The Herald shouted somewhat further behind them all, the thudding armoured feet of his guardian perilously close. “I want to see what this Tuil is made of!” He laughed with all the vigour of a hunter closing in on his prey. Mara and her group only saw the briefest flash of orange light before the tombstone directly in front of them exploded, showering them with gravel. The second blast hit closer to home, flinging Mara to the side while her companions continued on. Mara rolled to her feet and pelted away from Solvi, a red light forming in her hand as their eyes met.
“Get to Twitcher! I’ll handle him!” Mara yelled, casting the light skywards. It soared, growing in intensity until a red pall fell upon the graveyard. Even the motes changed colour in sympathy, sensing the danger upon the air. The rest of the party reluctantly continued their escape while Mara flung herself towards the oldest graves. The darkness and overgrowth would make ideal cover from the Herald’s attacks.
The denial of that assumption came in the form of a gravestone crashing into her side, sending her spiralling against a mausoleum wall with a grunt of pain. As she groggily raised her head, she saw him approaching. Shorn of his traditional long robes, the Herald wore a hauberk with leather overcoat, his spell book floating freely next to him. As Mara recovered from the blow, she looked up to see murder manifest in his eyes and fire form in his outstretched hand.
