No ones chosen, p.5
No One's Chosen, page 5
She saw the slightest clench roll over the jaw of the elf, he did not like being questioned. "You will have your first two weeks paid in advance, should you agree. While my coffers are no concern of yours, darkling, it should be said that you are free to leave if your fees are not satisfied in full."
Aile considered this for a moment. If the elf was curious about her expression, his distaste for her kind wouldn't allow him to show it. "What is expected of your, how did you say? Your whispering shadow?"
"You will be provided a room at a certain inn. Whether you use it for respite is no matter to me. The room contains a false wall that is to be used for exchanges." He shifted in the chair, clearly uncomfortable on such a cheap thing.
"And you would have a darkling do your work?"
For the first time since entering the room, he faced the Drow. The sneer was plain on his face, Aile smiled. He turned back to the window but his voice betrayed his anger. "Make no mistake, darkling. Working with you fills me with nothing short of disgust. I do not wish to work with filth as much as I do not wish that the work was necessary. I am left with no other course to a conclusion that benefits my people."
"I do not care for the plight of your people, only that your gold arrives when it should and that you do not interfere with my work."
He seemed to shrink, the sound of resignation game from under the dark hood. "You are, regretfully, a board in the bridge across a black depth. I do not intend to burn it."
"Acceptable. Then, we have come to terms."
"Good." The elf stood, his sharp features cut a unique silhouette as he turned. Reaching into his cloak, the noble produced two pouches of gold, each about two-thirds the size of the first she had been given, and tossed them on the floor of the room. Aile looked down at them. "Your salary." He produced a third pouch, half the size of the first, and tossed it onto the other two. "And the stipend. How long do you expect it will take you to reach Spéirbaile?"
Aile crossed her legs. "No more than a week."
"Understood. The pouch with the stipend contains a writ of passage. Show it at the gates. A courier will find you when you arrive to supply further instruction."
Aile nodded wordlessly and the elf took his leave of her chambers. He'd left a smell, she thought to herself, some flowery smell she couldn't quite place. It was more earthy than sweet and it made her angry to breathe it in. She held not particular hatred for the elves. Indeed, most were fairly pleasant. Highborn, though… Goddess they were a special sort of creature. She shook the thought from her mind and stood. Without a sound, she paced to the small sacks of gold. Aile worked her foot under the edge of one and flipped it up to her waiting hand. She bounced the bag lazily in her hand and went to look out the window.
Certainly the elf must have been bored to tears staring at such a landscape. Brown on tan on beige. It was as if the desert elves were allergic to vibrance. Or maybe it was the land itself which sucked the color from things, she thought. Even the towering palisade of wrought iron and black steel which encircled the High District seemed to helplessly drown in the dismal earth tones. She couldn't imagine the reds, greens, and purples of the hanging banners had ever been vibrant.
It dawned on Aile that she hadn't ever been to the north. Would it be so barren? Or maybe a bleak landscape of inescapable whiteness. She tossed the gold to the bed and decided she had had enough of such thoughts. The contents of those pouches meant she was not a slave to the nature of whatever place she happened to be. If she wished for color and comfort in this land of dirt and dust, she need only jingle a few coins and it would be hers. That was the truth of the world, she knew.
She closed the door to her room behind her, back in the hallway of the alehouse's second floor. The noise from below had grown again as the night drew to a crescendo. Down the stairs a third time.
Aile was pleased to find her table remained as she had left it. The elves here had some sense. She retook her seat and looked over the floor again. A minstrel had shown up and was playing bawdy songs one after another. A few tables had been cleared off and some of the dimmer looking females took turns at what Aile imagined passed for dancing seductively on them. Still, most men and a number of the women seemed game for it. Aile waved for a fresh mug and a young waitress came to see to her.
"You been real popular tonight, mistress." The waitress smiled cordially.
"Didn't you know?" Aile smiled back. "Drow are always popular."
The girl seemed confused, as if there was some hidden meaning, and hurried off. When she returned with the mug replenished, she said nothing. The rest of the night passed without conversation as the waitress still seemed convinced the Drow meant to eat her firstborn. Aile had never been one for words, but she enjoyed watching people and puzzling out their motives and their cultures. Her own people had been largely incomprehensible to her. A rigid, proud society that spoke of Drow unity out of one side of their mouths and seemed only capable of discordant infighting from the other. She had wondered about the world outside the Blackwood. About the elves. A time or two she had imagined leaving, even. When her hand and maidenhead were promised to the gormless son of some patron of her father's in exchange for a parcel of land, she fled.
The dull thud of a mug on the table interrupted her recounting of the past. She looked across the table to see a tall, muscular elf with rugged features and two day's stubble.
Aile's hand went to her thigh instinctively. She raised an eyebrow at the elf as he swayed back and forth under the influence of his drink.
"Ain't never been in a Drow before." He stopped there and stared at Aile as if that revelation begged a response.
"Fascinating."
He didn't seem to hear her. "'ow much?"
"Leave, elf." She decided to be as plain as she could. While not exactly a delicate situation, she had no interest in opening the throat of a drunkard.
"'ey now. Don' be—" He wretched and his throat spat a wet click. "don't be picky, whore. My gold shines good as that highborn."
"I am no whore, lout. Go from me."
He adjusted his cock. "Sisters, that accent does me in. Lemme jus' see yer—" He reached across toward her face but before he put hand to skin, she grabbed his wrist. In a blink she forced his hand to the table. A blade appeared as if from nowhere and she slammed it through the upturned palm and deep into the wood of the table.
He stood, eyes wide and bloodshot. The wisp of a scream breached his open mouth before the blunt end of another dagger found his throat. He grabbed at his neck with the free hand and leaned away instinctively. The blade through his hand held fast and the edge peeled apart his hand. Blood gushed from the bifurcated appendage onto the half-bare chest of the choking elf. The alehouse grew quiet in an instant. Horrified eyes darted between Aile and her bloodied friend.
"If you are a friend to this man, he is in need of a healer." She said it flatly, pulled the dagger from the table, wiped it clean, and placed it back in its sheath.
As Aile sat back down to her drink, the drunk was dragged off by a pair sporting concerned looks. She waved a waitress over and the minstrels resumed their songs.
"Spéirbaile," she thought. "I shall require heavier clothes."
PART TWO
Socair
Socair had calmed down considerably by the time she made it back to Crosta's. He still seemed annoyed but informed her that they would march at dawn. There had been a scouting report that a large hippocamp horde had struck and razed a town to the north-east. This marked a change in tactic for the hippocamps and since their unit was closest to the city, they would be marching to engage. Crosta then curtly reminded her that she needed to debrief her people and sent her on her way.
Socair stepped out of the camp and heaved a heavy sigh. For the first time since the fighting had ended she felt a sense of relief. She hadn't known what to make of the regent's advances and she would rather just put it out of her mind. Regardless of the intent or deeper meaning there might have been— Socair convinced herself there was none— she would be marching in the morning and likely never returning. She made for the section of the vast encampment where the vanguard were stationed. It had always been the manner of the Abhainnbaile military to keep fairly tightly to your own company. Conventional wisdom was that this manner of isolationism would strengthen unit cohesion, engender deep adherence to the chain of command, and keep morale over losses outside of a given company from dipping.
As she passed one of the rear guard encampments and heard the revelry, she couldn't help but remember that it had always seemed such a foreign idea to her. Her father would often send his three children out on hunting trips. They were to live off the land and not return before catching the quarry he had assigned them, one each, of their own ability. If they returned without having completed their task, they would be beaten mercilessly. Later, she would come to understand that he had made himself the villain with great purpose. He had sacrificed the love of his children to make them strong. Or at least she liked to imagine it that way.
One particular hunt stood out in her mind. She and her brothers had been sent to the swamps of the south-west to find some reptile her father'd known of, half the size of a horse. She'd know it to see it, but Sisters help her, she couldn't remember the name for the life of her. They had been out so many times before in their hunting and had, at worst, failed to track and kill their prey. The reptile was different. Fierce and with a hunger for survival they had never seen. The geography of the swamp had limited their ability to give proper chase and the creature's chest was home to a thick, bony plate which meant arrows weren't apt to penetrate.
The reptiles were in no short supply, so they meant to ambush one from the trees and cut off its means of escape. The plan had started fine. They cornered the beast and her eldest brother made for the kill. The beast would have none of it and slashed at his leg, finding purchase. He fell to the ground instantly, writhing in pain. The plan had failed so they withdrew, taking him to camp. Medicinal herbs were having no effect, it seemed.
"We should go, we must." Socair had pleaded with her middle brother. He refused. The hunt was not over. Even with the eldest like to die, he would not abandon the mission. Socair was furious, but she couldn't say at what. Her oldest brother for being felled so easily, the other for refusing to leave, or the damnable beast for existing in the first place. She stood wordlessly and walked into the wood. The able brother called after her but could not afford to pursue with the eldest sick as he was.
Socair lost all track of time in her rage. When she finally returned to camp, she came covered in black blood and dragging the corpses of three of the reptiles. "The hunt is finished. We are leaving." Her brother offered no protest to her declaration.
Certainly, she thought as she walked through the camp, the outrage of seeing something she loved attacked had made her fight so deftly. Still, military protocol was what it was and she knew better than to question the orders of a commanding officer or the way of the many that had come before her. Her father had rarely done anything without purpose. He would not want any of them dead, she was confident of that. "Fear and hate and rage. Every weapon has an edge. It will cut only that which you allow it."
She was back to her company now so she put thoughts of the past out of her mind. "Officers! Rally!" She called with great authority and her soldiers fell into ranks quickly. It had been only a season and a half since she was raised to Leader of the Vanguard. The entire unit had been supportive though a few of the more cynical among them— usually those doing their compulsory service— insisted that it was a political move to raise morale in the Bastion City. They were still happy for her, they insisted. And she deserved the position. But everything was politics. She tended to agree with them, though not out loud. It was rare for a lowborn to be raised into a leadership position but her actions at Glassruth had made her quite popular among the river elves.
"Debriefs." She stated plainly, she liked to be somewhat informal after a day of fighting, and brief. It put everyone at ease and was less likely to dredge up concerns. "We'll start at the first left flank. Doiléir."
A tan elf, dark hair marking him as of desert stock, stepped forward. "Only two, Vanguard. Arrows took them in the first minutes. They were slow to raise their shields and paid for it. I have petitioned for two to be called up from reserves. They should be battle-ready by morning muster, assuming I applied an amount of wax that Requisitions will find pleasing." The gathered officers chuckled at the jest, Socair as well.
"Sisters willing," she rolled her eyes. "First right flank."
A soft-spoken elf in plain clothes stepped forward, Silín. A pair of twin braids hanging down over her chest. "No losses. There was minimal resistance to the breach on the right flank."
Socair patiently heard reports from the gathered officers. All reports given, she let them know they would be marching on the dawn. Groans came and went and the officers were dismissed. Socair made for her private tent. It was one of the few luxuries she had ever been allowed and it was, in all honesty, one of the few she imagined she would enjoy.
The tent was fairly plain in general. Of the same make and size as the barrack tents that were thrown up for the line soldiers, but in place of five other bodies and the accompanying sounds, there was only empty space and silence. It had, in honesty, taken her a while to become accustomed to sleeping alone, but after a week or so she had grown to relish the ability to lay down and let the weight of the day fall off of her. While the tent was thin and still allowed nearly all of the sounds of the camp in, they felt impenetrable.
She had sat down upon her bed and begun removing her shoes when she heard voices approaching the outside of the tent.
"We ought not bother her, she has been—" Before Silín could finish her sentence she had been pushed through the flaps of the tent. Silín regained her footing and looked up at Socair, clutching her armor. "Uh… evening, Vanguard."
Socair smiled and Doiléir made his way in carrying three skins of wine. "It is well past evening."
"It is," Socair remarked playfully. "And I do wish you'd stop calling me Vanguard in my private quarters."
"One can hardly blame her, however." Doiléir pulled the cork on one skin after tossing the others to the bed. "Especially with you looking as you do."
Socair looked down at her attire, having forgotten about it. "Sisters be good, I'd nearly forgotten."
"We were worried you'd gone and joined the courtly types. Silín especially." Doiléir's jest ruffled the girl.
"I did no such thing! I know Socair would never leave us." Silín answered back.
"Right! She'd take us with."
Socair laughed and scooped up one of the skins. She took her armor from Silín. "It was certainly something."
She began undressing as her friends made themselves comfortable around the tent. As naked as she had felt in front of all those nobles, she didn't give a second thought to changing in front of her fellow soldiers. She never had. She was happy to trade the thin clothes of those that were meant to be her social betters for the lazy tug of armor across her shoulders.
Silín and Doiléir listened attentively as Socair recounted the dinner she'd just experienced. They had been with her for so long she could scarcely remember. It had been at least ten years now, though she had no mind for tracking dates or the passing of seasons. Socair was one of the few to request a position in the van. The choice was one that was considered incredibly honorable by all the official codes but somewhat headstrong and foolish by most normal folk. She'd never considered it either, but still, volunteers were grouped into a formal squad while those which were called up from reserves or other units made up other squads. Another of those morale structures that didn't make much sense to Socair.
They put her at ease, in truth. There was not another soul in the camp she'd have told the story. Even then, she felt a twinge of betrayal in telling it. Would Rún have been upset at her? She caught herself wondering and returned to reveling with her friends. Surely she wouldn't. It must have been some offhand thing. The whims of a noble.
When she told them of the kiss, Doiléir was so surprised that he spat wine out on the floor. Silín would likely have chastised him had she not been so busy blushing. They joked about it, pondering on the motives of nobles, each agreeing they'd likely never comprehend the minds of people who sat on majestic chairs and lived in constant comfort. Silín had the final word of it, suggesting that most weren't likely to understand why an able-bodied elf would ever join the vanguard. They toasted that and drank until the skins were empty.
Silín and Doiléir bid Socair goodnight and made for their bunks. She could hear the vaguest whisper of their jokes as she once again undressed. Socair made her way to the bed and laid down, closing her eyes. She saw a flash of Rún's face and a tingle at her lips and she was asleep.
The next morning she rose before the first horn. Her head was throbbing with the pain of an evening spent in her cups. It'd been a long time since she'd had more than a few drinks. Several mugs with dinner and a full skin had done her in.
She groaned and moved to her armor. It would take the bulk of her concentration to get everything into place but eventually her wakefulness caught up to the sun and she exited her tent with the morning horns. The troops rallied around and she told them of the plan. They would be headed north-east, in the direction of the desert province Fásachbaile. A town near the border was likely to come under siege and they would move to defend. There were no questions and her team left to take their positions on the front of the marching column.
The march was uneventful, to say the least, and they made good time. Camps were kept light and the march was swift. Toward the end of the second day of marching, they arrived at a large hill nearly an hour's march from the town they meant to defend. A rider wearing the sigil of the Binseman came to the head of the column.
"Vanguard, there has been a change of plan."
Socair raised an eyebrow at the rider's words. "Out with it."
