JC Eberdt

Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

A Half Elf?

Bernard was in his late eighties and she had been in the village for something less than a century and a half. That was as close as she could work it out. She’d been as interested in what year it was as most of the other villagers for her first few decades in Thetwick, which was to say, not at all. She wasn’t completely certain about the first decade or two and she didn’t really know how old she had been when she arrived.

Her best estimates if she compared herself to human children would put her age near to two centuries. She was physically fully developed and she was almost completely certain that she wasn’t a half-elf. She was an out and out elf. Since she had finally decided to let her hair grow out she discovered the full depth of her natural colour. It was a lustrous reddish gold, depending on how the light hit it. That colour combined with her complexion and her gifts with fire, had led her to believe that the only answer that made any sense was that she was a Fire Elf. This in itself didn’t make sense of course, since all the stories she had ever heard from travellers insisted that the last of the Fire Elves had disappeared half a millennium before, which worked out to about three centuries before she was born.

Still, she couldn’t really come to any other conclusion. Individual attributes, like the colour of her hair, eyes and skin did exist among the other kinds of elves, but not all at once, it seemed. Add in her gift with fire and flames, and that made her a member of an elven kind that was extinct according to all of the travellers she had ever managed to cajole into telling her anything about elves. Some even claimed that the stories of Fire Elves were like those about dragons, which was to say clearly just that – stories for children. She found her conclusion highly suspect, but no amount of pondering resulted in a more credible theory. She’d briefly considered the possibility that she was a metal elf, it was the elven kind that seemed to have the highest chance to look like her, but that explanation became unsatisfactory to account for her affinity with flames. She tried manipulating metal the way she could fire, but the iron gate she had chosen for the exercise simply grew red hot and then sat there and did nothing.

There were other kinds of elves who could conceivably have a complexion with features like hers, she’d learned, it was possible for Metal, Earth and Wood elves to come close, but her gift seemed to be something only the more fantastic stories even mentioned and it was only ever attributed to Fire Elves. Eventually, after keeping it to her self for about two years after she had decided there was no other answer, she put this to the mostly deaf, usually relaxed, doddering old Bernard.

“Bernard. I don’t think I’m a half-elf.”

“Yes love, I know.”

“Did you hear me, Bernard?”

“Yes, yes. I heard.”

“I think I’m an Elf. Probably a Fire Elf… but they’re not supposed to exist… so maybe… Metal then?”

“Yes, yes, of course I heard you. Do you think I’m deaf?”

“Well… if the shoe fits?”

“I suppose I am a little hard of hearing these days, but of course you’re an elf! Fire, I’d think. Don’t tell anyone mind you. Not around here anyway…” He struggled to turn to her in his chair, suddenly looking surprised, “did you not know?”

Ala’s jaw dropped open, stunned to silence for a few moments.

“How long have you known? Why did you never tell me?”

He shrugged, “My dear Ala, I realised the day I arrived here. You know, when I retired… It truly never occurred to me that you didn’t know.”

“You knew I was a fire elf immediately?”

“I was sure you were an elf when I saw you. I knew it could only be a fire elf when I saw you doing that thing with my cooking fire, that first day.”

“But… that was almost four decades ago!”

“I know. You know, the elves I’ve known said those mythical special abilities are just stories… maybe they were lying, though I doubt it. So you’re special, even for an elf… not just special to me, but special even for a fire elf… and that was even before you learned to be the deadliest swordswoman in Taladaria. When I finally took a moment to think about your dyed hair, everything made sense, fit together a bit neater.”

“You mean other Fire Elves can’t do… the thing I do… my Little Trick… with the fire?

“I don’t know about other Fire Elves. I’ve never seen or met one, aside from you. Other kinds of elves had different abilities, in children’s stories at least, I think. Never been on really close terms with an elf though… well… except that one time in Port Mistral. Anyway, so I just don’t really know if they do or don’t have those kinds of abilities. There’s elven Magisters, trained in magic, of course. There are two sisters who live in Duilhac, that I know of. Don’t know if that’s the same or not. I’m mostly certain Half-Elves can’t do any of it, though, so there’s that. In any case none that I’ve ever met.”

Ala was silent for a moment. She felt her eyes moistening. Bernard spoke again, with a thoughtful look.

“You know Ala, though I never knew the woman, I always respected Palady for taking you in. That would have been difficult back then. It’d even be difficult now. I think… I think she decided it would be safer for you if the villagers thought you were at least part human. You can’t blame her for thinking it, her reasoning seems very sensible to me. From what you’ve told me about her, I doubt she ever intended for you not to know yourself.”

“Yes, I understand that. It’s just… well… I don’t know…”

“I suppose I can’t really compare it to anything. Not knowing I was a human? Would I mind? I don’t know?”

“Perhaps it doesn’t matter as much as it seems,” she sighed.

“Anyway, perhaps Palady never thought that you really didn’t know, or maybe the time to tell you just didn’t really ever appear. I think not telling you was to protect you if it was ever intentional. I always thought it was just part of the ruse – that you knew. You really only just realised?”

“Not long ago. But… I don’t know. I guess it wouldn’t have made any difference. It’s just… I would have liked to have known.”

“It’s a good disguise though, isn’t it? An elf who thinks she’s a half-elf makes for a very convincing half elf. It’s lucky that these yokels out here don’t know the first thing about elves and elven lifespans otherwise they would have figured it out by now. Some Thets must at least suspect it. Those that do have evidently decided not to mention it to anyone.”

Ala sat down on a stool in front of the fire, across from Bernard. She sat silently for a time. Bernard waited for her to speak, he was never really in a rush anymore.

“So now what do I do? I don’t have another two, maybe three hundred years of life, like a half-elf might. I’m not half way… not by a long shot. It’s probably more like another… eight hundred years? I can hardly comprehend it. More maybe… stories are very vague on how long elves actually live…. I’m sorry, but you don’t have more than another ten or fifteen years left in you, my dear Bernard. What will I do then?”

Bernard smiled.

“Ten or fifteen years? You’re being very generous, that’s mighty nice of you. I’m not going to last anywhere near that long, though it’s not for any desire to leave you behind. Look, I’ve left you this place of course, I don’t have any children… that I know of anyway…. The old Constable, Roger Marchmain may be dead but the new one, his son Travis, that dickhead, is even more ambitious, more dangerous, possibly even a little smarter, which is a shame…”

“Can’t disagree with that,” she nodded.

“That good for nothing will probably contest my will. Or he’ll do something else to get rid of you. When I die, he’ll make his move. I’m certain of it. My property is one of the most substantial in Thetwick. He knows I have the Duke’s ear. He won’t move while I’m alive. But he wants this place and especially the land that goes with it, I’d bet.”

“Aren’t they already quite rich?”

“The Marchmains have their hears set on nobility, land is what makes a noble, more often than not. They’re probably the second landowners in Thetwick, with my lands, well, they’d be a long way there at least. Travis will make things hard for you. He’s still wary of the Duke though, but you may have to travel to the Duke’s court to get your Right.”

“Bernard, I love you, but I don’t care about your lands or wealth. I will miss you terribly. I don’t like this… living for hundreds of years if it’s without the people you love, like you and Aubree and Palady,” her eyes began to dampen.

“I know. That must be very hard. I’ve seen people I cared for die before their time. Every day I wish I’d had more time with Aubree. I had a crush on her when I was twelve, did you know?”

“I gathered you must have.”

“Centuries of losing people must be harder than I can imagine. I have seen many companions fall or be taken away. I don’t care for it… I think, that after you have established your claim at the Duke’s Court, you should maybe seek out other elves. At least they live longer. If you’re not ready for that, just offer the Duke your sword. He already knows about you. I have written to him, in the utmost confidence, of course.”

“Really? You’ve written to the Duke about me? That I’m a fire elf?”

“I’m sorry Ala, I didn’t realise you meant for it to be a big secret. At least not to learned people. The Duke is a good man, he won’t go around telling people about it. I did mention that it was safer for you to be able to masquerade as a half elf. He won’t go around pointing it out, not without good reason.”

Ala considered for a moment what to think about that. It didn’t really matter she supposed, it really was just that she would have liked to know herself.

Bernard continued his explanation, “I did not write to him solely for your sake, he will also need to do something about the military leadership here when I pass away. He’s had it easy, of late, with you so splendidly discharging my duties. When I’m gone though, he’s going to need to solve the problem somehow, as those raiders will keep coming. He won’t be able to assign you as Captain, I don’t think. The malcontents would sabotage you, possibly even claiming something inane, like that they’d rather deal with an Oakharrower than an Elf. It won’t be pretty. Putting a young she-elf in such a position would require more goodwill than even the Duke can muster. He couldn’t do it in good conscience – not if he wants Thetwick unified enough to be defensible.”

“I don’t really mind. I never expected to be Captain. I don’t think I want to stay here without you and Aubree and Palady around.”

“Well, it’s not right that you can’t be made militia Captain, if you ask me. You’ve been doing the work and doing it well. No one could do it better than you.”

“Thank you for saying that.”

“Now, when you do leave, that sword of yours may offer a clue to who you may be. Follow it, learn more about it, elves are long lived, you may yet have relatives somewhere. Among elven smiths, there must be those who know the histories of such magnificent weapons. I’d bet my own steel that there is an elf somewhere who knows that sword, who can tell you more about it and which elven legend it’s a part of, for a sword like that can only be legendary.”

“You really think it’s that special?”

“If I only count the good swords that I have seen in my days, I think there have been thousands. None compare to your blade.”

She knew it was special of course, but she’d never realised just how special, it seemed.

Bernard continued his stream of advice, “there is also a man at the Duke’s court. He’s an actual half elf and was always a good friend. He’ll still be there. His name is Gladiuth. There’s a few elves who live in Duilhac too, though no Fire Elves, I don’t think. Gladiuth is related to some of them. I’m sure he’ll introduce you. He was my best man in the regiment. Saved each others arses countless times. He’s the one who sent me the Liechtenauer Fechtbuch. I’m sure he will help if he can. You have your own sword. Mine is too heavy for you anyway. If you go there, I think I would like him to have mine. He collects fine weapons, you know. Sometimes he gives one away to someone worthy of wielding it. I think he would perhaps know someone worthy of it. Would you deliver my Ulfberht to him?”

“Bernard, you know I will, if you ask me to.”

“Yes, I do. Also, it would please me, if I knew my families’ lands were in good hands. Even if I own far more than my father ever did, it’s… like a legacy, you know? Perhaps it’s foolish that it matters to me, but it does all the same. I know you don’t care about that sort of thing, but you’ll take care of that for me, won’t you?”

“Of course, Bernard. I will make certain of it. Now, let’s please stop talking about when you’re gone now, please? It depresses me.”

“Just one last thing, Ala. I want you to know that I feel most fortunate and privileged that you are willing to stay with me to the end of my days. I know full well you’re simply biding your time till that day comes. It is a truly momentous gift to me, Ala. Incomparable, really.”

That made it impossible for Ala to keep her eyes dry.

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Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

Gabriel

As the practical day to day leader of the militia she couldn’t really hide. Suitors started to call on her. They were all magnanimously willing to overlook her half elven heritage for a tumble. She turned them all down. She did continue her efforts to speak to travellers and caravanners, still attempting to learn more about half elves. Many of the visiting traders were vastly more worldly than the Thetwickers and seemed less reticent to speak to a half elf. She tracked down anyone interesting who came to Thetwick from the outside world, hoping to learn more, especially about elves and half-elves. Most people weren’t helpful but sometimes she spoke to someone who was able to add a tiny piece to the puzzle, albeit ever so small.

It was on one of these expeditions that she was in the town looking for a storyteller that some of the children said had come into town on the most recent caravan. She found him near the square, a tall dark haired man with matching eyes. He had a deep, moving voice and the children listening to his stories were mesmerised. After he had finished with the stories for the day, he turned to her.

“Is there something I can be of assistance with, Milady?”

“I’m no noble, Master Bard. I was hoping, though, that you might have time for me to buy you an ale and perhaps a meal and that I might ask you some things about what goes on in the world outside of Thetwick?”

Buying people a meal was how she normally got visitors to sit down and tell her things. Bernard paid her for her work as acting militia Captain, so it was an investment she could easily afford. She noticed him looking her over and glancing at her sheathed sword.

“Perhaps then Mistress, if you tell me your name, I would be most delighted to. I am Gabriel,” he said with a slight bow.

“That seems fair, Master Gabriel. They call me Alagariel.”

“A pleasure, Mistress. If I might be so bold, I detect an elven heritage, do I not?”

“You are right. I am a half-elf. Orphaned. I was adopted.”

“I see. Your stories may be more interesting than mine then. I do accept your gracious offer, of course. No entertainer worth his salt turns down a free meal and conversation in such company.”

Gabriel was both well travelled and intelligent. He was able to tell her a lot, including several tales about elven women who she assumed he had bedded though he left out specifics. She found he actually left out a lot of specifics and was more interested in poetic licence. He visited Thetwick several times over the course of a few years. She grew to become very fond of him and learned a lot about the rest of Taladaria from him. She was happy when he was in town and her relationship with him became quite intimate and eventually he became her first lover. She knew that it was never going to be a settle down together kind of relationship, but she was curious and he was attractive and gentle, if a bit of a vagabond. It was because of the time she spent with Gabriel that Ala eventually began to wonder whether Palady and Bernard might just be a little bit wrong about what she was.

Her lifespan and time to mature just didn’t fit what travellers, especially Gabriel, had told her about half-elves. Gabriel had told her a little about his dalliances with a number of elven and half-elven ladies. Between all the blushing she learned a little about the difference between how elves and half-elves sleep. What she’d learned from him had shocked her when she realised what it must mean. The fact that she didn’t sleep, at least not in the way that humans did was a giveaway. Gabriel had been very clear that the half-elves he had known definitely slept. He didn’t hide the fact that he’d had plenty of opportunities to observe. Only elves didn’t. He’d even asked some of these women them about the difference, he said.

Her rest was more a sort of meditative half aware trance, quite different from what she saw humans doing. It just didn’t seem to fit with being a half-elf. A few weeks after that she realised that no other conclusion was possible. She had to be a full blooded elf. The lifespan, the sleeping and the fire magic she hid from everyone but Bernard, it all added up to only one possible conclusion. She even decided to stop dying her hair after what turned out to be one of Gabriel’s last visits to Thetwick. The final drop had been when Gabriel pointed out a discrepancy in her reasoning about using the hair dye.

“So… just so I have this straight, Ala dear. Your adoptive mother, who said you were a half elf… she wanted you to dye your hair… so you’d look more like a half elf?”

“Uhm. Yes. I guess. It sounds odd when you put it like that. I don’t know. Maybe she had a half earth elf in mind, they’re the most common, right?”

“They are I think. Perhaps that was her intent. Well, I’m just asking. So, all this, was over a century and a half ago at which point you were already decades old? Just so I have my numbers straight?”

“Well… yes… but…”

“Half elves are generally well into their middle age, at two centuries? Rather than… you know… looking a bit like human teenagers?”

“I don’t really know what to say to that, Gabriel…”

“No need to say anything, my love, I was just wanting to get things straight. I’m considering a poem. The ‘Long-lived half-elven beauty’, perhaps. No. That isn’t a good name. I’ll come up with something. I’m struggling how to make it credible, though.”

She shook her head. He often said such things, carefully crafted to suggest something. He hadn’t written any songs or poems about her yet or if he had, he hadn’t shown them to her or mentioned them. She thought about the exchange a bit before conceding that Palady might indeed also have known more than she ever mentioned. She had no real idea of what her natural hair colour was any more. It was certainly a shade of red, she knew. She decided it was time to find out.

It wasn’t long after when Gabriel’s next absence became far longer than usual. Eventually she realised he probably wasn’t coming back. She remembered she’d been sad when Gabriel had last left. Had it been something in his manner, she wondered? He’d given no indication that he wouldn’t be coming back and their last parting had been warm. She asked other visitors if they had seen or heard of him, but he seemed to have disappeared. From her questions she was able to deduce that he wasn’t just staying away from Thetwick – no one had seen him at all since shortly after his last visit to her.

Unless he had suddenly chosen to travel further afield than he had ever done before, it worried Ala. A caravan groom told her she had seen him telling stories far to the west a few weeks after he had last visited. She could discover no later sightings of him. She wondered whether she’d been just another of his dalliances. Later on she had to admit to herself that he had never talked about any of his lovers in anything but the most glowing and fond terms. She’d taken him to bed willingly even though she suspected that he might have a few other ‘special friends’ in other places where he plied his trade. She didn’t expect him to stop travelling for her – didn’t even want him to, it wasn’t the life she envisioned for herself. She wasn’t looking for eternity, since that would mean watching him grow old and die, which she was not ready to do again. She considered going to look for him but she knew Bernard needed her running the militia. If something had befallen Gabriel, she would be too late and if he had chosen to move on he could easily be at the other end of the Kingdom or even beyond it.

% 25th of July/Soltop 989, Ford Inn, Alissa Corbin
She even travelled to the Ford Inn, in a moment of weakness. She had hopes of being able to secure some news about Gabriel. It was to no avail though she was happy to be able to sit and talk to Alissa, the Innkeeper’s half-elven niece again, though.

“Gabriel? Tall, dark… good looking? Wonderful voice? Of course I know him. He’s passed through here regularly the past few years. Why do you ask?”

“Well… he just… I thought he would have visited again by now.”

“Minstrels aren’t the most reliable sorts, Ala. Did you really come all the way out here to just to ask about him? Oh… wait… I think I get it!”

Ala gave her a look. It was obvious to Alissa that she’d guessed correctly.

“Well, very juicy. As your friend I should point out the many, many warnings you and I have both heard against getting involved with a travelling entertainer…”

“I know, Alissa, I knew what I was getting in to.”

“Yet, you’ve ridden out here after him with no particular plan?”

“Point taken.”

“Well, since we’re well past the point where and advice of caution is of any use, I really can’t do anything other than keep an eye out for him? I’m sorry Ala.”

“Thanks Alissa. I got into it in full possession of my faculties. I guess I’m just sad he’s gone.”

“Normal, I think. He was a nice man. Pleased I didn’t bed him now though.”

“Did he… try to?” Asked Ala, a little shocked.

“No, you know him better than I do. That man does not need to chase women. We flock to him. I certainly considered it, though.”

Ala realised that she was right. “You’re right. Oh well. What about you? How are things here?”

Alissa did not have an easy life. The Innkeeper, her mother’s nephew did not approve of either his sister or her half-elven daughter. He treated them much the way he did Ala, which gave them something to bond over. Of course, Ala only had to tolerate him on her infrequent visits to the Ford Inn while Alissa lived with the bastard.

Ala briefly considered travelling into Taladaria itself to continue her search but somewhere deep inside she knew that this was Gabriel’s pattern. He simply moved on. She was sad about it, but she had known that Gabriel was a wanderer and she had never intended for it to be a truly serious relationship. She decided to go back to Thetwick, where she knew Bernard needed her to run the militia, silently saying her goodbyes to Gabriel.

If you wish to receive the weekly installment to this story in your inbox, please subscribe to the newsletter below.

Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

Acting Captain

Life continued mostly unchanged for Ala. As Bernard got older groups of bandits and raids from Oakharrow seemed to become more frequent. After the Battle of Vanidil, trouble always seemed in the north of the March. It had not taken long after that first encounter with Oakharrowers in 955 for raiders to learn to flee whenever the Thetwick Militia was spotted. There had been more fights of course, but they had always ended badly for the Oakharrowers. At least, that had been the case when the militia was involved. The militia still wasn’t remotely able to stop most of the incursions.

Ala had ridden a few patrols that had been ambushed, but they had managed to fight her way out every time. The militia did occasionally suffer losses but thankfully whoever was directing the raids out of Oakharrow had no interest in training the unfortunate peasants that were sent to do the dirty work. She and Bernard took training the militia very seriously indeed and particularly the cavalrymen were not only well trained and equipped but used to working together. The Duke also sometimes allocated funds allowing Bernard to hire on mercenary help, which at the very least provided Ala with a source to learn a little more bladesmanship. Many mercenaries lost their practice field swagger when they learned just how devoted Ala was to her art.

The poor Oakharrow bastards doing the raiding were in very poor shape compared to Thetwick’s militia. Their equipment was generally the bare minimum, a makeshift gambeson or some sort of padding, a crude shield and a spear was what they usually encountered. They occasionally captured an Oakharrower and what they learned from interviewing them was that training was effectively nonexistent. Such men were inevitably hanged, which Ala hated. They were generally poor, destitute peasants who had simply been directed to do their Lord’s nefarious bidding as a means of fulfilling their obligatory service. Thankfully, the Constable was in charge of the executions. She stayed away from them.

She had become good at spotting likely ambush points and knew all of the northern Westmarch like the back of her hand. The militia had taken casualties, but it was less than she had expected considering the amount of time they now spent dealing with incursions from. Mostly the Oakharrowers ran as soon as they spotted the Westmarch Militia. They had, of course often devised plans to cut them off but it wasn’t easy considering the size of the area they had to patrol.

As Bernard grew older he was finding it more difficult to ride patrols himself. Eventually, Ala took over the job from him completely. By now, her effectiveness was no longer a subject of discussion among the militiamen. Among the cavalry and the archers, her orders were followed without question. She wasn’t certain her authority was unquestioned among all of the militia’s infantry contingent. The militia was only called in its entirety for practice. Those times when some infantrymen were needed to block a road or the like, Bernard selected men he trusted not to question Ala’s orders. Tales of her prowess that spread from militia members to their families certainly made Ala’s life as a militia leader easier. Leadership simplified life for Ala. The villagers expected a leader to be different to them in many ways, which seemed to make Ala’s strangeness less of an issue. She had stopped taking particular care to hide her ears as she didn’t think there was anyone left in the Westmarch who could possibly forget that she was a half elf.

Eventually, in 981, the old Constable, Roger Marchmain, finally died. It made little difference as his sons and grandsons had long proven themselves to be cut from the same cloth. His eldest son, Travis, had been assisting his father with his duties for years. He had been elected Constable by the town elders, though Ala was certain there had been foul play involved. She and Bernard were always isolated from the civil side of the town and it was hard to find out how it had happened. It was strange to Ala. The position of Constable was not officially hereditary, nor was it officially within the scope of the Town Council’s mandate to assign it to anyone. Originally, it had been a post to which you were appointed to by the Duke. It was hard to understand how that had come to change and the only thing she could really imagine was disinterest on the part of a previous Duke. She couldn’t even really remember how Roger Marchmain had gotten the post, it seemed as if he was just Constable one day and no one had thought to question it.

The new Constable was very chummy with the new scribe, who, though he was the old scribe’s son, seemed to be far more agreeable to the Marchmains. It boded even more problems, because if the scribe couldn’t be trusted, it was far easier for the Marchmains to contest any sort of document. It was also the scribe’s job to tally the votes at council meetings and both Ala and Bernard had their doubts whether the Constable’s election had been conducted fairly. Gordon Marchmain, thankfully, had not been spotted in the decade since he had raped Indira and murdered her and Callum.

It gradually became obvious to everyone in Thetwick that Ala was the effective day to day leader of the militia. Despite that, everyone who needed something still always asked to speak to Bernard. Speaking to a half-elven woman about anything seemed to be beyond most villagers ability to imagine. There were exceptions and Bernard usually then sent people who needed something on to her anyway. It was a constant reminder that even after more than a century in Thetwick, people still didn’t really see her as one of their own, even if Bernard had delegated his authority as militia Captain to her.

In practice, only the cavalry section of the militia was serving regularly as the Westmarch had to be patrolled far more than in the preceding decades. While not a professional unit, it’s members spent so much of their time in the militia they were practically professional soldiers. Because the horse breeders were generally reluctant to offer the militia good mounts, unless someone they trusted was riding them, serving in the militia’s cavalry slowly became more prestigious. It was interesting to Ala, to observe how ‘her’ cavalry unit slowly became an extension of Thetwick’s richer citizenship.

The archers were called from time to time too, when needed, but they and especially the infantry mostly only had to do their regular drills. The militia cavalry could still only be in so many places at once, so the locals suffered despite her and Bernard’s best efforts. Though Bernard’s well trained and equipped militia unfailingly prevailed during encounters with Oakharrowers and the body count steadily mounted. It seemed to Ala that the northern half of the March was dotted with the shallow graves that they dug to cover corpses of unfortunate Oakharrowers. The Count of Oakharrow clearly didn’t care how many didn’t come back.

In all, her duties continued to increase as Bernard became increasingly ancient. The militia was what filled her days. Bernard remained in quite good physical condition and his mind stayed keen but he became far too old to ride patrols, much less ride into battle. What time she didn’t spend on patrols was split between weapons practice, riding for the horse breeders and whatever other chores Bernard needed done to keep the militia in good order. Her daily life was mostly comparable that of a junior officer in a military unit. She didn’t live in a barracks, but she was constantly occupied with some aspect of the militia’s day to day operation. It suited her fine. Unable to fully be a part of Thetwick society, the militia work gave her a reason to keep distance and still allowed her to feel useful. It even resulted in a measure of appreciation from most of the populace, which she found she liked.

As far as Ala could tell she wasn’t growing any more by then. She was taller than most of the women in Thetwick and she had filled out rather nicely, she thought. What she was only partially aware of was that she had developed into an exquisitely beautiful young woman. She had grown tall and strong, filling out with muscle and feminine shape. She did her best to hide it, always wearing mail and cloaks to hide her form, though she found she cared less and less about hiding her hair and ears from the people of the Westmarch. She still covered them when faced with people who didn’t know her though, ever mindful of Palady’s warnings.

It was about this time that Bernard inquired why she dyed her hair. She’d been doing it as part of her weekly routine for a century and a half. Bernard had never paid much attention to that sort of ‘girly things’, as he annoyingly put it, but she had noticed that even he couldn’t help but admire her occasionally. It was one day when she was busy making the dye from some local plants and things when he asked her what she was doing.

“We’ve been living together for almost fifty years Bernard. Have you really never noticed me doing this?”

“Well. Yes. No. I mean, I’ve noticed it before, but it never really occurred to me to ask why.”

“It’s hair dye.”

“You dye your hair?”

“Yes. Palady always seemed to find it important. Made me promise. She said it was safer that way. How can you not know that?”

“Safer?”

“Yes, so I’d look more… normal or something. Make me look more like a harmless type of half-elf. I don’t really know why exactly. Just to seem mundane, I guess.”

“I think you may have mentioned that once, actually come to think of it.”

“I’m sure I have, Bernard.”

She reflected that it didn’t make a huge amount of sense. There were lots of variations of half elves, she’d learned. In fact they probably had a wider range of possible looks than either humans or elves, since some exotic elven features that weren’t among the normal human repertoire sometimes cropped up in half elves. Especially if one parent had been a water elf, she’d heard.

Bernard had regarded her for a bit and shook his head before he spoke. “Right… uhm, well forget I said anything.”

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Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

Young Orck

Brabak lived to the south, beyond the Irin Mountains, in the range unimaginatively named the ‘Orck Mountains’. Brabak was big for his age, as well as very strong. That didn’t really help him much, in his opinion. Full grown orcks obviously didn’t care about it when they were harassing him. He supposed it must mean there were less other orcks that could best him than if he were smaller, so it was probably better to be big than small. Not that there weren’t enough orcks left who could and did beat him when he got in the way or they wanted a distraction. None of that was unusual, among orcks.

He thought about that from time to time, wondering whether it was useful to be big for one’s age or not. He was a proud orck, with ancestors who had died in big battles the Headcutter tribe had been a part of. The last big horde had been almost thirty years ago now, where his grandfather, Gork had been killed. His great grandfather had died that year too, during events leading up to the battle or something. No one was sure what had happened, not even his mother, who was a half orck wise-woman. None of his great grandfather’s warband had returned from their outing to the north. The orcks had been so decimated then, that they had limited themselves to smaller raids for almost thirty years now. Now, the Headcutters had grown again, their numbers back to the size they had been before the great battle. Surely, they must venture out from the mountains again soon? Brabak longed for the days of glory when the orcks had things to fight other than each other.

Among the orcks you could abuse whoever you wanted, as long as you could survive the reaction. If you couldn’t that obviously solved itself too. The young orcks were distractions to the adults. They couldn’t put up as much of fight, so older orcks made them do whatever they wanted. All young orcks longed for the day when they were full grown. That way there were the fewest possible bigger and stronger orcks around to harass you. It essentially described all of orck society, Brabak thought. Everyone was constantly trying to decrease the amount of other orcks that could bully or dominate them. He was sure it was exceedingly inefficient, that it stopped orcks from achieving the glory and and gaining the plunder they should rightfully have.

Brabak was a popular target for other orcks to measure their strength against because his mother was a half orck. She was even still alive, though she had produced more offspring and mostly left them to fend for themselves. Brabak’s mother, Rawa Haik, even had some small magic. She was a wise-woman, one of the only females in Orck society with any sort of power. To Brabak it was really only another reason to be singled out by bigger, older orcks. Not that they needed more reasons, because Brabak’s father, Babrak had also been a powerful orck, a war leader. No one could get even with him, so attacking his offspring was a popular way to vent frustrations. Brabak defended himself viciously, brutally killing his assailants whenever he could.

When Brabak started to realise he could fend for himself better than most, he also realised it would be useful to have someone to do stuff for him. He observed the other orcks for a time and selected one who wasn’t physically or mentally his equal, but who was still quite cunning for an orck. This orck, Iktok, a few years his junior he selected to protect and make sure he got more than his fair share of the food. In return, Iktok did things for him. It was exactly what Brabak had had in mind. It seemed smart to him, to select a few allies whose best interest it was to be loyal to him and occasionally he added another to their number. Contrary to most orcks, he didn’t rely on violence to control his allies. The only thing he punished was disloyalty and this he did so so brutally that the orck in question always died a painful death shortly after anyway.

The Headcutter tribe mostly moved around a vast mountainous area with craggy peaks that the other orcks just called the Orck Mountains. Little did Brabak know that that’s what the rest of the world called the place too. Day to day life consisted of violence, going down out of the mountains to steal livestock and gain plunder, as well as ranging around the mountains themselves looking for food. An orck will and can eat almost anything, though they prefer the same things humans would rate as good food. In a pinch though, almost anything will do, including other orcks. Daily survival was not to be taken for granted and Brabak learned to excel at it.

Brabak thought he was around twelve summers old. An orck was full grown at fifteen, but Brabak was almost as big as most full grown orcks by then as well as smarter than most and meaner, when needed. Brabak was quite successful in making sure he had more to eat than the other young orcks, making him bigger still. There was also an old warrior orck, one who had survived much longer than was customary. Brabak had a sort of tacit agreement with the older orck. This orck, named Togut, had seen that Brabak was going to be big and strong. When Brabak killed two full grown orcks that winter in a struggle over a goat, Togut had decided that Brabak deserved special attention. Aside from the abuse by Togut, which was rare but brutal, it had made Brabak’s life considerably easier. Togut was actually teaching him things about fighting and weapons too.

It was paradise for Brabak. Other orcks had been getting wary of him already, but no one dared cross Togut. He knew there would be some sort of reckoning, there was no way Togut was doing this out of kindness, but Brabak understood that the more he knew about fighting, the better his life would be among the Headcutter tribe. Cooperating with Togut would be good for both of them, he knew. He swiftly became Togut’s second, in charge of the details when they went raiding in the lowlands. On one of his first raids, he spotted a human employing a bow. Orcks didn’t think much of bows. They were too delicate and required too much practice was the customary opinion. Brabak had seen the human fire four arrows in the time it would take an orck with a stolen crossbow to load and fire just one shot. He took the man’s bow and arrows after he killed him and spent a lot of time learning to use it.

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Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

Marchmain

More than two decades after the Battle of Vanidil, Ala was returning from a long patrol in the north of the Westmarch. The intervening years had been her customary routine, with most of her time spent doing militia work. She still split the rest between her other passtimes, mostly extra sword practice, helping out training unruly horses and her mostly nightly forays into the forest for mushrooms and the occasional hunt. She still visited Maiden’s Tower, it was her private refuge when she wanted to be alone. It was an overcast day when she spotted a child running towards her and militia troop, screaming at the top of her lungs. It took her a just a moment to realise that the girl, who was about twelve years old, was screaming for help. Ala spurred her tired mount towards the child and vaulted off the horse when she came close.

“Quiet, quiet. Slow down, it’s all right, tell me what happened?”

“My da and Indi, a boy came from the town…. he hurt them… was doing things to Indi…”

The girl was trying to say everything at once making it hard to understand what she was saying.

“Alright, slowly now, first, what’s your name? And your da and ma?”

“You have to help Indi!”

“Alright, we’ll go, show me where.”

She took the girl with her pulling her up onto her horse in front of her after she had mounted. She signalled the rest of the patrol to join.

“Alright, which way and what’s your name?”

“Over there, I’m Martha…” she said, hesitating as Ala spurred the horse, “My da is Callum Pierson, my ma is Hannah…”

“Tell me what happened while we ride.”

Ala knew the names, it was a small farm about two miles north of Thetwick town, it was just over the next rise.

“A boy came… looking for Indi… we’d talked to him at the harvest feast…”

“Do you know his name?”

“Gordon… Marchmain… the Constable’s son…”

Ala became very apprehensive. There had been trouble surrounding the boy before. It had always seemed to evaporate though, no doubt orchestrated by his father and older brother.

“Then what happened?”

“He wanted Indi to go with him…. for a walk he said… she didn’t want to… we both know not to go with a Marchmain, he became angry…. my da… he came to see what was happening… the boy hurt him… he didn’t get up,” the girl burst into tears.

“Quiet now, we’re on our way to help… try and tell me what happened next, how did you get away?”

“He hit Indi, very hard,” she said, in between sobs, “I took little Jake and hid him… in the attic, between the rafters… then I went to find help… the boy… he was doing things to Indi…”

Ala’s blood boiled and she spurred the tired horse a little harder, they were almost there.

The scene they came upon was grisly. Callum was quite dead, his throat cut. Indi, short for Indira, too. Her body lay with her dress pushed up and her throat also slit. Ala tried to shield the girl from it, but she had already seen as they rode up. She just stood, staring.

“Come, Martha, we have to see if Jake is alright,” said Ala. “cover them with something,” she whispered to Willard, the senior militiaman present, as she passed him. He nodded in understanding.

The boy was unharmed. Ala had to consider for a moment what to do. She might look like she was about seventeen years old in human years, but she still had far more militia experience than anyone else present.

She turned to Willard, “I’m going to try and find him. Take the patrol and the children to Bernard, he will sort them out. Leave some men to guard the bodies.”

“Your horse is already tired and you have little idea where he went, Ala,” said the always sensible Willard. It was why Bernard paired them together. Willard was no genius, but he was sensible and steady, which was a useful counterpoint to Ala’s more volatile nature.

“He can’t think he can get away with this, can he?” She turned towards Martha and called to her, “did the boy from the town see you or your brother?”

It took a moment for the girl to realise she was being spoken to, “err, yes mistress… he saw me at least… I was with Indi…” she couldn’t say more.

“Did he have a horse?”

Martha nodded, unable to speak.

“Look,” said Willard, “his mount will be much fresher… and who knows what the Marchmains may have gotten away with in the past?”

“There are witnesses! He raped and murdered!”

“I know Ala, it’s unthinkable, but you shouldn’t go after him alone.”

“I’m going. Get to Bernard, tell him what happened. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She mounted and rode in the most likely direction, which she judged to be south, towards Thetwick and the river. Even if he planned to lay low for a few days, south would be the sensible choice as he would be able to elude trackers by using the river. It wasn’t long before she realised she would either have to ride the horse to death or give up. She had spotted a few fleeting signs that may have been tracks, but had lost whatever it was by the river. Riding up and downstream a ways looking for tracks hadn’t turned anything up. She rode back to town, frustrated, towards Hank’s farm where Harald the son of the man who had died during Ala’s first skirmish, worked.

“Hail, Ala, what’s amiss?” Called Harald. He knew her well and there was no doubt of her expression. He was about twenty years old now and Bernard had arranged for him to be apprenticed to Hank, one of Thetwick’s most reputable horse breeders.

“Gordon Marchmain has murdered two people. I need a fresh mount to continue the search!”

Harald only considered for a second, before he gestured for her to come to the stables, where he quickly saddled a brown gelding for her.

He spoke as he worked, “you mean to go after him alone?”

Ala sighed, “odds are I won’t be able to even find him. He’d better hope he eludes me… if he doesn’t, I doubt a trial will be needed.”

“Don’t do anything rash, Ala,” he said as he finished saddling her new mount. “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” she said as she mounted and turned to ride off, resisting the urge to kick the cold horse straight into a gallop.

She immediately rode back to the town proper. Bernard was gone of course, he would have gone to the farm. She passed by the Marchmain estate too and stopped in front of it a moment, observing, but she saw nothing indicating that a rider might have recently arrived. It was one of the few homes with a paved courtyard and the main street in front of it was also cobbled, making it impossible to make out tracks. It would be foolish to go inside alone, she knew the Marchmains employed guards. She rode back to the Piersson Steading.

Bernard was there, with the Scribe who was looking old and infirm, the Constable, Willard, more militiamen and a cart to transport the bodies. There seemed to be a tension in the air.

“Find anything, Ala?” called Bernard.

She shook her head, “what tracks I found seem to end in the river. No way of knowing if he went up or downstream. Couldn’t pick anything up at the Marchmain Estate either.”

The constable gave her a nasty look, but said nothing. She rode over to Bernard, who was almost eighty but still remarkably fit.

“No doubt it could be anyone but Gordon Marchmain?” Asked Bernard.

“The girl, Martha, identified him immediately. Said they’d met at the harvest feast. Do we know where the Martha and Jake’s mother is?”

“Hannah is visiting family in Larkhill. I’ll send word, but it will be a while before she can get back, I think.”

“Can I take the men and find Gordon?”

Bernard glanced over at the Constable, “that’s supposed to be his jurisdiction…” He shook his head, “he’ll never do it and if he does, they’ll never find Gordon… organise it. No point in going before dawn, you’ll have no luck at night. Probably have no luck at all, but we should still do it.”

They both glanced up as they heard someone approaching. It was the Constable, “Captain, errr, mistress Alagariel, I’m sure we’ll be able to clear this up by morning. We’ll find who ever is involved, probably bandits or the like.”

Ala looked at the man, deciding on the spot that he knew exactly who was involved. The only way he could know, unless it had been premeditated, was if he had seen or spoken to Gordon. She couldn’t imagine the Constable jeopardising his position by condoning something like this, so he must have spoken to Gordon since it had happened, she decided.

“You know precisely who is responsible, Constable,” she hissed, “and probably know exactly where to find him… just so you know, when I find him, I will split him lengthwise.”

The Constable got an ugly expression and only just managed to stop himself saying anything. Ala wondered whether Gordon would make an appearance if she slowly split the Constable lengthwise too, but quickly decided he would certainly elect to save his own skin instead.

“Night, Constable, we’ll have a search party ready at dawn, you and your assistants are welcome to join,” said Bernard as he led Ala away. He knew her look.

Bernard was right of course, about having any chance at night, which irritated her. They all rode back to town though Ala left the group among the first few buildings. She went to ride around the area near the Marchmain estate. She had a hunch that he would have simply gone there, perhaps by a round about route, but it just seemed the sort of thing someone who thought the world existed for their enjoyment might do.

After two hours of it, she realised she wouldn’t make any headway. She’d tried to question some villagers but quite aside from the normal reluctance to talk to her, the people who lived near the Marchmain estate seemed afraid to say anything against the Constable or his house. Frustrated, she rode back to Bernard’s house, who was still up. He was sitting with the two children, one on either side of him. They were both fast asleep. He extricated himself from them, being careful not to wake them and made certain they were well covered in warm hides. It was still chilly this year in Levansbrol. He gestured her into the kitchen so they could speak.

“No luck, I take it?”

She shook her head.

“It would not surprise me if we never find him.”

“What? Where would he go?”

“The Marchmains have friends. In Oakharrow for instance. In Taladaria too. Odds are the Constable will ship him off to somewhere. Gordon went far too far, even for a Marchmain, I think. The Constable won’t punish him for it, but he can’t have his younger son compromising his position. He’s probably also worried you’ll make good on your threat.”

“I fully intend to. You don’t think he’s at the Marchmain estate? We could just go there.”

“That would completely compromise my position and rightly so. Where would Thetwick be then? I doubt he’s there. The Marchmains are too cunning for that. Odds are the Constable sent him off to wait for instructions somewhere the moment he realised something bad had happened.”

“So, I’ll just wait and follow the Constable!”

“Moment’s passed, Ala. Either he’s already had instructions on what to do, or the Constable will have something passed to him by someone else under his sway. We can’t search the whole Westmarch.”

Ala bit her lip, “I can’t let him get away with it!”

“Bide your time, young blade mistress, you’ll catch up to Gordon Marchmain one day I’m sure, if that is what you want. Ride out in the morning, search hard. It will probably be to no avail, but at the very least, it will be good for the town if we are seen to be doing it.”

It was hard for Ala to lay down and rest, though she knew she must. She rode with the search the following morning, which, as Bernard had predicted, turned up nothing. The children’s mother came rushing into town ten days later.

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Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

Sitting it Out

Put like that, Ala really couldn’t do anything but acquiesce. The Westmarch men that were sent to the army ended up taking part in a big battle in Taladaria. It eventually became known as the Battle of Vanidil after the fief that lay closest to the battlefield. The orcks never came south into the Westmarch in any number, there were only increased sightings of small bands that were driven off by the hunters and miners that plied their trades in the south of the Westmarch. Only once did she run into a group of orcks with her patrol, near the foot of the Irins. Bernard wanted to be certain the road to Ford Inn was safe so they were riding cross country, a few miles south of the road where the land started to rise into the Irins. She had stopped the patrol. All ten of them, as was customary, sat on some high ground where they had a good view of the Irin mountains. The weather was slightly overcast despite the time of year, but the light was good and she could just make out movement, seeing figures heading down the mountainside quite a way to her east.

“I see movement, over there,” she pointed in the direction. “Perhaps a group of figures.”

“I wouldn’t mind some of that elven eyesight, even half of it seems to work wonders,” quipped Willard. He peered in the direction she pointed. “I can’t make anything out… or… maybe… some movement? Could just be the light, fooling me, though?”

Willard Balderson was her second. He was only twenty-two, but he had proven himself very dependable and was more interested in the affairs of the militia than most and motivated to learn soldiering, too. His father was one of Thetwick’s most successful horse breeders and quite rich by Thetwick’s humble standards.

“Looks like they’re on foot. Setting quite a pace, too.”

“So, you’re saying a group, on foot, moving fast, coming down from the Irins? Sounds like orcks, if I were to guess?”

“Could well be. We’d better take a closer look. Bernard said to be on the lookout for scouts. We prefer not to have them reporting back.”

“Don’t suppose you can see how many they are?” he asked as he turned his horse.

“Even my eyes aren’t good enough for that, sorry.”

They rode hard, making for the next rise that should give them line of sight to their quarry again. They came to its crest, which should put them perhaps a mile from the group Ala had seen, assuming they didn’t change direction. She observed where she thought they should be by now. It didn’t take her long to spot them. Definitely orcks, she counted fifteen of them. Several had crossbows. One or two carried swords and wore some metal armour, the rest had spears and clubs.

“Well, definitely orcks then,” said Willard, with a bit of a worried look. “More of them than there are of us, too.”

“Yes. Too many, I think.” Bernard had explicitly warned her not to think of orcks in the same terms as raiders from Oakharrow. An orck was far stronger and tougher than a human. He’d suggested counting each as two men, to get an idea of when you were outmatched.

“What do you want to do, Ala?”

“You take one of the others and ride to Thetwick. Bring out at least twenty more, archers especially. You must move quickly.”

“Understood. How will I find you?”

“Assume they carry on in the same direction. If they don’t circle back through here, I will mark a trail, you remember how to read the markers, right?”

“Of course I remember,” he said, annoyed that she might think otherwise. “I’ll get moving.”

It had been easy to follow the orcks after she had found their trail. She diligently left markers for Willard to follow when he returned with reinforcements. It was a rough few days. Keeping up with the orcks’ speed wasn’t hard, but they didn’t rest for long. Eventually, Willard caught up to her again and they devised an ambush. The orcks had found the road to the Ford Inn by now and had turned West, heading for Thetwick itself. When Ala and Willard sprung their trap, it was devastating. The Thetwick archers opened fire at long range. They were well practised after so many years under Bernard and Ala’s tutelage and the range meant even the Orcks understood that they would all be killed before they managed to approach their assailants. The orcks turned and ran, only for the survivors to run into Ala’s cavalry unit, now reinforced to forty Thetwick men. She cut down two of the orcks herself in the initial exchange and chased down two more survivors, that had managed to get out of the ambush area. She was very careful about their massive size and strength, but the destrier she was riding more than made up the difference.

When she made it back to the ambush site, she found out that two militiamen, riders, had been killed in the exchange, despite the enormous numerical advantage. Several more men were wounded, a few quite badly. Several men stood guard over two wounded orcks. One of them was older. After Ala had checked on her own wounded militiamen she went on to see the orcks. Bernard’s orders weighed heavily on her mind. He had said she should execute any orck prisoners. They were incorrigible, he said. They were too dangerous to be kept as prisoners and if you released them, they’d be back to kill you next season with their friends, he’d warned.

The two surviving orcks were quite different from one another. The bigger one was clearly old for an orck. Ala wondered whether he might have been the scouts’ leader. The other was young, very young. Adolescent by human standards. She decided that she might as well try and gather some intelligence, however unlikely she was to learn anything.

“Do you speak common?”

The old orck responded in a guttural tongue that she couldn’t make head nor tail of. She pointed to herself, “Ala,” then to him. “Who are you?”

The old scarred orck spat on the ground in front of her, earning him a kick by one of her militiamen. She tried once more, pointing at herself, “Ala,” then pointing at him, gesturing in a questioning manner.

The orck clearly understood what she wanted. He frowned and growled, “Okox.” The amount of hatred and disdain the orck managed to put into one word was impressive.

She thought Okox must be the old orck’s name. Either that, or it was a orckish curse, but the defiance that had been behind it made her decide that a name was more likely. She made several more attempts, trying to find out what the objective of the scouting might have been. The orck would say nothing more though and the rest of the words he used probably were curses directed at her and her patrol.

Eventually, she gave up and focused on her next dilemma. She considered taking the orcks to Bernard, but he often talked about how orcks were completely unintelligible. He would understand nothing more, she was certain. Though she attempted to avoid the conclusion for another hour, she finally made the grim decision to execute both of them. She had to do it herself, she felt. It was unpleasant brutality, no matter how quickly and cleanly her blade killed them. It left her feeling nauseated and dirty. The only thing left was to bury the orcks in a shallow communal grave and prepare the bodies of fallen Militia men for transportation back to Thetwick. With all that done she could finally report to Bernard. She didn’t sleep very much that night.

That was the only thing of note that she experienced in Thetwick during the time of the orck attacks that culminated in the famous Battle of Vanidil. Bernard eventually even sent Willard to join the Duke’s army when a request came for yet more troops. He arrived just in time for the great battle and served with distinction. Eventually she understood that it had been her duty to stay in the Westmarch, but she was still disappointed. Several people from Thetwick had gotten killed either at Vanidil or the skirmishes surrounding it. Gerry Kettle, the friendly smith who had let her use his workshop to restore her blade, was among the men who didn’t return from Taladaria. One of the Williamsons, from the Bullstead, was also among the numerous dead.

If you wish to receive the weekly installment to this story in your inbox, please subscribe to the newsletter below.

Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

A Bit of a Reputation

When Ala approached Thetwick a few days later, she passed through the fields near the town. There were some farmers out, tending the fields as there always were. She was accustomed to the occasional gruff greeting, though mostly people ignored her. Today was different though, when she came into view, she saw a man tapping his companion’s shoulder and pointing her out. Shortly after, someone gestured to her and waved before speaking to another man nearby, also clearly about her. More people reacted to her passing, people who usually ignored her shouted out greetings or pointed and called attention to her from whoever was nearby. It made her feel self conscious and it took her a few minutes to realise that it must be because the tale of the skirmish had spread around the town. She took Lightfoot straight to Hank’s stables, hoping he would exchange her for another mount so that she wouldn’t have to walk the rest of the way to Bernard’s.

“Ah, Ala, you’re back. You made good time. Lightfoot do well?”

“Aye, she’s a fine one. Hungry, I expect.”

“As you are, no doubt. The missus has some porridge left, if you want some. Why don’t you grab a bowl, while I saddle up Lightning for you?”

Ala was surprised. Hank was generally friendly enough, but offering food out of the blue and saddling up a horse for her was new.

“Thank you. That would be wonderful.”

“Go on then, Gill or Henriette will see to you.”

She went to the farmhouse and knocked, not really knowing what else to do.

“Come on in!” came the call from inside. She opened the door, to be greeted by Hank’s wife, Gillian. She’d never exchanged more that two words with the woman.

“Good morning… Hank said…”

“That you’d be starving! I’ll fetch a bowl for our sword maiden! Have a seat!”

Ala didn’t know what to think. What had the militiamen told everyone about her? Hank’s three children were there too, all staring at her. His eldest, Henriette was in the kitchen, looking over her shoulder, while his two younger sons had come out to look at her too. She sat down and a clay bowl with oatmeal porridge was put in front of her.

“Eat up! I’m sure Captain Bernard is looking forward to your return.”

“Thank you, mistress.”

“My pleasure.”

After a few minutes Hank came in and announced that Lightning was ready and joined her at the table. It was evidently time for a break as he sat down at the head of the long table and his wife set a steaming cup in front of him.

“So, how were things at the Ford?”

“Business as usual.”

“I take it Friedrich was his unpleasant self?”

“Eh… yes. I thought he was only unpleasant to non humans.”

“Perhaps even more so, I wouldn’t know. But it always vexes me how a man completely dependent on travelers can be so unpleasant to them.”

“He seems to be pleasant enough to Bernard.”

“Bernard is a powerful man.”

“I suppose. Say… have… they been talking about me, in town? People were acting odd when I rode in.”

Hank smiled. “The militiamen have certainly been getting their share of free ale in exchange for a tale or two of the skirmish. You figured prominently in the ones that I heard.”

“Then you came home after after having a few and woke everyone up to repeat them,” his wife added.

Hank shrugged, “it was a good tale, wasn’t it?”

“Militiamen… exaggerate, especially when there’s ale,” said Ala.

His wife shook her head, sighing and returned to the task she had been doing.

“Well, I suppose that must be why everyone is acting so strange.”

“Enjoy it, Ala, not everyone gets to be a local hero for a while.”

“I’ll try.”

She was treated differently upon her return. The story of her charge had been spread by the other militiamen. She learned they claimed she had spurred her horse to supernatural speeds, with claims that her exploits varied between cutting down the three men that she’d actually killed all the way up to eleven in another telling. Bernard’s contribution to the fight also varied widely, from the one man, all the way up to as many as she had killed, however many that were in that particular telling. The story grew of its own accord, getting exaggerated further even spreading among the hamlets in the Westmarch. People from surrounding communities coming to the feasts and markets that Thetwick periodically hosted would gawk at her and whisper when they saw her, calling her ‘The Swordmaiden’ amongst each other.

Sometimes people showed up during market feasts wanting to test themselves against her. They were inevitably all young men. She tried to avoid the festivities, but Thetwick was not a big town and the militia still needed to ride patrols and stay organised making it impossible to hide entirely. She simply had chores in town she had to do. Mostly the challengers did not have the right to bear arms though they usually had the advantage over her in strength and weight. She would formally have been within her rights to defend herself with her weapons, but it seemed like a poor strategy to leave a trail of mutilated peasants behind her. She was also more than old enough to understand the silly immaturity caused the behaviour.

When she had no choice but to fight, she won quickly. She tried to be just brutal enough that no one would bother her twice. Bernard had taught her well and even though she tried not to draw arms if they weren’t drawn on her, she was almost always able to dissuade further annoyance quickly by attacking as fiercely as possible. She had learned a lot since being regularly accosted during her market visits. Even the best of them couldn’t make up in muscle and bulk what she had gained in years of dedicated training. She avoided killing anyone, but it was unnerving and she had to be vicious to dissuade them fast enough. She left a lot of bruised genitals and broken noses behind. She had had to draw weapons once or twice when an alcohol fuelled gang decided to give it a try and she kept her sword and armour with her at all times, just as Bernard did.

In the following years she spent more and more time on militia duty as incursions from Oakharrow waxed and waned. Mostly cattle was stolen, sometimes a farmstead or hamlet was raided or a traveller robbed. Occasionally a Westmarcher was killed, someone was abducted or a woman was raped and sometimes murdered as well, but thankfully it only happened rarely. Once, the Westmarch was called upon to supply troops for the army of Iurrak because an orck horde had spilled into Gwael. Ala had wanted to go with them, but Bernard effectively forbade it.

“I’m sorry Ala, I know you want to go, but those orcks came out of the same mountain range that borders the Westmarch. I can afford to be without some troops if they come this way, but I can’t, in good conscience, weaken the militia here by letting you join the Iurrakan army.”

“I’m just one person Bernard. Can the militia really not do without me?”

“In the Iurrakan army you would be just one person, they’ll never be able to judge your capabilities proper. You’d be assigned as a soldier, at best, if they can get over their sexism. Here you’re a critical commander who I can assign complex tasks to. With you here, we can field two units, where we could only manage one otherwise. I can send a hundred men to the King’s army with less effect on my militia’s capabilities than sending you.”

Ala sighed. She sort of relished the chance to get out of the Westmarch, though she also appreciated the compliment.

“Surely you exaggerate?”

“You have been training with single minded dedication for what is it now? More than a decade. You may look like you’re a lass of sixteen summers, but you have a century’s experience. I have no one else on the roster who could replace you.”

“There is really no one else?”

“There reall isn’t Ala. You underestimate your value.”

She couldn’t help but wonder if her was just trying to make her feel more needed that she actually was. He continued his speech though, in a way that almost made her believe what he said might be true.

“I’m not in the habit of forbidding you things, Ala. I don’t mean to start now. But, I am Captain of the Westmarch and it is my duty to keep it secure. I need you here. I will not stop you, if you insist on going, even though I probably should. I’m asking you to stay, in case orcks come south out of the Irins, especially now that we’re sending a sizeable contingent to join the army.”

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Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

Selinus Stirs

Ala eventually grew to fully understand why Bernard had returned to Thetwick when he did. In fact his retirement had been determined by the fact that the Duke had wanted to shore up the Westmarch and improve its capacity to defend itself. Putting a trusted, proven man in Thetwick improved both the quality of the Duke’s militia and his intelligence. It was customary for the Duke to award retiring soldiers with a plot of land. In Bernard’s case, his retirement package had been generous. It had greatly increased his lands in the Westmarch in addition to what he had inherited from his father and brother. It was the Duke’s way of making it very attractive to accept the position of Captain of the Westmarch though Ala doubted Bernard would have turned the Duke down even if it hadn’t been so lucrative an offer.

It was also just good sense on the part of the Duke, a wealthy Captain, dependent on Ducal patronage, had a strong interest in safeguarding the Duke’s authority. The Westmarch was as much an out of the way place for the Duke as it was for all others. He needed dependable agents in the Westmarch and the defences needed to be able to deter anyone who might otherwise think the Westmarch and easy target. It had all started because of the marriage in Oakharrow between Phoebe Sabran and Acanos Botic. That marriage had suddenly put Oakharrow solidly back in Selinus’ sphere of influence. Since it had happened with no warning, it had also brought into focus how little idea the Dukes of Taladaria had of what was going on across the borders they were obligated to defend. For all practical purposes, the County of Oakharrow had been annexed by Selinus as Saskill had been more than a century before. As soon as Lady Phoebe’s father died, Acanos would become Count and he owed fealty to the King of Selinus. It hadn’t taken the Duke long to take action after the marriage as Bernard had arrived in Thetwick only a few months later.

The Westmarch was a buffer region and it was formally one of the Duke of Taladaria’s domains but the fief was the only Taladarian holding west of the Iceflow river. North of Thetwick was the County of Oakharrow which had once insulated Taladaria from Selinus and which was the source of the Duke’s newfound concern. When the County truly fell into Selinan hands with the death of Phoebe’s father, the Duke had to be ready to face increased problems along his borders. Selinus and Taladaria had been rivals for generations. To strengthen the borders, the Duke had offered several senior non-commissioned officers of his regiment a retirement bonus if they would travel to the villages and towns in the border regions and improve the quality of the local militias. Men who had originally come from those towns were given preference. Bernard was one of the senior men that had agreed to such an arrangement, but Thetwick wasn’t the only town that had been assigned a professional Captain in the years after 944. Ala had discussed it with Bernard numerous times.

“Bernard, do you think this really works?”

“What works?”

“Riding patrols? We never catch anyone. It seems like… like the Selinans come and go at their leisure.”

“It’s a numbers game Ala. Eventually, we’re likely to stumble upon some of them that can’t get away. That said though, us riding these patrols is likely more valuable than actually fighting them.”

“How’s that?”

“They need to think about what they might do if they run into us. They make sure they can get away, only come in larger groups. Generally, it’s just slowing them down, just making it harder for them.”

“I had a sister once. She was taken by Selinans. Just after I came to Thetwick.”

“I know Ala. So strange, that was long before I was born. Now, we’ll never know for certain, of course, but if we weren’t a thorn in their sides, they may have raided Thetwick itself again by now. Probably would have, I imagine.”

“You really think so?”

“I do. Though it also helps that the people who live in the north of the March had mostly joined together in hamlets. Harder to raid and easier to patrol.”

“Is that going to help us… actually catch someone? I’m sick of them slipping away every time.”

“I would expect so. Be careful what you wish for, though, Ala. It might not be pretty.”

She was silent for a moment. He was right of course, she knew that. She still felt an urge… for what, she wondered? Revenge for Emma? Or was it just an affront that the Oakharrowers could terrorise the Westmarch unchecked. Probably a bit of both, she decided.

“We can’t let it go on.”

“There is that, young lass.”

“Don’t you…”

“What?”

“Feel that the Duke should do more?”

“Taladaria is a big place. He has to weigh how he applies his resources. If his efforts are not here, I trust him enough to feel he has good reason for it. I’ve written to him though, suggesting we need more support. The frequency of the incursions is increasing, despite out best efforts, so, I do agree, we need to do more.”

Ala always felt Bernard had a bit of a blind spot concerning the Duke, but she had to concede she had no way of knowing what else Taladaria had to deal with either.

Bernard had always been riding regular patrols with the militia’s small cavalry section. The frequency had been steadily increasing in the years after Aubree’s death. They only had a few horses available and there was still a lot of ground to cover. Ala was allowed to ride valuable warhorses on those patrols, but the rich horse breeders understandably didn’t trust most other militia members with their valuable steeds. When their own sons were on militia duty they obviously made an exception, but in general getting sufficient trained horses was a constant challenge though the horse they did have tended to be big, strong destriers, far beyond what any normal militiaman could normally afford.

The day’s patrol started much like any other. Ten members of the militia, including Ala and Bernard were ready to go before dawn, fording the Clearflow out of Thetwick just as the sun became visible over the horizon. It was going to be a full day’s riding and they hoped to make it back just before sunset. All the men present were well drilled and Bernard made sure there was enough chain mail to outfit everybody who rode regular patrols with a full suit. Before they were halfway Bernard spotted a group of armed men riding towards them.

“Thetwick! Look alive! Armed riders ahead,” he called, causing everyone to tense and check their weapons and armour.

They were on a section of rough track that led from one of the newer hamlets to the Oakharrow border. The hamlet in question had not had any trouble for some time, which was why they were there. Bernard had had a hunch it might be next.

Ala had been on patrols where they had spotted unknown riders before, but they had always been distant and each time they had managed to disappear or flee back into Oakharrow before they could catch up to them. This group was much closer to them, the terrain in the area had decreased the spotting distance substantially. The riders were mounted and it looked like they were wearing light armour, leathers, padding and one was wearing a chain coif that came over the shoulders. That was the heaviest armour in sight. Their spears and shields were clearly visible though there was no visible heraldry to recognise.

Bernard led their patrol to a position between the intruders and the wide track that led towards the hamlet and on to Thetwick. The group fitted the descriptions they’d heard many times, describing the raiders from Oakharrow. The lack of heraldry was in itself a crime – any who bore arms in Iurrak were obligated to display the colours of the authority that permitted them their weapons. These men weren’t displaying any heraldic markings whatsoever, not even a simple caravanners’ pennant. It was a mark of banditry.

There were eighteen, all mounted, facing ten members of the Thetwick militia. The situation became tense as both groups closed and faced off on the narrow track a few hours ride north of the town. The Oakharrow raiders had almost certainly come to the Westmarch to steal cattle or horses. The cattle raids had been becoming increasingly violent in recent months and a farmer and his wife had been killed near the border just a few weeks ago. Bernard would not let such a thing pass if he could help it, she knew.

The two groups came to a stop when they were facing each other at a distance perhaps a hundred and fifty paces. Bernard roared at the men, “Come forth and be recognised!” It was the customary watchman’s challenge.

Ala could see the two of the men talking quietly to each other, conferring.

Bernard tried again. “By the command of the Duke of Taladaria, turn back to Oakharrow! There need not be any bloodshed this day!”

Their leader responded with a threat and called out, “we outnumber you, Thets. Stand aside and we may let you live!”

Ala detected that the man had a bit of an accent. People spoke a little differently in Oakharrow, she knew.

“I cannot allow you to pass. Produce a right to bear arms and state your intentions or prepare to be held to the Duke’s Peace!”

The Oakharrower shrugged. “Have it your way, fool. Run them down, lads!”

The group lowered their spears and spurred their horses, kicking up clouds of dust as they accelerated.

Bernard called out his orders. “Counter charge, close formation, Go, go, go!”

The Thetwick militia, particularly those who rode the mounted patrols, had been well drilled and the ten of them worked well together, the fruits of many hours of practice. The counter charge drill had been practised countless times. Everyone drew their weapons and knew the part they were expected to play. Ala was behind and to the right of Bernard, on a lithe, fast stallion named Lightning that she loved to ride. She drew her elf blade. She had been keeping its existence secret, so she never used it in group practice, but she had decided she ought to have it with her if she really needed to fight, something which had been becoming increasingly likely lately. She had practised with it for hundreds of hours and it felt like it should be in her hand, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. They had been narrowing down which routes the Oakharrowers liked to use to travel into Thetwick. It was inevitable that she would need the sword sooner or later. The weapon felt alive in her hand and she had the distinct sensation that it was eager to be unleashed.

This occasion was precisely why she carried the sword with her. She hoped the blade lived up to her expectations. It felt alive in her hand, as if it was warily seeking a way to strike a blow at her enemies. The two bands met head on. The well drilled, tight formation from Thetwick held fast when it hit the more disorganised, though larger group of Oakharrow men.

Bernard killed the first man with a devastating cut across and into the man’s chest from his Ulfberht bastard sword. It was the man he had been talking to, the Oakharrowers’ leader. Ala found herself instinctively whispering to her horse in elven… it felt as if it were such a very… natural a thing to do. Her countless hours of practice, the powerful horse and her sword that seemed as if it were alive all worked as one. She wove along three of the advancing cattle raiders as if it were a subtle dance, dodging their weapons and placing herself precisely where she needed to be to make effective attacks. Her adversaries were more or less in a line as she bore down on them. Bernard’s hours and hours of drills came to her without conscious thought, the deadly mechanisms she had learned engaged without needing to think. She saw each of her opponents weapons come towards her in slow motion, seemingly giving her aeons to deflect or dodge each attack at leisure as she manoeuvred her blade into the weak spots in each combatants’ defensive sphere. She felt her blade easily cutting through flesh with only the barest indication of resistance. She took one hard hit to her shield from her left, which made her arm ring, but it wasn’t enough to interrupt her charge or disrupt her concentration.

The last of the three men she charged by was cleanly decapitated. His attempt to run her through with an overhand spear thrust was avoided with practised efficiency. She slapped the tip of the weapon lightly with her blade, almost gently guiding it aside, then using the spear’s shaft as a guide to manoeuvre her elf blade into the gap between the man’s helmet and the leather armour he was wearing. She let the weapon find its own way through the man’s neck as she passed him by. She let the speed of the horse pull the blade through his spine as she held it, feeling the angle of the weapon change until it cut itself free of the man’s neck. She pulled the blade back towards her in a low cut, making it ready to attack again if needed.

She was shocked and exhilarated as she brought up her horse and wheeled round, quite prepared to continue the fight, with her sword high. She found she had covered vastly more ground than the others. She wasn’t sure when or how that had happened, she hadn’t intended to stretch the line. There were no more Oakharrowers within threatening range, however, so it wasn’t a problem. Bernard was closest behind her. She had overtaken him in the confusion though she only vaguely remembered passing him by. Bernard brought up his horse, keeping it facing her. He pulled off his helmet and stared at her with a look that radiated a combination of disbelief and pride. As he surveyed the corpses along the route of her advance, his expression changed to shock.

He whispered to himself, swearing, she thought or perhaps it might be a prayer? She looked at the three men on the ground, all quite dead. On the one hand she did not feel much, on the other a she had a sense of disgust. It had been her or them. She’d thought about how she might feel if she was forced to kill long before. She was surprised to discover she was quite at peace with the outcome. She would have preferred not to have killed these men, she decided. They had made their choice however, and she would not be losing any sleep over it. Bernard had given them more than enough chance to turn home. She would also do it again if it was necessary. That decided, she noticed Bernard had a deep cut on his forearm that was dripping blood.

“You alright Ala?”

“I’m fine. You’re hurt though, let me see to that.”

“It’s a scratch. I’m fine.”

He turned his horse to see better up the track to where the remaining Oakharrowers had drawn up.

“Hope those idiots don’t come round for another run. There won’t be enough of them left to carry home the bodies,” he said.

He was despairing of the unnecessary deaths, she realised. It was wasteful, giving her the right word to describe what she was feeling as well. Ala looked back and only now saw that one of their comrades, a man named Peter, had fallen and was lying on the road among the Oakharrow corpses.

“I should go to Peter,” she spurred her horse.

“Wait! If they come again, we have to charge together. You can’t be caught out in the open alone. We’ll be of no use to Peter then.”

She drew up at once, understanding the wisdom of Bernard’s words.

The other militia members were surveying the damage they had done. As each of them realised the swathe she had cut through the enemy formation, their eyes turned to her with an expression of disbelief. One who had ridden up to inspect the decapitated man clapped her on the back as he turned his horse.

“That’s some incredible sword work, Ala. I knew you were good, but gods!”

The other men of the militia closed and turned their horses, reforming their formation, ready to charge once more. Bernard urged his horse forward a bit. The cattle raiders had pulled up their horses around fifty yards down the road, meaning that the two groups had changed places. Now, the militia was in between the Oakharrowers and their way home. They were in disarray. Ala thought they were arguing with one another. Bernard called out.

“If you dismount you may pick up your dead and wounded and go home with no further losses. Accept the Duke’s Peace, or we charge once more. Your choice.”

Their adversaries had begun with an almost two to one numerical advantage, which had been brought down to one to one in a single charge, also losing them their leader. Evidently the Oakharrowers realised this and thought better of continuing their attack. They dismounted and carefully walked towards them to pick up their dead and wounded. Bernard rode a little forward and called for the Oakharrow men to keep their distance while they pulled Peter towards them. He was severely wounded, a spear had pierced his rib cage and lung. He died a few minutes later, drowning in his own blood. There was nothing any of them could do. Ala rounded up Peter’s horse and the others lifted his corpse over the animal’s saddle. Once the raiders had disappeared far enough towards Oakharrow, they rode back to Thetwick. Bernard led the patrols straight to Peter’s house where he dismounted and went straight inside to bring the grim news to Peter’s wife. Ala heard her crying out in grief inside. It was a sound that cut straight into her heart.

Bernard came outside, letting out a great sigh.

“Right lads. Good work, all, today. Oakharrow will think twice about confronting us, I ‘spect. Wish we hadn’t lost Peter, but I’m sure everyone feels that as I do. Get home to you families.”

They couldn’t bring themselves to leave, standing aimlessly outside Peter’s house with the other villagers. Bernard and Ala stayed with Peter’s wife and children until family members arrived. Peter’s two small children were too young to understand what had happened but were clearly frightened. Ala knew the oldest boy, his name was Harald. He was one of the few children that didn’t seem to be scared of her and often came out to wave to her when she rode by. She found herself crying for them, wiping the tears as soon as she could.

Several villagers had followed behind the patrol when they had been seen them returning with a horse with a body draped over it. The villagers solemnly walking a respectful distance behind them had made the scene all the more heart wrenching. Peter had been well liked, a good groom and horse trainer who had made his living on the horse farms of Thetwick. The Duke provided a fair pension to those who fell while serving in the militia. It didn’t temper the tragedy for the family of the man who had been killed.

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Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

Chapter 3: Interesting Times

Recent developments west of the Iurrakan border have renewed concerns over what designs the Selinan Crown has on the region north of the Westmarch. Ever since the marriage in 944 between Phoebe Sabran, heir to the Barony of Oakharrow and Acanos Botic, Lord of Vanskell, the Iurrakan Crown, and particularly the Duke of Taladaria who is responsible for the security of the Westmarch, has been eyeing the County of Oakharrow with growing concern.

Lord Acanos Botic is known to be a trusted advisor and sometime Marshall to Justus V, the King of Selinus. The marriage then, cannot be interpreted any other way than to conclude that the County of Oakharrow is the focus of Selinan influence and a probable target for Selinan expansionism. Indeed, in practice the county may already be a part of Selinus in all but name. These machinations remind one of the eighty years war that was finally concluded in 601.

The Duke of Taladaria has been shoring up the defences of the Westmarch but whether that is enough of a deterrent is all but certain. The Westmarch is poorly fortified and it seems likely that more funds will be needed to secure Iurrakan interests in the area. The historical animosity between Iurrak and Selinus certainly has the potential to erupt into all out war once more. Little is certain, but the events seem remarkably similar to accounts from the time before the last Battle of Oakharrow in 842.

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