Category: Settings

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.

Nothing Lasts For Ever

Bernard died a decade later at the spectacular age of one hundred and one years. The old warrior’s death came peacefully, in his sleep. Ala found him lying peacefully in his bed. His expression was calm, perhaps even content.

Despite her grief, Ala was forced to consider what to do. She knew she must act carefully if she wanted to achieve everything Bernard had charged her with. Bernard, as Captain of the Militia by the Duke’s order had been a powerful man in Thetwick, probably the most powerful. While his responsibilities had never included any civil affairs, having the authority to decide who was allowed to bear arms and when as well as who had to serve in the militia and when had given him a great deal of leverage in Thetwick.

The fact that Bernard had delegated his field command to Ala over the last decades was irrelevant now that he had passed away. The Ducal order bore Bernard’s name, not hers. She was still just ‘that half-elf swordmaid’, a second or third rate citizen at best. Everyone had been forced to show her whatever respect Bernard demanded. She had made her own reputation of course, mostly within the the militia, especially the cavalry and with the horse breeders and the hunters. Even to them she was something out of the ordinary and beyond those circles she was an outsider, something that she knew would never change. Even living in Thetwick for a century and a half didn’t change that. She had do doubt that to most of Thetwick she was still just a non-human teenager and a female one at that. It was quite safe for most of the townspeople to ignore her and get on with their lives.

With Bernard’s death, the power over the militia reverted to the new Constable, Travis. Needless to say he was no friend to Bernard or Ala. Bernard had of course warned the Duke that the moment would come, but no replacement for him had yet made himself known. No document offering guidance had come from the Duke either. She wondered if she should stay in Thetwick and wait it out. She knew she wanted to stay for Bernard’s burial at least. The house and lands in and around the town were to be hers by Bernard’s will. Bernard had owned fields as well which were rented to farmers in exchange for a portion of their produce. She knew that by Taladarian law, women were not permitted to own property unless noble or widowed. She had no idea how the law applied to elves and probably no one else in Thetwick did either. She realised she also had no idea how Bernard had expected her to cross that particular hurdle.

Since she expected trouble she went out the night after Bernard died and hid travelling gear and supplies out in the forest. It was insurance in case she had to leave in a hurry. She included her personal things that she felt were important and what she couldn’t keep on her person. She had a feeling it would come to a confrontation. She also visited the cemetery and placed flowers on Aubree and Palady’s graves. She didn’t like cemeteries and it didn’t feel like a place where either Palady or Aubree would have wanted to be. It was customary in Thetwick to visit the graves of one’s ancestors though and Ala respected the custom. She felt far closer to the two women when she was alone at the ruined tower beneath the stars, thinking of them, than in the drab cemetery. She went now anyway though, since she had an inkling that it might not be safe for her to stay in Thetwick for much longer.

Bernard’s estate was one of the biggest in Thetwick, probably in the whole Westmarch. It was sure to attract those seeking to gather wealth. She visited one of Priestess Deirdre’s successors, a woman who looked the same age as Ala did. Her name was Priestess Ygraine and Ala told her the news. With the accustomed routine of the clergy of Ceres, Ygraine came to the house. The local undertaker also visited promptly. In proper entrepreneurial spirit he had already produced a casket in exactly Bernard’s size. It had had time to gather several years worth of dust. The undertaker seemed to have underestimated Bernard’s hardiness.

The funeral was to be held in the morning in the cemetery by the temple, as was the old custom in Thetwick. After that, the will was to be read in the Council Hall. The whole town came to the funeral, and all of the militia turned out in the surcoats that had become standard under Bernard’s leadership. Disturbing the image was the Constables’ son, Magnus. He was the old Constable Roger’s grandson, the man whom Bernard had taught his place that first day back in Thetwick, fifty years earlier.

Magnus stood at the head of the assembled militia, standing in for his father who as Lieutenant of the Westmarch Militia could now assign anyone he pleased to execute his duties for him the same way Bernard had done with Ala. Ala herself had not been allowed to participate, being sent away when she wanted to take her place in the Company. Her blood had boiled, but she decided that it wouldn’t be right to tarnish Bernard’s memory by forcing the point and killing someone at his funeral. She had decided that she wasn’t going to upset the proceedings then and there and quietly walked behind the militia company as it marched behind Bernard’s casket.

Magnus wasn’t even wearing the surcoat in the Westmarch colours that Bernard had instituted. Instead he wore some gaudy and expensive thing that he must have had tailored for him in Taladaria. She knew that he had only turned up at militia practice sporadically, probably more as a means to gather information for his father. She had decided to attend in her customary attire of mail, with her sword at her side. She was wearing the militia surcoat because no one would dare to try and stop her. She’d decided that she was going to stop wearing the headscarf too, wearing her red-gold hair in a long, coiled braid that left her pointed ears clearly visible. She was going to leave Thetwick soon anyway. What did she care if people caught on that she was a real elf? She had already made sure she had all her silver with her, just in case something odd was about to happen.

To her surprise, the last few ranks of the militia company, where the archers and cavalrymen were, stopped marching and made room for her to pass between them before they fell in behind her. The men who had always ridden on patrol with her had decided they preferred to march behind her than the new Lieutenant, it seemed. It made her feel better but it had been hard enough not to cry even before that happened. The rest of the burial was conducted without incident. At least, if you didn’t count the glares from the Constable and his son. She was ignored by the official part of the proceedings though many villagers stopped to offer her their condolences. Most of them tried to be on their way again as quickly as they could as the tension was palpable. She appreciated their words nonetheless.

She couldn’t give herself the time to commemorate Bernard properly. She was constantly checking around her if the Constable or his cronies were doing anything suspicious. The only reason she could really think of that the Constable was not already moving in on her was that he was uncertain the militia would follow his orders. It seemed to be enough to stay his hand and nothing untoward happened at the cemetery. She stayed out of town, choosing a perch in the treeline with a view of Bernard’s house until the reading of the will that afternoon. She saw that several militiamen stopped at the house, apparently leaving when they had convinced themselves she wasn’t there.

All parties interested in the contents of Bernard’s will – which seemed to be an awful lot of people, assembled in the Council Hall. Aside from the Council there were around thirty villagers and militiamen present. They were mostly people who had some sort of relationship with the Constable or Bernard and his duties as militia Captain. There were also a number of militia members. Ala carefully noted that those present seemed to be the men from the infantry section. Men whom she knew to be friendly with the Constable and his son.

None of the men who had chosen to march behind her at the funeral were anywhere to be seen. Presumably, the Constable had devised something else for them to do, probably somewhere far enough away that they couldn’t interfere. The new town Scribe was called to read Bernard’s will. The document that was read had nothing at all to do with the will that Bernard had dictated to her and had signed in the presence of the Scribe. A copy of the legitimate document was in the scroll tube she was carrying. According to the forgery, all Bernard’s belongings would go into a special fund with which the Lieutenant of the Militia could fund operations and purchase supplies. In other words, into the pocket of the Constable. It was a bold ploy Ala hadn’t anticipated. She gave it a moment’s thought and responded to the customary question posed by the scribe. “Are there any who contest the will and testament of Bernard of Thetwick?”

She took a step forward, “I contest it.”

“On what grounds?” Asked the scribe.

“That it is a forgery. As you well know, Scribe Cristofor.”

There was a collective intake of breath. Such intrigue was seldom seen in Thetwick.

“Have you any proof, Alagariel Half-Elven?” He placed particular emphasis in the “half-elven” part.

“I have a signed copy of the original will, counter signed by your predecessor.”

“May the council see it?”

“Only as long as it doesn’t leave my fingers. May I see the false will?”

“It is not false until so proven, girl. Approach.”

She stepped forward and pulled the will out of the leather scroll tube. She showed it to the council members, most of whom who could, at best, barely read.

“Ah yes, your copy is older than the version we have here. Bernard must have changed it without your knowledge, see here.”

The scribe pointed at a date under the forgery. She looked at the signature. It wasn’t even a very good forgery.

“Whenever it was written, the signature of Bernard is still forged. Furthermore, the idea that Bernard would make any significant decision on such a decision without telling me, is ludicrous.”

“Or perhaps the signature you have is the forgery eh? Doubtless you can produce other documents with his signature, but that means nothing as you could have forged them all.”

“The same goes for you.”

“So, it would seem that it is up to the council to decide.”

“I disagree. The council should stay its decision, put Bernard’s estate in escrow of someone other that the Constable or the Scribe. I would suggest Harald Petersson, a wealthy man in good standing, while I ride to Castle Peyrepertuse with both documents and we verify the correct signature against the Ducal warrant assigning Bernard as Duke’s Captain of the Thetwick militia. I think the Duke will attest to the veracity of a document in his archive, signed by his esteemed father, don’t you agree?”

The scribe scowled at her. She looked around the room. She knew the council of elders couldn’t deny her request, because doing so could also bring the Duke down on them for denying him his rightful authority. She didn’t think the Constables influence stretched that far. Not yet anyway, not with Bernard’s soul still hovering over the room. Strictly speaking only a noble had an actual right to the Duke’s court. She didn’t think the elders would vote against this though. They would still be too wary so close after Bernard’s funeral and they couldn’t stop her from petitioning the Duke’s court on her own if she went there anyway. It would be better for them to be seen to support thorough justice. The Constable wasn’t quite that powerful, not yet. She had talked through all these contingencies with Bernard. It made her sad that the old warrior was being proven right.

The Scribe spoke, with an uncertain glance in the Constable’s direction.

“Hmm…. I see. Elders, we must put it to a vote.”

The Constable’s expression displayed extreme displeasure.

They voted to acquiesce to the Duke’s justice, though only by a margin of one vote. For now, the council was still more scared of the Duke than they were of the Constable. Ala doubted that that would last. It was a long way from Thetwick to Peyrepertuse. She had forced matters by requesting the case be placed before the Duke. It was likely to have all sorts of consequences because it put the Constable in a difficult position. The Constable stood up, with a nasty grin in her direction.

“Now on to another matter. As Constable of Thetwick, it is clear to me that you no longer have the right to bear arms, as I rescind permission for you to do so. You will surrender your weapon at once, upon pain of death.”

“Captain Bernard had the delegated authority to give the right to bear arms in perpetuity, only rescindable by the Duke or his direct descendants. As acting Captain of the Thetwick Militia Company, as ordered in writing by the late Bernard, whose estate is being stayed waiting for a ruling by the Duke of Taladaria, that order stays valid in perpetuity until the Duke or his descendants specifically state otherwise. Never mind that a ruling about his estate has been made, freezing its assets and agreements. You are not authorised to rescind my right bear arms.”

“Bernard is dead. Stupid girl, none of this hogwash is valid. Men, seize her weapons!”

What he’d said wasn’t true. Any rights to bear arms Bernard had issued would remain valid until the Duke himself rescinded them. It was sufficiently vague though that Ala could see how he could get away with doing it if queried about it by anyone. It wasn’t as if anyone in Thetwick other than the scribe had a notion of the hierarchy of the Law. The fact that the Duke’s decree trumped anything that the Constable could dream up was not apparent to anyone in the Hall except perhaps Scribe Cristofor and he was solidly in the Constable’s pocket.

Three of the Constable’s friends in the militia moved to block her path, they had obviously been briefed that this was going to be required of them. One tried to take her sword. The moment he touched the weapons’ pommel, he recoiled, his eyes wide in shock as he sank to his knees and fell sideways, clutching his chest. She had no idea what had caused the man to collapse, but it gave her all the opening she needed. She headed straight for the next one and made contact with her left hand, which caused him to react to her feint. She then rotated her hip and put her other mail-fisted glove straight into the man’s oesophagus, letting out some of her rage fuelled energy. She felt his windpipe collapse under the weight of her mail fisted strike. He crumpled onto the floor too, gasping for air.

The last one attempted to come after her. She engaged her hip and left arm towards him, feinting and causing him to grab for her advancing wrist with his right hand, she grabbed his fingers with her other hand and turned her hand over his arm towards him as she moved to his right side. She dropped the hand she had first let him make contact with straight towards his centre of mass, following through with the entire weight of both mailed arms behind it. She heard his arm crunch as his wrist was dramatically overextended. She’d snapped both bones in his lower arm. He screamed as she took another step backwards, turned back towards the door and ran out. She saw no one else come after her. She could just hear the Constable’s screams that she must be caught over the general uproar.

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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.

Brabak

The years with Togut had brought Brabak great prosperity. He now understood that his job was to be a bodyguard for Togut. Not that the older orck couldn’t take care of himself – oh how he could, it was just that he didn’t have eyes in the back of his head and had to sleep. Togut, being smarter than many orcks had decided a band of more or less loyal warriors was the best way to stay dominant among the Headcutters. He had his eyes set on the position of Chieftain, Brabak was sure. Brabak accompanied Togut on raids. Togut invariably led these raids, and Brabak had killed his share of farmers, militiamen and other orcks by the time he was full grown. He had even killed some human soldiers and even a dwarf once. He also had decent weapons and armour and generally a full belly. These things meant standing among the orcks. The she-orcks liked him too, even if it was only because he was a smidge less violent that many others and being in his good graces offered a measure of protection as well as a guarantee of sustenance.

His life was good by orck standards. He had a big two handed hammer that Togut said he had taken off a dwarf he had killed. His armour was made of plates and mail, much better than what most of the other orcks had. The fact that he had figured out how to repair it put him miles ahead of the others too. He also practised often with a captured bow and could make his own passable arrows, if not the bow itself. He still plundered what arrows he could as he couldn’t quite match the straightness of the shafts that the humans achieved. His bow was and nice and hefty, he had plundered it from a burly human soldier. He could fire four times as fast as an orck with a crossbow. Even his huts were better than those of most of the other orcks.

He didn’t much care for the behaviour that was necessary to excel in an orckish community, but he accepted the necessity of it. It was the only way he knew though he sometimes thought about whether there was a different way to make sure you bred hard and strong warriors. The other orcks seemed to revel in the random brutality, especially Togut. Brabak never understood that. It seemed inefficient to him. He had no qualms about achieving goals through force, but he didn’t see the point of random violence.

He had been around a lot of the Orck Mountains, regularly raiding other Orcks and sometimes humans that lived to the North or East of the mountains. Once, he had even been to a strange land of enormous trees to the south where there was a strange mist-like effect. Togut had insisted that a shaman give him a special charm before they went that way, and that Brabak not take it off, under any circumstances. They had hunted the plentiful game there, there didn’t seem to be anyone who actually lived there. It was a strange place that gave Brabak the creeps. Togut too it seemed, they had only stayed two days despite the abundance of animals. Brabak thought the pickings were best to the East of the mountains. There was rich farmland there and quite a lot of humans to raid and plunder. They had raided there a lot with a large band before a lot of orcks were killed by highly organised human fighters on horses. They had fled back into the mountains in a running battle.

Togut hadn’t seem surprised when the humans had arrived, as if he’d seen it all before. Brabak, Togut and the others in the band had only barely escaped. Brabak had paid careful attention to the human fighters and how they fought. Though smaller and not as strong as an orck, they were much more effective than he thought they should be, giving each other support, even protecting their wounded when they could, so he paid very close attention to how they went about their business. Sometimes he even went off on his own just to observe them. Togut thought that was strange behaviour. If an orck saw some of these humans, he should probably try and kill them, was the consensus among the orcks. Getting yourself killed against overwhelming odds wasn’t seen as a good idea or anything, but the general principle of killing people who had something you could use was widely approved of. Going out to look at a group you couldn’t defeat was considered strange behaviour. Brabak kept his own council as he watched and learned. He was sure his opportunity would come eventually.

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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.

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.

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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.

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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