Between Dark and Light (6 page)

“Well played,” he hissed. “But back in line.”

His right thigh throbbed from blocking the second blow, and blood tickled his left arm from a gash opened when he pinned the sword, but the third swordsman stepped up, ready in high guard. He ignored the pain and stood in middle guard. The third elf, another Loorish, was the oldest and slowly circled him. This one had watched the first fail to overpower him and the second attempt to out-quick him, so Crushaw deduced this duel would be about endurance. The elf came with a downward strike, and the old man blocked it, but the elf withdrew his blade and retreated before he could parry.

The elf switched to low guard and reversed direction, circling back. Crushaw moved with him, minding his feet on the uneven ground. Suddenly, the elf brought his blade up, aiming for the taller man’s groin, and Crushaw stepped aside just in time. As the elf retreated again, the general glared at him for the attempt. The elf grinned, changing now to middle guard, and rushed forward with a torrent of slashes. Crushaw blocked each one, but the elf was too quick for any of his parries. Through each spar, the pain in his right leg grew, and the gash on his arm now screamed. For a moment, he feared this elf’s tactics might succeed.

Then, the elf came a fourth time, again from middle guard, but this time driving straight. The old man blocked the thrust with his sword, but released the grip of his left hand and struck the elf in the right forearm. As soon as his fist found the pressure point, the elf’s arm went dead, and Crushaw easily flipped the sword from his opponent’s left hand with one twist of his blade. Then, Crushaw dropped his own sword and grabbed the elf around the throat with both hands, lifting him from the ground. With all his strength, he flung the elf towards the main crowd and then stood, staring down at nearly ten thousand elves. He composed his face into the same stoic gaze as when they had approached and remained motionless, as if daring another approach.

The third swordsman scrambled to his feet, retrieved his sword, and moved back in line. Then, he made eye contact with the old man and nodded slightly. Crushaw held as still as he could, waiting. Then, once again, in unison, the elves kneeled before him and bowed their heads. Finally, Crushaw relaxed his posture and motioned for them to rise.

“If you want your lands back from the Great Empire,” his voiced boomed. “Follow my every order from this moment.”

“Yes, General,” they responded.

“First, the twenty-five leaders will join me here. The rest of you divide into groups of nearly one hundred and find places to camp. Go now.” As the main group disbanded, he turned to those who had fought with him at Hard Hope. “Each of you will serve as a captain. Pick a group and get them organized. Divide them into swordsmen and archers based on ability. There’s no time to delay. Move out.”

“Yes, sir,” they responded, breaking off to find their groups.

Crushaw then turned back to the twenty-five leaders, who had formed a half-circle around him.

“General, your arm is bleeding badly,” the third swordsman said.

“Is it near my heart?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Is the wound near my heart?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, it won’t kill me,” he said, scooping up a handful of dirt, which he smeared over the gash. “I care nothing for scratches and bruises. There is something you elves must accept, but it won’t be easy to hear.

“Your kind is strong and agile of body. You have keen minds. I knew many of you as a slave, and I fought with many to escape the orcs, so I have firsthand knowledge of your abilities. Do you know why both of your races fell to the Great Empire?”

“No, sir.”

“You are weak of heart.”

The elves bristled at the words.

“For forty years I fought the ogres and slaughtered them mercilessly, but I barely moved them back more than a hundred miles because they refuse to quit. For over fifty years, the Great Empire has pushed against the dwarves and has only a tenuous hold on half a kingdom because the dwarves are as tough as the stone they tunnel into. Both of your races were pushed into a forest where you’ve had to hide for all your lives. Those are the facts and the reality we face.”

Their faces contorted with anger and venom, and while he kept his expression stoic, inside, he beamed with excitement.

“The good news is this,” he continued. “For the next three months, I will purge that weakness from your hearts, and you will become the toughest fighting force in this world. My first order is go to each captain at each camp and tell them to run their squads five miles out and then back. I don’t care how far you’ve already marched today, and I don’t care how many puke or bleed. All of you must be back in camp in three hours to begin weapons training. You have your orders. Go now.”

The elves bowed and disbanded, spreading out to deliver his orders. Crushaw remained on the rise until they could no longer see him, blood trickling down his arm and dripping from his fingers despite the dirt. Satisfied they were far enough away, he turned and limped on his sore right leg back to Kwarck’s house, hoping the wizard could ease his wounds quickly enough to have him ready for weapons training.

Chapter 4

And the Life That Is

Molgheon entered Bressard’s house and found him in his sitting chair, dirty, disheveled, and weak. He had apparently spent a couple days there, unable to move, so she dropped her gear and rushed to his side. As she stroked his hair, he slowly opened his eyes, a flicker of recognition when he saw her. She ran to the kitchen and retrieved a dipper of water. Gently, she held the tin to his lips and allowed him to sip the cool liquid. He took several minutes to finish the serving. Once he had drunk, he whispered a scarcely intelligible thanks.

Molgheon pulled a chair beside him and held his hand. His skin was like fine parchment, and no strength remained in his grip. He closed his eyes and fell back to sleep, so she rose and organized her gear, hanging the bow and quiver in the closet and arranging everything else on the dining table. Then, she prepared lunch and ate alone in the kitchen. When finished, she returned to his side and monitored his breathing, which was slow and labored with a slight rattle. She had witnessed this same scenario enough to know she had barely made it back in time.

Bressard woke an hour later and whispered for more water. She brought another dipperful, and again he took several minutes to finish it. This time, however, instead of slipping back to sleep, he perked up slightly, his eyes dampening as he studied her face. She stroked his cheek with her free hand as he held the other.

“You returned,” he managed, his voice low and raspy.

“I promised I would,” she said, leaning in and kissing his forehead.

“Happy.”

“Save your strength,” she said, her eyes moistening.

“Bury me near the ironwood,” he said, each word a struggle.

“The tree south of the barn?” she asked.

He nodded slightly.

“Please, rest,” she said. “I’ll take care of you.”

He closed his eyes and rested his head against her hand. Molgheon waited for him to fall asleep and then found a pillow for his head and a blanket to cover his arms and legs. When sure he was comfortable, she stretched out on the old sofa and rested her legs from the long walk. She had hoped to have more time with him, to learn more about the mountainside and house, but that wasn’t meant to be, so she turned on the sofa to make sure she could watch him and waited for the inevitable.

***

She buried him a week later near the massive tree. That last week, he had hardly awakened, and in those brief minutes of consciousness, he showed little sign of awareness. Once the dirt was smoothed out on his grave, she gathered good-sized rocks from around the yard and covered it to prevent any animals from disturbing him. She had buried many friends and even her husband, but for some reason, this death hurt worse than any other. While she had wanted the isolation of living alone, she had hoped for a transition, some time for just her and him to live together. Perhaps, she had wanted to care for him to repay for all he had done for so many others. Perhaps, she wasn’t quite as ready to be alone as she thought. Perhaps, she was simply tired of death. Her thoughts and feelings were too jumbled to be certain which, but she did know her sadness drove to her core, and she wanted to scream.

She sat on the porch and stared at the mountains. Summer was fading, the light and wind shifting to fall, and much preparation remained before winter. Meats and nuts needed storing, and the house required several small repairs before the heavy snows of winter, but at that moment, she couldn’t raise herself from the porch to start any of it. Her friends faced overwhelming odds against the army she had sworn an oath to fight, and the only reason she had left them was to care for Bressard during his final days. Now, he had passed on, and she felt as if she had let them all down.

This wasn’t how she had envisioned her new life. She had dreamed of harmony and tranquility, not pain and remorse, yet here she sat, feeling the burden of guilt for barely making it back and for abandoning others who had needed her, too. In the forest behind the house, twigs cracked, but she didn’t move, supposing it a deer foraging through the brush. She had no interest in hunting at that moment; there would be time for that after she had allowed herself to sort through all of the emotions racing through her.

***

Torkdohn watched Molgheon enter the house. When the twigs had cracked, he had been certain he had blown his element of surprise, but when she hadn’t even glanced in his direction, he relaxed and refocused on his plan. He would sneak into the barn, retrieve his net from his wagon, and wait for the perfect moment to catch her off guard. Picking his way through the brush, he kept out of sight and circled around the barn to the stall that opened away from the house.

Bressard’s death was a pleasant surprise, for it removed any possibility of the old dwarf warning her, and apparently her grief had dulled her senses. Torkdohn had learned enough about this archer to know she was not to be underestimated again, and joy filled him that she wasn’t fully focused. She had proven she could best him in a fight, and he had no intention of allowing her to defend herself. This time, he would trammel her in his net and bind her arms and legs before she could react.

When he reached the far stall door, he worked the gray wooden handle, which was stuck from years of disuse, and pried open the door just enough to fit through. Inside, the barn was piled with rubbish and ruin from years of neglect, and large sections of the roof had collapsed inward, creating a maze of debris. Under his breath, he cursed the dead hermit. His wagon sat on the opposite side, so he climbed onto a stack of rotting crates and crawled forward. A cloud of dust swirled around him with each movement, catching in his throat and burning his eyes. More than once as he climbed, he had to stifle the urge to cough for fear of alerting the archer.

Once he cleared the crates, he lowered himself onto a pile of damp rugs that squished under his feet. Then, he froze in place, for on the wall just inches away sat the largest spider he had ever seen, its body as big as his fist and its long, hairy legs stretching out twice as long as his fingers. Camouflaged against the gray wood, it sat motionless, waiting for the next rodent. Torkdohn backed away slowly, fearing that sudden movements might trigger aggression.

Once he had reached a safe distance, he resumed towards his wagon, glancing back occasionally to ensure the spider was still on the wall. Climbing over fallen timbers and squeezing through narrow gaps was exhausting work, and by the time he reached the wagon, he was soaked with sweat and breathing heavily, so he climbed onto the seat and rested. The dwarves had ransacked his gear, strewing items all over the bed, and as he caught his breath, he scanned the mess for anything useful.

Fortunately, they had left his crossbow and the two remaining bolts, so he set them in the seat beside him and continued looking. His net lay buried under a pile of cooking gear, and he climbed into the bed and quietly moved the metal pots and pans off of it. Then, he spread it out and folded it into throwing position. Once it was ready, he placed it over the crossbow on the seat. He gathered a pair of bolt cutters and two small paring knives and tucked them into his belt. Finally, he found two sets of shackles and stuffed them into his back pockets.

He strapped the crossbow to his back, looped the quiver over his belt, and climbed down from the wagon near the main stall. He grabbed his net and clutched it with both hands, envisioning the thrill of capture as he had experienced so many times before. He would have one chance, and his throw had to be perfect. He peered through a bent board in the wall and watched the house, searching for her through the windows. After several minutes, she emerged from the front door with an armful of dirty sheets and blankets. She crossed the yard and hung each over low-hanging branches in the trees in front of the porch. Then, she went back inside and only to reappear soon with an old broom.

With her back to the barn, she began beating dust from a blanket, and with each strike, a swirl of particles caught the breeze and dissipated into the air. Torkdohn pushed open the main stall and slipped into the yard. He considered going straight for her, but there were too many steps to cover. If she turned too soon, he would miss his chance, so he crept around the barn and ran for the back door. Once inside, he purposefully left the door ajar and hid in an alcove along the wall. Then, he waited.